Jeonette

Chapter 1: The worst idea that might save you.

You stared at the blinking cursor on your laptop screen until the words blurred together. Another rejection email sat open in your inbox—polite, professional, and soul-crushing. Thank you for your submission, but we’re looking for something with more commercial appeal.

Your “commercial appeal” apparently didn’t include the quiet, aching love stories you poured your heart into at 2 a.m. while eating instant ramen and praying the electricity bill could wait one more week.

The tiny studio apartment felt even smaller tonight. Bills were stacked on the corner of your desk like judgmental little towers. Your job at the magazine paid just enough to keep the lights on and your student loans from screaming too loudly, but it mostly involved fetching coffee, running errands, and smiling through meetings where people discussed “content strategy” while you dreamed of actual books with your name on the cover.

A sharp knock on the door made you jump. Before you could even stand, the lock clicked—only one person had a spare key and the audacity to use it without waiting.

“Yo, starving artist,” Namjoon’s deep voice called out as he stepped inside, arms full of takeout bags that smelled like heaven. “I brought Thai. Extra spicy, just how you like to punish yourself.”

You managed a weak laugh and closed the laptop. “You’re early. I thought we said eight.”

“It’s eight-fifteen. You lost track of time again.” He set the bags on the tiny kitchen counter and gave you that look—the one that said he could read every exhausted line on your face without you saying a word. Kim Namjoon had always been too perceptive for his own good. Or maybe just for yours.

He was also the only person in your life who knew exactly how broke and burnt out you were, because he’d watched you spiral for the last six months. While your best friend somehow managed to thrive in one of the most chaotic industries imaginable.

You watched him unpack the food with those careful, graceful hands that had no business belonging to someone whose day job involved… well. Everything the cameras captured.

“How was work?” you asked, mostly to deflect.

Namjoon shrugged, a small smirk tugging at his lips. “Same old. Long day, good paycheck. One of the new girls kept forgetting her lines, so we had to do a lot of takes. Director was pissed, but the chemistry ended up fire. Views are gonna be solid.”

You nodded, poking at your pad see ew with chopsticks. The casual way he talked about it still made your ears heat up sometimes. Namjoon—your Namjoon, the guy who once spent three hours helping you outline a slow-burn romance novel—was a well-known name in the adult industry now. He made it sound so normal. Easy, even.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t even handle watching a mildly spicy drama without hiding your face during the kiss scenes.

He studied you for a long moment while you ate in silence. “Alright. Spill. What’s the damage this time? Another rejection?”

You sighed, pushing your plate away. “Three, actually. One said my writing was ‘too soft.’ Whatever that means.”

“It means they want more edge,” he said simply. “More real life. More… mess.”

“Easy for you to say. Your job literally pays you to be messy on camera.”

Namjoon chuckled, low and warm, leaning back against the counter. “True. And speaking of my job…” He paused, rubbing the back of his neck like he was choosing his words carefully. “They’re looking for fresh blood behind the camera. New cameramen, but especially new writers. The director keeps complaining that everything feels the same—same angles, same tired scripts, same ten-minute pump-and-dump with zero buildup.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And?”

“And I told him I know someone who writes romance like it’s breathing. Someone who understands tension, emotion, how to make people feel something before the clothes even come off.” His eyes met yours, steady and serious now. “They want different perspectives. Something that doesn’t feel like every other generic scene out there. You could bring that.”

The chopsticks froze halfway to your mouth.

You blinked. “Namjoon… are you suggesting I write… adult content?”

He grinned, clearly enjoying this. “You can say the word, you know. It’s not a sin. ‘Porn.’ Go on, try it. P-O-R-N.”

Your face burned instantly. “Stop it. I can say it.”

“Sure you can. Say ‘sex’ then. Or ‘fucking.’ Come on, I’ll wait.”

You threw a balled-up napkin at him, which he caught effortlessly, laughing. “You’re the worst. I’m not… I’m not used to talking about it like it’s weather, okay? Some of us still think it’s supposed to mean something.”

Namjoon’s expression softened, but the teasing glint stayed in his eyes. “That’s exactly why you’d be good at it. Most of the scripts we get are written by people who think ‘insert tab A into slot B’ is peak creativity. You write feelings. You write longing. You write kisses that are supposed to ruin someone for anyone else.” He leaned forward, elbows on the counter. “They need that. Especially under Seokjin.”

You tilted your head. “Seokjin?”

“Kim Seokjin. The director. Goes by Worldwide Handsome Kim Seokjin on set—don’t laugh, he takes it very seriously. The man is a diva in human form. If a scene doesn’t have the perfect lighting, perfect angle, and perfect ‘aesthetic,’ he’ll stop everything and monologue about how the industry is dying because no one appreciates beauty anymore.” Namjoon shook his head, amused. “But he’s good. Really good. And he’s tired of boring. He wants fresh. Romantic. Different.”

You stood up, suddenly restless, pacing the small space between your bed and the kitchen. “I’d have to watch… everything. People. Naked. Doing… that.”

“Yeah,” he said, not sugarcoating it. “You would. But you wouldn’t be on camera. No one’s asking you to perform. Just to create. To use that big romantic brain of yours and make something better than the same recycled shit.”

You hugged your arms around yourself. “I don’t even know what good… intimacy looks like, Joon. My only experience was a disaster. That one boyfriend who lasted maybe four minutes before it was over. I’ve never even had a proper kiss that actually felt like the ones I write about. How am I supposed to write believable scenes when the only orgasms I know are the ones I give myself?”

Namjoon didn’t laugh. He never did when it mattered. Instead, he stepped closer, resting a large hand on your shoulder.

“Because you’re a writer,” he said quietly. “You imagine things better than most people experience them. And maybe… seeing the real thing up close will give you material. For your books. For paying rent on time. For finally focusing on what you actually want instead of running around fetching coffee for people who don’t even read your stuff.”

He squeezed your shoulder gently. “It’s money, yeah. Good money. But it could also be the push you need. Get out of your comfort zone for once. Stop waiting for permission to create.”

You stared at the floor, heart hammering. The practical part of your brain—the one tired of choosing between groceries and new notebooks—whispered that he was right. The romantic, terrified part screamed that this was insane.

“What if I suck at it?” you whispered.

“Then you suck at it and we laugh about it later,” he said with a soft smile. “But I don’t think you will. You’ve got that spark, you know? The one that makes people feel seen.”

Silence stretched between you for a long moment.

Finally, Namjoon pulled out his phone. “Seokjin’s expecting a meeting tomorrow afternoon at the studio. Just to talk. No pressure. If it feels wrong, you walk away and we pretend I never said anything.”

You swallowed hard, nerves twisting in your stomach like live wires.

But underneath the fear… there was the tiniest flicker of curiosity. Of possibility.

“Okay,” you breathed, before you could talk yourself out of it. “Set it up.”

Namjoon grinned, already typing. “That’s my girl. Who knows? Maybe this is the plot twist your life’s been missing. Just don’t blush too hard when Seokjin starts dramatically explaining why missionary is ‘criminally underrated’ if done with the right emotional lighting.”

You groaned, burying your face in your hands as he laughed.

Tomorrow, you were apparently walking into a porn studio to meet a dramatic diva director… and somehow convince him that a broke, inexperienced aspiring novelist could write better intimate scenes than whatever they were currently shooting.

God help you.

۶ৎ ۶ৎ ۶ৎ

The studio looked nothing like you imagined.

You expected something seedy—dim red lights, sticky floors, maybe a suspicious smell. Instead, WHKS felt weirdly professional: sleek white walls, soft overhead lighting, and a reception desk that could’ve belonged to a high-end advertising agency. The only hint that this wasn’t a normal office was the discreet silver plaque on the wall that read “Worldwide Handsome Kim Seokjin Productions” in elegant script.

Namjoon had dropped you off with a smug “Text me if you need rescuing” and a wink that made you want to smack him. Now you were sitting in a small waiting area, clutching your worn notebook like a shield, trying not to imagine what was happening behind the closed doors at the end of the hallway.

A door swung open with theatrical flair.

“Darling! You must be the literary genius Namjoon won’t stop talking about.”

Kim Seokjin swept into the room like he was walking onto a runway. Tall, broad-shouldered, with perfectly styled dark hair and cheekbones that could cut glass, he wore a crisp black button-up rolled to his elbows and slacks that probably cost more than your rent. His presence filled the space instantly.

He stopped in front of you, one hand dramatically placed over his heart. “I am Kim Seokjin, Worldwide Handsome, visionary director, and the only person in this industry with actual taste. Please, tell me you’re not another writer who thinks ‘harder, daddy’ constitutes profound dialogue.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. Heat rushed to your cheeks.

“I… um. I try to avoid that phrase,” you managed.

Seokjin’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Good. Because if I hear it one more time, I might actually cry. Real tears. The kind that ruin my skincare routine.” He gestured grandly for you to follow him. “Come. Let me show you why we need fresh blood before I lose my will to live.”

He led you down the hallway, talking the entire time. “The problem with most scenes these days is they’re so… mechanical. No romance. No tension. Just bodies moving like they’re checking items off a grocery list. I want art. I want longing. I want someone to watch and think, ‘God, I wish that were me’—or at least ‘I wish I could feel that good.’”

You nodded, scribbling notes in your notebook to keep your hands busy. Your heart was hammering so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

Seokjin pushed open a heavy door marked “Studio B” and held it for you with exaggerated chivalry. “Observe.”

The room was brightly lit, cameras positioned at careful angles, and a large bed dressed in soft gray sheets dominated the center. A few crew members moved around quietly, adjusting lights. And on the bed—

Your brain short-circuited.

A man with messy dark hair and intense eyes was kneeling between a woman’s legs, his mouth moving slowly against her inner thigh. He was shirtless, tattoos snaking down one arm, muscles shifting under golden skin as he worked. The woman’s soft sounds filled the room—real, breathy, nothing like the over-the-top performances you’d accidentally seen in clips.

Seokjin leaned close to your ear, voice low and teasing. “That’s Jungkook. One of our best. The camera loves him because he actually enjoys what he does. Watch how he builds it. Not rushing. Not performing for the lens. Feeling it.”

You couldn’t look away, even though every instinct told you to stare at the floor. Jungkook’s hands were gentle but sure, fingers tracing patterns on her skin while his lips followed. When he glanced up at the camera for a second—dark eyes half-lidded, lips shiny—you felt something dangerous flutter low in your stomach.

Seokjin clapped his hands once, the sound sharp. “Cut! Beautiful, but let’s try it with a little more eye contact from her side. Jungkook, darling, you’re doing wonders, but remember—slow is sexy only if the audience can see her face melt.”

Jungkook sat back on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His gaze drifted toward the doorway… and landed on you.

For a split second his expression shifted—curiosity mixed with something warmer—before he offered a small, almost shy smile and a nod in your direction. Then he turned back to the woman, murmuring something too quiet for you to hear. She laughed softly.

Your face felt like it was on fire.

Seokjin steered you away from the door before you could melt into the floor. “Don’t worry, new girl. Everyone blushes the first time. Even Namjoon did, and that man has the emotional range of a philosophical encyclopedia.” He winked. “Now, tell me— what would you have done differently in that scene? Be honest. I can smell generic ideas from a mile away.”

You swallowed, trying to gather your thoughts while your brain was still replaying the image of Jungkook’s mouth and those dark eyes. “I… I think the tension could build slower. Like… she wants it, but she’s also a little scared of how much she wants it. Maybe add some whispered words. Not dirty talk, but something intimate. Something that makes it feel like they’re the only two people in the world, even with the cameras.”

Seokjin stopped walking. He turned to you fully, one perfect eyebrow raised. For a moment he said nothing, just studied you with those sharp, assessing eyes.

Then a slow, genuinely impressed smile spread across his face.

“Oh,” he said, voice dropping an octave. “Namjoon wasn’t exaggerating. You might actually be dangerous.”

He started walking again, but this time there was a new bounce in his step. “Come to my office. We’ll talk contract, salary, and how fast you can rewrite the garbage script we have scheduled for tomorrow. And please, for the love of all that is holy, never call it ‘adult content’ in front of me. It’s pornography, darling. Say it with your chest.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh as you followed him, notebook clutched tighter.

Behind you, through the half-open door of Studio B, you caught one last glimpse: Jungkook looking in your direction again, head tilted slightly, like he was trying to figure you out.

Your pulse stuttered.

This was either the best or the worst decision of your life.

The phone rings at 3:07 a.m., sharp and unforgiving.

You groan, eyes still heavy with sleep, and fumble for the device on your nightstand. The screen lights up with an unknown number. In your line of work, unknown numbers at this hour only mean one thing: trouble.

You answer on the third ring.

"Detective Y/N," a clipped male voice says without greeting. "This is Chief Kim Seokjin. You're being reassigned effective immediately. A car will be outside your building in twelve minutes. Pack light. You won't be coming back home for a while."

Before you can ask a single question, the line goes dead.

Twelve minutes later, you're sliding into the back seat of a black SUV with tinted windows. The driver doesn't speak. Neither does the silent agent riding shotgun. The only sound is the low hum of the engine as the city lights blur past.

You stare out the window, heart already beating faster than it should. You've been a detective for six years. You know what emergency reassignment feels like. This one feels different. Heavier.

The vehicle pulls into an underground parking garage beneath a nondescript government building on the outskirts of the city. Two armed guards escort you through sterile corridors until you reach a brightly lit conference room.

Inside, three men are already waiting.

The tallest one stands at the head of the table, arms crossed, expression serious but strangely soft around the edges when his eyes land on you. Kim Namjoon — lead detective, rumored to be one of the sharpest minds in the department. You've crossed paths with him before. His gaze lingers a second longer than necessary.

Beside him sits Park Jimin, dressed in a crisp button-down even at this ungodly hour. His lips curve into a small, knowing smile as he leans back in his chair. "Nice to finally meet you in person, detective. I've heard you don't play by the rules."

You don't get the chance to reply.

Chief Kim Seokjin enters the room like a storm, slamming a thick classified folder onto the table. His usually composed face looks exhausted, jaw tight with barely contained fury.

"Sit down," he orders.

You take the empty seat across from Namjoon. The tension in the air is suffocating.

"At 2:41 a.m.," Seokjin begins without preamble, "every alarm in The Abyss went off simultaneously. By the time response teams arrived... the facility was empty."

Your stomach drops.

The Abyss.

You've heard the rumors. A black-site maximum security prison buried deep in the desert, off every official map. No coordinates, no public records, no oversight. The government's final solution.

You lean forward. "Wait. The Abyss is real? thought that was just... a legend. Something intelligence made up to keep people in line."

Seokjin's jaw tightens. "It's real. Very real. And right now, it's empty."

You'd always assumed it was a myth. A story they told rookies to scare them straight. Do your job right, or you'll end up in The Abyss.

But now, sitting in this sterile conference room, watching Seokjin's exhausted face, you realize the myth was real.

And it's empty.

"Four hundred and twelve inmates," Seokjin continues, voice low. "All gone. No bodies. No signs of struggle. Just... gone."

He slides a photograph across the table toward you.

It's a surveillance image. A man standing in what looks like a dimly lit cell, half-turned toward the camera. Even in grainy black and white, his presence is overwhelming. Sharp jaw, dark eyes that seem to pierce through the lens, a small smirk playing on his lips like he already knew someone would be looking at this photo later.

"Jeon Jungkook," Seokjin says, the name tasting bitter on his tongue. "Also known as JK on the streets. He was our highest priority inmate."

Namjoon speaks next. "Jungkook was the architect of one of the most sophisticated criminal networks this country has ever seen. Drugs, weapons, assassinations, money laundering. His organization operated across three continents. We finally caught him three years ago."

"He wanted to be caught," Jimin adds quietly. "Walked into a penthouse, poured himself a whiskey, and waited."

"Why was he in The Abyss?" you ask. "Why not a normal supermax?"

Seokjin's jaw tightens. "Because normal prisons have oversight. The Abyss doesn't. Jungkook collected information — secrets that could destroy people at the highest levels of government. He was sent there to be buried."

Namjoon speaks again, his voice calm but heavy. "He didn't escape alone. Three of his closest men are also missing. Min Yoongi — alias Suga. Kim Taehyung — alias V. Jung Hoseok — alias J-Hope."

You swallow hard, eyes still fixed on Jungkook's photo.

Seokjin leans forward, palms flat on the table.

"You've been chosen for a new special task force. Your only objective is to find Jeon Jungkook and bring him back. Alive."

Seokjin slides a manila folder across the table, stamped with red lettering: CLASSIFIED // EYES ONLY. He doesn’t open it.

“Before we go further, you need to understand why Jungkook was in The Abyss to begin with. Not the public charges. The real reason.”

Namjoon picks up the thread, his voice measured. “Before his arrest, intelligence agencies detected fragments of an archive he created. We got enough to know that its full release would cause catastrophic damage. To national security. To diplomatic relationships. To individuals in the highest levels of government.”

“What kind of information?” you ask.

Seokjin meets your eyes. “That’s the problem. We don’t know the full scope. The archive is encrypted and compartmentalized. Every attempt to access it has failed. What we do know is that people have killed for it. Governments have moved assets to recover it. And Jungkook has always treated it like his ultimate insurance policy.”

He taps the folder. “The file in front of you contains everything we’re cleared to share. Which, frankly, isn’t much. The people above us have decided that the contents of that archive are so sensitive that even this task force doesn’t need to know the details. Your job is to find Jungkook. What happens after that… isn’t up to us.”

Jimin leans back in his chair, examining his perfectly manicured nails with theatrical disinterest. “So we’re hunting a ghost with one hand tied behind our backs. Classic.” He drums his fingers on the table. “And let me guess — if we fail, it’s our heads. If we succeed, the higher-ups take the credit and the archive magically disappears into some black vault where no one ever talks about it again.”

Seokjin’s expression doesn’t change. “You’re not wrong.”

“I’m never wrong,” Jimin says, but there’s no arrogance in it — just a tired kind of certainty.

You look at the folder, then back at Seokjin. “If we don’t know what’s in the archive, how do we know it’s even real?”

A flicker of something — doubt, guilt — crosses Seokjin’s face before it smooths into neutrality. “Because three years ago, a senior intelligence official walked into his office, typed a single password into his terminal, and then put a bullet in his own head. His last words were: ‘Tell them Jungkook was right.’ ”

Silence.

“We never found out what he saw,” Seokjin continues. “His terminal was wiped remotely within seconds. But the intelligence community has been trying to get their hands on that archive ever since. And now that Jungkook is out…” He exhales. “Let’s just say there are people in this city who will do anything to make sure those files never see the light of day. And there are others who will do anything to make sure they do.”

He stands, buttoning his jacket. “You’re not here to judge the archive. You’re here to bring Jungkook back before someone else finds him first — and decides that killing him is cheaper than letting him talk.” Seokjin gestures to Namjoon. "Detective Kim Namjoon — lead investigator. He knows the case better than anyone."

Namjoon nods at you.

Seokjin points to Jimin. "Park Jimin — legal consultant. Former corporate attorney. He knows the legal gray areas. And he knows how criminals think."

Jimin gives a small nod. He doesn't add anything else.

"And you," Seokjin says, turning to you. "Detective Y/N. Six years on the force. Highest closure rate in your precinct. You don't play politics, and you don't quit. That's why you're here."

You open the folder. The first page is a threat assessment. You scan it quickly, then look up.

"This says he has a dead man's switch on the archive."

Seokjin nods. "If he dies, the archive goes public. If he's captured and can't reset the timer, the archive goes public. The only way to keep those secrets buried is to keep him alive and cooperative."

"That's why you want him alive."

"That's why we need him alive." Seokjin's voice is grim. "Killing him would be worse than letting him go free. At least free, we can track him. Dead, everything he knows gets released to every news outlet in the world."

You stare at Jungkook's photograph. The empty eyes. The hollow stare.

"Someone has to know what's in there. Names, evidence, someone—"

"Classified." Seokjin's tone is final. "Above your clearance. Above mine, probably. But whatever it is, people have killed for it. People have died for it. And Jungkook has been using it as his insurance policy for years."

Jimin snorts from his chair. "So we're hunting a ghost who holds a nuclear football. Great. What could possibly go wrong?"

Namjoon shoots him a look. "Not helpful."

"I'm not trying to be helpful. I'm being realistic."

You ignore them both and keep reading.

He pulls on his coat. “I have a meeting to explain how four hundred and twelve prisoners escaped federal custody without a single guard noticing until it was too late.”

He leaves without another word, the door closing with a soft click.

The silence he leaves behind is heavier than the one before.

Namjoon exhales slowly, running a hand through his hair. His expression is troubled, but when he speaks, his voice is steady. "Well. That went about as well as expected."

"You're the lead detective," you say, turning to him. "How long have you known about this?"

He meets your eyes. "Two hours? Since the first alarm went off." He gestures to the stack of files in front of him. "I've read every report on Jungkook and his inner circle. Every interrogation transcript. Every surveillance log. And I still can't tell you how he got out."

"But you have theories."

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. "I have theories. None of them make me feel better."

Jimin rises from his chair, stretching with the easy grace of someone who hasn't just been told he's a target of the most dangerous criminal in the country. "What he's not telling you is that Jungkook didn't just escape. He left something behind."

Your gaze snaps to Namjoon. "What?"

Namjoon pulls a photograph from his folder — a close-up of Jungkook's cell. The walls are bare concrete, the cot stripped of its sheets. But scratched into the wall above the bed, faint but unmistakable, are words:

See you soon.

"Security found it during the initial sweep," Namjoon says quietly. "It wasn't there three days before the escape. The guards check every cell weekly for exactly this kind of thing."

"He was telling you," you breathe.

"He was telling us he was leaving. And that he'd be seeing us again." Namjoon's voice is steady, but his knuckles are white around the edge of the folder. "He wanted us to know. Wanted us to wait, to watch, to wonder when."

Jimin walks to the window, looking out at the pre-dawn darkness. "The question is whether 'us' means the department... or someone specific."

You think of the way Jungkook smiled at the camera. The way his eyes seemed to find you even in a photograph.

Namjoon watches you carefully. His jaw works like he's chewing on something he's not sure he should say. Finally, he speaks, his voice low enough that only you and Jimin can hear.

“There’s something else. Something that isn’t in the official files.”

You turn to him.

“The man who killed himself in intelligence — the one who said Jungkook was right? He wasn’t the only one. In the months before Jungkook’s arrest, three other people in positions of power died by suicide. All of them were connected to the same circles that built The Abyss. Officially, it was ruled as stress, mental health, personal issues.” He pauses. “Unofficially… some people think they saw something in Jungkook’s archive. Something that made them choose death over exposure.”

“Are you saying the archive is real?”

“I’m saying that everyone who knows what’s actually in it is either dead, running, or pretending it doesn’t exist.” His voice drops. “And that makes me wonder what Jungkook is really running from. Or who.”

Jimin snorts from the window. “Careful, Namjoon. That sounds dangerously close to sympathy.”

Namjoon’s expression hardens. “It sounds like wanting to know the truth before I put a bullet in someone.”

“And yet,” Jimin says, turning back to face him, “here you are. Following orders. Leading the task force. Doing exactly what they told you to do.”

The words hang in the air, sharp and deliberate.

Namjoon’s jaw tightens. For a moment, something dark flickers in his eyes — conflict, maybe, or the residue of a conversation they’ve had before. But when he speaks, his voice is calm, controlled.

“I follow orders because the alternative is chaos. You don’t fix a broken system by burning it down. You fix it from the inside.” He looks at you, then back at Jimin. “I have my doubts. I have questions. But I took an oath. And I’m going to do my job.”

Jimin holds his gaze for a long moment, then smiles — not his sharp, mocking smile, but something almost genuine. “That’s why they put you in charge, Namjoon. You actually believe in this stuff.”

“Someone has to,” Namjoon says quietly.

Jimin’s smile turns wry. “Lucky for you, I believe in a steady paycheck. So I’ll play along.” He glances at you, a hint of his earlier mischief returning. “Just don’t expect me to pretend I’m doing it for the good of the country. I’m doing it because it’s better for me if the people with guns and badges think I’m useful. That’s the deal.”

Namjoon shakes his head, but there’s no heat in it. “You’re impossible.”

“I’m practical,” Jimin corrects. “There’s a difference.”

"I need to understand The Abyss. The layout. The levels." you say.

Namjoon blinks. "You're not going home first? Get your things?"

"I came with twelve minutes' notice," you say, standing. "Everything I own is in this jacket and my head. I want to see The Abyss's structure."

Something shifts in Namjoon's expression — surprise, then respect, then something softer that he quickly masks. He walks to a secure terminal and pulls up a three-dimensional schematic on the main monitor.

A massive underground complex, buried nearly half a mile beneath the desert. Thirteen levels, each one descending deeper into the earth.

"The top three levels are administrative," Namjoon explains. "Guard quarters, surveillance, medical. Levels four through seven are general population. Levels eight through eleven are maximum containment — soundproofed cells, no contact between prisoners."

He points to level twelve. "This is where they kept Jungkook. And the other high-value assets."

The schematic shows a blank space. No details.

"We don't have much on level twelve," Namjoon admits. "Classified. Above our clearance."

"And level thirteen?"

"Failsafe. If the facility is ever breached, level thirteen floods with concrete. Everything above it gets buried forever."

You study the image. "I've heard things. About what they did down there. Experiments. Conditioning." You look at Namjoon. "Is that real?"

Namjoon's expression hardens. "There are rumors. Nothing confirmed."

Jimin shifts in his chair. His voice is quiet. "It's real."

Namjoon turns his head sharply, eyes narrowing.

Jimin holds up a hand, not backing down but keeping his tone low. "You asked. I'm answering." He looks at you. "They wanted to break people down. Rebuild them. Make them into weapons. Assets that would do anything they were told."

Namjoon's jaw tightens. He gives Jimin a long, warning look.

Jimin glances at him, then back at the table. He doesn't add anything else.

You look between them. "And Jungkook?"

"Was already a monster," Namjoon says firmly. "Whatever happened to him in there doesn't change that. He ordered killings. He ruined lives. He built an empire on blood. The Abyss is cruel, but those people deserved to be there."

You notice Jimin's expression flickers — just for a moment — before he looks away.

You turn back to the schematic. "So the official story says no bodies. No struggle. Just a clean escape."

"That's correct."

"But you don't believe it."

Namjoon hesitates. "I've requested access to the facility three times since the escape. Denied each time. National security."

"Three times in a few hours?"

"I made the requests immediately. The first was denied within minutes." His jaw tightens. "Someone doesn't want us looking."

Jimin speaks, his voice low. "There were guards. Staff. Security personnel. Where are they?"

Namjoon shrugs. "Probably dead. Or disappeared. Either way, it's not our concern. Our job is to find Jungkook."

"Not to find out what happened to the guards?"

"Our job is to find Jungkook," Namjoon repeats. "The rest is someone else's problem."

You stare at the schematic. Level twelve. The void.

"Someone is hiding something."

"Probably." Namjoon's voice is tired. "But that doesn't change the fact that Jungkook is dangerous. He was dangerous before The Abyss. He's even more dangerous now."

Jimin looks up. For a moment, his expression is unreadable. Then he looks back down.

You stand. "I want to see it."

"See what?"

"The Abyss. Level twelve. I need to stand where he stood."

Namjoon shakes his head. "Not possible. The facility is sealed. No one gets in without authorization."

"Which they're not going to give us."

"No."

"Then we go without it."

The room goes still.

Namjoon stares at you. "You're suggesting we break into a classified black site."

"I'm suggesting we do our jobs." Your voice is steady. "You brought me here to hunt a man who escaped from a prison no one is allowed to see. There are gaps in the story — missing guards, redacted files, denied access. I need the truth. All of it. Or I'm useless to you."

"You'd quit before the first day?"

"I'd quit before I let myself be used as bait in a game I don't understand." You hold his gaze. "No bodies, Seokjin says. But you don't believe that. I don't either. The only way to know is to see it myself."

Namjoon looks at Jimin. Jimin shrugs slightly — not agreement, not disagreement. Just a small, tired gesture.

A long moment passes.

Then Namjoon exhales. "Fine. Tonight. We go in quietly. No guns. No badges. We look, we document, we get out. And if anyone asks, we were never there."

You nod. "Level twelve?"

"We go as far as we can."

Jimin stands. He doesn't say anything. He just walks to the door, pauses, and looks back at you. There's something in his eyes — warning, maybe. Or sadness.

The room falls quiet. The schematic glows on the monitor — thirteen levels of concrete and steel, buried beneath the desert.

You think about Jungkook. Three years in that place. In the dark.

You think about the rumors. The experiments. The missing guards.

You think about Namjoon's words: He was a monster long before.

But something doesn't add up.

You look at the schematic one more time. Level twelve. The void.

"I want to see it with my own eyes," you say. "The Abyss. His cell. Everything."

Namjoon nods. "Tonight."

Outside, the sun is rising over the city. But somewhere beneath the desert, in the darkness of The Abyss, the truth is waiting.

And you're going to find it.

taglist: @mar-lo-pap @fandomkalokohan

Chapter 5: The Aftermath. (Part One)

(Or: How Hana tried to comfort u while the internet was burning down without u knowing)

Two days later, you're sitting across from Hana at your usual brunch spot, stabbing at your avocado toast like it personally offended you.

She hasn't said anything yet.

She's just... watching you. Waiting. Her chin resting on her palm, her eyes narrowed like she's conducting an investigation.

"You look like shit," she finally announces.

"Thanks. You look beautiful."

"I know. That's not the point." She leans forward. "You've been staring at that toast for ten minutes. You haven't eaten a single bite. You keep sighing like a victorian ghost who died of heartbreak."

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine."

"I'm fine."

"You cried into Shooky, didn't you?"

You freeze.

Hana's eyes widen. "Oh my god. You cried into Shooky."

"I did not—"

"Your face is doing the thing. The thing where you try to lie but your left eye twitches."

"My left eye does not twitch."

"It's twitching right now. It's practically doing the macarena. "

You slap a hand over your left eye. Hana cackles.

"Hana!"

"Sorry. Sorry." She's not sorry. She's grinning like a maniac. "Okay. Start from the beginning. And I mean the beginning. The chase. The elevator. The reveal. The part where you called Jeon Jungkook an idiot to his face. All of it."

You take a breath.

And you tell her. About the screaming crowd and the figure in black sprinting down the alley. About yelling "YAH!" like a lunatic and waving your arms like you were directing air traffic.

"You grabbed his wrist?" Hana interrupts.

"I was saving his life."

"You grabbed Jeon Jungkook's wrist."

"Priorities, Hana."

"That IS the priority."

You tell her about the elevator. The silence. The way he pulled off his mask and the world stopped.

She actually gasps. "What did you say?"

"I said 'you're welcome' like a complete idiot."

"That's so romantic."

"It wasn't. I was malfunctioning."

You tell her about the apartment. The suspicion. The way he asked if you knew they were in the area and you panicked and put your hands up like you were being arrested.

"You put your hands UP?"

"I wanted to look non threatening!"

"You're five foot three in sneakers. You're never threatening."

"He doesn't know that!"

You tell her about the shower. Your brother's clothes. The fanfic comment that still makes you want to die.

Hana nearly chokes on her orange juice. "You said WHAT."

"I said I read a fanfic about a scene like this."

"To his face?"

"Yeah."

"Oh my god."

"I know!"

You tell her about the kimchi stew. The way he stole your tofu. Him falling asleep on the couch and on your thighs. About the two and a half hours you sat there, numb, needing to pee, refusing to move because he looked so peaceful.

"You held your pee for two HOURS?"

"He needed to sleep, Hana."

"That's love."

"It's basic human decency."

You tell her about the video call with Jin and Jimin, the crop top and booty shorts, the note you left.

"You wore booty shorts?" Hana raises an eyebrow.

"I was going to sleep."

"Knowing he was on your couch?"

"I didn't think he'd wake up!"

"Uh huh."

"Stop looking at me like that."

You tell her about Jungkook sleepwalking into your room. Flopping onto your bed. Almost bouncing you off the mattress.

"He did WHAT?"

"He was half asleep. He didn't know what he was doing."

"And the what?"

"He grabbed my wrist. Asked me to stay."

Hana's mouth falls open. "He asked you that?"

"Yeah."

"And you stayed?"

"...yeah."

"In the bed?"

"In the bed."

Hana stares at you for a long moment. Then she picks up her napkin and throws it at your face.

"You're fucking kidding me."

"I wish I was."

"You slept in a bed with Jeon Jungkook and you're just telling me this NOW?"

"I'm telling you everything!"

"YOU LEFT OUT THE MOST IMPORTANT PART!"

"I WAS GETTING THERE!"

You keep going. Taehyung being there—your bias, Kim Taehyung, standing in your living room because Jin brought him as a "gift." Hana actually screams. People at the next table look over.

"KIM TAEHYUNG? IN YOUR APARTMENT?"

"In my apartment."

"AND YOU DIDN'T FAINT?"

"I almost did."

"WHAT DID HE SAY?"

"He thanked me for taking care of Jungkook. Shook my hand."

"HE SHOOK YOUR HAND?"

"He shook my hand."

Hana fans herself with her menu. "I need a moment."

You tell her about the farewell. Jungkook asking you to come downstairs. The way he touched your face. The way he said "I'll text you."

"And did he?" Hana asks.

You look down at your phone.

Nothing.

No messages. No calls. No nothing.

Two days of silence.

"He said he would," you say quietly. "But no. He didn't."

Hana's expression shifts. The playfulness drains away.

"Not once?"

"Not once."

"That's... fuck."

"Yeah."

You tell her about crying into Shooky after they left. About feeling stupid for getting emotional over someone you barely knew. About checking your phone every hour like an idiot, hoping for a message that never came.

Hana reaches across the table and grabs both your hands.

"You're not stupid," she says firmly. "You spent almost twenty four hours with him. You saw him at his most vulnerable. You fed him, you let him sleep on you, you let him sleep in your bed. You made him feel safe enough to stop running for the first time in months. That's not stupid. That's human."

"Then why hasn't he texted?"

Hana doesn't have an answer for that.

"Hana," you say quietly.

She looks up.

"What if I never see him again?"

The words hang in the air.

The way he said 'I'll text you' like he meant it, and then just... didn't.

"I mean it," you continue. "He's... he's him. And I'm just... me. Some random person who happened to be in the right place at the right time. A footnote in his day. A story he'll tell the members once and then never think about again."

"That's not—"

"He said he'd text." Your voice cracks. "He didn't, Hana. Two days. Nothing. Just... silence."

Hana's face softens. She reaches across the table and takes your hand again.

"Maybe he's busy—"

"He's always busy. That doesn't take two seconds to send a message?"

You know you're being unfair. You know he has schedules, recordings, interviews, a life that doesn't revolve around you. You know all of that.

But it still hurts.

It still fucking hurts.

"I'm never going to see him again," you say. Not a question this time. A statement. A fact.

Hana doesn't answer.

Because you both know the answer is no.

No, you're probably never going to see him again.

No, he's probably not thinking about you.

No, this wasn't the start of something.

It was just... a weird, wonderful, impossible twenty four hours. And now it's over.

"Hey." Hana's voice is firmer now. "Look at me."

You look up.

"I need you to listen to me, okay? Really listen."

You nod.

"I don't give a single fuck about Jeon Jungkook right now." She says it like she's spitting out something bitter. "I don't care how hot he is. I don't care how talented he is. I don't care about his stupid bunny smile or his stupid muscles or his stupid voice that makes millions of people cry. I don't care if he's the most perfect, fantastic, versatile, incredible man on the entire fucking planet."

"That's a lot of adjectives."

"I'm not done with the adjectives. I could go on. I won't. But I could."

"Please don't."

"You know what I care about?" She points at you with her chin. "You."

"What?"

"You're a goddess."

You blink.

"A goddess," she repeats. "Do you understand me? You moved to a different country by yourself. You learned a new language. You built a life here from nothing. You're smart, you're funny, you're so fucking kind it makes me sick sometimes. You're the only person I know who would risk getting murdered just to help a stranger in an alley."

"That's not—"

"You held your pee for TWO HOURS so a famous person could sleep on your lap. That's not basic human decency, Y/N. That's sainthood. That's next level compassion. That's the kind of thing people write songs about."

You laugh despite yourself. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm RIGHT." She points at you with her free hand. "You are a catch. You are a goddess. You are the whole package. And if Jeon Jungkook is too stupid or too busy or too whatever to text you back, then he's the one missing out. Not you."

"Hana—"

"I mean it. Fuck him. Fuck his silence. Fuck his two days of nothing. You deserve someone who shows up. Someone who texts back. Someone who doesn't make you cry into a Shooky plushie at 2am."

You feel tears prick at your eyes again. But different this time. Not sad tears. Something else.

"You're gonna make me cry in public."

"Then cry. I'll fight anyone who looks at you wrong."

You laugh and cry at the same time, which is a terrible combination, and Hana just holds your hand and waits.

"I have no limits when it comes to you."

You look up. Hana is grinning. But her eyes are serious.

"You're my person," she says. "And I'm not letting you forget how incredible you are. Even if I have to remind you every five minutes for the rest of our lives."

"That's exhausting."

"That's friendship, baby."

You shake your head. But you're smiling.

You're in the middle of wiping your eyes when you hear it.

A voice. Female. Excited. Too close.

"Oh my god."

You look up.

A girl is standing a few feet away from your table. Maybe twenty years old. Holding her phone. Staring at you.

Not at Hana. At you.

"It's her," the girl whispers.

You frown. "Sorry, do I know you?"

The girl's eyes are wide. Almost manic. She looks down at her phone, then back at you. Then at her phone again.

"It's HER," she says louder.

"What?" Hana looks between you and the girl. "What's going on?"

The girl turns around. Shouts across the restaurant.

"GUYS! I FOUND HER! SHE'S HERE!"

Your blood runs cold.

"What the fuck," you mutter.

And then you see them.

People. Standing up from their tables. Turning around from the counter. Looking up from their phones. A lot of them. Too many of them.

All looking at you.

"Oh shit," Hana breathes.

The girl takes a step toward your table. Then another. Her hands are shaking. Her eyes are shining.

"You're her," she says again. "You're the girl. From the photos. With Jungkook."

You stare at her.

What photos?

What the fuck is she talking about?

More people are standing up now. More people are walking toward you. Not running. Not yet. But moving. Purposefully.

Your heart starts hammering in your chest.

"Hana," you say quietly.

"I see them."

"What the fuck is happening?"

"I don't know."

The girl is closer now. Close enough to touch your table. Her phone is held out in front of her like a weapon.

"Can I get a picture?" she asks. Her voice is trembling. "Please? I'm your biggest fan. Well, I mean, I'm his biggest fan. But now I'm your fan too. Because you're with him. And you're so lucky. And I just—"

"Back up, please." Hana says sharply.

The girl doesn't move.

"Back. Up." Hana stands. Puts herself between you and the girl. Her body is a wall. Protective. Fierce. "I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, but you need to step the fuck back right now."

More people are gathering. A small crowd. Maybe fifteen. Maybe twenty. Some of them are holding up their phones. Recording.

Recording you.

"What's happening?" you whisper, but no one answers.

You look at Hana. Hana looks at you.

Neither of you knows what the hell is going on.

The girl is still staring at you. Still holding out her phone.

"Please," she says. "Just one picture. As a fan, you owe me that. I just—"

"She doesn't owe shit," Hana shouts. Her voice echoes through the restaurant.

People in the crowd murmur. Some of them look angry. Some of them look confused. Some of them look like they're about to cry.

You see more people approaching from outside. The glass doors of the restaurant. They're pointing. They're coming inside.

Oh fuck.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck.

"Hana," you say, grabbing her arm.

"I know."

"We need to leave."

"I KNOW."

You stand up. Your chair scrapes against the floor. The sound echoes through the suddenly quiet restaurant.

Every eye is on you.

Every phone is pointed at you.

"I don't know what's happening," you say, and your voice is shaking now. "I don't know who any of you are. I don't know what photos you're talking about. But you need to—"

"She's lying!" someone shouts from the back.

"I'm not lying—"

"The photos are everywhere! We saw you! With him!"

You don't understand. You don't know what photos. You don't know how they know. You don't know anything except that you need to get out.

Now.

"RUN," Hana says.

And you do. You grab Hana's hand and you run.

Through the restaurant. Past the gaping customers. Past the confused staff. Out the back door. Into the alley.

Your heart is pounding. Your lungs are burning. Your sandals are slapping against the pavement.

Behind you, you can hear shouting. Footsteps. Chaos.

"What the fuck," Hana screams as you run.

"I don't know!"

"How does she knows who you are?"

"I don't know!"

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know! Just run!"

You don't have a plan. You don't have a destination. You just know you can't go home—what if the know that too?—so you run.

Left. Right. Through alleys. Across streets.

You don't look back.

You don't want to know how many of them are following.

Hana is gripping your hand so tight it hurts. She's half a step ahead of you, pulling you forward, her body angled to protect you even while running.

"I won't let them get you," she pants.

"Hana—"

"I won't. Just keep running."

You round another corner. Another street. Your legs are burning. Your chest is heaving.

You don't know where you're going.

You don't know how to lose them.

And then you hear it.

Tires. Squealing. A van pulling up beside you.

You almost scream. You almost veer left. You almost drag Hana into another alley—

The window rolls down.

A face appears.

Park Jimin.

"Get in! ," he shouts.

You freeze.

"NOW!" he screams.

The side door slides open. Another face. Kim Taehyung. His hand is reaching for you.

"Come on!"

Behind you, the crowd is getting closer. You can hear them. Shouting. Pointing.

"Hana—"

"I see them. GO. GO!"

You don't think.

You just move.

Hana shoves you toward the van. You stumble. Taehyung grabs your arm and yanks you inside. Hana is right behind you, practically diving through the door.

"GO GO GO!" Jimin screams at the driver.

The van lurches forward. The door slides shut.

You're on the floor. Hana is on top of you. Taehyung is braced against the wall. Jimin is twisted around in the front seat, looking out the back window.

The van speeds up. Turns a corner. Another. Another.

You can't breathe.

You can't think.

You're lying on the floor of a van with your best friend on top of you and two members of BTS staring at you and you have no idea what the fuck just happened.

Hana rolls off you. She's breathing just as hard as you are.

"What," she gasps, "the actual FUCK."

You look at Taehyung. He looks at you. His eyes are wide. Worried.

Jimin turns around. His face is pale.

"You didn't see the photos?" he asks.

"What photos?" you manage.

Jimin and Taehyung exchange a glance.

"Shit," Jimin whispers.

Chapter 4: The morning after. (Or: How Jeon Jungkook woke up in your bed.)

Jungkook wakes up to the sound of birds chirping outside, a little sliver of sunlight peeking through the curtains, landing right in his face.

He takes a deep breath in, getting a whiff of something sweet. Familiar. Your shampoo. The one he used yesterday.

Wait, he thinks, still half lost in that fuzzy space between sleep and waking. That's not his pillow.

He blinks a couple times, pushing up from the bed to prop himself up on his right elbow. He looks around, trying to get his bearings.

This isn't his room.

This isn't his bed.

These aren't his sheets.

It's been a while since he was this groggy. Like his brain is moving through molasses. He shakes his head and rubs his eyes, trying to clear the fog.

And then he looks down at the figure next to him.

You.

You're lying on your side with your back facing him, still asleep with your eyes closed, slowly breathing in and out. Your lila crop top has ridden up slightly. Your booty shorts are... well, they're booty shorts. Your hair is spread across the pillow like a dark halo.

He freezes instantly.

"Shit," he whispers, covering his mouth with his hand.

His first reaction is panic. Fuck. What did he do? What happened? Did he—

Then he starts to remember.

Not everything. It's fuzzy around the edges, like a dream he's trying to hold onto. But he remembers enough.

He remembers getting off the couch. Walking to your room. His body moving on autopilot while his brain was still drowning in sleep.

He remembers flopping onto your bed. Feeling you shift beneath him.

He remembers grabbing your wrist.

"Don't go. Stay here."

He remembers pulling you against his chest. The way you fit perfectly against him. The way you smelled like... home. He'd said that, hadn't he? He'd said you smelled like home.

Fuck.

His face burns.

He remembers wrapping his leg around yours. Pressing his face into your neck. Feeling you relax against him after a while, like you'd stopped fighting it. Like you'd decided to stay.

You stayed.

He'd asked you to stay. In his half asleep, brain dead, no filter state, he'd asked a stranger to stay in bed with him.

And you did.

You didn't run. You didn't push him away. You didn't scream or take pictures or call someone to brag about how the golden maknae of BTS was wrapped around you like a fucking koala.

You just... stayed.

He looks at you now. Still asleep. Peaceful. Trusting.

How are you so calm? How are you not freaking out?

Then he notices the small pillow on the nightstand. A Shooky plushie. The little cookie character from BT21. Hidden behind the lamp like you didn't want anyone to see it.

You're an ARMY, he remembers.

His chest does something weird.

He should wake you up. He should apologize. He should explain that he wasn't himself, that he was half conscious, that he didn't mean to—

But you look so peaceful.

And honestly? He can't remember the last time he slept that well. The last time he woke up without his chest feeling tight. The last time his brain wasn't already screaming at him about everything he needed to do, everything he was failing at, everything everyone expected from him.

He slept.

Really slept.

Because of you.

Fuck.

He runs a hand through his messy hair and carefully starts to extract himself from the bed. He doesn't want to wake you. Doesn't want to have this conversation yet. Doesn't know what he would even say.

"Sorry I sleepwalked into your bed and cuddled you all night, can I still get that kimchi?"

Yeah. No.

He's halfway out of the bed when he hears it.

A ding. From the living room.

He freezes, listening. Your breathing stays steady behind him. Still asleep.

Ding.

Another notification.

Ding.

Whoever's texting isn't giving up.

His feet hit the floor. He doesn't look back at you because if he does, he's not going to leave the bed at all.

The living room is quiet. Your phone is on the coffee table. And next to it, a piece of paper. Your handwriting.

A smile tugs at his lips.

You're fucking ridiculous. And he likes it.

He grabs your phone, still smiling, and walks back to the bedroom. Sits on the edge of the bed. Your bed. The bed you're still asleep in.

Only then does he look down at the screen.

Jin: we're outside let us up

Jin: the doorman said yes

Jin: i mean ofc, i'm worldwide handsome

Jin: we're coming up

Jin: Y/N we're coming up RIGHT NOW

Jin: JUNGKOOK IF YOU'RE AWAKE PUT PANTS ON

Jungkook stares at the messages. The smile disappears.

Shit.

Shit shit shit.

He looks at you. Still asleep. Still completely unaware that Kim Seokjin is about to walk through that door.

He looks at himself. Still wearing your brother's too tight shirt. Still in your bed. Still looking like he just rolled out of—which he did.

Fuck.

The door to your apartment opens.

You don't hear it at first. You're still drifting somewhere between dreams and reality, warm and comfortable and—

"YAH! JEON JUNGKOOK!"

You jolt awake so hard you nearly fall off the bed.

"What the—"

"SHE'S IN HER UNDERWEAR, TAEHYUNG, LOOK AWAY!"

"I'M NOT LOOKING!"

"EVERYONE CLOSE YOUR EYES!"

"HYUNG, YOU'RE THE ONE SCREAMING!"

"SEJIN-HYUNG, DO SOMETHING!"

"I'm staying out of this."

You blink rapidly, trying to make sense of the chaos happening in your living room.

Kim Seokjin is standing in your bedroom door with his hands over his eyes—but his fingers are spread apart, so he's clearly peeking.

Kim Taehyung is behind him, facing the opposite direction, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

And Mr. Sejin, their manager, is standing by the front door, looking at his phone like this is a normal morning for him.

Jungkook is standing on next to your bed, his face the color of a tomato, running his hands through his hair like he's trying to escape his own body.

"Hi," you say, because what the fuck else are you supposed to say?

Jin peeks through his fingers. "ARE YOU DECENT?"

"I'm wearing clothes."

"OKAY GOOD."

He drops his hands. Taehyung turns around. They both look at you. Then at Jungkook. Then at the bed. Then back at you.

The silence is deafening.

"I can explain," Jungkook says.

"Please do," Jin says, crossing his arms.

"I—" Jungkook starts. Stops. Starts again. "I don't actually remember everything."

"YOU DON'T REMEMBER—"

"I remember enough," Jungkook says quickly. "I remember getting off the couch. Walking to her room. Getting into her bed." His ears are burning. You can see it from across the room. "I remember asking her to stay."

Jin's eyebrows shoot up. Taehyung's mouth falls open.

"You asked her to stay?" Taehyung repeats.

"I was half asleep! I didn't know what I was doing!"

"Your subconscious knew what it was doing," Jin mutters.

Jungkook groans and buries his face in his hands.

You should say something. You should defend him. You should explain that nothing happened, that he literally just slept, that you're the one who didn't leave.

"We didn't...anything," you say quietly.

Everyone looks at you.

"I was trying to go sleep on the couch," you continue, pulling the blanket up higher out of sheer embarrassment. "I didn't want him to wake up and think I'd done something. But he grabbed my wrist and asked me to stay. So I did."

All of them stares at you, Jungkook between his fingers.

"That's it," you say. "He slept. I slept. That's literally it."

"Just... slept?" Jin asks.

"Just slept."

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

Jin and Taehyung exchange a look. The kind of look that says we don't believe you but we're going to pretend we do.

"Okay," Jin says slowly. "Okay. Fine. Whatever. We're not here to interrogate you about your..." He gestures vaguely at the bed. "Sleeping arrangements."

"Then why are you here?" Jungkook asks, finally lifting his head.

"To pick you up, obviously. You have a schedule." Jin pauses. "Also we wanted to meet the girl who made you sleep through the night for the first time in months."

Your heart stops.

Jungkook's face goes even redder.

"Hyung—"

"What? It's true." Jin looks at you. "Do you know how long it's been since he slept more than four hours? Do you know how many nights he's spent staring at the ceiling? And then he meets you, and suddenly he's dead to the world for thirteen hours?"

"Twelve," Jungkook mutters.

"On a stranger's lap. In a stranger's bed." Taehyung throws his hands up. "I had to hear about this from Jimin. Jimin! Who heard it from her!"

"I was going to tell you—"

"When? At your wedding?"

"OKAY," you interrupt, because if you don't, you're going to die of embarrassment right here in your own bed. "Can everyone please go to the living room so I can get dressed?"

Jin opens his mouth but you don't let him.

"OUT."

He closes his mouth. He and Taehyung shuffle out of the doorway. Mr. Sejin is already gone, probably waiting by the elevator to avoid the chaos.

Jungkook lingers for a moment. He looks at you—really looks at you—and something soft passes over his face.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly. "For... you know. The bed thing. I didn't mean to—"

"You asked me," you say. "You didn't force me. I chose to."

His eyes widen slightly.

"I chose to stay," you repeat. "So don't apologize for that."

He stares at you for a long moment. Then his lips twitch into something that's almost a smile.

"Okay," he says. "I won't."

He leaves. You hear Jin immediately start talking in rapid Korean, too fast for you to catch everything, but you definitely hear the words "cute" and "when's the wedding."

You bury your face in your pillow and scream.

Twenty minutes later, you're dressed. Sort of.

Jeans. A clean t-shirt. Your hair in a messy bun because you refuse to do more than that for people who showed up unannounced at 8am.

You walk into the living room and find Jin, Taehyung, and Jungkook standing around your kitchen island like they own the place. Mr. Sejin is on the phone by the door, speaking quietly.

Jin is dressed in his iconic purple sweatsuit. His hair is long and shaggy, falling over his forehead, and he looks like he just stepped out of a photoshoot. Because of course he does.

Taehyung is wearing a simple black t-shirt and jeans. His black hair is disheveled—but it's the kind of messy you do on purpose, the kind that makes him look effortlessly beautiful. His face is round, his eyes are kind, and he's looking at you like you're the most interesting person he's met all week.

Kim Taehyung, you think. Your bias. In your kitchen. Looking at you.

Holy shit.

"Y/N!" Jin exclaims, pushing past the others to greet you. "It's so nice to meet you in person!"

He pulls you into a hug before you can react. He's warm. He smells expensive. He's also squeezing you like you're his long-lost sister.

"Thank you for saving our idiot," he says into your hair. "Seriously. Thank you."

"Hyung," Jungkook complains from behind him.

"I'm being sincere!"

"You're being embarrassing!"

"Same thing!"

Jin releases you and steps back. Taehyung steps forward.

He's taller than you expected. Not as tall as Jungkook, but close. He makes a tiny bow—just a small dip of his head—and flashes a shy smile that makes your heart stop.

"Jungkookie told me who your bias was," Jin says, sounding way too pleased with himself. "Thought you deserved a reward."

"Thanks for taking care of him," Taehyung says, and his voice is exactly like you remember. Deep. Warm. Like honey poured over gravel. "If anything happened to him, we'd be devastated."

You open your mouth to respond.

Nothing comes out.

Say something, you idiot. Say literally anything.

"You're welcome," you manage. Your voice sounds weird. Too high. Too breathy. "I'm glad I could help."

Taehyung's smile widens. He holds out his hand for a handshake.

You take it. His hand is warm. His fingers wrap around yours.

You're shaking hands with Kim Taehyung. Your bias. Kim Taehyung. The man whose photocards you have hidden in your nightstand.

Do not pass out. Do NOT pass out.

"We owe you," Taehyung adds. "Seriously."

"You don't owe me anything," you manage.

Taehyung's lips twitch. "Jin-hyung said you'd say that."

"Jin-hyung talks too much."

"HEY," Jin shouts from across the room.

Taehyung laughs—that deep, boxy laugh that makes millions of people lose their minds.

"Hyung," Jungkook says, and his voice has an edge you haven't heard before. "Let go of her hand."

Taehyung looks at Jungkook. Raises an eyebrow. Doesn't let go.

"Why?"

"Because I said so."

"Since when do you tell me what to do?"

Jungkook crosses the room in three strides. He doesn't grab your hand—doesn't touch you at all—but he positions himself between you and Taehyung in a way that feels deliberate.

"She's off limits," Jungkook says.

Your knees nearly buckle.

Excuse me?

OFF LIMITS?

Since WHEN?

Jin bursts out laughing. "Yah! She's not property!"

"Yes, I am," you mutter under your breath.

Everyone looks at you.

"Nothing," you say quickly. "I said nothing."

Jin is still laughing. Taehyung is watching Jungkook with an expression you can't read. Jungkook's ears are bright red.

"I'm going to kill him," Jungkook says to no one in particular.

"Get in line," Jin replies.

Mr. Sejin finishes his phone call and walks over.

"Y/N," he says, and his voice is calm, professional, kind. "I know it's been said a hundred times, but thank you. For real."

He backs away from the island and bends into a deep bow.

You put your hands up, waving frantically. "Oh no no no. No need to bow. Please. I genuinely want nothing but the best for these guys."

Mr. Sejin slowly straightens back up and smiles.

"Alright," Jin says, clapping his hands together. "Let's head out. Mr. Sejin already spoke to the manager of the building. Security cameras have been turned off. The back entrance is clear. The car's outside."

Your shoulders drop.

It's ending.

Of course it's ending.

You knew it would end. You've known since the moment Jungkook walked through your door that this was temporary. A bubble. A strange, wonderful, impossible bubble.

But it still hurts.

Jungkook looks at you. He can tell you're disappointed—your face is doing something weird, you can feel it—but you're not sure if he knows why.

Everyone shuffles toward the door. Jin grabs his shoes. Taehyung pulls on a jacket. Mr. Sejin checks his phone.

Jungkook hesitates.

"Guys," he says. "Go to the elevator without me. I'll meet you there."

Jin opens his mouth. Taehyung puts a hand on his arm.

"Okay," Taehyung says. "But don't take too long."

They leave. The door clicks shut.

And then it's just you and Jungkook.

Standing in your living room. Alone.

He takes a step toward you. Then another. Then he's close enough that you can smell your shampoo in his hair—your shampoo, in his hair—and your heart is doing something complicated in your chest.

"Thank you," he says quietly.

"For what?"

"For not running away. For not freaking out when you woke up and I was..." He gestures vaguely. "There."

"You asked me to stay," you remind him. Again.

"I know. But you could have left anyway. You could have pushed me off. You could have—" He shakes his head. "You didn't."

"You needed to sleep."

"How did you know?"

"Jimin told me. On the video call. He said you haven't been sleeping well."

Jungkook's jaw tightens. "He talks too much."

"He was worried about you."

A long pause.

"Yeah," Jungkook says finally. "I know."

He looks at you. Really looks at you. His eyes are dark and soft and something you can't name.

"I remember," he says quietly. "Asking you to stay. I remember... pulling you closer. I remember thinking you smelled like home."

Your breath catches.

"I don't remember everything," he continues. "It's fuzzy. Like a dream. But I remember enough to know that I—" He stops. Swallows. "I chose to be there. I chose to ask you to stay. I wasn't..." He trails off.

"Wasn't what?"

"Wasn't trying to take advantage of you. Of the situation. I wasn't—"

"I know," you interrupt. "You were asleep. Half asleep. Whatever. I know you didn't mean to—"

"But I did mean it." His voice is firmer now. "I meant it when I asked you to stay. I meant it when I said you smelled like home. I meant it, [Y/N]."

You stare at him.

He stares back.

"I just needed you to know that," he says. "So you don't think I was... I don't know. Using you. Or whatever."

"You weren't using me," you say. "You were sleeping. There's a difference."

"Is there?"

You don't know how to answer that.

Jungkook takes a breath. "Come downstairs with me."

"What?"

"To say goodbye. Properly. Not just..." He gestures at the door. "In a hallway."

You hesitate. "Why?"

"Because I want to." He pauses. "And because I have a feeling this isn't goodbye."

What does that mean?

You don't ask. You just grab your keys and follow him out the door.

The elevator ride is silent.

Not uncomfortable. Just... full. Like there's too much to say and neither of you knows how to start.

When the doors open on the ground floor, Jin and Taehyung are waiting by the back entrance. Mr. Sejin is already outside, talking to someone on the phone.

"There you are!" Jin says. "We thought you got lost."

"Had to say goodbye properly," Jungkook says.

Taehyung looks at you. Then at Jungkook. Then back at you.

"Properly," he repeats.

"Properly," Jungkook confirms.

You step outside. The morning air is cool against your face. The sun is fully up now, painting everything in shades of gold.

A black van is waiting by the curb. Mr. Sejin is standing next to it, holding the door open.

"Well," Jin says, turning to you. "This is it."

He pulls you into another hug. This one is softer. Sadder.

"Take care of yourself," he says. "And if Jungkook ever gets lost again, you know where to find us."

"I don't have your address."

"Figure it out. You're resourceful."

He releases you. Taehyung steps forward.

He doesn't hug you. Just stands there, looking at you with those big, warm eyes.

"I hope we see you again," he says. "Under better circumstances."

"Me too," you admit.

He smiles—that boxy smile—and then he's gone, climbing into the van.

Jungkook lingers.

He's standing in front of you, close enough to touch. The morning light is hitting his face, and you can see the scar on his cheek, the dark circles under his eyes, the way his hair is still messy from sleep.

He looks exhausted. He looks beautiful. He looks like someone who's been carrying too much for too long.

"I'll text you," he says.

"You don't have to."

"I want to."

"Jungkook—"

"I want to."

You don't know what to say to that.

He reaches out. His hand hovers in the air for a moment, like he's asking permission. Then he touches your face—just a brush of his fingers against your cheek—and your whole body goes still.

"Thank you," he says. "For staying."

And then he's gone.

Climbing into the van. The door sliding shut. The engine starting.

You stand there on the sidewalk, watching the van disappear around the corner.

What the fuck just happened.

You're so focused on the van that you don't notice the man across the street. The one with the camera. The one who's been watching the whole time.

The one who just took about fifty photos of Jeon Jungkook touching your face.

You walk back upstairs in a daze.

Your apartment feels empty now. Too quiet. Too big.

You robotically move toward your couch and take a seat. Then you lean forward with your elbows against your knees.

"You don't even know him," you say to yourself, trying to blink back the tears. "He wasn't even here for 24 hours. There's no reason to get emotional over this."

Unfortunately, this time, you don't win the fight against your tears.

They start streaming down your face. You bury your head in your hands. Then you reach over to your nightstand, grab Shooky from behind the lamp, and pull him close.

You've never been one to cry over a man.

But that wasn't just any man.

That was Jeon Jungkook.

You've been a fan for years. Followed his story. Watched him grow. Celebrated his wins and worried about him during his lows. You never dreamed you'd get to meet him, let alone spend quality time with him. Let alone have him sleep in your bed. Let alone have him touch your face and say "I meant it" like it was the most important thing in the world.

It was almost like having a glimpse of something important. Something you didn't know you wanted until it was right in front of you.

And now it's gone.

You don't know how to explain your emotions, and you don't need to try. You're going to carry these precious memories with you forever.

But right now? Right now it hurts.

So you cry into Shooky's little cookie face, and you let yourself feel sad, and you try not to think about the way Jungkook said your name or the way his fingers felt against your cheek or the way he looked at you like you were something worth staying for.

I'll text you, he said.

You don't believe him.

But you hope.

God, you hope.

Three days was the record. And you were on day three, staring at your phone screen at seven in the morning, watching your entire world catch fire.

Your phone wouldn't stop buzzing. Messages kept piling up before you could even rub the sleep out of your eyes. Hoseok had sent like ten in a row, which never meant anything good. Jimin was spamming question marks. Namjoon's message was short and cold:

Namjoon: emergency meeting, 8 a.m. don't be late.

Jin sent a single sad face, which somehow scared you more than anything else.

You opened the news and your stomach hit the floor.

Arirang. Someone had leaked the album name and the concept. It was everywhere. Twitter, Reddit, TikTok, entertainment news sites. Fans were already dissecting it, already mourning the surprise, already speculating about who had betrayed them. This wasn't some little slip. This was the kind of leak that got people sued and fired.

And then you saw the text.

Unknown: You should have taken my offer when you had the chance. The name is pretty, don't you think?

Your hands started shaking so bad you almost dropped your phone. Someone inside took the offer you didn't. Someone who had access.

You threw on the first clothes you grabbed and ran out the door without even brushing your hair.

The HYBE building felt completely different the second you walked in. People were huddled in little groups near the entrance, whispering behind their hands, and when they saw you, the whispering stopped. Heads turned. Eyes followed you across the lobby like you were some kind of criminal being escorted through a crowd.

You kept your head down and walked straight to the elevator. Two employees who were waiting stepped aside to let you pass, but not in a nice way. In a we don't want to stand next to her way. The elevator ride was dead silent except for the hum of the motor and your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

When the doors opened on your floor, you practically ran to the conference room.

It was packed. All seven members were there, plus the production team leads, two lawyers in suits that probably cost more than your entire wardrobe, HR, plus security guards standing by the door like they were expecting a fight. You scanned the faces looking for someone who didn't look like they were already judging you.

Hoseok wouldn't meet your eyes. He was staring at the table like it held the secrets of the universe. Jimin looked worried but also kind of uncertain, like he wanted to believe in you but didn't know if he could. Taehyung just looked confused, his head tilted like he was watching a math problem he couldn't solve. Jin had his serious face on, no jokes, no smiles. Yoongi was being him, just there, thinking, unreadable.

Namjoon stood at the head of the table with his arms crossed, and his face was hard. Not the warm, dimpled leader you'd seen in videos and meetings. This was the person who had to protect seven careers and a company.

And then there was Jungkook. He was leaning against the window with his arms crossed too, his jaw tight, and when you walked in, his eyes locked onto yours and didn't let go. There was nothing warm there. Nothing neutral. Just cold accusation, like he'd already decided your fate and was just waiting for everyone else to catch up.

He's been waiting for this ever since he saw me with that journalist last night.

"Sit down, Y/N," Namjoon said.

You sat at the very end of the table. No one sat next to you. The empty chairs on both sides felt like a verdict all by themselves.

Namjoon started talking, his voice low and controlled. "As you've all seen by now, someone leaked the album name and concept. This information was internal, and it came from someone in this building. Someone with access to the production materials.

Then one of the lawyers spoke, and his voice was calm but every word felt like a punch. "Whoever is responsible will face criminal charges. Jail time. We will pursue this to the fullest extent of the law."

Jail. Your mouth went completely dry.

Jungkook pushed off from the window and took a step toward the table. "We already know there was contact with a journalist." He looked around the room, making sure everyone was listening. "Y/N was seen talking to her outside the building last night. She told us about it at dinner. She admitted the journalist offered her money."

The room filled with whispers. You could feel the weight of every single stare, every suspicion, every doubt.

"I said no," you said, and your voice came out steadier than you expected even though your hands were shaking under the table. "I told everyone at dinner. I told her no. I walked away."

"You said no," Jungkook repeated slowly, like he was tasting the words and finding them sour. "And yet here we are. Twenty four hours later. And information is out."

"I didn't leak anything."

"You were seen. You admitted she offered you money. You admitted you had information she wanted. And now that information is public."

"I SAID NO." Your voice cracked on the second word, and you hated how desperate you sounded. "I told her no. I walked away. I came to dinner with all of you. I didn't do this."

Jungkook's eyes narrowed. "Then why you? Out of everyone in this building, why the new person?

You don't know. You've been asking yourself that.

"I don't know," you said. "But I didn't take her offer."

"You expect us to just believe that?"

"I expect you to look at actual evidence. There is no evidence I leaked anything."

"There's circumstantial evidence," the lawyer cut in, "and that's enough to start an investigation."

The room slowly emptied. People filed out, whispering, processing. Some glanced at you with something like shame. Others avoided your eyes entirely.

That investigation lasted three hours.

The lawyers asked the same questions over and over again, just with different wording, trying to catch you in a lie or a contradiction. They made notes every time you answered, and you couldn't read their faces at all. No idea if they believed you or if they were building a case against you.

One of them leaned in close and said, "You understand that if we find evidence you were involved, you will be prosecuted. Jail time. Deportation. A permanent mark on your record. Everything you've worked for, gone."

Deportation. They could send you home in handcuffs.

"I understand."

"And you maintain that you had no involvement?"

"I had no involvement."

She stared at you for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then she nodded and said, "We'll be in touch."

When you finally got back to the production bullpen, it was like walking into a minefield. People didn't look at you. People didn't talk to you. When you walked past a group, conversations stopped mid sentence. When you sat at your desk, the person who usually sat next to you found somewhere else to be.

You were radioactive. Contaminated. The girl who might have sold them out.

You sat alone, staring at your computer screen without really seeing it. Every few minutes your phone buzzed with another news alert about the leak. Arirang. The name was everywhere. And everyone thought it was you.

Your phone buzzed with a text from Hoseok.

Hoseok: I'm sorry. I want to believe you. I really do. But the timing...

You: I know. It looks bad.

Hoseok: It looks really bad.

You: I didn't do it.

Hoseok: I know you say that. I just... I don't know what to think.

You put your phone down and blinked hard. Even Hoseok, who welcomed you with open arms, doubts you.

A shadow fell over your desk, and when you looked up, Jungkook was standing there with his arms crossed, looking down at you like you were something he'd found stuck to his shoe.

"They're reviewing the security footage from outside the building," he said. "They'll know soon enough if you were lying."

"I wasn't lying."

"We'll see."

We'll see. Always we'll see. Like you're on trial and he's the judge and jury.

"Why are you even here?" you asked, and your voice came out tired. "To watch me suffer? To make sure I don't run?"

His jaw tightened. "To make sure you don't delete anything from your phone."

"I haven't deleted anything."

"Good." He didn't move. Just stood there, watching.

"You really think I did this," you said quietly.

He held your gaze. "I think you're the most obvious answer."

"That's not the same as believing I'm guilty."

"It's enough for now."

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing in the quiet room.

The afternoon was somehow even worse. HR called you into a small windowless room with gray walls and they asked more questions, the same questions as the lawyers, circling back like sharks that smelled blood.

By the time they let you go back to your desk, you were completely exhausted. Shaking. Your eyes burned with tears you refused to let fall in front of them.

The production bullpen was mostly empty now—people had gone to lunch or to meetings or just anywhere you weren't. Except for one person. Mina.

You'd seen Mina around. She was another assistant producer, been at HYBE for two years. Quiet, competent, not the type to start drama. She'd shown you where the good coffee machine was on your first day, given you tips about the studio setup, smiled at you in the hallways. Just a normal coworker being nice.

Now she was sitting at her desk, watching you with soft, worried eyes.

"Hey," she said quietly. "How are you holding up?"

"Not great," you admitted.

Mina stood up and walked over, pulling a chair close to your desk and sitting down. "I heard what happened. About the journalist." She shook her head. "It's bullshit. You've been here three days. You wouldn't be stupid enough to leak something this fast."

"Maybe I'm exactly stupid enough."

"No." She said it firmly, looking right at you. "I've seen your work. I've seen how you are in the studio. You care. People who care don't do this."

She believes you. Someone actually believes you.

"They're talking about jail time," you whispered. "Deportation."

"They won't." Mina's voice was steady and sure. "They can't prove anything because you didn't do anything. Just hold on. It'll pass."

The tears came then. Not dramatic sobs—you were too exhausted for that—just quiet tears sliding down your cheeks, everything you'd been holding in all day finally breaking through.

Mina didn't say anything. She just sat there and held your hand.

"I didn't do this," you said, your voice cracking.

"I know."

She pulled you into a hug, and you cried on her shoulder right there in the middle of the office while she rubbed your back and told you it would be okay.

"Thank you," you mumbled into her shoulder. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess."

"You're human." Mina pulled back and smiled gently. "Come on, let's get some coffee. You need it."

She guided you to the break room, made you a cup, and sat with you while you tried to stop shaking. She told you stories about her first week at HYBE—the mistakes she'd made, the people who'd doubted her—and somehow she made you laugh when you thought you couldn't.

"I owe you one," you said.

Mina smiled. "That's what coworkers are for."

After Mina went back to her desk, you sat alone for a while longer, but your throat was dry. Too much crying, too much talking, too much everything. You needed water. Just something simple. Something normal.

You stood up and walked toward the break room, keeping your head down. The bullpen was still buzzing with whispers, but you tried not to listen. One foot in front of the other. Get water. Go back to your desk. Survive.

The break room was empty. You grabbed a cup, filled it with water, and leaned against the counter for a moment, just breathing.

Then you walked back out.

You shouldn't.

The bullpen had a secondary water cooler near the cubicles, and as you rounded the corner, you saw them.

Hoseok and Jimin.

They were standing close together, talking in low voices. Their heads were bent toward each other, serious expressions on their faces. You couldn't hear what they were saying, but you could guess. The leak. The investigation. You.

You took a step forward, and Hoseok looked up.

His eyes met yours for just a second. Then he looked away. Fast. Too fast.

Jimin noticed. He turned, saw you, and his face went through something complicated—surprise, then guilt, then nothing. He looked down at his shoes.

The conversation stopped. Completely. Just... cut off. Like someone had pressed mute.

You stood there, cup of water in your hand, staring at two people who had welcomed you. Who had laughed with you at dinner.

Now they can't even look at you.

You took a breath.

"Hoseok. Jimin."

Hoseok flinched slightly at his name. Jimin kept staring at the floor.

"I know how it looks," you said. "I know the timing is bad. I know you have every reason to doubt me."

Silence.

"But last night, at dinner, you believed me." Your voice cracked. "You said you trusted me. You said I wasn't the type to sell information. You said... you said two days was enough."

Hoseok's jaw tightened. He still wouldn't look at you.

"So please," you whispered. "Please trust me now. I didn't do this. I swear I didn't do this."

The silence stretched between you like a chasm.

Jimin finally looked up. His eyes were wet, but his face was hard. "I want to believe you," he said quietly. "I really do."

"But you don't."

He didn't answer. Neither did Hoseok.

You nodded slowly. The cup in your hand was shaking, water spilling over the rim.

"Okay," you said. "Okay."

You turned and walked away.

Behind you, no one called your name and tears started falling before you could stop them, hot and messy and humiliating. You wiped your face with the back of your hand, but more kept coming. You couldn't breathe right. Your chest was too tight, your throat was too closed up, and everyone was watching.

You could feel their eyes. All of them. The whispers had stopped, replaced by that awful silence that was somehow worse. People were just staring. Watching the show. Waiting to see what you would do next.

You kept walking, head down, tears dripping off your chin. You didn't care anymore. Let them watch. Let them stare. You were already leaving. You were already done.

And then someone's shoulder slammed into yours.

It wasn't an accident. You felt the weight behind it—the intention, the purpose. A hard shove disguised as a bump, designed to send you off balance.

Your cup flew out of your hand, water splashing across the floor. Your foot caught on something—a chair leg, maybe, or someone's foot—and you went down hard, your knee smacking against the tile, your palms scraping as you tried to catch yourself.

For a moment, everything was quiet. Then someone laughed.

"Watch where you're going," a voice said. Cold. Dismissive. "Some of us actually have work to do."

You looked up. A staff member—someone from marketing, you'd seen her around—was standing over you with her arms crossed, a smug smile on her face. She'd done it on purpose. Everyone knew she'd done it on purpose. But no one said anything. No one moved to help you.

You just knelt there on the floor, tears streaming down your face, picking the water cup your with shaking hands while people watched and whispered and did absolutely nothing.

"Y/N."

A voice. Quiet. Calm. Not loud at all, but somehow everyone heard it.

You looked up. Yoongi was standing a few feet away, his hands in his pockets, his face completely neutral. He didn't look angry. He didn't look worried. He just looked... calm. Like he had all the time in the world.

He walked over to you slowly, deliberately. Then he knelt down and grabbed your hand. Not rushed. Not making a big deal of it. Just helping.

The marketing staff member scoffed. "She should have been watching where she was—"

Yoongi looked up at her.

Just looked. Didn't say a word. Didn't change his expression. Just looked at her with those calm, dark eyes.

The woman's mouth snapped shut. Her face went pale. She took a step back, then another, then she turned and walked away without another sound.

The entire bullpen was silent. No one moved. No one breathed.

"Come on," he said quietly.

You stared at his hand for a moment, too shocked to move. Then you took it, and he pulled you to your feet like you weighed nothing.

"Thank you," you whispered.

He nodded once. Then he looked around the bullpen, his gaze sweeping over everyone who had watched and done nothing. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. His silence was louder than any scream.

Then he turned back to you. "You were going somewhere?"

"Namjoon's office," you said. "I need to talk to him."

He nodded again. "I'll walk with you."

Yoongi didn't say anything as you walked. He just stayed beside you, a quiet presence, not pushing, not asking questions. People moved out of your way. No one whispered. No one stared.

When you reached Namjoon's door, Yoongi didn't stop. He opened it and walked in with you.

All of them were inside. Namjoon behind his desk, Jungkook leaning against the bookshelf, Jin by the window, Taehyung and Jimin on the couch, Hoseok against the wall. They all looked up when you entered.

"Y/N," Namjoon said. "What is it?"

You closed the door behind you and took a breath.

"I'm quitting."

The words landed like a bomb. Nobody moved. Nobody spoke.

Hoseok's face crumpled. "What? No. Y/N, you can't—"

"She can," Yoongi said. His voice was quiet, but it cut through the room like a knife. "And she will. Shut up, Hobi."

Hoseok's mouth closed. His eyes went wide.

You looked at Yoongi. He gave you a small nod.

"I'm quitting," you repeated, your voice steadier now. "I can't do this. I can't work somewhere where I'm always going to be the outsider. Where one wrong look means everyone turns on me. Where I have to prove my innocence for something I didn't even do."

Namjoon stood up slowly. "Y/N, we're still investigating—"

"You haven't found anything that proves I'm innocent either." Your voice was shaking, but you kept going. "And in the meantime, I'm the one everyone is looking at. I'm the one people are knocking down in the bullpen. I'm the one whose coworkers won't even look her in the eye."

Jimin's face went pale. "Someone knocked you down?"

"It doesn't matter." You shook your head. "What matters is that I'm done."

Jungkook pushed off from the bookshelf. "Y/N—"

"You were right," you said, looking at him. "Three days. You said I wouldn't last three days. And you were right."

He flinched. "That's not—"

"It is what it is." You looked around the room one last time. At Hoseok, who was crying silently. At Jimin, who looked like he wanted to disappear. At Taehyung and Jin, who couldn't meet your eyes. At Namjoon, who looked like he was carrying the weight of the world. At Yoongi, who stood beside you like a wall. At Jungkook, who looked like he'd just lost something he didn't know he wanted.

"I'm not staying somewhere I don't belong," you said. "And I don't belong here."

You turned and walked to the door.

"Y/N," Namjoon said.

You paused but didn't turn around.

"If you ever change your mind... the door is open."

You didn't answer. You just walked out.

In the hallway, Yoongi fell into step beside you.

"You didn't have to do that," you said quietly. "Tell Hoseok to shut up."

"Yes, I did." He pressed the elevator button. "He doesn't have the right to stop you."

The elevator doors opened. You stepped inside.

"You're really leaving," he said. It wasn't a question.

"I'm really leaving."

He nodded slowly. "I don't blame you."

The elevator reached the lobby. The doors opened.

"I'll walk you out," he said.

You were about to push through the glass doors when a voice called out from behind you.

"Everyone. Conference room. Now."

You turned. One of the lawyers was standing in the hallway, his face serious. He wasn't looking at you specifically, but his voice carried across the entire lobby.

"All staff involved in the production of the upcoming comeback. This is not optional."

You looked at Yoongi. He looked at the lawyer, then back at you.

"Go," you said. "I'll be fine."

He hesitated. Then he nodded and walked back inside.

You pushed through the doors and stepped into the cold night air.

You were standing at the curb, your bag over your shoulder, waiting for a taxi, when your phone buzzed.

Hoseok: where are you? they called a meeting. they found something.

You: i'm outside, i quit, remember?

Hoseok: please come back. just for this, please.

You stared at the screen. Then another message.

Taehyung: Y/N, please, they're about to announce something, it's important.

Namjoon: come back inside, now.

You almost ignored them. You were done. You had said your piece, walked out, made your choice.

But something made you stop.

What if they really found something? What if—

You turned and walked back inside.

The conference room was packed again. All seven members. Production leads. HR. The lawyers. Security. And Mina.

She was sitting in a chair near the wall, her face pale, her hands in her lap. Two security guards stood behind her.

When you walked in, everyone turned to look at you. Hoseok's face flooded with relief. Jimin let out a breath. Even Jungkook's shoulders relaxed slightly.

You sat at the very end of the table, as far from everyone as possible.

The lead lawyer stood up. "We've completed our investigation."

He clicked a remote. The screen behind him lit up with security footage. Multiple dates. A coffee shop near the building. The journalist. And Mina.

Meeting. Talking. Exchanging envelopes.

"Mina has been selling information to a journalist for the past six months," the lawyer said. "Small things at first. Then, yesterday, she leaked the album name and concept. She also deliberately set up a meeting between the journalist and Y/N to create a false trail."

The room erupted in whispers. People turned to look at Mina. She stared at the table, her face blank.

"The evidence is conclusive," the lawyer continued. "Mina has been terminated effective immediately. Legal proceedings will follow. Y/N is fully cleared."

Mina stood up slowly. The guards took her arms. She didn't look at anyone. Not even you.

As they led her out, she paused at the door. For just a second, her eyes met yours.

No apology. No guilt. Just emptiness.

Then she was gone.

Hoseok walked over to you. His face was red, his eyes wet.

"Y/N. I'm so sorry. I should have—"

"It's okay." Your voice was tired. "You didn't know."

"I should have trusted you. You asked me to. You asked me to trust you like last night, and I—" His voice broke. "I didn't. I just stood there."

Jimin appeared beside him. "Me neither. I wanted to believe you. I really did. But I was scared."

You looked at both of them. Two people who had welcomed you. Who had laughed with you. Who had said sometimes two days is enough.

And then they had looked away when you needed them most.

"Thank you for saying that," you said quietly. "But I'm still leaving."

Hoseok's face crumpled. "Y/N—"

"I'm sorry." You stood up. "I can't stay somewhere I don't belong."

You walked toward the elevator, expecting to be alone. But footsteps followed you.

Jungkook.

"I'll walk you out," he said.

You almost laughed. "Why?"

He shrugged, shoving his hands in his pockets. "Because I was wrong and everyone else is too busy crying."

It wasn't a good reason. But you didn't have the energy to argue.

The elevator ride was silent. Neither of you looked at each other. The air between you was thick and uncomfortable, but not in a romantic way. More like two strangers who had been forced into the same small space and didn't know what to say.

When the doors opened, Jungkook walked beside you through the lobby. Not close. Not touching. Just... there.

Outside, the air was cold. Your face was still wet from crying earlier. Your body was shaking.

You stopped at the curb and turned to face him.

"This is far enough."

He stopped too. Stuffed his hands deeper into his pockets.

"So you're really leaving."

"Obviously."

"Right." He nodded, looking at the street instead of you. "Well. Good luck."

"Thanks."

The silence stretched. It was awkward. Painfully awkward. You shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

"Is that all you wanted to say?" you asked.

He finally looked at you. His expression was hard to read—not cold, not warm. Just... something.

"I was wrong about you."

"You said that already."

"I know." He looked away again. "I'm just saying it again because... I don't know. Because I should have said it earlier. Before you decided to leave."

"Would it have changed anything?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Probably not."

"Then why does it matter?"

He didn't answer. Just kicked at a crack in the sidewalk.

You waited. The cold wind bit at your cheeks.

"Forget it," he finally said. "Just... take care of yourself."

"You too."

You turned toward the street, looking for a taxi. You spotted one in the distance and raised your hand.

And then his fingers closed around your wrist.

Not hard. Not painful. But firm enough that you couldn't move.

You froze.

Slowly, you turned your head and looked at him. He was closer than you expected. His jaw was tight, his eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made your stomach flip.

You didn't say anything. Neither did he.

For a few seconds, neither of you breathed.

Then he let go. Stepped back.

"I was an ass about the three days thing," he said quietly.

"Yeah. You were."

He nodded, shoving his hands back in his pockets. "I'm sorry about that too."

The taxi was getting closer. You could hear the engine.

"Goodbye, Jungkook."

He didn't say anything. Just watched you.

You opened the taxi door.

"Y/N."

You looked back.

He opened his mouth. Closed it. His eyes searched your face like he was looking for something he couldn't name.

"Forget it," he finally said. "Just...remember what RM said, the door is open. If you ever change your mind."

You stared at him for a second longer than you meant to. Then you got in the taxi and closed the door.

As the car pulled away, you didn't look back. But you could still feel his fingers around your wrist. The ghost of his grip.

Your phone buzzed.

Jungkook: Good luck.

You stared at the message, the first one you got from him.

You didn't reply.

Three days. You made it three days.

They found the truth. But it was too late.

You were already gone.

Two whole hours.

Chapter 3: The art of performing.

About two hours pass by and Jungkook is still passed out on your thighs.

Two complete hours in which Jungkook has been completely unconscious across your lap, as if your thighs were the most comfortable pillow in the universe and he had no intention of ever moving again.

Your ass went numb fifty minutes ago. You've lost all feeling in your lower body. If someone stabbed you with a fork right now, you probably wouldn't feel it. You also need to pee with an urgency that's approaching medical levels, but you still aren't risking moving and waking him up.

Not when he's like this.

Not when his face is completely relaxed, his lips slightly parted, his eyelashes casting tiny shadows against his cheeks. Not when his hair has gotten even messier and falls over his forehead in that way that should be illegal. Not when he's breathing so deeply, so peacefully, that you can almost see the weight of the last few years lifting off his shoulders.

He looks like an angel, you think. An angel who snores very softly and smells like your shampoo.

Your shampoo. In his hair.

You're going to die, this is the end.

You look over at the clock and it reads 7:00pm. The crowd outside has definitely died down. The sun is setting, painting your living room in shades of orange and gold. You should be sad because your time with him is probably ending soon.

Instead, you feel panic because you don't want him to ever move.

You also feel... curious. And a little bit worried.

Because now that he's asleep, now that his face is relaxed and unguarded, you can see things you didn't notice before. The faint dark circles under his eyes that concealer usually hides. The slight tension in his jaw that hasn't fully released even in sleep. The way his hand keeps twitching slightly, like he's running from something even in his dreams. The tiny furrow between his brows that appears and disappears like he's fighting something in his sleep.

He said they've been busy, you think. But this looks like more than just busy.

"Bzzzzz... bzzzzz..."

Your phone vibrates on the coffee table.

You freeze.

Look at the phone. Look at Jungkook. Look at the phone again.

Shit.

You reach for it slowly—so slowly, like you're defusing a bomb—hoping to grab it without moving your legs enough to wake him. Your spine stretches at angles that aren't human. Your arm extends to places it shouldn't be able to reach.

The call is from an unknown number.

You don't answer.

Not just because you don't want to risk waking him, but because you're scared it might be some kind of trap. Jungkook trusted you with his safety. You're not going to be that fan.

The call ends. And starts again.

Ends. Starts. Ends. Starts.

Who is this persistent?

Finally, a text:

Unknown: Hey!! Are you guys still alive?

Unknown: This is Jin btw

Oh. OH.

JIN.

Kim Seokjin. Worldwide Handsome. The man who yelled through the phone and made you laugh until you cried. The one who told Jungkook to engrave your name on his heart.

You probably should've saved his number. Are you allowed to do that? Is there a protocol for this?

Unknown: Y/N?

Unknown: You still there?

Unknown: Should I be worried?

Unknown: Because if something happened to Jungkook, I SWEAR

You're about to dial when your phone starts ringing again.

But this time it's a video call.

Oh no.

Oh no, oh no, oh no.

You slide to answer before you can think, and suddenly two faces fill your screen.

Two of the most absurdly beautiful faces you've ever seen in your life.

Kim Seokjin and Park Jimin.

Worldwide Handsome and the Angel of Busan. Together. On your phone. Looking at you.

God, their face cards really never decline. It's unfair. They should pay taxes on those.

"Oh! Hi!" Jin smiles, and it's like the sun just entered your living room through the phone. "I'm guessing you're Y/N?"

You nod, but you can't speak. Your vocal cords have left your body.

Jin frowns slightly and looks at Jimin. Then looks back at you and switches to English.

"U-um... hello." His accent is thick and adorable. "I am Jin. This is Jimin. Are you Y/N? Are you... okay?"

You can't help it. You laugh.

He's so cute. He's so Jin. The most handsome man in the world is using his emergency English because he thinks you don't understand Korean.

"Yep, that's me," you answer in English, just to see his reaction. "Hi Jin. Hi Jimin."

The relief on Jin's face is immediate and so exaggerated that Jimin has to cover his mouth to stop from laughing.

"Thank God," Jin sighs, switching back to Korean. "I was not prepared for an English quiz today. My brain was already on vacation mode."

And then he laughs.

His famous laugh. The one people say sounds like he's cleaning windows.

And it's exactly like that. Exactly. It's so absurd and unique that you almost look toward your window to check if someone is, in fact, wiping glass in your living room.

Jimin, meanwhile, looks at you with a softer expression. More curious. More... knowing?

"Thanks for saving our maknae," he says, and his voice is exactly how you remember it—sweet, warm, like melting caramel. "We were really worried."

"You're welcome," you manage, and you hope they can't tell that your heart is trying to escape your chest. "Anyone would have done it."

"No," Jimin shakes his head, serious. "Not anyone. He said you yelled at him and called him an idiot.

Jungkook told them about that. You might kill him.

Jin leans closer to the camera. "Hey, can we see him? Just to make sure he's okay?"

"Y-yeah, sure." You hesitate. "It might take me a second, though. He's..."

You look down.

He is exactly where you left him: curled against your thighs, one hand loosely resting on your knee, his breathing deep and even. There's a small furrow between his brows, like he's dreaming about something that requires concentration. His lips move slightly, like he's murmuring something.

But there's also something else. Something you noticed earlier but didn't want to examine too closely.

A tiny scar on his cheek. Almost invisible. You'd never seen it in photos or videos—makeup covers it, probably. But here, in the golden evening light, it's visible. A small reminder that he's human. That he's been hurt before.

He looks like a bunny, you think. A huge, dangerously attractive bunny with a scar and dark circles and a grip on your sweatshirt like you're the only real thing in his world.

"He's... asleep," you say, turning the phone to show them.

Silence.

Jin and Jimin stare at the screen. Then look at each other. Then stare at the screen again.

"Asleep?" Jin repeats.

"Asleep," you confirm. "I fed him some fried chicken and he just... passed out. Like, immediately. Ten minutes after eating, he was... this."

Jimin opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

"In your...?" He gestures vaguely.

"Lap?" You offer. "Yeah. My lap. He was sitting next to me and suddenly he just... fell over. Literally tipped sideways and landed here. And I didn't want to move him."

And then he almost cried hugging your waist, but you're not telling them that.

The two members stare at you.

Jin with wide eyes. Jimin with an expression you can't read. Surprise? Curiosity? Something else?

"W-what?" you stammer. "Why are you looking at me like that? Should I have woken him up? I will right n—"

"NO!" they shout in unison.

Jungkook grunts.

All three of you freeze.

You look down slowly. Jungkook has moved—just a little—burrowing deeper against your thighs, his cheek pressed against your leg, his hand moving to weakly grip your sweatshirt.

Then he's still again.

You breathe.

Jin and Jimin breathe too.

"Ok," Jin whispers, like he's in a library. "Ok. That was... that's fine. Everything's fine."

Jimin leans toward the camera, his eyes bright. "How long has he been like that?"

"Two hours. Two and a half, maybe."

"Two and a half hours," Jimin repeats slowly. His gaze meets Jin's. There's something there—a silent understanding, a secret language only they share. But it's heavier than before. More concerned.

Jin clears his throat. "Um, Y/N. Would you mind if we... left him like that? A while longer?"

"Like... what?"

"Jungkook." Jin pauses, and for the first time, his expression shifts from playful to something much more serious. Something almost... sad. "He hasn't been sleeping well lately. Like... at all."

You frown. "He mentioned you guys have been busy."

Jimin lets out a small sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a sigh. Something tired and sad in between. "It's more than that. So much more."

Another glance between them. Another silent conversation.

Jimin takes a breath. "He's been dealing with... stuff. For a while now. Like, a long while."

You wait. Not pushing. Just... present.

Jimin's voice drops. Gets softer. More careful. "He couldn't sleep for months last year. Would stay up until 5am, sleep for two hours, then go to practice. We thought it was just work stress. But then..."

He trails off.

Jin finishes for him. "Then he started avoiding things. People. Us, sometimes. He'd show up to practice and do the work, but he wasn't... there. You know? Like his body was present but his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere dark."

Your chest tightens.

Somewhere dark.

Those words hit differently when you've been there yourself.

"Then there were rumors," Jin continues, his voice carefully neutral. "About him smoking. For a couple of months. The fans found out, and... well, you know how it is."

You nod. You do know. The way the internet explodes over every little thing. The way grown adults are treated like children for making grown adult choices.

"He's an adult," you say, before you can stop yourself. "He can do what he wants."

Jin's eyebrows rise. Jimin's lips twitch, but it's not really a smile.

"Try telling that to the internet," Jin mutters. "Try telling that to the people who leave comments about how he's 'ruining his image' or 'disappointing fans' or—" He stops himself, jaw tightening.

"And then there's the drinking," Jimin adds, almost reluctantly. "Not like... not in a bad way. Just normal. Sometimes more than normal. He's young, he works hard, he wants to relax. But every time he has a drink, there are articles. Every time he goes out, there are cameras. Every time he laughs too loud or stays out too late, someone has something to say."

Jimin's voice gets even quieter. "But it's not just that. It's what happens after. When he's alone. When the cameras are gone and the drinks wear off and he's just... there. In his room. Staring at the ceiling."

Your stomach drops.

"Anxiety," Jimin says softly. "Really bad anxiety. He's had it for years, but it's gotten worse. He worries about everything—his performance, the fans, what people think, whether he's good enough, whether he's working hard enough, whether he's letting anyone down." He pauses. "Whether anyone would notice if he just... stopped."

The words hang in the air.

Whether anyone would notice if he just stopped.

You look down at Jungkook. At his peaceful face. At the way his grip on your sweatshirt has loosened slightly, like he finally feels safe enough to let go.

"And depression," Jin adds quietly. "He won't call it that. He says he's just tired. Just stressed. Just going through a phase." Jin's voice cracks slightly. "But we've seen it before. We know what it looks like. The way he stops eating. The way he stops talking. The way he smiles but it doesn't reach his eyes."

Jimin nods. "He went to therapy for a while. It helped. Then the rumors started—someone found out, posted about it, made it sound like he was crazy or broken. He stopped going after that. Said it wasn't worth the risk."

He stopped getting help because people made him feel ashamed of it.

Something hot and angry curls in your chest.

"And now," Jin says, his voice even more careful now, "there are rumors about him and... someone. An idol. Winter, from aespa."

Your stomach does something weird.

You don't know why. You have no right to feel anything about that. You met him six hours ago.

But still.

"The dating rumors," you say flatly.

"Nothing's confirmed," Jimin says quickly. "Probably nothing's true. But the internet doesn't care about truth. They care about headlines. And Jungkook..." He sighs. "He takes it personally. He reads the comments. He cares what people think, even when he says he doesn't. And with everything else, this is just... more. More weight. More pressure. More reasons to feel like he can't do anything right."

Another glance between them.

"He's our maknae," Jin says simply. "He's supposed to be annoying and childish and drive us crazy. He's not supposed to be... this."

He gestures vaguely at the screen. At the image of Jungkook, dead asleep, vulnerable, exhausted.

"This is the most rest he's gotten in weeks," Jimin says quietly. "Maybe months. Maybe longer. He doesn't let himself relax. Doesn't let himself stop. He's always running, always doing, always performing." He pauses. "Except now. With you. He stopped."

You look down at Jungkook again.

At the way his breathing is finally deep and even.

At the way his face has lost that tension you didn't even realize was there until now.

At the way he's holding onto you like you're the first safe thing he's found in years.

He stopped, you think. He stopped running. Here. With you.

"He can stay," you hear yourself say. "As long as he needs. I have tomorrow off too."

Jin's expression softens. Jimin's smile returns—that Teddy Bear smile, the heart-melting one. But there's something behind it now. Gratitude. Relief. Hope.

"You're amazing, Y/N," Jimin says.

No, YOU'RE amazing, you want to say.

You're Park Jimin and you exist in the world and that's amazing. Also you just told me way more than I expected about your friend's mental health and now I feel weirdly protective of him and also like crying.

"It's nothing," you say instead.

"It's not nothing." Jin's voice is firm. "You're a stranger. You didn't have to do any of this. You didn't have to let him stay, or feed him, or let him sleep on you, or listen to us vent about his problems." He pauses. "But you did. So yeah. It's not nothing."

You don't know what to say to that.

Jin gives you his number and told you, literally, to engrave this number in your soul and asks you to call him when Jungkook wakes up.

"And, Y/N?"

"Yeah?"

Jin's smile softens. "Take care of him, ok? Not just because he's our maknae. Because... well, because he clearly trusts you. And that's not something he does easily. Especially lately. Especially with everything going on in his head."

The weight of his words settles deeper.

"Especially lately," you repeat.

"People have been... complicated," Jimin says carefully. "Fans, the media, everyone with an opinion. He doesn't know who to trust anymore. He second guesses everything. Every interaction, every conversation, every person who smiles at him. He assumes everyone wants something. Everyone has an angle." He looks at the screen, at Jungkook's sleeping form. "But he fell asleep on you. On your lap. That's... that's not nothing either. That's him, for the first time in a long time, not second guessing."

Jimin's voice gets even softer. "He needs someone who sees him. Not the idol. Not the performer. Not the rumors or the scandals or the headlines. Just him. Jeon Jungkook. The guy who likes dogs and draws sometimes and can't sleep because his brain won't shut up about all the ways he might be failing."

Your throat tightens.

The guy who can't sleep because his brain won't shut up.

You know that feeling. You know it so well.

"I'll take care of him," you promise. And this time, your voice is steadier. Stronger.

The call ends.

You stare at the screen for a moment, processing.

You just had a video call with Jin and Jimin.

You just had a video call with JIN and JIMIN.

And they told you about Jungkook's insomnia, and the smoking rumors, and the drinking, and the anxiety, and the depression, and the therapy he stopped going to, and the dating rumors with Winter.

And they asked you to take care of him.

And you said yes.

And you have Kim Seokjin's number saved in your phone.

And you need to pee.

Like, medically need to pee.

Right now.

You look at Jungkook. Still deeply asleep. Still curled against you. Still gripping your sweatshirt like you're his anchor to the world.

But now you see him differently.

Not just as the golden maknae. Not just as the main vocalist. Not just as the guy with the bunny smile and the insane talent.

But as someone who's been fighting a war in his own head for years. Someone who's been carrying weight he was never meant to carry alone. Someone who's been told, over and over, that he's not enough—or too much—or wrong—or broken.

Someone who finally, for the first time in probably months, fell asleep.

Because of you.

Your bladder sends a distress signal. Level five. Level seven. Level—ok this is actually concerning now.

Ok, you think. Ok. I can do this. I can wait a little longer.

Ten minutes pass.

Your bladder is planning a mutiny.

Ok seriously you need to—

Jungkook moves.

But not to wake up. To curl closer. His hand tightens on your sweatshirt. His head presses against your thigh. A small sound—a murmur, a sigh, something in between—escapes his lips.

And then, clearly, in a barely audible whisper:

"Don't go."

Your heart stops.

Literally. You think it stops beating for a full second.

He's dreaming, you tell yourself. He's just dreaming. He's not talking to you. He's not—

"Don't go," he repeats, clearer this time. "Stay."

And he grips your sweatshirt.

And you think about what Jin and Jimin said. About the insomnia. About the anxiety. About the depression. About the way he can't trust anyone anymore. About the way he reads the comments and takes it personally. About the way his brain won't shut up about all the ways he might be failing.

About the way he's supposed to be annoying and childish and drive them crazy, but instead he's here, exhausted, clinging to a stranger because she's the first person in months who made him feel safe enough to stop running.

And you...you stay.

Your bladder can wait.

Jungkook just asked you to stay.

You're going to die right here, you think. On this couch. With Jeon Jungkook asleep in your lap. And you're going to be happy.

But also?

You're going to find out who started those rumors about him and Winter. And you're going to find out who made him feel like he couldn't go to therapy anymore. And you're going to find out who left comments telling him he's not good enough.

And you're going to have words with all of them.

Very words.

Somehow, you were actually able to lift Jungkook's head off of you long enough to slip out and replace your thighs with a throw pillow.

It took approximately four years off your life, several moments of pure panic, and one near heart attack when he grunted and almost woke up. But you did it. You, amateur idol wrangler, successfully extracted yourself from under a sleeping Jeon Jungkook without disturbing his peaceful slumber.

You deserve a gold medal. And a trophy. And possibly a nap.

You ran to the bathroom—finally, your bladder screamed in triumph—and came back to check on him.

Yep. That golden log is still fast asleep.

Curled around the throw pillow like it's the most precious thing in the world. One hand gripping it possessively. His face half buried in the fabric. Soft snores escaping his slightly parted lips.

He's cuddling a pillow, you think. He's cuddling a pillow the same way he was cuddling you. This is fine. Everything is fine. You're not jealous of a pillow. Pillows don't have feelings.

It's about 8pm and you decide to go ahead and shower, do your nightly skincare routine, brush your teeth, and put your jammies on.

The shower is... interesting.

Knowing that Jeon Jungkook used this shower just hours ago. Knowing that the shampoo you're using is the same shampoo he used. Knowing that at some point today, he was naked in this exact space, water sliding down his—

Stop. STOP. We are NOT doing this.

You finish your shower with approximately zero peace of mind.

After slathering on approximately seventeen layers of skincare (a girl has priorities), you stare at your closet, contemplating.

You throw on a loose lila crop top and some booty shorts, glancing over yourself in the mirror.

Not bad, you think. Not bad at all.

Then the intrusive thoughts win.

You're definitely not going to act like a schoolgirl maiden. If the golden maknae of BTS ever wants to gawk at a female, you gonna make sure he has the opportunity.

You strike a pose. Then immediately feel ridiculous.

You look over at the door. At the living room beyond. At the man currently passed out on your couch.

He's never going to wake up to see you anyways, you remind yourself. He's dead to the world. You could do a full runway walk through the living room and he wouldn't notice.

Still. The crop top stays on.

After staring at him for a few seconds like a complete weirdo through the doorway—just checking, you know, making sure he's still breathing, definitely not admiring the way his chest rises and falls or the way his legs look in those sweatpants or the way his hair has fallen across his forehead like a goddamn painting—you turn the living room light out but keep the lamp on.

Then you leave a note on the coffee table for him in case he wakes up.

It reads:

You passed out on the couch so I went to sleep in my room. If you wake up before me, feel free to help yourself to anything in the fridge. Jin called and asked for you to call him back once you wake up. My phone's password is 0718.

Also there's kimchi stew in the fridge. Don't steal all the tofu this time. I'll know.

— Y/N

P.S. Bam is cute but you already know that

You leave your phone, fully charged, next to the note as well. You had texted Jin before heading to bed, letting him know Jungkook was still sleeping.

You: he's still out. like completely unconscious. i think he might be dead to the world for a while

Jin: [image: a finger heart selfie with his face looking absurdly handsome]

Jin: thank you Y/N!!! you're our favorite person rn

Jin: well. second favorite. after jungkookie. but you're up there

Jin: take care of our bunny 🐰💜

You saved the selfie.

Obviously.

Damn, grinning at your phone like an idiot.

You're such a good fan. You just pray he doesn't go through your phone and find all the photos you've saved of him and his band mates.

And the screenshots. And the memes. And that one folder labeled "research" that is absolutely not research.

He won't look, you tell yourself. He's a respectful person. He would never invade your privacy like that.

...right?

It's about 9pm before you safely tuck yourself into bed.

Your bedroom is small but cozy. A full sized bed because you don't need more space than that. A nightstand covered in books and a half empty water glass. A lamp with a warm yellow bulb. A window facing east, where the morning sun will eventually stream in and ruin your sleep.

You like to sleep on the left side of the bed, furthest from the door, closest to the window.

If there was ever a fire or a burglar, there's a pipe alongside your building right outside your window. You could shimmy down it in an emergency. You've mentally rehearsed it approximately fifty times since moving in.

You can never be too careful as a single female in a foreign country, your mother's voice echoes in your head. Always have an exit strategy. Always know your surroundings. Always—

You shove the thought away.

You rest your head on your pillow and finally take a second to think through everything that has happened today.

Everything.

The chase. The elevator. The reveal. The shower. The fanfic comment that still makes you want to die. The kimchi stew. The conversation. The texts. The video call with Jin and Jimin. The things they told you about him—the insomnia, the anxiety, the depression, the therapy he stopped, the rumors, all of it.

And now he's asleep on your couch.

Jeon Jungkook is asleep on your couch.

Your adrenaline starts pumping through your veins and you wonder if you'll even be able to sleep tonight. Hell, you have BTS's golden maknae passed out on the other side of the wall right now. You got to video chat with Jin and Jimin. Jin sent you a finger heart selfie.

No one would be able to sleep, you think. This is biologically impossible.

Unable to contain your giddiness, you smile to yourself, still wondering how you got so lucky.

Tomorrow will come, you remind yourself. And they will probably forget your existence. You're just a random person who happened to be in the right place at the right time. A footnote in his day. A story he'll tell the members once and then never think about again.

But this? Today? This chaos?

This will be a memory you'll cherish forever.

You're about to turn your lamp off when you hear a groan and some shuffling in your living room.

Your heart drops.

He's waking up.

He's waking up and this dream has to come to an end.

He's going to call Jin, get picked up, and disappear from your life forever.

You move to take the sheets off, mentally preparing yourself to be a gracious host and not a crying mess—

When his big frame enters through your door.

Oh.

Oh no.

He's standing there. In your doorway. In your brother's too tight t-shirt and gray sweatpants. His hair is even messier now, sticking up in approximately seventeen directions. His eyes are half open, glazed over, not really focusing on anything. He looks like he just woke up from the dead.

He looks, you think helplessly, absolutely devastating.

"Oh hey." You chuckle nervously, your voice coming out way too high. "Good morning, sunshine. Feeling better?"

He just stands there facing you. Eyes half open. Glazed over. Not moving.

"Hello?" You wave your hand in front of him, thinking maybe he's still half asleep. Maybe he's sleepwalking. Maybe he's having some kind of episode. "You good? Jungkook?"

The two of you sit there in silence for a few seconds.

Then Jungkook takes a couple steps towards you.

And flops his body onto your bed face down.

Face down.

Onto your bed.

Onto YOU.

You almost bounce off the mattress from the impact.

"What the HELL?!" you shout, eyes bulging out of your head as you realize what just happened.

Jeon Jungkook is no longer sleeping on your couch.

Jeon Jungkook is now sleeping in your bed.

Your bed.

The bed you sleep in.

The bed with your sheets and your pillows and your blankets.

With you still in it.

You sit there, paralyzed.

Time stands still.

Until you hear the faint sounds of him snoring again.

Oh my fucking god.

This started out as a blessing but now this is just cruel.

Jeon Jungkook is literally in your bed but he's passed out so you can't even—I can't even PROCESS this.

You're still frozen in place, unsure of what to do.

Your brain is screaming approximately twenty different things at once:

Wake him up!

No! Don't wake him up!

He needs sleep, Jimin said so.

But he's in your bed.

Your bed!!!

Your bed with you.

Oh he looks so peaceful.

Stop looking at him.

Can't stop looking at him.

You're considering just going to sleep right there—I mean, he's already here, what's the worst that could happen—but you don't want him to wake up and assume you tried anything with him.

He's vulnerable, you remind yourself. He's exhausted. He's dealing with anxiety and depression and insomnia and rumors and the weight of the world. The last thing he needs is to wake up and think you took advantage of him.

"I guess I'm the one who's gonna be stuck on the couch," you groan quietly.

You grab the blanket at the foot of the bed and drape it over Jungkook's body. His back muscles strain against the too tight shirt, and you definitely don't stare.

You definitely don't stare.

You're staring.

Stop staring.

His shoulders are so broad.

STOP.

You begin to drool slightly. Your hand actually twitches, almost reaching for him, but you immediately stop yourself.

You're no better than a man, you sigh internally. You're a menace. A danger to society. A threat.

You start to stand up off the bed when you feel your wrist being jerked the other way.

You yelp as you're pulled back down, landing on the mattress with a bounce.

Looking over your shoulder, your eyes wander towards the gorgeous creature gripping your wrist.

It's tight but it's not hurting you. His grip is warm. Firm. His fingers wrapped around your wrist like it's the most natural thing in the world.

His eyes are back to half open, but they're not really looking at anything. He's still not awake. Not really.

"Don't go." His voice is rough with sleep. Barely a whisper. "Stay here."

Every ounce of air within your body disappears.

What.

What did he just say.

WHAT.

Before you can process, he turns to your side. His arm snakes around your waist. He pulls you to him.

Your back is firmly pressed against his chest.

His chest.

The chest you've seen in photos and videos and magazine covers. The chest with the tattoos and the muscles.

His mouth is nuzzling into your neck.

He makes a groaning sound into your ear, and you feel it everywhere. "Mmm. That's better," he exhales.

He takes his left leg and wraps it around yours.

[Y/N].exe has stopped working.

This is not happening. This is not real.

Baby, you're not even here. You're having a stress induced dream. You're going to wake up on your couch any second now and none of this will have happened. Right?

You can feel every inch of him behind you.

His strong arms firmly wrapped around your waist. His pelvis pressed against your ass. Your back completely against his torso. His hot breath on your neck making your hair stand up and your skin prickle with goosebumps.

He's solid. Warm. Real.

So real.

Too real.

Real in a way that's going to destroy you.

After a couple minutes of internal panic—minutes where your brain short circuits, reboots, and short circuits again—you finally let out a gasp.

You hadn't realized you'd been holding your breath the entire time.

You're frozen. Frantic on the inside but completely paralyzed on the outside.

What do you do?

What do you DO?

He's asleep. He's clearly asleep. He doesn't know what he's doing. He's not conscious.

He tightens his grip. Pulls you closer. His nose presses against the back of your neck, and he inhales deeply.

"You smell good," he mumbles, barely coherent. "Like... home."

HOME.

He said you smell like home.

Your heart is going to explode. Literally. This is it. This is how you die. With Jeon Jungkook wrapped around you like a koala, murmuring things into your neck that will haunt you for the rest of your life.

You think about what Jin and Jimin said.

He hasn't been sleeping.

He has anxiety. Depression. He can't trust anyone.

He reads the comments and takes them personally.

He needs someone who sees him. Not the idol. Just him.

And here he is. In your bed. Holding you like you're the only safe thing he's found in years.

He doesn't even know you, you think. Not really. Not yet.

But his subconscious clearly trusts you.

His subconscious clearly wants you here.

What does that mean? What does any of this mean?

He mumbles something else—too quiet to hear—and his grip relaxes slightly as he drifts deeper into sleep.

You lie there, completely still, completely aware of every point where your body touches his.

You should move, a rational part of your brain whispers. You should get up. Go to the couch. Give him space.

But another part—a louder part, a more selfish part—whispers back:

He asked you to stay. He said "don't go."

He said you smell like home.

When was the last time someone said that to him? When was the last time he felt at home anywhere?

You think about the scar on his cheek. The dark circles under his eyes. The way his hand twitched in his sleep like he was running from something. The things Jin and Jimin told you about the anxiety, the depression, the therapy he stopped.

You think about the rumors. The smoking. The drinking. The comments. The pressure. The weight.

And you think about how, right now, in this moment, he's not running. He's not anxious. He's not depressed. He's just... here. Holding you. Breathing. Sleeping. Really sleeping. For the first time in probably months.

You can't move, you realize. You can't leave.

He needs this. He needs you.

So you stay.

You stay with Jeon Jungkook wrapped around you, his breath warm against your neck, his heart beating steadily against your back.

You stay even though your brain is screaming.

You stay even though you have no idea what this means.

You stay even though tomorrow everything might be different.

Right now, in this moment, he asked you to stay.

And you're going to.