Clxssiccherry

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The sun was barely hanging on outside your apartment windows, casting a sleepy lavender wash over the skyline. The kind of color that made everything look soft and almost dreamlike—ethereal. The kind of evening that asked you to slow down. Unwind. Drift a little.

You weren’t in the mood for people. You rarely were lately, unless the person was Jungkook.

Which worked out, because you could hear him now, moving around your kitchen like he owned the place, humming under his breath to the music that slid from your speaker system. His voice—quiet, low, unbothered—blended with the beat in a way that made your bones feel warm. He always moved like that, like he had all the time in the world. Like he was made of smoke and velvet and something just a little bit dangerous.

Your living room was already a soft mess of color and calm—nebula lights painting soft galaxies across the walls and ceiling, your favorite incense from last night lingering in the corners of the room. It smelled like clove, sandalwood, and something sweeter you never bothered to name. The blunt you were half-done rolling sat on the coffee table next to your lighter, a small glass tray, and the cracked ceramic ashtray he bought you from a thrift shop last summer. Said it reminded him of you—chipped but still hot.

You smirked to yourself, the couch shifted beside you. “Tell me you at least ground it properly this time,” Jungkook’s voice pulled you from your thoughts, smooth and familiar. His presence was immediate—close, warm, his hoodie brushing your arm as he dropped next to you and handed over a glass of something cold. You didn’t look up. “I always grind it properly.” A snicker leaves his mouth “Bold lie for someone who left whole stems in last week.”

“Yet You still smoked it.” He shrugs “I have no standards when it comes to getting high with you.” You snorted, rolling the last edge of the wrap with practiced ease. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” Jungkook chuckled, body slouching into yours, arm knocking against your thigh like it belonged there. “Don’t get used to it.”

His scent hit you—clean, warm skin and fabric softener and the faintest trace of cologne he only wore when he thought he might see someone cute. Which, lately, was… always. Still, he only ever seemed to end up here. “You lighting it, or you want me to do it like always?” he asked, voice low. You passed him the blunt and leaned back, arms stretched over the back of the couch. “I did the hard part. You can spark it.”

He took the lighter with a grin, thumb flicking the flame to life before holding it to the edge of the wrap. The orange glow lit up the angles of his face, casting soft shadows across his cheekbones and the little scar near his lip—the one you always found yourself staring at for too long. He took the first drag, slow and deep, then exhaled toward the ceiling with a practiced ease that made your stomach twist.

“You always look so dramatic when you do that,” you said, fighting the urge to stare. “Like you’re in a music video or something.” “That’s ‘cause I am,” he replied smoothly, blowing smoke in your direction with a crooked smile. “The budget’s low, but the vibes are immaculate.” You shook your head, laughing softly. “You’re such an idiot.” “An idiot you invite over three times a week.”You didn’t have a comeback for that. Because he was right.

It had become your ritual—burning the edge off of the day with him, letting the smoke fill the silences neither of you wanted to talk about. Watching movies you never finished. Sharing food. Sharing space. Not quite together, but never really apart. The music shifted, low and sultry, and you didn’t even realize what song it was until your lips started moving on instinct.

“‘Forty-two on my body, then these feelings get to talkin’…”

The lyrics fell from your mouth soft and slow, more breath than sound, carried on the haze of the high you were already floating on. You weren’t even thinking. You sang like you were alone, like the words had been buried in your throat all day and only just found their way out.

“But maybe you’re with someone else… tonight you are not mine…”

There was a pause in the air, subtle but sharp—like a crack splitting something invisible. Jungkook didn’t say anything, maybe that’s what made you glance over. He was looking at you. Really looking. Blunt paused between his fingers, expression unreadable but heavy, like the lyrics had landed somewhere deep in his chest.

“What does she have on me…?”

His voice was quiet when he spoke. “You always sing that part like it hurts.” You blinked, startled by the weight of his tone. “I do?” He nodded, slow. “Yeah. Like you’re asking someone a question you already know the answer to.” The comment hung in the air like a challenge. Like he wanted you to admit something. But your heart beat too fast, too loud. You turned back toward the ceiling and exhaled, letting the smoke drift from your mouth in spirals. “Maybe I just like the song,” you muttered. even you didn’t believe that. He handed the blunt back, brushing your fingers just a second longer than necessary.

“You know,” he said, voice casual but not really, “you always get real quiet when that one comes on. Thought you didn’t do feelings.” “I don’t,” you said automatically. “Feelings are messy.”

“Messy can be fun.” You gave him a look. “Only you would think that.” He smiled. “Come on. You like messy.” “No, I like weed and not being emotionally vulnerable.”

“ And yet here you are,” he said, leaning in just enough that his knee brushed yours again. “Singing songs that sound like heartbreak and asking the universe what she has that you don’t.”

“I didn’t ask,” you snapped, but it was too soft to sound convincing.He grinned. “Didn’t have to.” You hated how comfortable he looked. Like he knew exactly what kind of mess he was making. He passed the blunt back to you with a slow, lazy smile. “Your turn.” You took it without looking at him, focusing way too hard on the cherry and the curl of smoke as you inhaled. The song had shifted again—something low and heavy with a pulse, but you weren’t listening. Not really. Not when you could feel the heat of him beside you. “You always get quiet when I call you out,” he said. Your eyes flicked to him. “I’m not quiet. I’m processing.”

“Yeah?” He leaned in a little, resting his elbow on the back of the couch, his hand dangerously close to the exposed skin above your waistband. “What exactly are you processing?”You looked away, blowing smoke toward the ceiling. “How to not punch you in the throat.”Jungkook laughed, low and throaty. “Is that what we’re calling sexual tension these days?”

You turned your head to face him, mouth parted in disbelief. “You’re so—” Before you could finish, his hand moved. Not in a grabby way, not crude. Just a brush—light fingertips tracing your thigh where your shorts had ridden up a little, barely a whisper of contact.

You froze—He felt you freeze then he leaned in closer, his voice barely above a whisper. “You should see your face right now.” Your breath caught. “Red,” he continued, fingers still ghosting your skin. “And your pulse? Runnin’ wild.” “Because you’re annoying,” you managed to say, voice shaky. “Mm,” he hummed. “Is that what it is? Not because I’ve got you thinking about things we shouldn’t be thinking about?”

You turned toward him, eyes narrowing—but the look didn’t land. Not with the way he was looking at you. Smug, soft, and something a little darker under the surface. Then—he pulled back. Just like that. Like it was nothing. Like you were the one tripping. He reclaimed the blunt from your fingers and stood, stretching slow, his hoodie rising just enough to flash a strip of skin above his sweats. He knew you were watching. He didn’t even have to check.

“You want water?” he asked casually, like he hadn’t just lit your whole body on fire. You blinked. “What?”

“Water,” he said over his shoulder, already walking toward the kitchen. “You look… parched.” You let out a scoff, flopping back on the couch as the music changed again.

“Asshole.”

“Yup,Love you too.” He said as he walked into the kitchen leaving you baffled and frustrated. You took your time following him into the kitchen, letting the haze of smoke and tension settle behind you like dust in sunlight. Jungkook was already at the fridge, one hand braced against the door, the other reaching in. His hoodie had ridden up again, exposing that same strip of skin, like he knew you were looking.

So you leaned against the counter, arms crossed, voice casual. “Y’know, for someone who talks so much game, you’re real good at retreating.” He glanced over his shoulder, smirking. “Retreating?” You nodded, pushing off the counter and stepping closer. “Mmhmm. All that build-up. That little thigh-touch move, whispering like we’re in a damn movie… and then you walk off to get water like it never happened.”

He straightened, bottle in hand, door swinging shut as he turned to face you. “You wanted me to stay?” You arched a brow. “I wanted you to commit. If you’re gonna play, don’t half-ass it.”He watched you for a beat. No smirk now. Just that unreadable expression he wore when he was thinking—calculating. Then—he took a slow step forward. You blinked.

Another step.

You opened your mouth, but he was already in front of you, standing close. Too close. And before you could lean away, his hand came down on the counter behind you—then the other. Caging you in. “You sure you want me to commit?” he asked, voice low. Your back was pressed into the counter. Breath caught in your throat.

“Don’t get cocky.”

He leaned in, close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating off him. “You’re the one who started this,” he said. “All that talk, all that attitude…” You tilted your chin up. “And?”

“now you’re trapped.” He smirked and You scoffed, refusing to look away. “I’m not trapped.”

“Oh really?” His head dipped a little, eyes flicking to your mouth. “Then why haven’t you moved?”

Your pulse kicked up.

He heard it. You knew he did, shit I’m sure the whole block heard it. One of his hands shifted—fingers brushing the edge of the counter near your hip, not quite touching you, but close enough that your skin prickled. You could feel your voice thinning. “You think this scares me?” “I think,” he murmured, “you’re about five seconds away from cracking.” You scoffed “In your dreams.” He laughed softly “Every night sweetheart ” but there was no smugness now—just heat. Real, coiled heat that was winding between you like a live wire.

His mouth was right there.You could kiss him—You wanted to. But yet he didn’t move. Didn’t push. Didn’t take. He just stayed there, tension humming in the space between you like the bassline still thudding faintly from the other room.

And then he pulled back; Just enough to breathe. Just enough to leave you yearning. “I’ll commit when you’re ready,” he said, stepping back fully, giving you your space like it hadn’t just nearly killed both of you. He tossed the bottle of water to you without looking. You caught it with shaky hands. “Until then,” he said with a grin, turning to head back to the living room, “keep practicing.”

You stared after him, heart thundering.

Cocky bastard.