The BTS Confessional Diaries

Below you will find all posts made by jjkconfessionals including, but not limited to, imagines, scenarios, reactions, etc.

Exposed Part Four; Breakdown

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: non-consensual intimate content leak / revenge porn, sexual content (implied), emotional distress and humiliation, strong language, workplace repercussions and public reputation concerns, substance use (marijuana), emotional breakdown / crying, romantic tension between ex-partners, privacy invasion and digital exploitation, themes of trust violation and trauma

Summary: Y/N, Jungkook, and Namjoon work to track down the source of the leaked video, uncovering that it came from someone disturbingly close to home. The tension between Y/N and Jungkook resurfaces—old feelings tangled with fresh shame—while Namjoon keeps them focused on the mission. As Y/N prepares for a meeting that could decide her career, exhaustion finally catches up, and she lets herself rest before the storm ahead.

Part Four; Breakdown

It feels colder inside Namjoon’s house than it should.

Not temperature — atmosphere. That hush right before a storm crawls over the horizon.

We’re gathered around his kitchen island — me on one side, Jungkook beside me, Namjoon across from us with his laptop open like an operating table.

No one talks. No one breathes normally. Even the clock ticking sounds too loud.

Namjoon scrolls once, jaw tight. “Okay. This is the original post.”

My stomach flips, claws at my ribs.

Jungkook leans in, one hand braced on the counter, muscles in his forearm tense. I don’t think he realizes how hard he’s gripping the edge.

I force myself to look.

Namjoon clicks.

And suddenly, sound.

Not loud — not yet — but familiar. Intimate.

A breath. A low laugh. A rustle of sheets.

My heart stops cold.

Jungkook jerks back like he’s been burned, reaching across the counter to slam the space bar — too late. The first second of us flickers on screen, grainy but unmistakable.

Namjoon’s eyes widen a fraction — not curiosity, not voyeurism. Alarm.

“Shit— sorry,” he mutters, hand already swiping frantically across the trackpad. The audio stutters, cuts, jumps — a half–muffled moan, one second of skin, then merciful silence.

A mortifying, suffocating silence.

I can feel every molecule in my face boil. My lungs forget how oxygen works. I don’t dare look at Jungkook — but I can feel him. Heat. Tension. Shame radiating off him like an engine under strain.

Namjoon closes the tab with the speed of a professional hacker trying to escape a federal raid. Then he just… stands there.

We all do.

Three people frozen in a kitchen like we heard a gun go off.

Namjoon clears his throat, staring at the countertop like he needs to recalibrate to planet Earth. “Okay. That—yeah. Didn’t… mean to do that.”

I swallow, but the sound sticks somewhere jagged in my chest. “Yeah. It’s—fine.”

It is not fine.

Jungkook drags a hand down his face, mortified enough his ears flush red. “Fuck. I’m so—ugh.”

He doesn’t finish. Neither do I. There’s no language for wanting to fall through the floor and keep falling.

Namjoon lifts one hand like he’s surrendering to the awkward. “For the record, I didn’t watch it. I don’t want to watch it. Ever.”

His gaze flicks between us — sharp, serious. “You two didn’t do anything wrong consenting to each other. What’s wrong is this.”

He taps the closed tab — light, but it hits like a hammer.

Jungkook nods once — tiny, tortured. A silent thank you or apology or both.

I breathe out slowly, trying to unclench the shame sitting in my throat. “Okay. Let’s just—keep going.”

Namjoon nods, shoulders loosening back into mission mode. “Right. We treat this like a breach, not a scandal.”

He reopens another window — datapoints, timestamps, IP traces. Safe, clinical, emotionless code.

I grip the edge of the island, grounding myself in the cool marble beneath my fingers.

Jungkook shifts closer — not touching, but near enough that I can feel him trying not to look at me. Trying to not remember. Trying to not burn from the echo of something once beautiful turned brutal.

Namjoon inhales. “Alright. Let’s find the bastard who posted it.”

And just like that, we go back to war.

Namjoon doesn’t “hack” the way movies show it. He moves with a quiet, practiced confidence — not flashy, just thorough. He opens the post, scrolls through what’s public, then starts following the little breadcrumbs that other people miss: who shared it first, which accounts pushed it hardest, odd timing patterns that feel choreographed. He saves everything—screenshots, copies of the file, a local backup—because preservation is the first rule.

He isn’t shouting about miracles. He points out patterns, names the likely amplifiers, and talks through the realistic next steps: preserve, document, request takedowns, and escalate to the platform’s trust & safety or legal channels if needed. He moves between windows with a calm fluency, making choices that feel like someone who’s done this kind of cleanup before.

It’s not instant justice — Namjoon says the same thing we’re all thinking: real tracing to the person who uploaded it likely requires formal requests and the platform’s cooperation. But within the limits of what anyone can do right now, he’s threading the chaos into something actionable. Watching him work steadies the room; it doesn’t erase the humiliation, but it gives the panic a shape and a direction

After a few minutes the tension catches up with me—too much adrenaline, too little oxygen. My chest feels tight.

“I’m just gonna—” I gesture vaguely toward the other room. “Get some water.”

Neither of them argues. Jungkook only nods once, eyes still fixed on Namjoon’s screen.

The kitchen light is softer, warmer. I grip the edge of the counter and focus on something normal: faucet, glass, water running clear. I fill it halfway and drink in slow, careful sips, trying to trick my body into thinking everything isn’t unraveling.

Footsteps sound behind me. The floorboards creak once, twice. Then Jungkook’s voice, quiet:

“You doing okay?”

I set the glass down, fingers still around the rim. “Define okay.”

Jungkook huffs a quiet laugh. “Yeah. Stupid question.”

He leans a hip against the counter, arms crossed. The silence stretches just long enough to turn heavy again before he says, “You know, at least they didn’t post the whole thing.”

"The whole thing?" I question.

Jungkook exhales, a quick, uneasy sound. “There’s more to it,” he says finally. “The clip they leaked—it cuts off early.”

I look at him, confused. “Early?”

He nods, eyes darting away like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Yeah. It doesn’t show… what happened after. The part that actually mattered.”

The second he says it, the memory hits—sudden, vivid, uninvited. I remember exactly what came next. The room, the way everything shifted, the way he looked at me like the world had slowed down. The air leaves my lungs all at once.

My fingers tighten around the glass in my hand, condensation cold against my skin. I can feel the heat crawl up my neck before I can stop it.

Jungkook notices—of course he does. His lips part like he’s about to say something, then he doesn’t.

He just huffs a small laugh, almost nervous. “Yeah,” he mutters, voice rougher now. “That part.”

I drop my gaze to the counter, heart pounding way too fast for how quiet the room is. “Right. I remember.”

The words come out softer than I mean them to—like an admission.

For a few seconds, neither of us moves. The air feels charged, heavy with things that used to be easy to feel and are impossible to say now.

Jungkook’s voice cuts through the quiet first, low and uneven. “I really did love you, you know.”

It’s not dramatic. He doesn’t look at me when he says it—just stares somewhere past the sink, like the words are a fact he’s finally decided to stop fighting.

I take a breath, slow and shallow. “Yeah,” I say. My tone is careful, almost flat. “I'm sure you did.”

He glances over then, searching my face. “You don’t believe me?”

I take another sip of water just to buy a second. “Believing doesn’t change anything.”

The sentence lands harder than I expect. For a heartbeat, neither of us breathes.

I set the glass down a little too fast, and water splashes over my hand, spreading across the counter. “Damn it,” I mutter, grabbing for a paper towel.

Jungkook moves at the same time. Our hands brush over the roll—quick, but enough to send a small jolt through the air between us. We both freeze. Then he clears his throat, pulling a sheet free.

“I got it,” he says quietly.

He crouches a little, wiping the spill with slow, careful motions. The paper towel darkens as it soaks up the water, his focus locked on the task like it’s a way to hide.

When he tosses the damp wad into the trash, the silence between us feels heavier than before—filled with the weight of everything that used to be simple.

From the other room, Namjoon’s voice breaks the silence—loud, triumphant, like he’s just hit the jackpot.

“Hey! You two—get in here!”

Jungkook straightens up fast, brows knitting. “What?”

“Just get over here,” Namjoon calls again, laughter threading through his words. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

We exchange a quick look, all the tension from the last few minutes folding into curiosity. Then we both move—Jungkook leading the way, me a step behind, wiping my damp hands on my jeans.

When we reach the doorway, the smell hits first. Sharp, unmistakable. Namjoon’s leaning over the counter, a thin paper spread between his fingers and a grin tugging at his mouth.

“You’re kidding,” Jungkook mutters.

Namjoon glances up, deadpan. “Celebratory measures,” he says, rolling the joint with practiced ease. “We got a hit.”

I blink, not sure if I’m hearing right. “A hit?”

He nods, tapping the edge of the paper to even it out. “Traced the IP back through the proxy chain. The original upload came from a residential address. Not a bot farm, not a random overseas host. Real person, local.”

My heart stutters. “Local?”

“Very,” he says, twisting the end of the joint shut and setting it down carefully beside the laptop. “Same city. Twenty minutes away, tops.”

Jungkook leans over the counter, scanning the screen like he can make the name appear faster. “You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.” Namjoon pushes the laptop toward us and wipes his hands off on a napkin. “Didn’t expect to get that lucky this quick, but I’ll take it. Hence…” He gestures at the half-finished joint, smirking. “…the celebration.”

Jungkook shakes his head, half amused, half in disbelief. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Namjoon says, shrugging. “But I’m also right.”

I stare at the screen, the glowing address sitting there like a threat wrapped in code. The room feels smaller suddenly, the air tighter.

“So what now?” I ask quietly.

Namjoon’s grin stretches, confident and sharp. “Now,” he says, patting his pockets for a lighter, “we smoke—and then we go to this bastard’s house.”

Before either of us can answer, he’s already moving, the back door creaking open to a wash of sunlight and cool air.

Jungkook glances at me, one brow raised. “You good?”

“As good as I can be,” I say, following him outside.

The deck boards are sun-warmed beneath us, and the air smells faintly like wet wood and cut grass. Namjoon leans against the railing, lighter flicking once before a curl of smoke drifts up. He takes a slow drag, passes the joint to Jungkook, then looks out over the yard like he’s already planning ten steps ahead.

“Celebrate small victories,” he says.

Jungkook inhales, exhales, then hands it to me. I hesitate, earning a knowing look from him. “Small hit,” he says. “Don’t try to prove anything.”

I nod and take the tiniest pull I can manage. It burns a little, makes my eyes water, but the smoke settles something in me I didn’t realize was still vibrating. The panic that had been thrumming behind my ribs all morning eases just enough for me to breathe.

It’s quiet for a while—birds, wind, the faint sound of a neighbor’s dog barking somewhere down the block.

Then my phone buzzes against the railing. I look down and see the name on the screen. Dean Morales.

The calm I’d just found drains a little.

Jungkook notices immediately. “You should answer.”

I nod, pressing the phone to my ear. “Hello?”

Her voice is as composed as ever—gentle, professional, measured. “Y/N, good afternoon. I wanted to reach you directly before we meet later today.”

There’s something in her tone—soft, but weighted. My stomach twists.

“I’m sorry, Dean,” I say quietly. “I know this is—”

She cuts me off, not unkindly. “It’s all right. I understand you’re in a difficult position. I wanted to let you know that we’ve begun reviewing the situation internally. For now, we’re asking you to come in at two to discuss next steps.”

“Next steps,” I repeat, my voice thinner than I mean it to be.

“Yes,” she says carefully. “At this stage, the university has to consider its options regarding faculty conduct and public reputation. We want to ensure all parties are treated fairly.”

That word—conduct—lands like a stone in my chest.

“I understand,” I manage. “I’ll be there at two.”

“Good,” she says. “And Y/N—just bring yourself. We’ll handle the rest from there.”

It’s meant to sound kind. Somehow, it doesn’t.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Of course. We’ll talk soon.”

The line goes dead.

I set the phone down slowly. My hands are steady, but only because I’m forcing them to be.

Namjoon’s watching me over the smoke curling between his fingers. “How bad?”

“She said they’re reviewing my conduct,” I say, and my laugh comes out small, humorless. “So… bad.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, eyes narrowing toward the horizon like he’s looking for something to hit. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Doesn’t matter,” I say quietly. “Someone leaked the video. That’s all they’ll see.”

Jungkook’s eyes stay on me for a long beat — unreadable, sharp around the edges. Then he exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Well,” he says after a moment, tone low, a little rough, “if they’re stupid enough to let you go, I’ve been looking for an assistant anyway.”

That pulls my gaze up from the deck. “An assistant?”

He nods, expression caught somewhere between serious and teasing. “Yeah. Studio’s a mess. Too many deadlines. Half my invoices don’t even get sent.” He shrugs, trying for casual. “Could use someone with an actual brain.”

I huff a quiet laugh. “You’d really hire me?”

“Why not?” he says, and this time he meets my eyes. “You’re organized. Smarter than half the people I’ve worked with. And… you get how I work. That’s rare.”

The last part hangs there a little too long — heavier than he means it to.

Namjoon lets out a low chuckle from across the deck, breaking the moment. “Yeah, great idea,” he says dryly. “You two working in the same space again? What could possibly go wrong.”

Jungkook shoots him a look. “I’m being serious.”

“I know you are,” Namjoon replies, grin widening. “That’s the problem.”

I shake my head, smiling despite myself. “You’re both impossible.”

“Maybe,” Jungkook says, leaning his elbows on the railing beside me, close but not too close. “But I meant it. If it comes to that… I’ll find a spot for you. Promise.”

I study him for a second, trying to decide if it’s pity or sincerity. It’s hard to tell with him — it always has been.

“You don’t have to fix this for me,” I say softly.

He doesn’t look away. “I’m not trying to fix it,” he says. “I just don’t want you to lose everything because of something we both messed up.”

The words settle between us, quiet but steady. For a moment, neither of us says anything. The air smells like smoke and rain and something faintly sweet — calm before whatever’s next.

Then Namjoon clears his throat, flicking ash off the deck. “Alright,” he says, glancing at the time. “You’ve got a meeting at two, and I’ve got an address to verify.”

Jungkook pushes off the railing, stretching his shoulders. “Guess that means we’ve got a few hours.”

“Yeah,” Namjoon says, smirking. “Long enough to plan how we’re gonna ruin this guy’s life.”

Jungkook looks back at me — the hint of a smile tugging at his mouth, equal parts reassurance and trouble. “You in?”

My heart stumbles, but I nod. “Yeah,” I say quietly. “I’m in.”

The smoke curls and the conversation thins until it feels like the world is pressing inward—small, dense, lined up for whatever comes next. For a second I let the quiet settle over me, let the deck and the wind and the absurd, dangerous plan to “ruin” someone’s life blur into the background.

I try to focus on the words, but it’s useless. My eyes keep finding Jungkook instead.

The way he stands — weight shifted to one side, shoulders slouched like he’s carrying too much but pretending he isn’t. The way his fingers move when he talks, restless, tugging at the hem of his hoodie before slipping into his pockets, then out again. Like he can’t decide if he wants to be comfortable or careful.

When he swallows, his throat flexes once, the motion quick and clean, catching a glint of sunlight that sneaks through the trees. It shouldn’t make my stomach twist, but it does.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip before speaking again, and I hate how instinctively my breath catches. His voice is softer now, more thoughtful than defensive, and every word seems to drag through the air like smoke — slow, heavy, warm.

I try to shake it off, but my brain doesn’t listen.

It’s been two years since I’ve seen him — really seen him. Not through a screen, not through someone else’s story, not in my head replaying the same goodbye. And yet here he is, three feet away, and my body remembers him like it’s second nature.

It’s stupid — how easily my eyes trace the familiar shapes. The way his shoulders still slope when he relaxes, how he rolls his sleeves up just past his forearms like he used to when he got serious about something. Even the small, unconscious things — the way he fiddles with his thumbs, or presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek when he’s thinking — all of it hits me like déjà vu.

Two years should’ve erased this. I should’ve forgotten how it felt to notice him. But apparently, my memory doesn’t care about timelines.

He says something to Namjoon, voice lower now — smooth, warm, almost thoughtful — and the sound runs through me before I can stop it. My pulse stumbles, a traitor.

I look away fast, pretending to check my phone, pretending I’m fine. The sunlight cuts through the trees, catching in the smoke, turning everything gold and soft around the edges. It feels like standing too close to something I swore I’d never touch again.

“Hey,” Jungkook says, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “You okay?”

I blink, realizing I’ve been staring past him for who knows how long. “Yeah,” I manage, a little too fast. “Just… thinking.”

He studies me for a second, eyes narrowing slightly like he’s trying to read between the words. “About the meeting?”

“About everything,” I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them.

He hums softly, a low sound from the back of his throat. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now, you know.”

I nod, even though the reassurance barely sticks. “Yeah. I know.”

The second I say it, the weight of everything I’ve been trying to hold together shifts — too heavy, too unstable — and something in me just gives.

My throat tightens first, sharp and sudden. Then the pressure behind my eyes builds until I can’t blink it away anymore. The world blurs, and before I can stop it, a shaky breath catches in my chest and turns into something broken.

“Hey,” Jungkook says again, softer this time. “Y/N—”

I shake my head, covering my face with my hands. “I’m sorry,” I manage, voice cracking. “I’m fine. I just—” A sob slips through before I can finish. “God, I’m so tired of saying I’m fine.”

Jungkook hesitates for half a second — like he’s fighting with himself — then steps closer. I feel rather than see him beside me, the warmth of him cutting through the cold air, the smell of smoke and detergent grounding me in something real.

“It’s okay,” he says quietly. “You don’t have to be.”

That’s what breaks me completely.

The tears come harder — ugly, uneven, the kind that sting. I grip the railing, trying to breathe through it, but the more I fight, the worse it gets. It’s not just the video, or the meeting, or the fact that my career is dangling by a thread — it’s everything. Two years of silence, of pretending the past didn’t still live under my skin.

“I just…” I take a shaking breath, words tripping over themselves. “I can’t lose everything because of this. Not after everything I already lost.”

He doesn’t say anything at first. Then his hand — careful this time, deliberate — brushes my back, slow and steady, like he’s checking if it’s okay.

I don’t move away.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice low enough that I almost miss it. “You’re not gonna lose everything. Not while I’m here.”

I press the heel of my hand to my eyes, trying to hold everything in, but the tears still spill over. “God,” I choke out, voice shaking. “I probably look pathetic right now.”

Jungkook shifts closer, his tone low. “You don’t.”

“I do,” I say, laughing weakly through the ache. “I feel pathetic. One stupid mistake, and everything I’ve worked for is just—gone.”

“It’s not gone,” he says, quiet but firm. “You’ll fix it. You always do.”

I look up at him then, ready to tell him he doesn’t get it—but the words die before they reach my tongue. Because he’s looking at me in that way again. The way that used to undo me completely.

His expression isn’t pity. It’s something else—something heavier.

“I mean it,” he says softly.

Namjoon clears his throat from somewhere behind us, the sound cutting gently through the static between me and Jungkook.

“Alright,” he says, voice steady but softer than usual. “We’re officially calling time on the emotional breakdown portion of the evening.”

I swipe at my eyes, half-laughing despite myself. “Too late.”

Namjoon takes a drag from the joint, smoke drifts lazily up into the amber light. “Nah,” he says, exhaling. “Crying’s productive. It’s like… emotional detox. You just can’t stay in it too long, or it turns into quicksand.”

He hits the joint again, slow and deep, then gestures toward me with two fingers. “You need something that doesn’t suck for a few hours.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Like what? Meditation?”

Namjoon snorts. “Please. No one meditates properly when they’re pissed off. I’m talking about something that actually works.”

He glances between us, lips curving into a small, knowing smile. “My brother-in-law owns a club a few blocks from here. Place called Ecliptic. It’s low-key on Fridays — decent crowd, good drinks, killer playlists. We should go.”

I blink, caught between confusion and disbelief. “You want to take me to a club?”

He shrugs, handing the joint back to Jungkook. “I want to take you somewhere that isn’t this deck, where you can remember you’re still a person. Crying on my railing isn’t a personality trait.”

“That’s debatable,” Jungkook mutters under his breath, and I elbow him weakly in response.

Namjoon smirks. “See? Already smiling. I’m a genius.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “Look, Y/N — you’ve had the worst day in recent human history. You need to get out of your head before it eats you alive. One night, that’s all I’m asking.”

I exhale slowly, crossing my arms over my chest. “What if I’m not in the mood to dance?”

“Then don’t,” he says simply. “We’ll get a booth, have a few drinks, pretend the world doesn’t suck. My brother-in-law will take care of us. He’s good people.”

Jungkook takes another drag, then exhales toward the fading sun. “It might not be the worst idea,” he admits.

I turn to look at him, incredulous. “You’re siding with him now?”

Jungkook shrugs, the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. “He’s not wrong. You’ve been through hell today. Sitting here reliving it over and over isn’t gonna help.”

“I just…” I shake my head, staring down at my hands. “I don’t feel like pretending to be okay in public.”

“You don’t have to pretend,” he says softly. “You just have to go.”

He flicks the ash from the joint into the tray and leans against the railing beside me. The dying light catches the edge of his jaw, warm and sharp. “It’s not about dancing or drinking. It’s about—” He pauses, searching for the right words. “—remembering that the world doesn’t end here. That it’s still spinning, even if everything feels like it stopped for you.”

It takes me a second to realize both of them are waiting for my answer — Namjoon with that raised brow of his, Jungkook with that quiet kind of patience that always feels like a dare.

The deck creaks beneath my shoes as I shift my weight, arms still crossed tight over my chest. The air smells like smoke and rain. My head feels too full, my heart too loud.

“Okay,” I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper. “Fine. I’ll go.”

Namjoon grins immediately, like he just won something. “Knew you’d come around,” he says, flicking the joint once before snuffing it out. “You’ll thank me later when the bass hits.”

Jungkook lets out a small laugh beside me. “You sure?”

I nod, exhaling slow. “Yeah. Why not? Maybe I could use a night that doesn’t feel like a complete disaster.”

“Good,” Namjoon says, already standing, stretching his arms as he heads back toward the door. “I’ll text Sungmin we’re coming. He’ll hook us up with a booth.”

When he disappears inside, the silence that follows feels softer. Not the same heavy quiet from earlier — this one hums with something lighter, like the air right before a song starts.

Jungkook leans on the railing beside me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him even without looking. “You won’t regret it,” he says quietly.

I smile faintly, half to him, half to myself. “We’ll see.”

Inside, Namjoon’s already at the kitchen island again, typing something on his laptop. The brightness of the screen paints his face in pale blue light.

“Alright,” he says, clapping his hands once like a teacher calling class back to order. “Here’s the plan.”

I slide onto one of the stools across from him, trying to anchor myself with the feel of the marble beneath my palms. Jungkook stands behind me, quiet, but I can sense the way his presence steadies the room.

Namjoon points at the laptop. “We finish tracing this lead — I’ll pull the rest of the metadata while Jungkook handles the verification request. That should give us enough time before your meeting.”

I nod automatically. “Two o’clock. Dean Morales.”

“Exactly,” he says. “Go in calm, factual, and confident. Don’t apologize for something that isn’t your fault. You’re not the story here — the breach is.”

“Got it,” I say, though my stomach tightens at the thought of it.

Jungkook glances up from where he’s leaning, voice low and steady. “We’ll head out around one-thirty. That should give you time to breathe before you go in.”

I nod, grateful he thought about it even if I didn’t ask. “Thanks.”

He just shrugs like it’s nothing. “You’ve got enough to worry about. Let me handle the boring parts.”

Namjoon smirks. “After the meeting, we’ll grab dinner. I know a Korean BBQ spot near campus — chill atmosphere, nobody’s gonna bother us. We eat, decompress, and then hit Ecliptic.”

“Dinner and a club,” I say, letting out a quiet, humorless laugh. “That’s your grand therapy plan?”

“Balance,” he says, tapping his temple. “You can’t fight if you’re running on fumes.”

Jungkook leans against the counter beside me, watching me the way he used to — eyes sharp but soft around the edges. “He’s right. You’ll feel better after food. You always do.”

“Maybe,” I admit. “Or maybe I’ll just be full and anxious.”

That makes him laugh — low, easy. “Then we’ll fix that part, too.”

I shake my head, smiling a little despite myself. The kind of smile that only happens when I’m too exhausted to keep pretending I don’t need one.

“Honestly,” I say, glancing toward the living room, “I think I’m just going to crash for a bit. I can’t keep running on caffeine and adrenaline.”

Namjoon raises a brow. “You sure? We’ve got, what, an hour and a half before go-time?”

“Exactly,” I say, already pushing off the stool. “Perfect nap window.”

Jungkook steps aside to let me pass, his voice softer now. “You’ll actually sleep?”

I give a small shrug, running a hand through my hair. “Sleep, zone out, stare at the ceiling—whatever happens first.” I pause in the doorway, looking back at both of them. “Wake me up around one-twenty?”

Namjoon salutes lazily. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Promise you’ll actually do it,” I warn.

Jungkook’s mouth curves. “If you’re still out cold, I’ll carry you to the car.”

“Yeah, okay,” I say, but there’s no real heat behind it. Just the kind of tired fondness that sits somewhere deep in my chest.

The couch looks like heaven when I see it — sunlight spilling across the cushions, a blanket draped over the back. I drop down onto it, sinking into the kind of silence that feels almost sacred after everything.

My body loosens the second I lie back. The hum of Namjoon typing in the other room fades into background noise, steady and comforting.

I pull the blanket over my legs and stare at the ceiling until my eyes blur. The weight behind my ribs starts to ease, just a little.

Exposed Part Three; Alliance

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Female Reader

Word Count: 4.7k

Warnings: leaked sex tape / non-consensual pornography, online harassment/cyberbullying, public shaming and humiliation, anxiety/panic symptoms, insomnia, workplace/job insecurity, toxic/volatile relationship dynamics, verbal abuse and name-calling, gaslighting/manipulation, infidelity themes, smoking/cigarette use, strong language/profanity

Summary: Y/n wakes to chaos and scandal, overwhelmed by messages and fear. She turns to Jungkook, and the two meet in the early morning quiet, tension and history hanging between them. Old emotions surface, sharp and raw, before they force themselves to focus on next steps. With little certainty and a fragile peace, they head out together to seek help, bracing for whatever comes next.

Part Three; Alliance

The morning light feels cruel. Too bright, too unforgiving as it slices through the blinds and lays across my bed like a spotlight I never asked for.

My first thought isn’t food or water or even moving. It’s the video.

The phone buzzes against my nightstand like it knows, rattling and pulsing until I finally drag it into my hand. The screen lights up, and the consequences are already there—stacked, suffocating.

Missed calls. Dozens of texts. Some from numbers I know. Too many from ones I don’t.

Friends asking if it’s true. Acquaintances digging for gossip. Strangers demanding answers I don’t have. My notifications bar is flooded—social media tags, DMs, screenshots, mentions.

I can’t open them. I can’t breathe past them.

It’s everywhere already.

I drop the phone into my lap like it burns, my hands trembling as the buzz starts again, vibrating against my thigh. I stare at it, frozen, while shame, panic, and disbelief churn so violently in my chest I feel sick.

The world knows. And I can’t take it back.

My fingers twitch restlessly before I swipe my phone open again, pulling up Jungkook's contact info. His name fills the screen, the photo I never deleted staring back at me. For a long moment, I just sit there, my thumb hovering, fighting with myself.

Then I exhale shakily and press call.

The line rings once. Twice.

“...Hello?” His voice is low, heavy with sleep, the sound of sheets rustling behind him.

My chest tightens. “Sorry. I know it’s early. I just—” The words stumble out, clumsy and fast. “I couldn’t really sleep. My brain wouldn’t shut off, and you told me to call, so… here I am.”

He hums softly, half awake, then clears his throat. “It’s fine. Really. Better you call me than sit there tearing yourself apart.”

There’s the faint creak of a mattress, the rustle of sheets, and then footsteps. He’s out of bed.

The faint shuffle of his footsteps carries through the line, followed by the soft squeak of hinges and the muted click of a door closing. A beat later, I catch the distant hum of a coffee machine.

He sighs, long and tired, the kind of sound that makes my chest ache. “I just started the coffee,” he mutters, almost to himself, his voice still hoarse with sleep. “Haven’t even wrapped my head around today yet.”

My grip on the phone tightens. “You and me both.”

There’s a pause, filled only by the low trickle of brewing coffee, before his voice comes back—firmer now, though the weariness still drags at the edges. “Listen, Y/n. We can’t do this on the phone. Not with everything blowing up like this.” He exhales through his nose, a sharp, frustrated sound. “Meet me at the studio. One hour. We’ll figure out what the hell to do about this leak.”

The words land heavy in my chest. “An hour?” I whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, quieter this time. I hear the clink of a mug being set down, the exhaustion bleeding into his voice again. “An hour. Just… don’t shut me out, okay?”

My throat is tight, but I manage to whisper, “I won’t.”

On the other end, Jungkook sighs, deep and heavy, like the weight of it all has finally settled into his bones. The sound rattles through the line, softer than his words but harder to hear.

“I just…” His voice cracks a little before he steadies it. “I feel ashamed, Y/n. Like… like we should’ve never recorded that video in the first place.”

The words land heavy, and I can't seem to fight them. My chest sinks as the truth of it presses down.

“Yeah,” I whisper, barely audible. “You’re right. We shouldn’t have.”

Silence stretches, raw and hollow. Neither of us seems to know what else to say.

Finally, I swallow hard and force out, “I’ll… see you at the studio.”

Before he can answer, I end the call, the flat tone filling my room.

I just sit there for a moment, staring at my reflection in the darkened phone screen. My pulse still hasn’t settled, a dull thrum in my chest that won’t quit.

With a groan, I shove the blankets off and force myself up. The floor is cold under my feet, grounding me just enough to move.

I tell myself I’m only getting ready because people will stare if I don’t—because I can’t afford to look as wrecked as I feel when I walk through that studio door. But when I pull my hairbrush through the knots, when I linger a little too long choosing which top to wear, I know I’m lying to myself.

My hands hesitate over clothes that are safe and neutral before sliding to ones that fit closer, softer against my skin. I bite my lip, frowning at the mirror as I swipe on concealer, mascara, lip balm—nothing heavy, just enough to hide the hours of lost sleep. Just enough to make me look alive.

It hits me in the middle of tugging on my jacket—this isn’t just about me looking put together. It’s about him.

I shake my head at the thought, scoffing under my breath, but the truth is there anyway: even after everything, even after the shouting and the shame, some part of me still wants Jungkook to look at me and see more than the mess we made.

By the time I step outside, the air is sharp and cool, biting against my skin like it knows I don’t belong out here this early. The streets are quiet—just the hum of traffic in the distance, the occasional shuffle of someone else starting their day. My stomach twists the whole ride over, a mess of nerves and dread that only tightens as the city blurs by my window.

The studio looms ahead, dark and still. Closed. Of course—it’s barely six in the morning, and the neon sign that usually buzzes overhead is nothing but a dull outline against the rising light.

But he’s there.

Jungkook sits on the curb outside, hood pulled up, a cigarette pinched loosely between his fingers. The ember glows faintly when he takes a drag, his eyes fixed on the pavement like the smoke curling from his lips might carry away the weight of everything pressing down on him.

I slow my steps without meaning to, my heart stumbling as the scene etches itself into me. For a second, he doesn’t look like the boy in the video or the man who shouted at me in that mirrored room. He just looks… tired.

And then his gaze lifts, catching me in the quiet morning air.

I stop just a few feet away, but he doesn’t move—doesn’t stub out the cigarette, doesn’t even shift to acknowledge me. It feels like the invitation is unspoken, so I lower myself onto the curb beside him. The concrete is cold, seeping through my jeans, grounding me in a way I desperately need.

For a long beat, neither of us speaks. The silence is thick, filled only by the faint hiss of the cigarette when he takes another drag.

“Can I hit that?” I finally murmur, my voice rougher than I mean for it to be.

Jungkook turns his head, brows lifting as if he can’t believe what I just said. Then—against all odds—he lets out a small, disbelieving chuckle. “You?”

I nod once, stubborn. “Me.”

He exhales slowly, smoke curling out between his lips before he passes the cigarette over, careful not to brush my fingers. I take it, drag deep, the burn catching at the back of my throat. It makes my eyes sting, but I hold it in anyway, letting the ache ground me before handing it back.

His mouth quirks, humorless. “My girlfriend hates when I smoke.”

The words jab, but I bite them back, forcing my tone steady. “Why’d you start in the first place?”

He flicks the ash off the end, eyes fixed on the empty street ahead. His voice is quieter now, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Because I broke up with you. And it was the only thing that kept me away from you.”

I watch him take another drag, the tip of the cigarette burning orange before he exhales slow, smoke curling into the early morning air. The quiet stretches between us, thick, almost suffocating.

My chest tightens. The words are out before I can stop them, soft but heavy. “I watched the whole video last night.” My throat works, and I add, barely above a whisper, “Twice.”

For a moment, I think he won’t answer at all. He doesn’t even glance at me—just flicks ash off the end of the cigarette, his profile carved sharp against the pale dawn.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice flat, steady in a way that feels practiced. He takes another drag, smoke spilling past his lips. “So did I.”

He passes me the cigarette, his fingers brushing mine, warm against the filter. When I lift it to my lips, his gaze finally shifts—meeting mine head-on. The look holds as I inhale, the burn filling my chest.

When I exhale, smoke curls between us, and I catch the way his eyes drop, lingering on my mouth before dragging back up to my face. Heat coils in my stomach, sharp and confusing.

I take another drag, slower this time, as if stretching the moment. Then I hand it back. His fingers graze mine again, and for a beat too long, neither of us moves.

Jungkook finally brings it to his own lips, pulling in deep before turning away to flick the cigarette out into the street. The ember arcs briefly in the dawn light before vanishing into the pavement.

Without a word, he straightens and extends his hand to me. The gesture is simple, but it feels heavier than it should, like a question and an answer wrapped into one.

I look at it, then at him. His expression is unreadable, but steady. I slip my hand into his, and he pulls me to my feet with ease.

His hand lingers around mine for a second longer than necessary before he lets go. Wordlessly, Jungkook leads the way to the studio entrance. The glass doors reflect the pale morning light, and for a moment, I catch our silhouettes side by side—two ghosts standing outside a place that doesn’t quite feel real yet.

He pulls a key from his pocket, the metallic jingle loud in the stillness. The lock clicks, sharp in the quiet street, and he pushes the heavy door open, gesturing me inside first.

The air is cooler in the lobby, tinged faintly with cleaning solution and the ghost of music that must’ve filled these walls the night before. My footsteps echo against the polished floor as I step past him.

When the door shuts, the city hum vanishes, replaced by silence so thick I can hear the faint hitch of my own breathing. Jungkook twists the lock behind us with deliberate precision, the final snap loud enough to make my chest tighten.

Jungkook doesn’t look at me right away. He just slides his hands into the pockets of his sweats, chin ducked slightly as he moves down the hall. His pace is unhurried but steady, like he already knows exactly where we’re going.

I follow, the muted thud of my shoes against the floor the only sound between us. My nerves coil tighter with every step, but I can’t make myself break the silence first.

At the end of the hall, he stops in front of a door with a small plaque etched Office. The key ring jingles again as he fits one into the lock, pushing the door open with a quiet creak.

“Come on,” he says, finally glancing back at me.

The office is small but lived-in. Papers stacked on the desk, a half-empty water bottle, a hoodie slung over the back of the chair. He crosses the room and drops into the chair behind the desk, spinning it once before leaning forward, his elbows braced on the surface.

“I’ve got a number,” he says after a long beat, his voice low and even. “Private investigator. Friend of a friend. If anyone can trace where the leak came from, it’s him.” He rubs a hand over his face, tired already though the day’s barely begun. “But finding the source is only half the battle.”

My throat tightens. “The other half being…”

“Getting it deleted,” he says bluntly. His eyes lift to mine, sharp under the dim light. “Every copy. Every share. If we can’t erase it, then it doesn’t matter who posted it first. It’ll just keep spreading.”

The weight of his words sinks into me, heavy and suffocating. My stomach knots as I sink into the chair across from him.

“And you think that’s possible?” My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to.

His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t hesitate. “It has to be.”

Jungkook pulls his phone from his pocket, thumb swiping across the screen as he scrolls through his contacts. “Sit,” he mutters, nodding toward the chair across from the desk. But I don’t.

Instead, I drift.

The office is cramped but personal—walls lined with old show posters, polaroids tucked into the frame of a corkboard, scraps of paper pinned up with scrawled notes and practice schedules. A faint trace of cologne lingers under the sharper tang of dust and coffee, the scent so unmistakably him it makes my chest ache.

Jungkook leans back in his chair, phone to his ear. “Yeah,” he says when the line picks up, his voice shifting into something lower, professional. “It’s me. I need a favor. Big one.”

My fingertips trail along the edge of the corkboard as I lean in, pretending to study a setlist while his words filter through the quiet. I can feel his gaze before I look—heavy, steady, following me.

“She’ll come with me,” he says after a pause, and I know instantly he means me. My stomach tightens. “Yeah, both of us. Today, if possible.”

I cross to the bookshelf, brushing over the spines of binders lined up in careful rows. My back is to him, but I don’t need to see him to feel it—his eyes, tracking every move I make, the weight of his stare settling hot against the back of my neck.

“Text me the address,” Jungkook finishes, clipped, then lowers the phone. He doesn’t look down at the screen when it buzzes, doesn’t look away from me at all.

When I finally turn, his gaze doesn’t shift. It stays locked on me, sharp and unreadable.

“He’ll meet us,” he says simply, setting the phone down on the desk like it’s nothing. But the way his eyes linger tells me otherwise.

I lean against the edge of the bookshelf, arms crossed tight over my chest. The question slips out before I can stop it.

“Has she seen it?”

Jungkook’s jaw tightens, his fingers tapping once against the desk before stilling. He doesn’t look away this time—his eyes lock on mine, heavy, almost defiant.

“Yeah,” he says finally, voice flat but edged. “She saw it. We argued about it last night. About why it even exists.”

The words hang in the air, sharp and unmovable. My throat goes dry, the weight of them pressing down on me harder than I expect.

His mouth twists, bitter. “She wanted to know what kind of person records that shit. Why I’d let it happen in the first place. Why I didn’t delete it the second it was over.”

The words sting, though I expected them to. My arms fold over my chest, defensive, my voice rising before I can stop it. “It exists because I wanted it. Because I needed it. Because maybe I wanted something to remind me you actually cared about me.”

His brows lift, disbelief hardening into something sharper. “Cared about you? You think a fucking video was proof of that?” He shakes his head, laughing bitterly. “No, Y/n. That was just another way for you to get what you wanted. Another way for you to control everything.”

The jab lands, hard. My fists clench at my sides. “Control?” My voice cracks with fury. “You were the one pulling away from me! You were cold, you were gone half the time, and I was just supposed to sit there and take it? Maybe if you hadn’t been so damn distant, I wouldn’t have wanted the video so bad.”

Jungkook pushes up straighter in his chair, his voice cutting sharp as a whip. “And maybe if you weren’t so bitchy all the time, I wouldn’t have been distant.”

The words hang there like a slap. My breath catches, but I force my chin up, meeting his glare head-on even though my chest is burning. The silence stretches, tight and suffocating, before I finally spit out, “Fuck you, Jungkook.”

His smirk twists cruel, humorless. “Fuck you, Y/n.”

The air between us feels jagged, hot, like one more word might set the whole room on fire. My chest heaves, but I don’t look away. I refuse.

“This is why I broke up with you,” Jungkook snaps suddenly, his voice raw, loud in the small office. “All you do is argue. You never let shit go, you never stop pushing. You can’t just—” He cuts himself off, jaw clenched, hands curling into fists on the desk. “This is exactly what I couldn’t deal with anymore.”

The words hit like a punch, but the sting only fuels the fire in my veins. My laugh comes out bitter, breathless. “You think I’m the only one who argues? Seriously?” I throw my arms out, incredulous. “Look at you. You’re doing it right now. You argue back, Jungkook. You push just as hard as I do. Don’t you dare put this all on me.”

His chair scrapes as he shoves back from the desk, standing so quickly it makes the papers on the surface flutter. His glare cuts into me, sharp and furious—but underneath it, there’s something else. Something frayed.

“Fine,” he snaps, pointing at me like the word itself is an admission. “Fine. You’re right. I argued back. I picked fights. I shut down instead of actually talking to you. I fucked up too, alright?” His chest rises hard, his voice rough around the edges. “I’m not standing here saying I was perfect—because I wasn’t. I was a shit boyfriend sometimes. I know that.”

The confession takes the air out of me, if only for a second—but he doesn’t stop. He steps closer, eyes burning.

“But don’t you dare act like it was all on me either,” he spits. “You knew exactly how to cut me open with your words. You knew how to twist the knife, and you did it every single time we fought. You want accountability? There it is. But you don’t get to stand there and pretend you were innocent.”

My throat tightens, anger and hurt tangling in my chest. “I never claimed I was innocent,” I shoot back, my voice cracking under the weight of it. “But you… you made me feel like I was too much just for wanting you to care. Just for wanting more than scraps of your time.”

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking as he exhales through his nose. Jungkook drags a hand down his face, pacing once behind the desk before snapping his gaze back to me. His voice drops lower, but it’s no less sharp.

“Like every other argument,” he mutters, frustration dripping from every syllable, “this is getting us nowhere.”

The words land heavy in the room, cutting through the fire in my chest like a cold blade. He isn’t yelling anymore, but the edge in his tone feels worse—final, damning.

He exhales hard, leaning on the desk with both hands as his eyes stay locked on me, dark and unreadable. “We go in circles, Y/n. Over and over. And no matter how much we scream at each other, nothing changes.”

The words sit heavy between us, louder than shouting could ever be. My lips press together, my chest still rising and falling too fast, but for once, I don’t have anything left to throw back at him. Silence curls around us, suffocating, and all I can do is let it settle.

Jungkook stares at me for another long beat, jaw tight, his chest heaving with the same anger he just accused me of. Then, suddenly, his phone buzzes on the desk. The sound makes me flinch.

He glances at the screen, and something in his face hardens. Without hesitation, he swipes to answer, his voice clipped when he speaks. “Hey, baby.”

The words are a gut punch, even though I knew they were coming. My arms fold across my chest, tighter than before, and I stare at the corner of the desk like it might ground me. I don’t mean to listen, but I can’t stop. His voice fills the office, his side of the conversation painting a picture I don’t want but can’t look away from.

There’s a faint, tinny sound on the other end—her voice, but too quiet to make out clearly. Still, the tone carries. Raw. Shaking. Crying.

Jungkook exhales sharply, his free hand dragging through his hair. “I know. I know, baby. I’ve been getting them too.” His voice softens just slightly, but there’s an edge of impatience, like he’s barely holding himself together. “Don’t cry, okay? Please don’t. It’s just people trying to get a rise out of us. You can’t let it eat you alive.”

He paces behind the desk, phone pressed to his ear, his back turned half toward me now. “Don't say that—listen, I’m handling it. I’ve already made calls this morning. We’re gonna figure out who posted it, and it’ll be gone. I promise you.”

Her muffled voice rises again, sharp, broken. Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut, lowering his tone. “Hey. Baby, listen to me. It’s gonna be okay. You don’t need to look at it. Block them, delete the messages—just… please, calm down. I’ll take care of it.”

His hand clenches into a fist at his side, knuckles white, and I can see it even from here.

I stay rooted in place, arms locked around myself, listening to him soothe her with the same voice that had just shredded me minutes ago.

Jungkook’s voice grows tighter with each second on the line, the edge no longer hidden. His jaw works hard as he paces, eyes flicking toward the floor like he can keep his temper there.

“Babe,” he says finally, sharper now, “we can have this conversation later. I’m not arguing with you right now.”

A pause. The muffled sound of her voice rises again, high and fractured. Then the line clicks dead.

Jungkook pulls the phone from his ear, staring at the dark screen for a second before rolling his eyes. He tosses it onto the desk with a loud clatter, the sound making me flinch. The silence that follows is thick, jagged with his frustration.

“Everything okay?” The words slip out before I can stop them, quiet but cutting through the weight of the room.

Jungkook keeps staring at his phone for a second too long before finally setting it face-down. The muscle in his jaw flexes, but when he answers me, his voice is steady.

“Yeah,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing. “It’s fine.”

I can see it’s not—anyone could—but I don’t press. We’ve both said enough for one morning, and right now I don’t have the energy to peel him open just to find more hurt underneath.

So I just nod. “Okay.”

He lets out a slow breath, rubs his palm against his thigh once, like he’s brushing off the last conversation. Then he sits up straighter, shifting gears.

“Alright,” he says, voice lowering back to something practical, almost business-like. “Here’s the plan. We’re going to Namjoon’s.”

I blink. “Namjoon?”

“Yeah.” He nods once. “He deals with tech stuff for work. Security, data recovery, all that. He’s gonna try to track where it came from and wipe any copies he can find.”

“Oh.” Relief and nerves twist together in my stomach. “That’s… good. That’s really good.”

“It’s a start.” He pushes back from the desk, grabbing his keys off the surface. “He’s not a miracle worker, but he knows more about this than either of us.”

“Right.”

He stands first, stretching his back a little like the weight of the last twenty-four hours finally settled between his shoulder blades. When I move to follow, the chair legs scrape softly against the floor—too loud in the quiet little office.

Jungkook glances over, eyes flicking to mine and away again just as fast.

“Come on,” he says, voice low but calmer now. “I’ll drive.”

There’s no grand offer in it—no softness, no edge. Just a simple decision. Still, it lands heavier than it should, like he’s offering more than a ride. Like he needs the control of driving, or maybe he doesn’t trust leaving me alone yet. I’m not sure which one stings more.

I nod, and we fall into step side by side down the hallway.

The studio feels different walking out than it did walking in—emptier somehow. Quiet, but not peaceful. Like even the walls heard everything that happened in there and aren’t sure what to do with it.

When he pushes open the front door, early sunlight spills in, warm and pale. He steps aside, letting me go first. It’s automatic, instinctive, but it brushes something in my chest anyway. Something familiar.

Outside, the morning has fully settled in—soft chatter from the café across the street, a delivery truck rumbling by, a jogger with headphones bouncing in rhythm. The world looks normal.

We don’t.

Jungkook unlocks the car. The beep feels too sharp in the quiet between us.

He opens his door but pauses, fingers curling over the edge of the roof, head dropping forward slightly like he’s bracing. Or thinking. Or maybe both.

He finally slides into the driver’s seat, and the car fills with the soft click of doors, the hum of the engine, the quiet between us stretching thin like a wire ready to snap.

I buckle my seat belt. He doesn’t move right away—just rests his hand on the wheel, staring forward like he’s convincing himself he knows where we’re going. Then he exhales, shifts into drive, and pulls out.

Silence at first. But not the cold kind.

The kind that buzzes.

I can feel his energy even without looking—tense shoulders, jaw set, fingers tapping once against the steering wheel before gripping it again. He drives like he’s concentrating too hard, like the road needs him more than I do.

The music he puts on is low and slow—bass sliding under skin, vocals warm and intimate. Of course he picked something like that without thinking. Or maybe he did think. Hard to tell with him.

My thigh sits maybe six inches from his. It feels like an inch.

Every bump in the road shifts us just enough to remind me how small this space is. How familiar it used to be. How much I used to lean into him while he drove, hand on his knee, his fingers pushing up my thigh at red lights like he couldn’t wait.

Don't think about that.

Too late.

He clears his throat. “You good?”

His voice is low, rough around the edges in a way that makes heat curl low in my stomach. I nod. “Just tired.”

He hums softly. “Yeah.”

He doesn't buy it. We both know it.

The car settles into a quieter kind of silence after that—one that isn’t heavy or strained, just… present. Nothing to fill, nothing to fix. I lean my head back against the seat and watch the world roll by through the window. Trees flickering past, morning light catching in the glass storefronts, people beginning their day like the world hasn’t shifted under my feet.

Jungkook doesn’t talk. He just drives, one hand loose on the wheel, the other drumming softly against his thigh in rhythm with the music. Every so often he hums along—low, effortless, the kind of unconscious singing he only does when he isn’t guarding anything. It’s quiet enough that I almost pretend I don’t hear it. But I do. And it does that stupid thing to my chest, the one where memory and comfort meet in the same breath.

I don’t say anything. I don’t need to. For once, silence feels safe.

Eventually the car turns down an unfamiliar street, pulling up to Namjoon’s place—a small brick house with way too many plants on the porch. And him, leaning against the railing, cigarette between his fingers, smoke curling into the cool morning air.

He spots us immediately. His shoulders stiffen, jaw working, like he’s been rehearsing what to say and none of the scripts are landing right.

Jungkook puts the car in park.

Namjoon takes one last drag, flicks ash into a potted fern, and exhales a thin stream of smoke. His eyes meet mine first. Not angry. Not yet, at least. But searching. A storm caught before it breaks.

I feel my pulse spike.

Jungkook kills the engine. Silence. Then he looks at me, steady.

“You ready?”

No.

Room for Trouble Part Four; Cracks in the Walls

Pairing: Roommate! Park Jimin x Reader

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: alcohol consumption, intoxicated decision-making, sexual content (makeout, heavy petting, fingering), references to sex used as revenge/jealousy, near-sex scene halted by consent concerns, emotionally charged conflict, physical struggle (pushing, hitting, restraint), verbal fighting, swearing, humiliation/embarrassment, voyeurism/overhearing sex through walls, mentions of smoking/cigarettes, emotionally manipulative dialogue, toxic dynamics, implied jealousy, friends witnessing intimate conflict

Summary: After a night of drunken tension and messy choices, Y/N’s connection with Taehyung escalates behind closed doors, only to leave her questioning her own motives. Jimin and Y/N’s volatile dynamic boils over into a physical confrontation, while Yoongi quietly observes more than he lets on. The fragile balance in the apartment is beginning to crack.

Part Four; Cracks in the Walls

The door clicks shut and for a second it’s quiet—just the muffled roar of laughter on the other side. Then Taehyung steps in, crowding me gently against the wall, his gaze flicking from my mouth to my eyes like he’s giving me a choice.

When I don’t pull away, his lips brush mine—soft, unhurried, tasting like beer and heat. My breath stutters, caught between the careful drag of his mouth and the way his fingers trace up my arm, feather-light. It’s slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second, waiting for me to fall into the rhythm with him.

And I do.

My hands curl into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer, and his kiss deepens—no longer soft, but hungry. His tongue slips past my lips, teasing, pulling a sound from me I didn’t know I’d make. His grip tightens at my waist, pinning me harder to the wall, his body flush with mine.

The shift happens quick, like fire catching dry wood. His teeth graze my lower lip; I answer with a nip of my own. He groans low, pressing me back harder, and soon we’re stumbling—tripping over discarded shoes and laughter—until the backs of my legs hit the bed.

We collapse onto it in a mess of hands and heat. His kiss is rough now, frantic, his fingers digging into my hip as mine tug desperately at his shirt. He tears it over his head without breaking the kiss, his chest warm and solid beneath my hands. I arch up into him, and he meets me with a grind of his hips that leaves me gasping.

It’s reckless, unrestrained—shirts tugged off, teeth clashing, my laugh dissolving into a moan as his mouth drags down my neck. My fingers fumble at his jeans, heart pounding like maybe, maybe I’ll actually do this—

“Fuck Jimin,” I laugh breathlessly, words tumbling out before I can stop them. “Fuck Jimin and his stupid rules.”

Everything halts.

Taehyung’s hand, which had been sliding under my waistband, stills. His head lifts slowly, eyes narrowing as the haze thins. He studies me, jaw tightening, the sharpness in his expression cutting through the drunken blur.

“Y/N,” he says carefully, his voice low but steady, “is that what this is about?”

I groan, fumbling clumsily at his waistband, fingers tugging at the button. “No,” I breathe out, my lips brushing along his jaw, desperate to keep him close. “It’s not about Jimin. Just—don’t stop.”

His breath shudders, his hands sliding down to grip my thighs, his weight pressing me deeper into the mattress. For a moment he kisses me again—rough, hot, teeth scraping against my lip—and it feels like he’s giving in, like I’ve pulled him back under with me.

But then he stills.

His mouth lingers against mine, unmoving, and I feel the shift—the way his body tenses, his grip loosens. His brow furrows, his breathing uneven.

“Shit,” he mutters against my lips, pulling back just enough that I can see the war in his expression. “I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” I cut in, frustration lacing my voice. My hands clutch at his bare sides, tugging him back down, but he resists, shaking his head.

“Y/N…” His voice is rough, regretful, and it makes my stomach twist. “You don’t want me right now. You want to get back at him.”

My jaw tightens, heat rising in my chest. “That’s not—” The protest dies in my throat when he pushes himself upright, dragging a hand through his hair, eyes darting away from mine like he can’t stand to look.

The distance between us hits harder than the words.

I push up onto my elbows, my chest heaving. “Unbelievable,” I snap, the alcohol making my voice sharp, bitter. “You start this and now you’re backing off?”

Taehyung sighs, his hand still braced against his forehead like he’s fighting something bigger than me. “Because if we keep going, it won’t be about us. It’ll just be about him.”

The words sink like stones, and the silence that follows is unbearable. My frustration simmers, my hands curling into fists against the sheets, but he’s already stepping back, already retreating toward the door.

The silence stretches too long, my pulse hammering in my ears. I push up onto my knees, reaching for him before I can stop myself. “Taehyung,” I whisper, raw and unsteady. “Please… just stay.”

He freezes with his hand on the doorknob, his shoulders tight. Slowly, he turns back enough for me to see his face.

The look he gives me isn’t soft. It isn’t tempted. It’s sharp—half disbelief, half disappointment. Like he can’t decide if I’m joking or if I’ve actually lost my mind.

“Are you serious?” His voice is low, flat, carrying more weight than a shout ever could.

My throat works, but no words come out.

For a beat, his gaze lingers—searching, maybe—but then he exhales hard through his nose and shakes his head. Without another word, he twists the knob and steps out, the door clicking shut behind him.

I’m left in the quiet, the sheets tangled around my waist, the taste of him still on my lips and the rejection burning hotter than the alcohol in my veins.

I yank a sweatshirt over my bare chest, sleeves twisted, collar tugging at my chin. It doesn’t matter—it covers enough. I storm out of my room, past the laughter and bottles, straight for the front door.

“Where are you going?” Jimin’s voice snaps from behind me.

“Out.” My hand yanks at the handle.

“You’re drunk.” He’s closer now, sharp, accusing.

“And?” I spit, shoving the door open.

The night air slaps me in the face. Taehyung sits on the steps, cigarette glowing between his fingers, but I don’t slow down. His eyes flick up, startled.

The night air is sharp in my lungs as I stomp down the steps, hair sticking to my face, the sweatshirt hanging loose over my bare chest. I don’t care where I’m going—just that it’s far from here.

“Y/N!” Jimin’s voice cuts after me, closer, angrier.

I ignore him. My feet hit the street when his hand clamps around my wrist and yanks me back.

“Where the hell are you going like this?”

I spin, ripping at his grip. “Away from you.”

“You can’t just run off drunk in the middle of the night—”

“Watch me,” I snap, shoving at his chest. He doesn’t budge.

His jaw tightens. “You’re out of your mind.”

The words set me off. My fist slams against him, once, then again when he tries to grab me. “Let me go!”

“Y/N—stop!” he growls, catching my hand mid-swing.

“No!” My knee jerks upward, my heel catching his shin. He curses, staggering, but refuses to release me.

I fight harder, twisting, kicking, the world spinning with me. And then suddenly we’re both crashing to the pavement, the breath knocked from my lungs in a harsh gasp.

I thrash under him, shoving, writhing, but he’s heavier, stronger, and his frustration is boiling over.

“Enough!” His voice rips out, rough and furious. He slams my wrists down against the concrete, pinning me. His chest heaves over mine, his face flushed and twisted with anger.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls, breath hot against my cheek.

For a moment, neither of us moves. His weight pins me down, his breath ragged and hot above mine, the night air sharp against the sweat cooling on my skin. My chest heaves, my wrists trapped beneath his grip, and I glare up at him through the blur of tears stinging my eyes.

I want to scream. To keep fighting. To claw and kick until he finally lets go. But instead, the fight just… drains out of me. My throat burns, and before I can stop it, the tears spill over, slipping hot down my cheeks. I turn my face away from him, unable to bear the way he’s looking at me.

His chest rises and falls, hard and uneven, and for a long moment he says nothing. Just breathes. Just holds me there.

Finally, his voice cuts through the silence, low and rough, almost breaking on the edges.

“We can’t keep doing this.”

“Then stop starting it,” I shoot back, voice sharp but trembling underneath.

Jimin groans, low and frustrated. He finally releases my wrists, the weight of his grip vanishing all at once. He shifts back just slightly, sitting up straighter, but he doesn’t move off me. His thighs still bracket my hips, his hands planting firmly on them as he exhales hard through his nose.

For a second, he just stares down at me, the muscles in his jaw ticking like he’s weighing something. Then he lets out a short scoff, shaking his head.

“You know what, Y/N?” His voice is low, sharp, but threaded with something almost amused. “I was going to propose a truce…” His lips twist into a crooked, infuriating grin. “…but honestly? Pissing you off is too much fun.”

A laugh bubbles out of me, humorless and sharp. “Glad I can be your entertainment, Jimin. God forbid you grow up and act like a human being.”

For a long beat, neither of us speaks. The street is quiet except for our ragged breathing, our eyes locked in a stare that feels heavier than any argument we’ve ever had. His smirk has softened, mine long gone, and there’s something hanging there—thick, unspoken, suffocating.

“Just kiss already!” Jin’s voice explodes from the stairs.

Both our heads snap toward the sound. There they are—Jin at the front, Taehyung grinning like a devil, Hoseok doubled over with laughter, Jungkook wide-eyed with glee, Namjoon looking like he’s seen enough.

Heat scorches my face, crawling all the way down my neck.

Jimin scoffs, dragging a hand through his hair before climbing off me. He pushes himself to his feet and extends a hand down toward me, his expression unreadable. “Come on.”

I shoot him a glare and ignore it, shoving myself up on my own. Dust and grit cling to my palms and sweatshirt, and I brush them off in short, angry swipes. Without another word, I turn on my heel and head for the apartment, my pulse still hammering.

Behind me, I hear him fall into step, his footsteps steady and unhurried, like he’s not at all bothered by the circus his friends just witnessed.

The group’s laughter trails after them as they file back into the apartment, some tossing smirks and muttered comments like they can’t wait to retell the scene later. Jimin lingers at the door a second longer, his hand still on the frame.

I catch his eyes without meaning to. The air between us sharpens instantly—his stare unreadable, mine still burning with defiance. Neither of us says a word, but the silence stretches taut, heavy enough that I feel it in my chest.

Then he scoffs under his breath, shakes his head, and finally steps inside, the door shutting behind him.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and drop down onto the step beside Taehyung. He’s already got a cigarette lit, smoke curling lazy into the night.

“Got another one?” I mutter, my voice low, still stung from embarrassment.

His brows lift, but he digs into his pocket without a word and slips one free. He lights it for me, cupping the flame between us, and I take a deep drag, the smoke burning down my throat before seeping out into the cool night. The sharpness steadies me.

For a moment, we sit in silence—just the occasional crackle of the cigarette, the faint thump of music from inside, and the cool air heavy between us.

Then Taehyung exhales, his lips twitching. “You know,” he says lightly, “for two people who claim to hate each other, you and Jimin sure fight like foreplay.”

I choke on the smoke, coughing, eyes narrowing at him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

He smirks, leaning back on his elbows against the step. “Come on. The staring, the yelling, the way he was straddling you like he forgot we were all watching. It’s practically a sex scene.”

My face burns hotter than the cigarette. “You’re disgusting.”

“Maybe,” he says easily, “but I’m not wrong.”

I glare at him, puffing another drag just to keep my hands busy. “You’re seriously the most irritating person I’ve ever met.”

Taehyung shrugs, unbothered. “Second most. Jimin still has me beat, huh?”

The unexpected quip cracks my anger, and a laugh bursts out before I can stop it—sharp, sudden, bubbling past the mess of my frustration. I shake my head, smoke curling from my lips.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, still smiling despite myself.

The sunlight cuts through the blinds, warm streaks dragging across my face. I groan and roll over, the ache of last night’s drinks still dull in my head. The sheets are twisted around my legs, my sweatshirt pushed up from where I crashed without bothering to change.

“Morning,” a low voice hums near my ear.

My eyes flutter open just in time to feel Taehyung press a soft kiss against my shoulder. Before I can react, another brushes against my collarbone. Then another at the hollow of my throat. His lips trace a path lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world, and my skin prickles awake under his mouth.

“Taehyung—” I mumble, my voice still thick with sleep.

“Shh,” he says with a grin, peppering more kisses down my arm, across the curve of my stomach, then back up as if he’s painting me in pieces. By the time he makes his way to my jaw, my breathing has turned uneven, my eyes shutting on instinct.

Finally, his lips find mine. The kiss starts feather-light, teasing, but the longer it lingers, the more it deepens. My hands lift on their own, tangling behind his neck, pulling him closer. His weight sinks onto the mattress as his mouth works against mine, slower, hungrier, the air charged with something heavier than his earlier playfulness.

When I finally break for breath, his lips graze the corner of my mouth, and he whispers against my skin, low and deliberate:

“Come over to my place tonight.” My body goes still, heat rising at the way his words drip against my ear. He leans back just enough to meet my eyes, a smirk tugging at his mouth. “Jimin doesn’t have to know.”

His mouth trails lower, biting and sucking at my neck until my head tips back into the pillow with a quiet moan. The sting, the heat—it makes me laugh softly, half from nerves, half from the way my body is already giving in.

“Please. Jimin doesn’t even—”

Before I can finish, Taehyung lifts his head, pressing a finger to my lips. His eyes are dark, steady, his voice almost stern. “Don’t say his name right now.”

Something inside me flips at the way he says it—firm, certain. My lips curl against his finger, and I whisper back, playful but daring, “Make me.”

Taehyung just rolls his eyes like I’ve given him the easiest challenge in the world, his smirk tilting lazy and sure. Slowly, his hand slides down from my lips, dragging over my throat, my chest, until it hovers at the waistband of my shorts.

My breath hitches, nerves prickling sharp under my skin. The door is still open, the morning light spilling in from the hall. My voice comes out quick, almost frantic. “Taehyung, the door—”

He doesn’t stop. His thumb dips just under the fabric, teasing, and his eyes lift to mine with that low, unbothered look. His voice is smooth, quiet but firm.

“Then be quiet.”

The words land hot in my stomach, sharper than the touch of his hand, the dare clear in every syllable.

Taehyung’s hand slips lower, the pads of his fingers pressing exactly where I’m most sensitive, slow and deliberate at first. My breath stutters, hips twitching under his touch.

“But Jimin—” The name slips out before I can stop it, raw and unfiltered.

His jaw tightens instantly, his fingers rubbing harder, faster, the annoyance sparking sharp in his eyes. He leans closer, gaze locked on mine like it’s a warning. “What was that?”

The words tear through me. My lips part, a helpless moan spilling out, his name tumbling from me softer, weaker. “Taehyung—”

My head falls back into the pillow, eyes squeezing shut, body arching into his hand.

But Taehyung doesn’t let me hide. His free hand catches my chin, thumb pressing at my jaw until I meet his eyes again. His voice dips, low and commanding, each word slow and sharp.

“Ah, ah. Look at me.”

His fingers slip inside me suddenly, the stretch forcing a sharp cry from my throat before I can swallow it back. My hips jerk, chasing the movement, but Taehyung’s hand on my jaw holds me steady, forcing me to meet his eyes.

Another moan threatens, rough and desperate, and his expression hardens. He leans closer, his breath ghosting over my lips. “Shh. You want him to hear you? He’s right through that wall.”

The reminder spikes heat and panic together, and I bite my lip so hard it stings. But his fingers curl inside me, pressing against that spot that makes my whole body jolt, and the sound still slips free—small, broken, muffled against the back of my hand.

Taehyung tuts, shaking his head like I’ve disappointed him. “Didn’t I tell you to be quiet?” His thumb flicks against my clit, deliberate, punishing.

My eyes flutter, chest rising in frantic gasps, but his gaze stays locked on mine, unrelenting. His voice drops lower, sharp enough to cut. “Say my name. Not his.”

My lips tremble, the word spilling out helpless, breathy. “Taehyung…”

Taehyung’s smirk sharpens as soon as my voice cracks on his name. His fingers drive harder, faster, the sudden pace stealing my breath. The wet sound of him working me open fills the air, obscene and dangerous.

My back arches off the mattress, a gasp tearing out before I can choke it down. His hand leaves my jaw only to slap over my mouth, pinning me quiet. His eyes burn into mine, furious and gleaming.

“I said quiet,” he growls, his pace merciless now, his fingers curling deep and sharp with every thrust.

The pressure builds fast, dizzying, my thighs trembling as I claw at his arm, not to stop him but to anchor myself. He presses harder, his thumb rolling over my clit, the dual assault dragging sounds from me I can’t control.

Through the thin wall, the thought of Jimin lingers—too close, too real. Taehyung leans down, his lips grazing my ear, voice low and taunting.

“Do you think he can hear you? Hm?” His thrusts quicken, sharper, driving my body against the mattress.

My back arches off the mattress, a gasp tearing out before I can choke it down. His hand leaves my jaw only to slap over my mouth, pinning me quiet. His eyes burn into mine, furious and gleaming.

“I said quiet,” he growls, his pace merciless now, his fingers curling deep and sharp with every thrust.

The pressure builds fast, dizzying, my thighs trembling as I claw at his arm, not to stop him but to anchor myself. He presses harder, his thumb rolling over my clit, the dual assault dragging sounds from me I can’t control.

Through the thin wall, the thought of Jimin lingers—too close, too real. Taehyung leans down, his lips grazing my ear, voice low and taunting.

“Do you think he can hear you? Hm?” His thrusts quicken, sharper, driving my body against the mattress.

My back arches off the mattress, a gasp tearing out before I can choke it down. His hand leaves my jaw only to slap over my mouth, pinning me quiet. His eyes burn into mine, furious and gleaming.

“I said quiet,” he growls, his pace merciless now, his fingers curling deep and sharp with every thrust.

The pressure builds fast, dizzying, my thighs trembling as I claw at his arm, not to stop him but to anchor myself. He presses harder, his thumb rolling over my clit, the dual assault dragging sounds from me I can’t control.

Through the thin wall, the thought of Jimin lingers—too close, too real. Taehyung leans down, his lips grazing my ear, voice low and taunting.

“Do you think he can hear you? Hm?” His thrusts quicken, sharper, driving my body against the mattress.

My moans spill out hot against Taehyung’s palm, muffled but still loud enough that the air vibrates with them. My eyes roll back, body jerking under the relentless rhythm of his hand as he works me over. Every curl of his fingers, every tight roll of his thumb has me unraveling piece by piece, no control left to cling to.

But in the haze, Jimin slips in.

The thought of him—so close, just through the wall. The way his voice sounded when he yelled earlier, sharp and furious. The way he’d look if he walked in right now, catching me spread open beneath his best friend, moaning like it was the only thing I knew how to do.

The image sears through me, hot and humiliating, and it only makes my thighs clamp tighter around Taehyung’s arm. My nails dig into his wrist, muffled cries breaking ragged against his palm as if I’m begging for something I don’t even dare name.

Taehyung watches me with that sharp, knowing smirk, like he can see every thought flashing behind my eyes. His hand never falters, never slows—if anything, his pace turns rougher, more punishing, like he’s daring me to break completely while Jimin is right there, oblivious.

“Yeah,” Taehyung murmurs, voice low, his breath brushing hot against my temple. “That’s it. Let him hear what he’s missing.”

The words shatter what little composure I had left. My back bows, my vision blurs, and Jimin’s face—angry, conflicted, impossibly close—burns behind my eyelids as Taehyung drags me mercilessly toward the edge.

Jimin.

It’s his name that hangs on the tip of my tongue, his face I see when my eyes squeeze shut. The way his glare sears into me, the rough command in his voice when he pinned me down earlier—it floods me now, hotter than Taehyung’s touch, sharper than the fire building low in my belly.

My muffled cries break frantic against Taehyung’s palm, each curl of his fingers dragging me higher, harder, until I can’t breathe around it. My thighs quake, hips jerking helplessly as if chasing something I can’t stop.

And then it hits.

White-hot, rolling through me in waves that crash and break until I’m nothing but sound and shiver, my back arching off the mattress as I come undone. A strangled moan tears out against his hand, Jimin’s name echoing in my head so loud it feels like I’ve spoken it, like it’s stamped all over the air between us.

Taehyung doesn’t stop. He works me through it, relentless, his gaze burning into mine until the pleasure rips me apart and leaves me trembling, tears stinging the corners of my eyes.

All the while, I can’t stop seeing Jimin.

Not Taehyung’s smirk, not the hand silencing me, not the fingers inside me—just Jimin, furious and impossibly close, as if he knows.

The aftershocks ripple through me, my body still twitching as he finally slows his pace, drawing his fingers out of me with a wet sound that makes my stomach flip. I’m left gasping, chest heaving, the sheets twisted tight in my fists.

Taehyung leans back just enough to look me over, his lips curling into a slow, wicked grin. “Good girl,” he murmurs, the words smooth and heavy like honey poured over raw skin.

Before I can even catch my breath, he lifts his hand, his fingers glistening in the morning light. My eyes widen, shame and heat colliding all at once, but he doesn’t hesitate. He slides them past his lips, tongue curling as he sucks them clean—deliberate, unhurried, eyes locked on me the whole time.

The sight makes my pulse stutter. Heat flashes across my face, my body still too raw, too sensitive. A nervous laugh slips out of me, high and shaky, as I yank the blanket up and over my chest like flimsy armor. “Oh my god—” I groan, half hiding behind the covers, burying my face into the pillow.

Taehyung chuckles, low and satisfied, the sound vibrating in the space between us. He drags his teeth over his knuckle before pulling his fingers free, still watching me squirm with that smug glint in his eyes.

I can’t look at him—not without my whole body remembering what he just did. I laugh again, weaker this time, pressing my burning face deeper into the pillow, desperate to disappear.

Taehyung wipes his hand on the sheets, still smirking like he’s got every secret in the world. He tilts his head, watching me hide in the pillow, and then says it—light, casual, but laced with promise.

“So… I’ll see you tonight?”

The words hang there, daring, pulling me back out of my cocoon. Slowly, I peel the blanket away from my face, heat still clinging to my cheeks, and meet his gaze. His grin only widens at the sight of me all mussed and flustered.

I can’t help it—the corner of my mouth curves, a smile breaking through despite everything. “Maybe,” I say, the word airy, playful, but carrying more weight than I mean it to.

Taehyung’s grin stretches wider, his voice pitching up in a mocking echo. “Maaaybe,” he drawls, dragging it out until I roll my eyes and shove lightly at his shoulder. He laughs, tipping his head back, satisfied with himself.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter into the pillow, but I can’t stop the smile tugging at my lips.

He swings his legs off the bed, stretching with a groan. “As much as I’d love to stick around and annoy you all morning, I actually do have work.” He shoots me a look over his shoulder, that lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “You’ll miss me.”

“Don’t count on it,” I fire back, but my voice is too light, too soft to bite the way I want it to.

Taehyung shakes his head like he’s won anyway, heading for the door. “See you tonight, maaaybe,” he sing-songs one last time, smirking as he disappears down the hall.

The door clicks shut behind him, and I sink back into the pillows, still smiling despite myself.

The apartment feels heavier without Taehyung’s voice filling it, the silence pressing in against my ears. I toss the blanket off and pad barefoot down the hall, the sweatshirt still hanging loose on me.

I pause outside Jimin’s door, pulse flickering fast. Part of me knows I should just leave it—crawl back into bed, pretend this morning never happened. But curiosity wins, like it always does with him.

The door creaks softly as I ease it open, just enough to peer inside.

He’s sprawled on his stomach, the sheets tangled low around his waist. His hair is a mess across the pillow, soft strands sticking up like he’d fought with sleep all night. His face is turned slightly toward the door, lips parted just enough to show his breath coming steady, even.

For a moment, I just stand there, watching. My chest tightens unexpectedly, something warm and dangerous curling under my ribs. Like this—quiet, unguarded—he doesn’t look anything like the storm he always is when he’s awake.

My fingers grip the doorframe, reluctant to let go.

I linger a beat longer, eyes tracing the rise and fall of Jimin’s back, before I finally pull the door shut with a soft click. My chest feels too tight, too full, as I pad toward the kitchen. Maybe coffee will burn the edge off.

But when I turn the corner, I stop dead.

Yoongi’s already there, leaning lazy against the counter, one hand steadying the mug he’s filling from the coffee pot. His hair is mussed, eyes half-lidded in that way that makes him look both tired and sharp at the same time.

The smell of coffee should be grounding, but instead my stomach flips, heat rushing to my face. Because if he’s up, if he’s been up…

He probably heard everything.

As if reading my mind, Yoongi turns his head. His eyes meet mine, and for one brutal second, silence hangs heavy between us. Then his brows lift, slow and deliberate, the corner of his mouth tugging.

“It’s not my business,” he says simply, voice rough with sleep but carrying enough weight to make my pulse stutter.

My throat feels tight, the words slipping out before I can think better of it. “Did you?”

Yoongi doesn’t even hesitate. He takes a sip from his mug, eyes still on me, and nods once. “Yep.”

The heat in my face spikes, crawling down my neck. I press my lips together, nodding back like that somehow evens the score. A sharp sigh leaves me as I edge past him, reaching for a clean mug just to have something to do with my hands.

The silence is heavier now, thick with what’s been said—and what hasn’t. The scrape of ceramic against the counter fills the air, but it doesn’t drown out the echo of Taehyung’s name in my head, or the way Yoongi’s knowing stare lingers even when he looks away.

The kitchen is quiet but thick, the only sounds the drip of the coffee maker and Yoongi’s steady sipping. I wrap my hands around my mug like it might shield me from his silence, from the weight of what he knows.

Footsteps drag down the hall, slow and heavy, and then Jimin appears in the doorway. His hair is a messy halo, sticking out at odd angles, his eyes still half-lidded as he rubs at them with the heel of his hand. He yawns, stretching one arm up before letting it fall to his side, then heads straight for the cabinet above the sink.

Neither of us moves. Neither of us says a word.

Jimin grabs the bottle of Advil, shaking a few into his palm before glancing back over his shoulder. His brows knit when he catches us—Yoongi leaned lazy against the counter, me frozen mid-sip. Both of us staring.

He squints. “What?” His voice is rough with sleep, suspicious. “What are you two looking at?”

I’m the first to react, shaking my head quickly, too quickly. “Nothing.”

Yoongi mirrors me, completely unfazed, raising his mug in a shrug. “Wasn’t looking.”

Jimin narrows his eyes for a beat longer, then huffs, clearly too tired to press. He swallows the pills dry, muttering something under his breath before dragging a hand through his hair again.

Yoongi takes a slow sip from his mug, eyes cutting to me, then back to Jimin. “This apartment sure carries sound,” he says casually, voice smooth, like he’s talking about the weather.

My stomach lurches. I freeze mid-sip, heat prickling across my cheeks.

Jimin furrows his brow, confused. “Sound?” He yawns, raking a hand through his hair. “Yeah, I guess. Thin walls.”

Yoongi hums low in his throat, gaze lingering on me for a beat too long. “Mm. Real thin.”

Jimin's eyes land on me.

“What?” He mutters, voice rough from sleep. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I stiffen, forcing a shrug, wrapping both hands tighter around my coffee mug. “I’m not.”

“Yeah, you are.” His tone is flat, but there’s a flicker of something behind his gaze—suspicion, curiosity, maybe both.

Yoongi hides a smirk behind the rim of his mug, clearly entertained.

“I’m literally just drinking my coffee,” I say quickly, ducking my head as if the steam is suddenly fascinating.

Jimin grabs a glass from the cabinet, fills it from the sink, and finally glances at me again. His brow furrows.

“You’re acting weird,” he says, his voice rough but sharper now. “What’d I miss?”

My fingers tighten around the coffee mug, the heat biting at my palms. “Nothing.”

He tilts his head, watching me like he’s trying to solve something, his eyes narrowing just slightly. “Feels like something.”

Yoongi takes a long sip of his coffee, hiding his mouth against the mug, but I catch the twitch at the corner of his lips.

“It’s not,” I bite back quickly, too quickly, forcing myself to look anywhere but at Jimin.

The silence hangs, heavy enough that I can feel Jimin’s gaze still on me, like he’s seconds from asking another question. Then he groans, dragging his hand through his hair again.

“Whatever,” he mutters, chugging his glass of water. “I’m too tired for your mood swings.”

He places the glass down and turns away, muttering under his breath as he trudges back toward his room. The door clicks shut behind him, leaving the kitchen in a tense hush broken only by the faint hum of the coffee pot.

I finally exhale, shoulders slumping as I stir cream into my mug. A bitter laugh slips out. “Not your business, huh?”

Yoongi doesn’t even flinch. He just lifts his cup, takes a slow sip, and shrugs like the weight of the world couldn’t bother him.

“Seemed like it might be his business,” he says evenly, eyes cutting toward Jimin’s door before flicking back to me.

He doesn’t wait for me to reply. Just lifts his mug and pads back into the living room, lowering himself onto the couch beside a still-sleeping Jungkook. The steam from his coffee curls upward, disappearing into the haze of morning light spilling through the blinds.

Room for Trouble Part Three; The Silent War

Pairing: Roommate! Park Jimin x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: alcohol use, drinking game, intoxication, implied sex (heard through walls), sexual sounds, public/intense kissing, smoking (cigarettes), boundary violations (spare key access), harassment/pressuring flirtation, jealousy, humiliation in front of others, arguments/yelling, verbal insults, toxic/volatile dynamics, passive-aggressive behavior, manipulation/peer pressure, physical restraint (wrist grab), possessive/protective behavior, messy/unsanitary living space, profanity

Summary: After two weeks of a petty cold war, tensions spike: Taehyung flirts, Jimin bristles, a forced pantry dare crackles with heat, and Y/N pointedly leads Taehyung to her room, daring Jimin to look away.

Part Three; The Silent War

Two weeks.

That’s how long it’s been since I moved in, since I scribbled out my neat little list of “house rules” and slid it across the table like it might actually mean something. Two weeks of watching Jimin skim it, smirk, and toss it aside like a joke.

And nothing’s changed.

The sink is still full of dirty dishes every morning, the couch still covered in jackets and shoes and God-knows-what by night. People are in and out constantly, like the apartment is a revolving door—loud, laughing, drunk, sprawled across furniture I’m too tired to fight over.

It’s become clear Jimin doesn’t give a fuck about my rules. Or me.

Two weeks in, and already this place feels less like home and more like a warzone I’m quietly losing.

So, I stopped fighting. Stopped nagging. Stopped trying.

Now it’s silence. A cold war.

I don’t answer when he greets me in the mornings, don’t look up when he lingers by the counter, don’t even acknowledge when he tries to bait me with his lazy grin. And he knows it gets to me. He leaves his laundry folded but untouched on the coffee table until I can’t stand it. He blasts his music loud enough to seep under my door. He waits until I’ve cleaned the kitchen before tossing his dishes in the sink like a final insult.

I sip my coffee at the kitchen counter, the bitter taste grounding me against the chaos bleeding in from the living room. Jungkook—one of his endless parade of friends—snores on the couch, an arm hanging over the side. Another voice hums from behind Jimin’s door, feminine and airy, punctuated by Jimin’s laugh.

The sound makes my stomach tighten. I stare into my mug, watching the steam curl up and vanish, wishing I could do the same. With a sigh, I set the cup down on the counter a little too hard, the ceramic clinking against the surface. Enough. If I sit out here any longer, I’ll crawl out of my skin. I grab the waiting basket of laundry from beside the couch and clutch it like a shield.

I retreat to my room, the laundry basket thudding onto the floor. Their voices start almost immediately—her laugh, high and airy, his low rumble of amusement. Then the creak of the bedframe, a muffled gasp, Jimin’s voice threading through it.

I don’t bother to block it out. I just keep folding clothes, jaw tight, letting the sounds blur into background noise. If I don’t give it attention, maybe it won’t matter.

Movement in the doorway makes me look up.

Taehyung strolls in like he owns the place, one hand buried in his pocket, the other spinning his keys around his finger.

I blink, setting a shirt down. “How did you even get into the apartment?”

He grins, easy and unbothered. “Jimin gave me a key a while back when I was staying here. Guess he forgot to take it back.”

Of course he did. I roll my eyes and turn back to my clothes. “Figures.”

“Don’t look at me like that,” Taehyung says, stepping further in, leaning against my dresser like it’s his. His gaze slides over me, slow, deliberate. “I’m not here to bug you.” His smirk widens. “Unless you want me to.”

I grab another shirt, smoothing it out like it needs my full focus. “Why are you here, Taehyung?”

“Can’t a guy check in on his favorite roommate?” His voice dips, playful, a touch too close. “Especially one who makes folding laundry look hot?”

A laugh slips out before I can stop it, quick and shaky. “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I already started,” he murmurs, dark eyes glinting with mischief. “You just don’t want to admit you like it.”

Heat creeps up my neck, and I grip the shirt tighter, Jae’s warning and Jimin’s rule clanging in my head. The muffled moans through the wall don’t help.

“I’m not playing this game,” I manage, though my voice isn’t as steady as I want.

Taehyung leans in just slightly, tilting his head, his smile slow and knowing. “Then why does it feel like you’re dying to?”

Before I can answer, another soft moan slips through the wall—hers, breathy and shameless. My face heats instantly, and Taehyung’s eyes flick toward the sound, then back to me, sharp with mischief.

He tips his chin at the wall separating my room from Jimin’s, his voice dropping lower. “That could be us, you know.”

The words slam into me, bold and unashamed. My breath catches, my pulse stuttering as my hands fumble over the shirt I’m holding. I hug it tighter against my chest, as if fabric can shield me from how hot my face feels.

“You’re—” My voice breaks, and I swallow hard, glaring at him to cover the slip. “You’re impossible.”

I turn away, dumping the shirt into the basket just to give my hands something to do, but it doesn’t stop the heat crawling up my neck—or the smug little hum Taehyung lets out behind me.

He watches me for a beat longer, clearly savoring the effect he’s had, then straightens. “I’ll let you get back to… laundry.” His grin is wicked. “Wouldn’t want to be distracting.”

Before I can think of a comeback, he’s already strolling out of my room. A second later, his knuckles rap hard against Jimin’s door.

“Yo, Jimin!” Taehyung calls, voice deliberately loud. “I need the charger you stole from my car last week!”

There’s a pause, then Jimin’s muffled voice snaps back, rough and breathless. “I’m busy.”

Taehyung smirks at the door, unfazed. “And I’m in a rush!” he shoots back, rapping his knuckles again for good measure.

From the other side, there’s a thump—like something hitting the wall—followed by Jimin’s growl of pure frustration. “Taehyung, I swear to God—”

The door swings open a beat later, Jimin leaning against the frame, hair mussed and eyes half-lidded. He holds the charger out lazily, like it costs him nothing.

“Here. You could’ve waited five minutes, you know,” he mutters, his voice rough but not sharp.

Taehyung smirks, taking it without hesitation. “Yeah, but where’s the fun in that?” He slips the cord into his pocket, then tilts his head down the hall toward my room.

“Bye, princess,” he calls, smooth and deliberate.

The word hangs in the air, dripping with smugness. I freeze mid-fold, the shirt limp in my hands, my pulse thudding against my ribs.

For a beat, there’s nothing—just silence in the hall. Then Jimin groans, low and frustrated, the sound rough enough to carry through my open door.

“No,” he mutters, his voice edged but tired. “Don’t even start that.”

Taehyung chuckles under his breath, unbothered, and his footsteps retreat toward the door, light and careless. The latch clicks shut behind him, leaving only the faint sound of Jimin shifting his weight in the hall.

The silence lingers for a beat after Taehyung leaves, stretched so thin I can hear my own pulse in my ears. Then Jimin’s door shuts again with a sharp click.

For a moment, there’s nothing. Then bass thumps low through the wall, a playlist kicking on, heavy enough to blur the edges of whatever’s happening inside.

By the time the music finally cuts off, the apartment feels gutted, emptied of sound. The girl slips out with a breathy laugh, the door clicking shut behind her. Even Jungkook—who had been draped across the couch like he lived there—finally stirs, rubbing his face and muttering something before heading out too.

Hours later, I settle on the couch with my journal spread open across my knees, pen scratching furiously as if words alone can anchor me. But my focus drifts, sliding away from the page toward the kitchen.

Jimin moves through the small space like he owns it—like he owns the air, the silence, the whole rhythm of the night. He tears open a ramen packet with his teeth, shaking noodles into a pot, his hum low and absentminded. The sleeves of his shirt hang loose, sliding up when he lifts the pot to the stove, baring the easy flex of his biceps.

I shouldn’t notice. I tell myself not to. But my eyes keep finding him anyway. The messy tumble of his hair into his face, damp still from a too-quick shower. The slope of his shoulders when he leans against the counter, scrolling on his phone with one hand, stirring the pot with the other. The casual strength in him, always just… there, even when he’s doing something as mundane as cooking noodles.

I grip my pen tighter, forcing my gaze back to the journal. It doesn’t work. The words blur. What I want to write, what I want to admit, refuses to be inked down.

Because the truth is, I’m tired of this—this cold war, this push and pull of irritation and silence. I don’t want to keep knowing Jimin as just the smug, impossible roommate who ignores my rules and fills the apartment with strangers.

I want to know what it feels like when his laugh isn’t a weapon. When his voice isn’t sharp. When his attention isn’t something I pretend not to want.

I want to experience him in a way that isn’t reactive—something softer, something real. Something I know I shouldn’t crave but do anyway.

The thought lingers like heat under my skin, stronger than the steam curling up from his ramen pot, harder to ignore than the scratch of my pen against paper.

My pen stills on the page when my phone buzzes across the coffee table. I sigh, setting the journal aside to glance at the screen. Jae.

I swipe to answer, leaning back into the cushions. “Hey.”

“Y/N!” Her voice is bright, cutting through the quiet like sunlight. “Finally. I’ve been meaning to check in—how’s it going with Jimin? You two surviving?”

My gaze flicks to the kitchen. Jimin is leaning against the counter, phone abandoned now, chopsticks tapping idly against the rim of the pot as he pretends not to listen. His head tilts just slightly, like he’s straining to catch every word.

A petty little spark lights in my chest. I lift my voice just enough to carry. “Oh, you know. He’s… messy, loud, inconsiderate. Exactly how you described him.”

From the corner of my eye, I catch it—the twitch of his jaw, the way his shoulders stiffen.

“Messy?” Jae laughs, clearly entertained. “He’s always been like that, but inconsiderate? Really?”

I hum, flipping a page in my journal with exaggerated care. “Let’s just say, he’s not exactly roommate-of-the-year material. I think your definition of ‘cool’ and mine are a little different.”

The chopsticks clatter into the sink, the sound sharp and final. A beat later, Jimin’s voice slices across the apartment.

“You’re not much better,” he snaps, his tone sharp enough to cut glass.

My head jerks up, the phone pressed tight to my ear. Jae goes quiet on the other end, listening.

Jimin pushes off the counter, his eyes locked on me now, dark and unflinching. “You act like you’re perfect, but you’re uptight as hell. Controlling. You leave your shit all over the living room when it suits you, then complain when anyone else does the same. And don’t get me started on your passive-aggressive little notes.”

The words slam into me, hot and sharp. My throat tightens, but the comeback bursts out before I can stop it.

“At least I don’t blow up when someone tells the truth!” I shoot back, my voice cracking with anger.

The silence that follows is heavy, crackling with something neither of us wants to name. Jae’s voice cuts faintly through the speaker—“Uh, maybe I should—”—but I don’t give her the chance to finish. My thumb slams against the screen, ending the call with a sharp beep.

The phone drops onto the couch beside me, forgotten, as I rise to my feet. “You think I’m controlling? Maybe I wouldn’t have to be if you acted like a normal human being and not a tornado tearing through this place every damn day.”

Jimin scoffs, the sound bitter, but his eyes are blazing. “Oh, please. You don’t hate the mess—you hate me. You’ve hated me since the second you walked through that door, like you were just waiting to be disappointed.”

My chest heaves, heat burning up my face. “Maybe I was!” I snap, my voice rising over the quiet of the apartment as I step closer to Jimin. “Because Jae promised me a roommate, not some selfish asshole who treats this place like a landfill.”

The words hang there, heavy as stone, and for a beat neither of us breathes.

Jimin’s chest rises and falls, his glare locked on mine, but something shifts. The anger is still there—bright, electric—but underneath it, something else thrums. His jaw clenches, his tongue swipes across his bottom lip like he’s holding back words he doesn’t want to say.

The space between us feels charged, too small, like the air itself is forcing us closer. My pulse hammers at the sudden silence, my body tense but… not just with fury.

Jimin steps forward once, just enough that I catch the faint scent of soap on his skin, the lingering trace of ramen broth, the warmth radiating off him. My breath catches, but I don’t move back. I can’t.

His eyes drop—quick, almost imperceptible—then flick back to mine, dark and unreadable.

Jimin takes another step forward, deliberate, slow enough to feel like a dare. His voice drops low, rough, each word searing hot.

“You act like you hate me, Y/N, but really you just hate that you can’t stop paying attention to me.”

The heat spikes in my chest, and my hand shoots up, ready to shove him back— but he’s faster.

His fingers close around my wrists before I can land the push, his grip firm, pulling me toward him instead of away. Suddenly, the air between us is gone, erased, our bodies almost flush.

His breath crashes into mine, ragged and hot, his eyes locked on mine with a mix of fury and something darker. My pulse thrums wild under his grip, my own breaths sharp and shallow as anger tangles with something I refuse to name.

And then—

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

The pounding on the door hangs between us for a beat, then Jimin’s mouth twists into something sharp. He lets out a low laugh, shaking his head as he finally releases my wrists.

“Look at that,” he says, stepping back with infuriating ease. “My friends are here.”

I rub at my wrists, the ghost of his grip still hot on my skin. “The rules—” I start, my voice tight, desperate to get the words out before the moment slips away.

He cuts me off without missing a beat, his tone dripping with smug dismissal. “Does it look like I care?”

The knock comes again, sharp and impatient. Jimin exhales hard through his nose, brushing past me without another word. His shoulder clips mine as he crosses the kitchen, his footsteps heavy against the floor.

He yanks the door open, and the apartment floods with noise—shouts of greeting, laughter that bounces off the walls, the shuffle of shoes as his friends pour inside like they own the place.

“Yo, you made it,” Jimin says easily, clapping one on the back, pulling another into a quick hug. His voice is lighter now, all charm and ease, as though the heat between us never happened.

I stand rooted by the counter, arms crossed tight, watching the swarm of bodies fill the living room. The sound swells, drowning out the bitter silence Jimin left behind.

And then his grin cuts through the chaos, wide and careless, like this is exactly how things should be. Like my rules never existed.

The apartment swells with noise as bodies crowd the living room—voices overlapping, the sharp crack of bottle caps, the bass from someone’s phone speaker rattling the table. I grit my teeth and weave through them, muttering apologies as I push past shoulders and elbows, heading for the couch where my journal sits abandoned.

I’ve almost got it in my hands when Taehyung steps in front of me, a bottle already cold and sweating in his grip. He dangles it between us, his grin lazy, knowing. “Stay a while, princess. Don’t leave us lonely.”

I open my mouth, ready to shut him down—ready to remind him that I don’t hang out with Jimin’s circus. But from across the room, Jimin’s voice slices through the chatter.

“She’s busy,” he says flatly, already cracking open his own drink. He doesn’t even look at me when he says it, just takes a casual sip like it’s a fact carved in stone.

Something mean twists in my chest.

Before I can think better of it, I snatch the bottle right out of Taehyung’s hand, the glass cool against my palm. “Actually,” I say, sweet and sharp as I pop the cap, “I’m not that busy.”

I tip the bottle back, taking a long pull while Jimin finally looks over, his eyes narrowing just slightly. Then I slide onto the arm of the couch, journal forgotten, and raise the drink toward Taehyung with a smirk.

“Guess I’m hanging out tonight.”

The shift in the room is immediate—cheers, laughter, the volume rising as if my choice just gave permission for more chaos. And through it all, I catch Jimin’s gaze lingering, sharp and unreadable, before he looks away.

The living room hums with heat and laughter, the kind of noise that seeps into the walls and makes it impossible to think. Bottles clink, someone’s already ordering food, and I perch on the couch like I’ve always belonged there, sipping steadily just to keep my hands busy.

Every time Jimin looks my way, I make sure I’m laughing at something Taehyung says, or leaning in a little too close when Hoseok tells a story. I don’t touch anyone, don’t cross any obvious lines, but the message is clear: I’m not hiding in my room tonight.

When Seokjin cracks open a second round of beers, I take one even though mine isn’t empty yet. When Yoongi complains about the mess piling up, I smirk and say, “Welcome to the frat house,” loud enough for Jimin to hear. He does—his jaw flexes, but he doesn’t bite. Not yet.

The petty little victories stack up like chips in a game I know I shouldn’t be playing but can’t stop myself from enjoying.

By the time the food arrives, the night is loud, easy, unrestrained. Pizza boxes scatter across the coffee table, crumbs dotting the cushions. Someone suggests a game, and before I can slip away, Hoseok is already raising his hand.

“Do or Drink,” he announces, flashing a grin. “Everyone’s in. No excuses.”

The rules get explained quickly—go clockwise, do what the person says, or drink. Simple. Dangerous.

Taehyung plops down on the rug at my feet, tossing me a look like he knows exactly how much trouble this is about to cause. Jungkook makes sure everyone has a drink, Yoongi groaning but not moving from his spot. Jimin sits across the circle, his expression unreadable as he cracks his knuckles, like he’s already anticipating me folding.

I lean back against the couch cushion, bottle in hand, and force a smile that tastes sharper than the beer.

“Fine,” I say. “Count me in.”

The circle tightens on the living room floor, bottles scattered across the rug, pizza crusts abandoned in grease-stained boxes. Hoseok leans forward, eyes glinting with mischief.

“Alright,” he says, pointing at Jungkook. “You first. Do or drink.”

Jungkook grins, already cocky. “Do.”

“Text your mom ‘send nudes,’” Hoseok fires back instantly.

Groans, laughter, curses. Jungkook doubles over, laughing too hard to breathe. “You’re fucked up,” he wheezes, but after a moment’s hesitation, he pulls out his phone. A few dramatic taps later, he flashes the screen before tossing it down and grabbing a slice of pizza. “Happy?”

The room erupts.

Next is Seokjin, who takes a drink instead of letting Taehyung dare him to lick the floor. Yoongi opts out of kissing Hoseok, muttering into his glass. The dares get bolder, nastier with each turn—eat something disgusting, confess something humiliating, try to balance a slice of pizza on your nose.

It’s Taehyung’s turn. Of course, his eyes find me.

“Do or drink, princess?” His voice is smooth, but there’s a bite in his grin—like he already knows my answer.

The alcohol in my veins makes me bolder than I should be. My cheeks are warm, my lips loose. “Do.”

A collective “oooh” ripples around the group, followed by a chorus of drunken laughter.

Taehyung tilts his head, pretending to think, then lets his grin spread slow and dangerous. “Kiss me.”

The noise rises instantly—whoops, shouts, someone banging the floor in excitement. But under it all, the sound of Jimin’s sharp inhale cuts through, though I don’t dare look at him.

For a second, I consider raising my bottle. Taking the out.

Instead, I lean in.

The room goes quiet as Taehyung meets me halfway, his hand sliding against my jaw like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His lips are warm, his tongue teasing against mine before I can think.

It isn’t just a peck. It’s a kiss—hungry, messy, alcohol-slick. A quick make out that leaves me breathless when I finally pull back.

The silence after is deafening.

Taehyung just smirks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand like he’s won something. “Guess you’re braver than you look.”

The circle erupts again—half laughter, half disbelief. Hoseok cackles, Jungkook practically doubles over, Seokjin mutters something about “kids these days,” while Yoongi just shakes his head like he’s already over it.

But I don’t miss Jimin.

Still silent. Still watching. His jaw tight, his eyes unreadable as the noise swallows me whole.

The game spins on, dares getting dumber, drinks flowing faster. Hoseok ends up shirtless. Jungkook does push-ups with Yoongi sitting on his back while everyone cackles. The noise is dizzying, warmth buzzing low in my belly, but my mind keeps circling back to the kiss. To Taehyung’s smirk. To Jimin’s silence.

It’s Namjoon’s turn now. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, surveying the circle with that sharp, too-smart glint in his eyes. Then his gaze flicks to Jimin.

“Do or drink?” he asks.

Jimin smirks, cocky even as he tips his beer. “Do.”

The group whoops and whistles, eager. Namjoon’s grin widens like he’s been waiting for this. “Alright,” he says slowly, drawing out the suspense. “Stay in the pantry with Y/N for five minutes.”

The room goes dead quiet.

My stomach drops. Jimin’s smirk falters. “Why?” His voice is sharp, defensive.

Namjoon just shrugs, too casual. “Because you hate each other. And if this game is about dares, then I dare you to figure your shit out.”

A chorus of “ohhh” rises, drunken laughter fueling the fire.

“That’s not fair,” I blurt, heat rushing to my face. “It’s not even my turn. Why should I have to—”

“Vote!” Hoseok cuts in, already raising his hand. “I say yes!”

“Seconded,” Jungkook crows, grinning like a devil.

One by one, hands go up. Even Taehyung, smirking across the circle at me like he’s dying to see what happens.

I glance around, desperate, but the room is unanimous.

Namjoon spreads his arms with a triumphant little shrug. “Majority rules.”

Jimin lets out a sharp huff, the kind that says he’s already regretting this, and pushes himself up from the couch. “Fine,” he mutters, low but clear enough for everyone to hear. “Five minutes. Whatever.”

The others whoop and jeer like they’ve just won something. My pulse thuds hot in my ears as I set my drink down, forcing myself onto shaky legs. If I don’t move, they’ll never let me live it down.

I follow Jimin through the kitchen, weaving past empty bottles and shot glasses. He doesn’t look back, just strides to the pantry door, swinging it open like he’s ripping off a bandage.

He glances at me, his jaw ticking, then jerks his head toward the dark space beyond. “After you.”

I roll my eyes but step inside anyway, the smell of flour, coffee grounds, and faintly sweet cereal wrapping around me. The small space is barely wide enough for two, shelves lining both sides. I press closer to the wall, trying to carve out space that doesn’t exist.

A second later, the door shuts with a quiet thud. Jimin steps in after me, and suddenly the pantry feels suffocating, the air heavy with his cologne and the faint tang of alcohol on his breath.

We’re not touching—not quite—but every time either of us shifts, our shoulders bump, the fabric of his sleeve brushing mine. I bite the inside of my cheek, pretending to study the labels on the boxes in front of me, anything but him.

The muffled sound of their laughter filters through the door, followed by someone shouting, “Don’t make out too hard in there!”

The shout through the door makes my skin prickle, embarrassment flashing hot across my face. I don’t dare turn, but I catch Jimin’s sharp exhale, the quiet scrape of his tongue against his teeth.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I mutter, eyes fixed on a box of pasta like it’s suddenly fascinating.

He lets out a short, humorless laugh. “Trust me, I’m not.”

That stings more than I want it to. I finally glance at him, my voice low but sharp. “You could’ve fooled me, with the way you can’t stop staring whenever I walk into a room.”

His head snaps toward me, eyes narrowing. “Maybe I stare because I’m waiting to see what else you’ll complain about. You’ve turned nagging into an Olympic sport.”

I scoff, arms folding tight across my chest. “At least I care enough to notice what’s going on around me. Unlike you, treating the apartment like a damn frat house.”

“Please.” He shifts closer, the shelf at my back suddenly harder to lean against. “If you hate it so much, no one’s forcing you to stay.”

“Maybe I wouldn’t have to hate it if you acted like a decent human being,” I shoot back. My pulse hammers in my throat, too loud, too fast, but I don’t back down. “You know what the real problem is? You act like you own the place, bringing girls in and out like it’s a revolving door. Do you even realize how disgusting it is to hear you through the walls?”

Jimin’s jaw tightens, a bitter smirk tugging at his mouth. “What, you keeping score now? Counting how many times I get laid?”

I glare at him, words spilling before I can stop them. “I don’t have to count. It’s every night.”

He leans in just slightly, his voice low, rough with anger. “Admit it, Y/N. You’re not mad because of the noise. You’re mad because it’s not you. You’re jealous.”

The word lands like a slap. Heat rushes to my face—anger, shame, something I can’t name. I force a bitter laugh, folding my arms tighter. “Jealous? Please. If I wanted sex, I could’ve been with Taehyung ten times over by now.”

His eyes flash dangerously at the name, but I press on, my voice sharp as a blade. “The only reason I’m not is because I respect your one stupid rule. So maybe, Jimin, you could try respecting mine.”

The pantry feels smaller than ever, our breathing harsh, the space between us tight enough to snap.

For the first time since we stepped into the pantry, Jimin doesn’t have a quick comeback. His smirk flickers, falters, like I’ve pulled the rug out from under him. His mouth opens, then shuts again, his throat working as if he’s swallowed the words he meant to throw at me.

I catch it instantly. “What’s the matter?” My voice drops, sharp with triumph. “Cat got your tongue? Or are you just pissed because I'm right?”

His silence stretches, thick and dangerous. I can feel it in the tight set of his jaw, the way his chest rises and falls too hard, like he’s holding something back with his whole body. The pantry feels smaller with every second, the air between us charged enough to prickle over my skin.

“You’ve got nothing to say now?” I bite out, even though my voice comes out lower than I’d like, shaky with something I don’t want to name.

Jimin shifts closer, his body heat bleeding into mine, his hand bracing against the shelf beside my head. The jars rattle, and the closeness makes my stomach twist, sharp and hot.

“You never shut up,” he growls, his voice rough, strained, like he’s forcing the words through clenched teeth.

“And you never listen,” I snap back, lifting my chin even though it brings me closer to him than I want.

His eyes lock on mine, dark and unblinking, and for a beat the fight falters—not because it’s gone, but because it’s burning too hot, too close to something neither of us will admit. My pulse stutters, but I don’t move.

Jimin exhales hard, his voice breaking through the crackle of tension like a strike of lightning.

“You drive me insane.”

The words slam into me, hotter than any insult he’s thrown before. My lips twitch into something that’s half a smirk, half armor.

“Good.”

The door swings open suddenly, and a flood of voices and light spill into the cramped pantry.

All of them are there—Namjoon in front, Jungkook leaning in over his shoulder, Hoseok grinning wide behind them.

Their eyes flick to the scene immediately: Jimin’s arm still braced on the shelf by my head, our bodies closer than when we went in, the tension practically radiating off us.

Namjoon tilts his head, his smirk slow and knowing. “Five minutes, huh?” His gaze sharpens, deliberate as it sweeps between us. “Looks like you two were making good use of the time.”

The guys laugh behind him, low and taunting, and my stomach twists. Heat burns up my neck, but I stay pinned where I am, Jimin still close enough that every breath feels like too much.

The laughter from the doorway grates against my ears, but Jimin doesn’t even flinch. He finally drops his arm from the shelf and straightens, his face smoothing into something unreadable, cold.

“Don’t flatter yourselves,” he says flatly, brushing past Namjoon like the whole thing is beneath him. “Nothing happened.”

The words sting, sharper than they should, but he doesn’t look at me once as he shoves his hands into his pockets and stalks back into the living room.

The guys part to let him through, still chuckling among themselves. Hoseok mutters something under his breath that makes Jungkook snicker louder.

“Alright,” I say, stepping past them into the living room with my chin high. “Whose turn is it?”

The circle erupts again, the dares flowing faster now, but my focus is razor-sharp, waiting. When its finally my turn, all eyes are on me like I’m the wild card.

I let the silence stretch, the weight of expectation pressing in, before I turn my gaze deliberately to Taehyung. “Do or drink?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Do.”

The corner of my mouth curves as I push up from the couch, every move deliberate, slow. “Come with me.”

The room erupts—whoops, whistles, shouts bouncing off the walls. Jungkook falls back against Hoseok, laughing so hard he chokes on his beer. Namjoon shakes his head like he’s seen enough, muttering, “This is chaos,” even as his grin betrays him.

And me? I let it all wash over me, unbothered. Before stepping away, I cut Jimin a glance, cool and cutting, like the dare is less about Taehyung and more about proving a point.

His eyes narrow, his jaw flexing, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of waiting for a response. Instead, I tilt my head toward the hall, and Taehyung—grinning like the devil himself—follows me without hesitation.

Room for Trouble Masterpost

Pairing: Roommate!Park Jimin x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.2k (ongoing)

Warnings: Alcohol use, drunkenness/intoxication, vomiting, mentions of sex/sexual situations, sexual tension, public intimacy, rough/forceful sexual sounds through walls, smoking, harassment by an older man, non-consensual advances, arguing/shouting, verbal insults, emotional manipulation, jealousy, humiliation in front of others, physical aggression, threats of eviction/housing insecurity, toxic relationship dynamics, gaslighting, angst, love triangle dynamics, roommate conflict

Summary: Y/N and Jimin move in together, and it doesn’t take long for sparks to fly—though not the good kind. She’s tired of his late nights and constant visitors, and he can’t stand her rules and routines. Their home becomes a cycle of petty fights, cold shoulders, and moments that feel far too charged to be just irritation.

But somewhere between arguments and uneasy truces, the line between hate and want starts to blur. The closer they get, the harder it is to tell if they’re fighting each other—or fighting what’s been building between them all along.

Parts:

Part One; The Arrangement

Part Two; House Rules

Part Three; The Silent War

Room for Trouble Part Two; House Rules

Pairing: Roommate! Park Jimin x female reader

Word Count: 5.1k

Warnings: alcohol use, drunken behavior, unwanted sexual attention/creepy older man, arguments/yelling, humiliation, toxic dynamics, roommate conflict, sexual tension, implied sex, swearing, emotional manipulation, unhealthy coping, jealousy, pettiness, protective/possessive behavior, near-kiss, crying, cold war atmosphere

Summary: Y/N’s drunken night ends with Jimin rescuing her, but their fragile truce shatters into a cold war of petty fights and sharp words. Taehyung’s bold flirting tempts her to break Jimin’s one rule—don’t touch his friends—until Jimin catches them, humiliating her and deepening the tension that makes the apartment feel like a battlefield.

Part Two; House Rules

I lower the phone, staring at the blank screen like it might change its mind. My chest tightens with a mix of irritation and something I can’t quite name. He actually hung up on me.

The bartender slides another bottle my way, and I curl my fingers around it, letting the cold seep into my skin. I take a slow sip, forcing myself to savor it, even though my pulse is restless, jumping at every sound near the door.

The minutes stretch, heavy and uneven. I tap the rim of the bottle, shift on the barstool, tell myself I don’t care if he comes or not. But my eyes keep drifting toward the entrance anyway, waiting for the moment I know is coming.

I’m only a few sips into my beer when a shadow falls over me.

“Mind if I sit here?”

I look up, my head pleasantly heavy, and find an older man smiling down at me. His voice is deep, smooth, and it cuts through the bar’s hum in a way that feels almost comforting. I shrug, waving him toward the empty stool beside me.

“Sure,” I say, my words slurring just a little.

He sits, leaning close enough that his warmth brushes against me. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be drinking alone.”

The compliment makes me giggle, my cheeks heating. I swirl the bottle between my hands, grinning into the lip before taking another sip. “Well, I’m not alone anymore, am I?”

He tilts his head, eyes sliding over me in a way that makes me squirm, though the alcohol turns it into something I mistake for attention. “What’s a girl like you doing out here by yourself, huh? You got a boyfriend? Husband?”

I shake my head, hair falling into my face, and giggle again. “Nope. Just me.”

His grin widens. “Good. That’s good. Means I got a chance.”

I snort at that, setting my bottle down with a little clink. “Yeah, okay," I say, too loud, too amused.

His grin falters, just for a second, and something sharper flashes across his face. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

I blink, surprised by the edge in his tone, and wave my hand clumsily. “Nothing—just… you’re like my dad's age, that’s all.” A hiccup bubbles out of me, making me giggle again.

He leans in closer, the space between us shrinking fast. “Maybe you need an old man to treat you right,” he says, his voice low, almost challenging. “You’re sitting here all alone, no guy looking out for you. That means you’re giving me a chance, whether you know it or not.”

My smile slips, the fizz of amusement draining out of me all at once. The words don’t sit right, heavy and sour in my stomach. For the first time tonight, the warmth from the beer doesn’t feel steadying—it feels thick, dizzy, wrong.

I shift back a little on the barstool, fingers tightening around my bottle. “That’s… um.” My laugh comes out thin, cracked at the edges. “That’s not really how it works.”

His grin doesn’t fade. If anything, it grows sharper as he leans even closer, his shoulder brushing mine now. “You let a man buy you a drink, talk to you a little, and that’s all I need to—”

“Finish that sentence,” a low voice cuts in, sharp as glass, “and you’re gonna regret it.”

I freeze, the words slicing through the bar’s hum, every hair on my arms lifting.

The man stiffens beside me, his grin faltering as his gaze shifts over my shoulder. Slowly, I turn.

Jimin is standing right behind us, close enough to smell the remnants of the day's cologne drifting off of his body. His jaw is tight, eyes burning in a way I’ve never seen—protective, unyielding, like the entire room has narrowed to this moment.

“She’s not interested,” Jimin says, his voice steady, deadly calm. “So you’re going to stand up, walk out, and forget you ever thought otherwise.”

The man opens his mouth, but the look Jimin gives him—sharp, immovable—kills whatever protest was about to surface. The man rises from the bar stool reluctantly, grumbling something under his breath as he walks to an empty table in the corner of the room.

Silence stretches in his wake, the hum of the bar filling in around us. I stare down at the bottle in my hands, my pulse thudding hard in my ears.

When I finally look up, Jimin’s eyes are already on me. There’s no smirk, no grin—just a hard, steady look that makes my stomach twist. His jaw is tight, his brows raised slightly, like he’s holding back words he doesn’t want to throw at me in front of everyone.

I swallow, heat crawling up my neck, but I can’t bring myself to say anything.

Jimin exhales slowly, dragging a hand through his hair, and shakes his head. “Come on,” he says, his voice quieter now but still edged with frustration. “You’re done here.”

Before he can touch me, I shove off the barstool, the legs scraping against the floor with a screech. I sling my bag over my shoulder and storm toward the door, the beer still buzzing heavy in my veins.

The night air hits me like a slap—cool, sharp, sobering—but it doesn’t put out the fire in my chest. Behind me, I hear Jimin’s footsteps as he follows, the door slamming shut on the bar’s hum.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath, the word spilling out before I can bite it back.

“What was that?” Jimin’s voice is right behind me, clipped, tight.

I whirl on him, my arms crossing over my chest. “You don’t get to talk to me like I’m some kid who doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

His brows shoot up, his jaw tense. “Kid? You were drunk, alone, and letting some creep corner you. What the hell do you call that?”

My pulse hammers in my ears, the words tangled up with the heat rushing through me. “I call it none of your business.”

Jimin takes a step closer, eyes sharp, his voice low and rough. “You’re my roommate, Y/N. That makes it my business.”

I throw my arms up, frustration spilling over. “No, it doesn’t! You don’t get to control me just because we live under the same roof!”

Jimin’s eyes flash, his hands balling into fists at his sides. “Control you? Are you serious right now? I pulled you out of a situation you couldn’t even see was bad because you were too drunk to notice!”

“I didn’t ask you to!” My voice breaks on the words, sharp and raw. “You think I wanted you swooping in and humiliating me in front of everyone?”

His laugh is harsh, bitter. “Humiliating you? You’d rather sit there giggling at some creep twice your age than admit I was right?”

The sting of his words lights something reckless in me, my mouth moving before I can stop it. I take a step closer, my voice lowering.

“Yeah, Jimin, I'd rather be kidnapped than live with you." The words leave my mouth like poison, harsher than I meant, but I don’t take them back. They hang in the air, heavy and ugly.

Jimin’s eyes widen for a second, then narrow just as fast. He lets out a short, humorless scoff, his tongue pressing against his cheek as he shakes his head.

“Cute,” he mutters, his voice low and sharp. “Real mature, Y/N. You think you’re proving a point? All you’re doing is showing me exactly what kind of roommate I got stuck with.”

The words land like a slap, stinging hotter than the night air. My throat tightens, but I force myself not to look away.

Jimin exhales hard through his nose, muttering something under his breath I can’t catch. Then he steps past me, his shoulder brushing mine just enough to make me flinch.

He doesn’t slow down, his strides long and purposeful as he heads back toward the apartment, every line of his body still rigid with anger.

I stay rooted for a moment, chest heaving, the echo of our shouting still ringing in my ears. My throat is tight, my palms sweaty around the strap of my bag.

Finally, I turn, trailing after him at a distance. My footsteps are uneven, a few paces behind, as if the space between us can soak up the things I shouldn’t have said.

The walk feels endless, the only sounds the shuffle of our shoes and the low hum of traffic in the distance. Neither of us speaks. Jimin doesn’t even glance back, his shoulders squared, his pace unrelenting.

When we reach the apartment building, he pulls his keys from his pocket with clipped movements, the metal jangling sharp in the quiet. He doesn’t slow, doesn’t look at me, just fits the key into the lock and pushes the door open.

For half a second, I think he’ll at least hold it, but he slips inside without a word, letting it swing shut in my face.

The sting in my chest tightens, sharper than before. I catch the door before it clicks shut, pushing my way inside, the silence between us louder than any argument.

The apartment feels heavier than when we left, the air thick with everything unsaid. I shut the door behind me, drop my bag by the couch, and suddenly my stomach twists, sharp and sour.

Oh, god.

The alcohol churns hot and bitter in my throat, and before I can think, I bolt down the hall, barely making it into the bathroom before dropping to my knees. I don’t even bother shutting the door.

The sound of my own retching fills the small space, loud and humiliating. My eyes water, my throat burns, and all I can think is how badly I want this night to end.

Behind me, footsteps approach—steady, unhurried.

A moment later, Jimin crouches down beside me, a glass of water in his hand. He sets it gently on the edge of the tub, his movements quiet, almost practiced. Without a word, he settles onto the tub next to the toilet, his hand brushing back my hair and holding it away from my face.

I grip the edge of the toilet, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, my face burning hotter than my stomach. “You don’t have to help me,” I mumble, my voice raw and shaky. “I don’t need it.”

“I know,” Jimin says easily, his hand still steady in my hair. “I just want to make sure you don’t miss the toilet.”

A startled laugh bursts out of me, weak but real, cutting through the ache in my throat.

Jimin chuckles too, the sound low and warm, echoing in the cramped bathroom. For the first time all night, the weight between us eases, just a little, replaced by something lighter.

The laughter trickles off, leaving behind a silence that feels easier than the ones before. My head rests against my arm on the rim of the toilet, breath coming slow and shaky. Jimin shifts on the edge of the tub, reaching for the glass of water and setting it in front of me.

“Here,” he says gently. “Sip it when you can.”

I nod, too tired to answer. The burn in my throat is fading, replaced by a heavy exhaustion.

Jimin leans back against the tiled wall, one arm draped over his knee. For a moment, he just studies me, something softer in his expression now. Then the corner of his mouth lifts.

“You know,” he says, his voice low and almost amused, “Taehyung thinks you’re hot.”

I let out a groan, hiding my face in the crook of my arm. “Oh my god, don’t start.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “If only he could see you now.” His gaze flicks toward me—my damp hair sticking to my forehead, my red eyes, the pathetic slump over the toilet. “Total heartbreaker.”

Despite myself, a laugh slips out, quiet and shaky. “Shut up.”

Jimin grins, the sound of my laugh tugging his own out again.

My laugh fades into a sigh, the weight of exhaustion pulling at every bone in my body. I try to push myself upright, but the room tilts, and I slump back against the wall with a groan.

Jimin clicks his tongue softly. “Alright, come on,” he says, standing and offering his hand. “You’re not sleeping on the bathroom floor.”

“I might,” I mumble, too tired to argue.

He huffs a quiet laugh, then crouches again, coaxing my arm around his shoulders. “Not happening. Up you go.”

Between his steady grip and my clumsy steps, we manage to make it down the hall. He eases me onto the edge of my bed, tugging the blanket over me with surprising care. I blink up at him, the blur of his face softened by the dim light.

“Thanks,” I whisper, my voice barely there.

Jimin just nods, his expression unreadable, and slips quietly out of the room.

The next morning, sunlight cuts through the blinds, stabbing at my eyes. My mouth tastes like cotton, my head pounding with every heartbeat. I groan, dragging the blanket over my face.

I shift onto my side, trying to block the sun out—when a burst of laughter erupts from the living room.

I freeze.

Another voice joins in, then another, overlapping in deep tones that carry easily down the hall. The sound swells, careless and loud, as if the night before hadn’t even happened.

My stomach twists, frustration bubbling up sharp and sour. It’s barely morning, and there are already people here. I haven’t even shaken off last night, and Jimin’s apartment feels less like home and more like some open-door clubhouse for him and his friends.

I shove the blanket off with a groan, pressing my palms to my temples. All I wanted was quiet—just one morning of peace. But apparently, that’s too much to ask.

I slip out of bed, dragging on yesterday’s hoodie and running a hand through my tangled hair. The voices in the living room swell as I crack my door, laughter echoing like they own the place. I keep my head down, hoping I can make it to the kitchen unnoticed.

No such luck.

“Morning, sunshine.”

Taehyung is leaning back on the couch, his long frame draped lazily over the cushions. His grin is slow, teasing, like he’s been waiting for me to appear.

All of the 7 men are looking at me, so I barely wave and hurry into the kitchen. The smell of fresh coffee is already in the air, sharp and welcome. I pour a cup, focusing on the swirl of cream as I stir, trying to anchor myself with something steady.

But then my eyes lift—and catch on the sink.

It’s overflowing. Bottles, shot glasses, plates stacked precariously, the whole thing sticky and sour-smelling. My stomach flips, not from the hangover, but from pure irritation.

I turn, mug in hand, and Jimin is right there, leaning against the counter like he hasn’t got a care in the world.

“Seriously?” I mutter, sharper than I mean to. I gesture with my spoon toward the disaster behind me. “It’s nine in the morning, and the sink already looks like this?”

Jimin groans from the couch, dragging a hand down his face before shooting me a glare. “Are you serious right now? You wake up hungover and the first thing out of your mouth is another complaint?”

I tighten my grip on the spoon, heat rushing to my cheeks. “It’s not a complaint, it’s an observation. Normal people don’t live like this.”

His laugh is sharp, humorless. “Normal people do live like this, you're just a control freak."

The sting of his words lodges in my chest, hot and tight. For a second, I think about firing back, but the weight of all those voices in the living room, the sight of Taehyung smirking at the tension, makes me swallow it down.

Without another word, I take my mug and storm outside, the door clicking shut a little too hard behind me.

The morning air hits cool against my skin, a sharp contrast to the heat simmering in my chest. I sink down onto the front steps, the concrete rough beneath me, and cradle the cup between my hands.

The coffee is bitter, but it steadies me. Out here, at least, the noise is muted—the laughter from inside a distant hum instead of a constant roar. For the first time since waking up, I can breathe.

Still, the frustration lingers, curling in my stomach with every sip. This isn’t what I pictured when I thought about moving in. Not even close.

The door creaks open, and I glance back to see Taehyung stepping out, stretching like the morning air belongs to him. He wanders over and drops onto the step beside me, his presence easy, unbothered.

“Thought I’d check on you,” he says smoothly, that lazy smile tugging at his lips.

I tighten my grip on the mug, irritation bubbling up before I can stop it. “You don’t need to check on me,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “I’m fine.”

From inside, Jimin’s voice rings out over the laughter, loud and dismissive. “She’s fine!”

The words sting, like he’s already written me off.

Taehyung chuckles low under his breath, clearly amused by both of us. “Guess that settles it then,” he says, but his eyes linger on me, softer than his grin suggests.

Taehyung sits next to me. Leaning back on the railing, he pulls a crumpled pack of cigarettes from his pocket. With a flick of his lighter, the flame glows briefly before he cups it, draws in a long inhale, and exhales slow into the morning air. The smoke curls between us, sharp and bitter.

He takes another puff, then tilts the cigarette toward me, eyebrow raised.

I hesitate, wrinkling my nose. “I don’t smoke.”

His grin curves lazy, challenging. “You sure?”

With a huff, I take it, holding it awkwardly between my fingers before bringing it to my lips. The first drag burns hot in my chest, making me cough, but I force myself through it, handing it back with a glare.

Taehyung only chuckles and takes it from me, easy as ever.

And just like that, the words start spilling out.

“I swear, I’ve known Jimin for less than forty-eight hours and he’s already driving me insane,” I mutter, pressing my mug against my knee. “He forgot I was even moving in, he dumped all the unpacking on me, he brings people over without asking, and don’t even get me started on the mess in the kitchen.” My voice rises, sharp with the frustration I’ve been swallowing since yesterday. “It’s like he doesn’t even notice there’s someone else living here now. Or worse—he does notice and just doesn’t care.”

The rant leaves me breathless, the air sharp in my lungs.

Taehyung takes another drag, then holds the cigarette between two fingers, his elbow resting casually on his knee. His grin lingers, slow and infuriatingly amused.

“God, you’re cute when you’re pissed off,” he says, smoke curling out on the words.

I snap my head toward him, narrowing my eyes. “I’m serious, Tae. He’s impossible.”

“Oh, I know.” He nods like he’s agreeing with me, but that grin only sharpens. “But the way you go off about him—” He gestures loosely at me with the cigarette, his eyes warm and mischievous. “It’s like watching fire in a bottle. You’re all wound up, cheeks pink, eyes flashing. Honestly?” He leans a little closer, voice dropping. “It’s hot.”

Heat rushes up my neck before I can stop it. “You’re unbelievable,” I mutter, dragging my coffee cup up to my lips just to have something to hide behind.

Taehyung chuckles low, leaning back again and flicking ash over the side of the step. “Maybe. But you like it.”

I roll my eyes, staring stubbornly at the street, but my pulse betrays me—thudding too fast, too loud.

He nudges my knee lightly with his, a smirk playing on his lips. “The way you get all worked up… makes me wonder what you’d sound like if I had you worked up for a different reason.”

I take the cigarette from his hand, bring it to my lips, and blow the smoke out slow just to prove I can. The words spill out before I can think better of them.

“You talk a big game, Taehyung. Makes me wonder if you’d actually keep up.”

The moment hangs heavy between us, and my stomach flips at my own audacity.

Taehyung doesn’t flinch. He laughs low, dark and warm, his eyes dragging over me like he’s savoring the challenge. “Mmm, love,” he says, leaning just close enough to brush my shoulder, “You've got it wrong, I set the pace.”

My pulse slams against my ribs, but I don’t look away. “Guess we’ll see about that.”

Taehyung’s grin deepens at my words, slow and sharp, like he’s just been handed a dare he intends to win. His hand brushes against mine where it rests on my knee, deliberate, testing, and when I don’t pull away, he leans closer.

The cigarette smolders faintly between his fingers, forgotten. His breath is warm, tinged with smoke, as his mouth hovers inches from mine. My heart stutters, caught somewhere between terror and thrill.

“See about it, huh?” he murmurs, his lips ghosting so close I can almost taste him.

I tilt forward without thinking, the space between us shrinking to nothing.

And that’s when the apartment door swings open.

The sound is loud, jarring. Taehyung jerks back just enough to look over his shoulder, irritation flickering across his face. My own breath catches hard in my chest, my body snapping stiff.

Jimin steps onto the landing, keys jangling in his hand, and stops dead. His gaze flicks from me to Taehyung, still leaning too close, smoke curling around us like evidence.

For a beat, the world holds still. Then Jimin’s jaw tightens, his expression stormy in a way I haven’t seen before.

“What the hell,” he says flatly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the air. “Are you kidding me right now? It’s your third day here, Y/N. Third day. And you’re already trying to hook up with my friend on the front steps?”

The words slam into me, hot and humiliating. My chest tightens, my stomach dropping as the group of strangers behind him shift, some of them stifling laughter, others just watching like it’s their personal soap opera.

Taehyung exhales a lazy chuckle beside me, clearly entertained, but Jimin doesn’t even glance at him. His glare stays pinned to me, sharp enough to pin me in place.

The heat of Jimin’s glare burns into me, but it’s the muffled chuckles from behind him that finally break something loose in my chest. My throat tightens, eyes stinging, and I can’t stand here another second with all of them staring like I’m some kind of spectacle.

I shove up from the step, brushing past Taehyung without a word. The landing is crowded, but I push through the bodies anyway, ignoring the surprised mutters and sidelong glances. Shoulders bump against mine, someone says “whoa, easy,” but I don’t stop.

The apartment feels too small, too loud, the air thick with leftover smoke and laughter I can’t stand to hear. I slam my bedroom door shut behind me and sink onto the edge of the bed, pressing my hands over my face.

The tears come hot and fast, slipping through my fingers before I can stop them. My chest heaves, frustration and humiliation tangling until I can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

I curl up on the bed, phone clutched tight in my hand as I press Jae’s name. She picks up on the second ring, her voice bright. “Hey! How’s my favorite—”

“Jae, I can’t do this,” I blurt, my voice breaking. “He just… he humiliated me. In front of everyone.”

Her tone shifts instantly, worried. “Whoa, slow down. What happened?”

I drag in a shaky breath. “I was outside with Taehyung, and it got—we almost kissed. And then Jimin came out, and he just… snapped. Started yelling that it’s only my third day here, like I’d done something unforgivable. And then all his friends piled out to watch. It was humiliating.”

Silence stretches for a beat. I brace for sympathy. But when Jae speaks again, her voice is careful, edged.

“Y/N… you almost kissed Taehyung? On your third day living there?”

I sit up straighter, heat crawling up my neck. “That’s what you’re focusing on? Jae, he embarrassed me—”

“Because he’s right,” she cuts in gently, but firm. “You just moved in. You don’t even know them yet, and you’re already about to cross that line? What did you expect him to do, clap for you?”

My chest tightens. “I expected him not to treat me like I was some kind of problem in front of everyone!”

Jae sighs. “I get that you’re upset, but from where I’m standing? It sounds like Jimin was looking out for you. Maybe not in the nicest way, but… still. If Taehyung’s his friend, things could get messy fast.”

Her words sting sharper than I want to admit, my throat tightening. “So what, I’m the bad guy now?”

“You’re not the bad guy,” Jae says softly, “but maybe you need to slow down. Give it some time before you go getting tangled up with his friends.”

I flop back against the pillows, staring at the ceiling through blurry eyes. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I am,” Jae says quietly. “And that’s why I’m telling you the truth.”

Jae’s voice lingers in my ear, calm but steady. “And that’s why I’m telling you the truth.”

The silence that follows feels heavier than anything Jimin said outside. My chest tightens, and for a long moment I just lie there, staring up at the ceiling, letting her words sink in.

Because as much as I want to fight her on it, as much as I want to scream about how unfair Jimin was, I know she’s not wrong. It would get messy. It already feels messy. And it’s only been three days.

I swallow hard, my throat thick. “Yeah,” I whisper finally. “You’re right.”

Jae exhales softly on the other end, like she’s relieved. “I know you’re upset, babe. But just… breathe. Give it some time. Don’t make it harder on yourself than it has to be.”

I nod even though she can’t see me, pressing the heel of my hand to my eyes. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Good,” she says warmly. “That’s all I’m asking.”

The apartment stays quiet after I hang up with Jae, just the faint hum of traffic outside the window and the sound of my pen scratching against paper. I sit cross-legged on my bed, notebook balanced on my knees, and start scribbling a list—not of complaints, not exactly, but rules. Boundaries. Something to keep me from losing my mind in this place. No overnight guests without notice. Shared chores. Respect quiet hours. The words pile up fast, half stern, half desperate, until the page looks like something torn from a handbook.

By the time Jimin comes back, laughter from the stairwell fading behind him, I’m already waiting in the living room. The list is folded neatly in my hands, my chest tight as he kicks off his shoes and glances my way.

“I made something,” I say, standing from the couch before I lose my nerve. I hold out the paper, my voice steadier than I feel. “House rules. Don’t freak out—it’s not just for you. I want you to add your own too.”

Jimin takes the folded paper from my hand, brows lifting like he already knows he’s not going to like whatever’s inside. He flicks it open, skims the first few lines, and lets out a short, humorless laugh.

“House rules, huh?” His voice drips with amusement as he waves the paper lightly. “Wow, you really came prepared to run the place.”

I cross my arms, biting the inside of my cheek. “I told you, it’s for both of us. You can add your own.”

He glances up, his smirk sharp and unkind. “Alright. Rule number one—don’t fuck my friends.”

The words slam into me, sharper than a slap. Heat rushes to my face, my chest tightening as I stare at him, searching for any hint that he’s joking. But his expression stays cool, dismissive, like he just laid down the most obvious rule in the world.

My throat tightens, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. I fold my arms tighter, lift my chin, and meet his gaze head-on.

“You don’t get to police my sex life,” I say evenly, like it’s the simplest fact in the world.

Jimin’s smirk slips into something colder, the humor draining from his face. “No,” he says, voice flat, “but I do get to decide if my friends are off-limits. And if you can’t respect that, maybe you’re in the wrong apartment.”

The words hit sharp, deliberate, daring me to push back.

The heat in my chest coils tighter, but I force myself to let it go before I say something I can’t take back. My arms fall loosely to my sides, and I glance down at the folded paper still in my hand.

“Fine,” I say, steadying my voice. “Any more rules, then? Or is that the only one?”

Jimin leans back a little, crossing his arms, his expression still sharp but touched with something smug. “That one’s enough for now.”

I nod once, tight and clipped, and set the list down on the coffee table between us. The distance feels like the only thing keeping the tension from snapping.

Jimin turns around without another word, his footsteps heavy as he heads down the hall. The slam of his bedroom door is just a little too sharp, a little too final.

I stare at the closed door for a beat, irritation clawing up my throat until it spills out before I can stop it.

“Hey, Jimin!” I call, louder than necessary. My voice echoes down the hall. “The dishes are still in the sink. You made the mess, you clean it!”

Silence.

I wait, straining for any sign that he heard me. But there’s nothing—no smart comment, no footsteps, not even a muttered curse. Just the stubborn quiet of someone who’s decided I don’t exist.

The kind of silence that makes me grind my teeth.

I sink onto the couch, glaring toward the kitchen. The stack of dirty plates in the sink seems to stare back at me, mocking.

The silence grates on me until I can’t stand it anymore. I push to my feet.

The kitchen light hums faintly as I step in front of the sink, the smell of stale beer and grease hitting me like a wall. Plates stacked unevenly, glasses sticky at the rims, forks welded with dried food—it’s disgusting.

I roll up my sleeves, jaw tight, and crank on the faucet. The water splashes against the pile with a hiss, suds bubbling up as I slam each dish into the sink harder than necessary.

It’s petty. It’s stupid. But it’s better than sitting there stewing in silence while he hides in his room pretending none of this exists.

By the time the last glass clinks into the drying rack, my arms ache and my shirt is damp from stray droplets. I shut off the water with more force than necessary, the silence of the apartment slamming down around me again.

The kitchen is clean now—my victory, my defeat.

I lean against the counter, staring at the spotless sink, my chest rising and falling hard.

Room for Trouble Part One; The Arrangement

Pairing: Roommate!Park Jimin x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.2K

Warnings: alcohol use, drunken behavior, bar scene, suggestive themes, implied sex, strong language, conflict, passive-aggressive behavior, emotional distress

Summary: Y/N’s first days with Jimin spiral into tension after his partying, her passive-aggressive note, and him bringing a girl home. Locked out and drinking at a bar, she’s surprised when Jimin calls, insisting on coming to get her.

Part One; The Arrangement

The stairwell smells faintly of old carpet and detergent as I climb, a heavy box balanced against my hip. My key digs into my palm, the one my best friend pressed into my hand a week ago with a breezy, “Trust me, Jimin’s cool. You’ll be fine.”

I’m not sure I believe her.

By the time I reach the door, the evening air has left my shirt sticking to my back, my nerves jangling. I fit the key into the lock, twist, and step inside.

The apartment is quiet. No voices. No music. Just a dim light spilling from the crack under a door at the end of the hall.

I set the box down by the couch, brushing sweaty strands of hair from my forehead. “Hello?” My voice sounds too small in the stillness.

There’s a groan in response. Low. Miserable. The bedroom door creaks open, and a man stumbles out.

Jimin.

At least, he has to be—messy hair sticking out in every direction, a plain shirt wrinkled from sleep, and eyes half-shut like the light itself is punishing. He squints at me, disoriented.

“Shit,” he mutters, voice rough. Then he winces, pressing a hand to his temple. “You’re… Y/N?”

I nod, straightening a little. “Moving day.”

His lips part, guilt flickering through his groggy expression. “That’s today?”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes me. “You forgot.”

He runs a hand down his face, shaking his head. “I’m—god, I’m sorry. Last night got… loud.” His gaze flicks to the box by the couch, then back at me, sheepish. “Let me help. Just—give me two seconds and maybe some Advil.”

I bite back a smile, watching him shuffle into the kitchen like he’s still half-asleep. He pulls a glass from the cabinet, filling it with water, then downs it in one long swallow before leaning on the counter.

“This is not how I wanted to meet my new roommate,” he says, his grin lopsided, tired but genuine.

I glance at the empty living room, the boxes still waiting in my car, and shake my head. “Well, it’s definitely memorable.”

Jimin chuckles under his breath, the sound roughened by sleep and hangover. “Yeah,” he agrees, lifting his glass in a lazy, apologetic toast. “Welcome home.”

Jimin drags a hand through his hair, then straightens with a sigh, like he’s forcing himself to function. “Alright,” he says, voice still gravelly, “let’s get your stuff.”

We head down the stairwell together, the evening air heavy with summer heat. He moves slower than me, one hand braced on the railing like it’s the only thing holding him upright. Still, he takes the box from my arms without hesitation when we reach the car.

“You don’t have to—” I start, but he cuts me off with a small, crooked grin.

“Least I can do. Forgot you were even moving in, remember?”

I roll my eyes but smile, popping the trunk open. “Jae would kill you if she knew.”

At her name, his brow lifts. “Jae?”

“Yeah,” I say, pulling another box into my arms. “She’s the one who connected us. Honestly, she’s one of the best friends I’ve ever had. I can’t count how many times she’s been there for me. When things get bad, she’s just… solid, you know?” I laugh a little, shifting the box higher against my chest. “If Jae says someone’s a good person, I believe her.”

Jimin is quiet for a moment as he closes the trunk. When I glance at him, he’s wearing that same faintly mischievous look I caught earlier, like he’s sitting on something he probably shouldn’t say.

Finally, he shrugs. “Funny. I’ve only hung out with her a few times.” He smirks, the expression almost too casual. “And, uh… they were pretty suggestive.”

I stop on the stairs, blinking at him. “Suggestive?”

His grin widens as he keeps climbing. “Yeah. You know.” He waves a hand vaguely. “Drinks, late nights. She’s… bold.”

Heat creeps into my face before I can stop it, a cocktail of irritation and disbelief settling in my stomach. I hug the box tighter to my chest, following him back up the stairs in silence.

So much for first impressions.

I bite down on the words rising in my throat, deciding against saying anything. It’s not worth it. Not on my first day here. Instead, I follow him back up the stairwell in silence, hugging the box tighter, counting each step until we’re inside again.

As soon as we step through the door, Jimin’s phone buzzes. He glances at the screen, his lips quirking, and lifts it to his ear without hesitation.

“Yo,” he says, voice suddenly brighter, more alive than it’s been all afternoon. He drops my box by the couch, already pacing toward the kitchen. “Yeah, I’m here. No, I’m free tonight. What’re we thinking?”

I stand in the middle of the living room for a beat, waiting, but he doesn’t look back.

With a sigh, I turn on my heel and head back down to the car.

The next half hour blurs into a cycle of stairwells and heavy boxes, sweat beading along my temples as I haul the rest of my life upstairs alone. Each trip, I hear his muffled voice from the kitchen, still on the call, still laughing, still distracted.

By the time I drag the last box inside, my arms ache, my back throbs, and my patience is wearing thin. I shut the door with my foot, breath catching in my chest.

That’s when Jimin finally looks up, phone gone, leaning against the counter with that easy grin like nothing’s wrong. “By the way,” he says casually, “I’m having some friends over tonight.”

My pulse skips, and all I can do is stare at him.

My arms ache as I shove the last box into the corner of the living room. I barely get a chance to breathe before Jimin’s words land. I’m having some friends over tonight.

I blink at him, then force a small smile. “That’s fine. I’ll just be in my room unpacking for the night.”

Jimin tilts his head, that lazy grin tugging at his mouth. “What? No. You’ve gotta hang out with us.”

I shake my head, brushing hair from my damp forehead. “Really, it’s okay. I’m not much of a partier.”

“Not much of a partier,” he repeats, like the phrase itself is foreign to him. He chuckles, pushing off the counter and sauntering closer. “Everyone says that until the shots come out.” His eyes flash with mischief as he leans against the doorframe to the hall. “C’mon. One night won’t kill you. Call it… roommate bonding.”

I hug my arms across my chest, the weight of the day settling heavy. “We’ll see,” I murmur, sidestepping past him toward my bedroom.

He watches me go, amusement still dancing in his expression, as though he’s already decided I won’t be able to resist.

But as I shut my door behind me, I know one thing for certain: I’m not going to be pulled into his chaos.

Not tonight.

I close my door and lean against it, letting out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The apartment is too quiet for now, but I know it won’t last—not with “friends coming over” hanging in the air.

I flop onto the bed and dig my phone out of my pocket. Before I can overthink it, I tap Jae’s name. She answers on the second ring, her voice bright. “You moved in! How’s it going?”

I press the heel of my hand to my forehead, groaning. “He forgot.”

“Forgot what?”

“That I was moving in today.” I let out a laugh that’s more exasperation than humor. “I walked in with a box and he came stumbling out of his room hungover. He didn’t even remember who I was at first.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Jae bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that sounds like him.”

“Jae!” I sit up straighter, clutching the phone. “This is my roommate. I thought you said he was responsible?”

“I said he was cool,” she corrects, still laughing. “And he is! He just… likes to have fun.”

I flop back onto the mattress, staring up at the ceiling. “He already told me he’s having people over tonight. Like, right now. I’ve been here for five minutes.”

Jae hums, unbothered. “Sounds about right.”

I groan again, dragging a pillow over my face. “I’m not much of a partier, you know that.”

“Which is exactly why this could be good for you,” Jae teases. “He’ll pull you out of your shell. You’ll thank me later.”

I peek out from under the pillow, glaring at the ceiling as if she can see me. “If I survive this, maybe.”

Her laughter filters through the speaker, light and easy, while my stomach knots tighter.

The hours slip by in cardboard and folded clothes, the quiet of my room broken only by the thump of bass that grows louder with each passing minute. Laughter filters through the walls, voices multiplying until it’s clear Jimin’s “friends” aren’t just a couple of people—they’re a crowd. By the time I set the last stack of books onto my shelf, the apartment feels like it’s vibrating with noise. Curiosity—or maybe annoyance—pushes me out of my room. I step into the hallway and stop short.

The living room is packed. Six men crowd around the kitchen island, their voices overlapping, laughter echoing against the walls. And at the center of it all, standing behind the counter like it’s his stage, is Jimin—his hangover from earlier nowhere to be found. He’s grinning wide as he tips a bottle over mismatched shot glasses, pouring generously while the others cheer him on.

Jimin’s laugh rings out above the others as he sets the bottle down with a flourish. When his gaze lifts and lands on me lingering in the hallway, his smile widens even more.

“Y/N!” he calls, waving me over with one hand while holding the bottle aloft with the other. “Perfect timing. Come join us—roommate initiation!”

All six pairs of eyes turn my way, expectant, the energy from the group pulsing like heat in the air.

I force a polite smile and shake my head. “I’m good.”

Without another word, I slip past them, weaving through the laughter and noise until I reach the cabinets. I grab a glass, fill it with water at the sink, and keep my eyes down the whole time. The cold is a relief in my hands, grounding me against the dizzy buzz of their world.

By the time I turn back, Jimin is still watching me, his grin tilting in amused disbelief.

“Suit yourself,” he says lightly, before raising the bottle again to the men around him. The cheers pick back up as if I was never there.

I retreat down the hall with my glass, shutting my bedroom door behind me. The walls shake faintly with laughter and music, a reminder that this is only the beginning.

The apartment is quiet when I slip out of my room the next morning, the kind of heavy quiet that comes after too much noise. The air smells faintly of liquor and fried food, a stale mix that makes my nose wrinkle.

I take two steps into the living room and stop dead.

Empty bottles line the counters. Crumpled napkins and greasy takeout bags spill across the coffee table. A trail of shot glasses leads all the way to the sink, stacked precariously, sticky with whatever Jimin poured into them last night. One of the couch cushions is on the floor, and a shoe—just one—sits abandoned in the middle of the rug.

Annoyance sparks hot in my chest.

It’s not my mess. It shouldn’t be my problem. But the thought of spending my first full day here surrounded by this chaos is unbearable. With a sigh sharp enough to cut glass, I roll up my sleeves and start cleaning.

I toss the trash into bags, rinse glasses, wipe down the counters until they no longer tack under my fingertips. The more I scrub, the tighter my jaw clenches. By the time the place looks halfway livable again, irritation hums under my skin like a live wire.

I glance at the blank whiteboard hanging on the fridge. A marker rests in the tray below it.

Before I can stop myself, I grab it and scrawl in bold, uneven letters:

“This isn’t a frat house. Clean up your mess. —Y/N”

The cap clicks back into place, and I step away, the note glaring at me from the fridge door.

It feels good. Too good.

I toss the marker back into the tray and head for the coffee pot, bracing myself for when Jimin finally wakes up and sees it.

The coffee maker sputters and hisses, filling the apartment with the sharp, bitter smell that cuts through the leftover haze of alcohol. I wrap my hands around the edge of the counter, waiting for the pot to fill, telling myself the caffeine will steady me.

A groan breaks the silence.

I glance over my shoulder just as someone sits up on the couch, hair sticking out in every direction, face puffy with sleep. He blinks at me slowly, his features arranging into something unexpectedly soft despite the mess he’s in.

“Uh… morning?” I offer.

He rubs his eyes, then smiles, low and lazy. “Morning.” Pushing himself up, he stretches like a cat before shuffling closer. “I’m Taehyung,” he says, voice deep but still rough with sleep. “Guess you’re the new roommate?”

I nod, turning back to the coffee machine. “Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you,” he hums, his gaze drifting around the kitchen as he leans against the island. That’s when his eyes land on the fridge.

I freeze, already knowing what he’s looking at.

A slow smile creeps across his lips. “Wow,” he says, nodding at the whiteboard. “‘This isn’t a frat house. Clean up your mess.’” He draws out the words, savoring them. “That’s… impressively passive-aggressive.”

Heat crawls up my neck, but I keep my focus on pouring coffee into a mug. “It wasn’t meant to be—”

“Oh, it was,” Taehyung cuts in smoothly, still grinning. He tips his head, studying me with that soft-eyed curiosity that feels more dangerous than mockery. “And honestly? Kind of iconic.”

I take a long sip of coffee, deciding not to answer.

Behind me, Taehyung chuckles, low and warm, as if I’ve already made myself the most interesting part of his morning.

He pushes off the island and drifts closer, moving slow, deliberate, like he’s testing how close he can get without me stepping back. “You know,” he says, voice deep and warm, “I think I like you already.”

I glance at him over the rim of my mug. “Because I wrote a note about dirty dishes?”

His grin widens. “Because you’ve got attitude.” His eyes sweep over me in a way that feels both lazy and intent. “Most people play nice the first night. You? You drew blood.”

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “It was just a note.”

“Mm, no,” he says, leaning an elbow against the counter, tilting his head to catch my eyes. “It was a warning. Sexy, in its own way.”

The coffee nearly slips in my hand. “Sexy? It was a complaint.”

Taehyung’s smirk deepens, unbothered. “Confidence is sexy. You’re not afraid to make yourself heard. Makes me wonder…” He pauses, gaze flicking from my lips back up to my eyes, “…what else you’d be bold about.”

Heat rushes up my neck, and I quickly set my cup down before I spill it. “You don’t even know me.”

He hums, leaning just a little closer, close enough that I catch the faint scent of his skin—sleep-warm, edged with last night’s cologne. “I know enough. Enough to tell you’re trouble. The kind I wouldn’t mind getting into.”

My breath catches despite myself. “You’re shameless.”

“Yeah,” Taehyung says, grinning like he’s perfectly aware of the effect he’s having. “But you like it.”

Before I can think of a comeback, the sound of a door slamming open breaks the spell.

“God, my head,” Jimin groans, his voice rough with sleep. He shuffles into the kitchen barefoot, hair a wreck, eyes squinting against the light. His hand drags over his face before he reaches for the fridge, yanking it open without so much as a glance in my direction.

Taehyung doesn’t move. He just leans in a little closer, his grin wicked as his shoulder brushes mine deliberately. “Morning, sunshine,” he drawls at Jimin, but his gaze stays locked on me.

Jimin finally looks up, blinking between us, his brow furrowing when he notices how close we’re standing. His lips part, like he’s about to say something, then snap shut again. Instead, he grabs a bottle of water and shuts the fridge with more force than necessary.

“What are you doing up so early?” he mutters, glaring at Taehyung.

“Talking to your new roommate,” Taehyung says easily, unbothered. He straightens, though the smirk never leaves his face. “She’s got a sharp tongue. I like her.”

My stomach flips at the casual way he says it.

Jimin groans again, rubbing his temple. “Don’t corrupt her already. She’s barely been here twenty-four hours.”

Taehyung chuckles, deep and low, before pushing off the counter. “Too late.” His eyes catch mine one last time, glinting with amusement, before he wanders toward the couch.

Jimin leans against the island where Taehyung had been a moment ago, watching me over the rim of his water bottle. His expression is unreadable, but there’s something sharper in his gaze than there was last night.

Jimin takes another slow sip from his water bottle, and when he lowers it, his eyes flick toward the fridge. He freezes.

The silence stretches as he stares at the words scrawled across the whiteboard. His brows lift, then knit together, his head tilting like he’s not sure if he’s amused or offended.

“This isn’t a frat house,” he reads aloud, voice flat. “‘Clean up your mess.’”

My stomach tightens. I keep my focus on my mug, wrapping both hands around it like it’s a shield.

Jimin glances at me, one eyebrow arched, his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. “Seriously? You’ve been here one night and already leaving me notes?”

I shrug, trying to keep my voice even. “It was either that or step in sticky beer for the rest of the week.”

Taehyung snorts from the couch, clearly enjoying the show. “Told you she was bold.”

Jimin shoots him a look before turning back to me. His smirk sharpens, playful but edged. “Noted,” he says, tapping the board with the cap of his water bottle. “Guess we’re starting off strong, huh, roommate?”

I shrug, lifting my mug again. “Just calling it like I see it.”

Taehyung chuckles from the couch, stretching out like he’s too comfortable in this mess. “Honestly, I think she’s already the best thing that’s happened to this place. You could use someone to keep you in check, Jimin.”

The grin on his face is wide, unbothered, almost daring.

Jimin’s head snaps toward him, eyes narrowing. The glare he shoots across the room could burn through walls, but Taehyung only grins harder, clearly delighted at having gotten a rise out of him.

The tension hums between them, sharp and unspoken, and I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek, suddenly very interested in my coffee.

Jimin tears his eyes off Taehyung and downs the last of his water, slamming the empty bottle onto the counter a little harder than necessary. His jaw flexes as he glances back at me, the smirk gone now, replaced by something tighter.

“You know,” he says, his tone edged with sarcasm, “most people try to get to know their roommate before leaving them passive-aggressive notes.”

The words sting sharper than I expect.

He doesn’t wait for me to answer. Just pushes off the counter, runs a hand through his messy hair, and mutters, “Unbelievable,” under his breath as he disappears down the hall. A door clicks shut behind him, leaving the apartment in a silence that feels heavier than before.

On the couch, Taehyung lets out a low whistle. “He’s grumpy in the mornings. Don’t take it personally.”

I force a sip of coffee, though it tastes bitter on my tongue. Too late.

I lower my mug, the coffee sloshing against the rim as I set it down harder than I mean to. “Grumpy in the mornings?” I scoff, finally meeting Taehyung’s amused gaze. “No, he’s just an ass.”

Taehyung’s smile curves slow, sly, like he enjoys the bite in my voice. He leans back against the couch, folding his arms. “You catch on quick.”

The heat in my chest cools just a little at his easy agreement, but the tension lingers, sharp and stubborn.

The air between us is still humming when Taehyung suddenly stretches, his back arching as he lets out a low groan. He checks the time on his phone and sighs.

“Shit. I’ve gotta get to work,” he says, standing and raking a hand through his mess of hair. His smile finds me again, slow and easy. “Guess I’ll see you around, Y/N.”

The way he says my name sends an unwelcome heat to my cheeks. I manage a nod, clutching my mug like a shield. “Yeah. See you.”

He smirks like he knows exactly what he’s doing, then grabs his jacket from the back of the couch. A minute later, the front door shuts behind him, leaving the apartment quiet except for the faint drip of the coffee maker.

I stare at the whiteboard across the room, the words I scrawled there last night glaring back at me. This isn’t a frat house. Clean up your mess. The sharpness of it suddenly feels childish, unfair even. My chest tightens.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I set my mug down and head for Jimin’s room.

The door is closed, but a faint shuffle comes from inside, so I knock lightly. “Hey, um… Jimin?”

A beat of silence. Then, “What?” His voice is muffled, still groggy.

I twist the hem of my shirt between my fingers, my nerves buzzing. “I just… wanted to say I’m sorry about the note. It was kind of harsh. I didn’t mean to start things off like that.”

The quiet on the other side stretches long enough that I think maybe he won’t answer at all.

The door creaks open, and Jimin leans lazily against the frame, his hair a wreck, his t-shirt wrinkled. He studies me for a long second, eyes low-lidded and unreadable.

“You’re sorry?” he finally says, his voice still rough with sleep.

I nod, my fingers twisting in the hem of my shirt. “Yeah. The note was… kind of harsh. I just—didn’t want to wake up to that mess, you know? But I shouldn’t have handled it like that.”

A smirk tugs at his mouth, sharp and knowing. “Wow. You’re already apologizing? I thought you’d hold out longer.”

My brows pinch. “I’m trying to be nice.”

“Mm.” He rubs the back of his neck, watching me with an amused glint in his eyes. “Thing is, you don’t strike me as the ‘nice’ type. You strike me as the type who’ll write shit on the fridge and then try to make me feel bad for it later.”

Heat flares in my cheeks, though whether it’s irritation or embarrassment, I can’t tell. “I didn’t come here to fight.”

“Good,” Jimin says, that smirk widening. He pushes the door shut halfway, his voice lazy as it slips out. “You’d lose.”

The door clicks shut, leaving me in the hall, staring at the wood grain with my jaw tight and my pulse hammering.

The door clicks shut, leaving me standing there like an idiot with my apology still fresh on my tongue. My chest tightens, heat crawling up my neck until it feels like I might combust.

Unbelievable.

I came here trying to smooth things over, to be the bigger person, and he turns it into a joke. Like I’m the problem. Like I’m already some kind of nuisance in his space.

I grit my teeth, my fists curling at my sides. Who even says shit like that? You’d lose. What does that even mean? He’s cocky, smug, impossible—and it’s only been one night.

Dragging in a sharp breath, I force myself to turn and march back toward my room. The sight of the whiteboard on the fridge makes my stomach twist. My words glare back at me, a reminder of just how badly this whole thing has already started.

This was supposed to be simple. A clean start. A roommate situation, nothing more.

But Park Jimin is going to make it hell.

The apartment is quiet again by late afternoon, sunlight spilling through the blinds in lazy golden stripes. I curl up on the couch with my journal open in my lap, pen scratching furiously across the page.

He’s impossible. Every word out of his mouth is a jab, every look a challenge. How am I supposed to live with someone who turns an apology into a competition? It’s like he thrives on being insufferable. Maybe Jae set me up. Maybe she thought this would be funny.

I pause, tapping the pen against the page, the irritation still hot in my chest.

That’s when Jimin strides out of his room, pulling a jacket over his shoulders, keys jangling in his hand. He doesn’t even glance my way as he heads for the door, slipping outside without a word.

I exhale slowly, grateful for the silence, grateful for space.

It lasts less than ten minutes.

The door opens again, and this time Jimin’s not alone. A woman follows him inside, laughing softly at something he’s said. She’s dressed effortlessly pretty, hair shining, smile easy, like she belongs here already.

My stomach knots as I snap my journal shut, the sharp sound cutting through the room.

Jimin finally looks at me, his expression unreadable—somewhere between smug and indifferent—before gesturing lazily toward the hallway. “We’ll be in my room.”

And just like that, he disappears with her, leaving me on the couch with my pen still in hand and a page half-filled with proof of exactly why he’s already driving me crazy.

I sit stiff on the couch, pen still in my hand, as their laughter fades down the hall. The door to Jimin’s room shuts, followed by silence so thick it feels suffocating.

Then the creak of his mattress reaches me. My stomach clenches, heat crawling up my neck.

I can’t sit here and listen to this.

Snapping my journal shut, I shove it into my bag and head for the door. I don’t even think to grab my keys—just yank it open and step into the stairwell, the air outside cooler, easier to breathe.

I’m dialing Jae before I even realize it. She answers quick, her voice bright. “Hey! How’s it going?”

“Going?” My laugh is bitter, harsh. “He brought a girl home. Tonight. I’ve been here for one day, Jae.”

Silence, then a sharp exhale. “God, are you serious? What an asshole.”

“I could hear them down the hall,” I mutter, lowering my voice even though I’m outside. “I can’t do this. I can’t live like this.”

“He’s supposed to respect you,” Jae snaps. “Not treat the place like a revolving door. That’s ridiculous.”

Her anger simmers on my behalf while I spill everything—how hungover he was when I arrived, how he forgot I was even moving in, the note, the smirk, all of it. She listens, fiercely loyal, but every word makes the knot in my chest tighter.

When I finally hang up, I feel wrung out. My legs ache from sitting on the step too long, so I force myself up, climbing back to the door.

I twist the knob.

It doesn’t budge.

My stomach drops. I try again, rattling it harder this time, but it’s locked tight. My keys—still sitting on the coffee table where I left them—flash in my memory.

“Perfect,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against the door. Behind it, faint laughter drifts down the hall, muffled but taunting.

And here I am—locked out of my own apartment on my second day of living here.

For a long moment I just stand there, glaring at the locked door, fighting the urge to scream. Then I turn on my heel and head down the stairwell.

The evening air is cool against my flushed skin, the city alive with neon and noise. My feet carry me down the block, past the glow of storefronts and the hum of traffic, until I spot a small bar tucked between a diner and a laundromat. The kind of place that promises dim lighting and cheap drinks.

I push inside.

The air is warmer here, the low thrum of music buzzing under the clink of glasses. A handful of people sit scattered along the bar, the bartender polishing a glass with a rag. I slide onto a stool, drop my bag at my feet, and order the first thing that comes to mind.

When the drink arrives, cold and sweating against my hand, I take a long swallow, ignoring the burn.

Anything is better than sitting outside my own apartment, listening to Jimin through the walls.

The first drink goes down too fast. So does the second. By the third, the knot in my chest has dulled into a heavy, hazy warmth, the edges of my frustration blurring under the soft glow of the bar lights.

I flip my journal open on the counter, not to write, just to run my fingers over the page, staring at words I can’t even focus on anymore.

That’s when my phone buzzes across the bar top.

Jimin.

His name lights up the screen, stark and unwelcome. I blink at it, the liquor buzzing in my veins, my stomach sinking even as irritation flares.

For a second, I consider letting it ring out. Pretending I didn’t see it.

But the bartender glances at me, and the vibration rattles again against the wood, and before I can talk myself out of it, I swipe to answer.

“Y/N?” Jimin’s voice filters through, low and impatient. There’s background noise behind him, muffled voices I don’t want to picture. “Where the hell are you?”

I press my glass to my lips, even though it’s empty now, and laugh bitterly. “Locked out of my own apartment, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me?” Jimin’s voice is gentler than I expect, threaded with confusion. “I didn’t lock you out.”

I huff into the phone, swiveling the empty glass in my hand. “No, but it’s not like I could ask you to let me back in. You were too occupied with that girl.”

There’s a pause on the line, heavy enough that I picture him rubbing the back of his neck the way he did this morning, weighing his words.

“I… didn’t know you left,” he admits finally. His voice is softer now, stripped of its usual smug edge. “I would’ve—Y/N, I wouldn’t have left you out there.”

The knot in my chest twists again, but this time it’s harder to tell if it’s anger or something else entirely.

I grip the phone tighter, staring at the half-lit bar, at strangers laughing softly over their drinks, and suddenly I don’t know what to say.

“I’ll come get you,” Jimin says suddenly, his tone firmer now, cutting through the static of the line.

I let out a short laugh, shaking my head at the rim of my empty glass. “Relax. I’m just at the bar across the street. I’ll be back when I feel like it.”

There’s a pause, then the sound of movement on his end—like keys being snatched up, a door creaking.

“I’m coming to get you,” he says simply. No room for argument, no hesitation.

I sit up straighter on the barstool, clutching the phone tighter. “No, you’re not. Jimin, seriously—I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Good thing I’m not one,” he shoots back. “I’m your roommate.”

My laugh is sharp, bitter. “Since when does ‘roommate’ mean barging into bars and dragging me home?”

“Since you’re drunk and sitting alone across the street from our apartment,” he says, his tone even but pointed. “And since it’s my fault you’re locked out in the first place.”

I press my lips together, fighting the warmth that creeps up my neck—not from the drinks this time, but from the stubborn certainty in his voice.

“You’re unbelievable,” I mutter.

“Maybe,” he says, and I hear the faint sound of a door clicking shut on his end, footsteps echoing. “But I’m still coming.”

Exposed Part Two; The Tape

Pairing: Jeon Jungkook x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: sex tape leak, non-consensual distribution of private media, explicit sexual content, bondage/restraints, blindfolding, gagging, choking (light breath play), rough sex, begging/power dynamics, consensual kink elements, emotional aftermath (shame/guilt/betrayal), profanity

Summary: Y/n leaves Jungkook’s studio with her pride barely intact, only to overhear him on the phone calling someone else baby. Shaken and raw, she returns home and, against her better judgment, reopens the leaked video that has destroyed her sense of safety. What she sees isn’t just sex—it’s a mix of control, intimacy, and vulnerability that was meant to stay private, making its exposure all the more devastating.

Part Two; The Tape

“Then you’re on your own. But we both know you don’t have to be.”

I stand there, frozen, my hands still wrapped around myself. The fight is gone, burned out of me, leaving only the heavy ache of shame and exhaustion. For the first time all night, I don’t feel furious. Just… tired.

My eyes drop to the floor between us, the faint reflection of his body stretched across the polished surface. The silence stretches, but not like before—it isn’t sharp or suffocating. Just heavy. Real.

Jungkook shifts, running a hand through his damp hair, his towel forgotten on the floor. When he finally speaks, his voice is softer, steadier. “Go home, Y/n. Try to get some rest. We’ll figure it out tomorrow.”

I nod once, quick, because I can’t trust my voice.

Still, I don’t move right away. I let the silence settle a little longer, let myself breathe past the tears that still cling stubbornly at the edges of my lashes. His eyes stay on me, unreadable, and I can’t decide if that makes it better or worse.

Finally, I manage a small step back. My voice comes out quiet, thin, but it’s there. “Goodnight, Jungkook.”

His lips part like he might say something, but he doesn’t. He just nods, once.

And that’s enough.

I turn around and head for the doors. My footsteps echo across the studio floor, each one heavier than the last. My hand closes around the handle, cool metal grounding me as I pull it open.

That’s when the silence breaks.

The sharp buzz of a phone rattles against the hardwood. I glance over my shoulder without thinking, catching the glow of his screen where it lights up beside his towel. He bends, snatching it up, thumb swiping across the glass.

I shouldn’t linger. I shouldn’t care. But my body won’t move.

“Hey, baby.”

The words hit me like a slap. His voice is low, ragged from hours of practice and from everything we just screamed at each other, but there’s no mistaking them. A sigh threads through the syllables—defeated, tired—but the intimacy in the word lands like a knife between my ribs.

My throat goes dry. For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe. Baby. He used to say it to me that way, quiet, almost absentminded. Like it wasn’t a nickname but a truth.

The world tilts, my vision swimming as the realization slices through me. He didn’t just move on. He replaced me.

I stand frozen in the doorway, every muscle straining like I might turn back, demand answers, scream all over again. But I don’t. My pride is the only thing left holding me together, and it drags me forward into the hall before my voice can betray me.

The door clicks shut behind me, muffling the sound of him speaking softly into the receiver. The hallway feels colder, the lights harsher, like I’ve stepped into another world where I don’t belong.

By the time I reach the lobby, my eyes are burning again, and I swipe at them furiously, refusing to let the tears fall where anyone can see.

The next thing I know, I’m unlocking my apartment door.

The hallway is dim, the only light spilling from the strip beneath my roommate’s door. The quiet feels suffocating after the chaos of the mall and the shouting match in Jungkook’s studio. I slip inside, closing the door as softly as I can, like noise might shatter what’s left of me.

My shoes come off by the mat, but I don’t bother lining them up. My bag slides from my shoulder, thudding against the floor. Every motion feels automatic, my body moving while my mind replays everything in jagged fragments—his voice saying I didn’t leak it, the way he looked at me when I cried, and then, worst of all, the phone pressed to his ear, the sigh wrapped around the word baby.

I retreat to my room, shutting the door behind me.

For a moment, I just stand there in the dark, my back pressed to the wood, the silence pressing down heavy. My phone feels like a stone in my hand, heavy enough to drag me under.

The link is still there. Waiting.

I stare at it until my vision blurs. My thumb hovers, trembling. Don’t. Don’t make it worse. Don’t give it more power.

I should delete it. I should throw the phone across the room, crush it under my heel, do anything but open it again. Watching it once already gutted me—why would I cut myself open a second time?

But my chest is tight, my stomach in knots. I need to know. I need to remember exactly what they’re seeing. What he still has of me.

“You’re pathetic,” I whisper to myself, shaking my head. But my thumb taps the link anyway.

The video loads, the thumbnail sharpening in the glow of my screen. Shame twists low in my gut, but I don’t look away this time. I don’t pause it. I let it play.

The video flickers on, the frame unsteady as the phone is set down on the dresser. My laugh comes first, nervous and high-pitched. “It’s on… right?”

Jungkook steps into view behind me, his arm sliding firmly around my waist, pulling me against his chest. His smile is small but wicked as he nuzzles into my neck, humming low. “Yeah. It’s on.” He lifts his gaze to the reflection in the mirror across the room, smirking at our blurry outline. “This what you wanted, baby? Something to watch when you miss me?”

I bite my lip, nodding. “Yeah… I guess so.”

“You guess so?” He chuckles darkly, pressing a kiss beneath my ear. “Don’t play coy. You asked for this. Don’t get shy now.”

I laugh again, weaker this time, and murmur, “I want it.”

“Good girl.” His voice drops, rich with satisfaction. “That’s all I needed to hear.”

His arm stays locked around my waist as he backs us up, step by deliberate step. My breath stutters with each movement, anticipation tightening my chest. Then, suddenly, the back of his legs knock into the edge of the mattress. The slight jolt halts us, the bed frame creaking faintly beneath the pressure.

For a moment, he just stands there, smirking down at me. His chest rises and falls against my back, his breath warm against my ear. Then, slowly, he loosens his hold, slipping away from behind me. My body sways without his grip as he pivots, circling me like a predator moving in for the kill.

When he stops, he’s in front of me now. The bed presses firmly against the backs of my thighs, trapping me between its edge and the bulk of his body. He takes his time looking me over, gaze dragging from my flushed face to my unsteady hands fidgeting at my sides.

“Perfect,” Jungkook murmurs, the word rolling low from his throat. His lips curl into a grin sharp enough to make my pulse jump. “Right where I want you.”

Before I can ask what he means, his hands snap up, gripping my waist with startling force. In one swift motion, he pushes me backward.

The mattress catches me, dipping hard beneath my weight before springing me into a bounce. A startled yelp escapes me, breaking halfway into a nervous laugh as my arms flail, scrambling for balance. My hair tumbles into my face, strands sticking to my lips as I land flat against the sheets, breath shallow.

When I finally look up at him, Jungkook is looming above, a silhouette framed by the soft glow of the camera light. He’s not laughing. His expression is one of deep, satisfied intent, his dark eyes fixed on me like I’ve landed exactly where he wanted all along.

“That’s better,” he says, his voice low and edged with amusement. “You look good down there.”

“Shut up,” I mutter with another shaky laugh, though the sound betrays me, thin and uneven.

Instead of answering, he leans forward, closing the space between us until his weight presses into the mattress at my sides. One of his hands snakes up, catching my wrist easily, pinning it against the bed above my head. The move is casual, effortless, like he’s barely trying.

With his other hand, he reaches toward the nightstand. The lens catches the gleam of something black slipping into his grip. A length of silk.

His smirk deepens as he lets the fabric dangle just above my lips, brushing the edge of it against my mouth. “Open.”

I blink up at him, heart hammering, unsure. “Wait—”

“Now.” The single word drops sharp, commanding, and his stare pins me harder than his hand does.

My lips part slowly, hesitantly. His tongue clicks, low and impatient. “Wider.”

The moment I obey, the camera captures it in perfect clarity—Jungkook shoving the scarf between my lips with one smooth push. The silk fills my mouth, muffling the sound of my protest into something soft and pitiful.

My eyes widen, my body jerks faintly beneath him, but the fabric stays, heavy and invasive. Jungkook tilts his head, studying me, his thumb brushing lazily across the corner of my gagged mouth. His expression is smug, satisfied, like he’s seeing exactly what he wanted to see.

“There we go,” he murmurs, voice rich and deliberate. His thumb presses once more at the corner of my gagged mouth before he shifts, reaching for the nightstand.

Another strip of silk slides through his fingers, darker, heavier. He holds it up for the camera for just a beat, then lowers it toward my face.

“Eyes closed,” he orders, though the command is almost unnecessary. My lashes flutter down instinctively, my body tense beneath him. Still, he takes his time, settling the fabric snugly over my eyes, tying it firm enough that no light seeps through.

Darkness swallows everything. My breathing quickens, every sound and movement amplified now that sight is gone.

“Perfect,” Jungkook mutters, satisfaction dripping from the word. “Now you don’t get to see me—you just feel me.”

The mattress dips as he lowers himself again, his mouth finding the curve of my chest. He doesn’t hesitate this time, going straight to my breast, lips closing over the thin barrier of fabric before tugging it aside.

The camera captures the sharp intake of breath that rattles through me, the muffled noise spilling around the gag.

Jungkook hums in approval, his tongue circling slowly, deliberately, before he sucks hard enough to make my back arch off the bed.

“Good girl,” he says against my skin, the vibration of his voice sending another jolt through me. He alternates between slow drags of his tongue and quick, sharp sucks, each one pulling louder sounds from me even though they’re stifled.

He pulls back only to bite lightly, teasing, then soothes the spot with his mouth.

His smirk curves against me before he drags his mouth away, slow and deliberate. My chest rises fast, the blindfold making every second feel longer, heavier. Then his lips trail across to the other side, his breath hot against my skin.

Without warning, he latches onto my other breast, sucking harder this time, the wet sound sharp in the quiet room. I gasp into the gag, the silk muffling it but not enough. My body jerks beneath him, a strangled cry pushing free.

Jungkook chuckles low against my skin, his tongue circling lazily before biting just enough to make me squirm. “So sensitive,” he murmurs, amused.

I moan again, louder this time, the sound desperate through the gag.

That makes him laugh outright, a dark, delighted sound. He lifts his head suddenly, dragging his mouth up my chest until he’s hovering over me again. His face presses close to mine, his thumb brushing my cheek as he tilts my head toward the camera.

“Shhh,” he says, voice soft but teasing, the laugh still lingering in his tone. He leans closer until his lips graze the fabric stuffed into my mouth, giggling low. “Careful, baby. You’re gonna wake the neighbors.”

He kisses the gag once, quick and mocking. His smirk deepens as his eyes drag down my body, the weight of his stare making me squirm. His hands slide down, fingers gripping the waistband of my pants tight.

“You won’t be needing these,” he mutters, almost casual, but there’s a dark edge in his tone.

Before I can react, he yanks hard. The fabric tears down my hips in one rough pull, the sound loud in the quiet room. A muffled gasp bursts from me against the gag, my body jerking from the sudden force.

Jungkook chuckles low, watching me writhe. “Yeah… that’s it.”

He doesn’t pause, tugging the pants the rest of the way down with quick, impatient motions before tossing them aside. My skin prickles as cool air hits, and his hands immediately return to my thighs, firm and unrelenting as he pushes them apart.

Jungkook doesn’t move right away. His hands stay clamped on my thighs, thumbs stroking lazy circles against my skin as if he has all the time in the world. The silk blindfold makes every touch sharper, every shift heavier.

I whimper against the gag, the sound muffled and small, and his chuckle follows, low and amused.

“Impatient already?” His tone is playful, but the way his grip tightens leaves no doubt who’s in control. “Relax. I’ll get there.”

He drags one hand up slowly, skimming along the inside of my thigh, tracing dangerously close before pulling away at the last second. The movement makes my hips twitch, a frustrated sound catching in my throat.

He leans down, lips brushing the sensitive skin just above the edge of my underwear. He doesn’t kiss, not fully—just breathes against me, hot and deliberate. The gag muffles the sharp gasp that escapes, and he smirks against my skin.

“There it is,” he murmurs, almost pleased with himself. “Every little noise… you can’t hide them from me.”

His fingers slip under the band of my underwear, not tugging yet, just testing, stretching the elastic against my skin before letting it snap back lightly. I jolt, and he laughs quietly, the sound curling warm and taunting.

“You want me to take these off too, don’t you?” Jungkook asks, his voice dipping lower, teasing but steady. He doesn’t wait for an answer, brushing his thumb along the edge again, keeping me guessing.

Another muffled whimper escapes me, high and broken behind the scarf. Jungkook stills for a moment, then sits back slightly, his eyes glinting.

“Mm,” he hums, tilting his head. “No… I want to hear it.”

He slips his fingers to my lips, tugging the silk out of my mouth in one smooth pull. The scarf falls damp into his hand, and he tosses it aside without looking.

“Now,” he says, voice low, sharp. “Beg.”

My lips part, but instead of giving in, a shaky laugh slips out. “Why would I? That’s what you want, isn’t it?"

His brows lift, his smirk flickering into something darker. “Unbelievable,” he mutters, chuckling under his breath. “You’re really gonna play bratty with me right now?”

I shrug, tilting my chin up in defiance, even blindfolded. “Maybe I like watching you get frustrated.”

For a moment, silence hums between us, heavy, charged. Then Jungkook lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head like he can’t believe me.

His hand slides up suddenly, fingers wrapping lightly around my throat. The pressure isn’t enough to hurt — just enough to remind me who’s holding me down. His thumb presses at my pulse, steady, deliberate.

“Try again,” he says, voice low, edged with amusement. His grip tightens fractionally, making my breath catch. “Beg.”

My throat works against his hand, a gasp slipping free. “Jungkook—”

“Louder.” His smirk widens, but his eyes glint with warning. “You wanted to tease me? Fine. But now you’re going to beg until I’m satisfied.”

A shaky sound leaves my throat, half whimper, half word. “P-please…”

He tilts his head, pretending not to hear. “What was that?”

“Please,” I say again, louder, desperate now. My chest heaves against his hold, my voice breaking. “Please, Jungkook, I’ll do anything, just—fuck me.”

His eyes glint, satisfied. “There it is.”

His free hand slides down, pressing firmly over the damp fabric of my panties, his fingers finding my clit with unrelenting circles. The sudden pressure forces a cry out of me, raw and needy.

“Say it again,” he orders, his grip still tight at my throat, keeping me pinned.

“Please!” I gasp, the words tumbling out between broken moans. “Please, Jungkook, fuck me—I need you, I need you so bad—”

Each plea comes sharper, more frantic, until I sound wrecked, begging without shame. The camera catches it all: my trembling body, the blindfold hiding my eyes, the way my voice grows more desperate under his hand.

Jungkook leans down, lips brushing my ear as his finger moves harder, more precise. “Good girl,” he breathes, satisfied.

His grip loosens from my throat, fingers trailing away as my lungs drag in a shaky breath. Before I can settle, he dips down, his lips brushing just under my ear. The kiss is firm, heated, and paired with a low hum that vibrates against my skin.

“You sound so pretty when you beg,” Jungkook murmurs, almost affectionate, though his tone still carries that edge of control.

I shiver beneath him, gasping when his hand squeezes briefly at my thigh. But the moment doesn’t linger.

He straightens, reaching past me toward the foot of the bed. The silk scarf lies where he tossed it earlier, dark and damp, waiting. He snatches it up without ceremony.

“Open,” he says simply.

I shake my head faintly, chest still rising fast, but his smirk deepens. He presses the scarf against my lips, fingers firm at my jaw until my mouth parts again in reluctant obedience.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, his voice low and smug. With one smooth push, he shoves the scarf back between my lips, filling my mouth until the next sound I make is swallowed whole.

“There we go,” Jungkook says, chuckling under his breath as he strokes my cheek with his thumb. “So much better when you can’t argue.”

The scarf muffles my breathing, each exhale hot and shaky against the silk. Jungkook lingers for a moment, studying me with a look that’s half-smirk, half-possession, before his hand drifts lower again.

His fingers hook under the thin band of my underwear. This time, there’s no teasing pause, no test. He pulls them down in one decisive motion, sliding them over my hips and down my thighs until they’re tossed aside with my pants.

The cool air makes me shiver, but it’s nothing compared to his touch. His hand is back between my legs immediately, his thumb finding my clit with practiced precision. He circles slowly at first, then firmer, watching the way I writhe beneath him.

“Mm,” Jungkook hums, tilting his head, eyes locked on me. “Look at you. Already falling apart, and I’ve barely touched you.”

A muffled moan escapes me, sharp and broken through the gag. His hand doesn’t stop, but he leans down slightly, voice a low murmur.

“Shhh,” he says, almost teasing. “Quiet now. Don’t make me stop.”

Another sound slips free — louder, desperate — and again, he hushes me, a small laugh slipping out as his thumb presses harder. “I said quiet, baby. Neighbors, remember?”

The camera catches everything: my hips jerking up against his hand, my fingers twisting in the sheets, the way my blindfolded head thrashes side to side as if that could muffle my noises.

And then, without warning, he pulls his hand away.

I let out a muffled cry of frustration, but it dies quickly when the mattress shifts and his mouth replaces his hand.

Warmth. Wetness. His tongue laves over my clit in one slow drag, his hum vibrating against me. My whole body jolts, a strangled sound caught in my throat.

He chuckles low against my skin, then settles in, licking and sucking in steady rhythm, savoring every twitch, every muffled moan he pulls out of me.

The gag muffles my cries, but Jungkook still lifts his head just long enough to murmur against me, “Shhh. Be good for me.” Then his mouth is back on me, relentless.

Jungkook doesn’t rush. His mouth moves in unhurried strokes, deliberate, like he has all night to unravel me piece by piece. His tongue circles lazily over my clit, then flicks quick and sharp, each shift pulling a new muffled cry from behind the gag.

“God, you taste good,” he mutters against me, his lips curling before sucking hard enough to make my thighs jolt around his head. His hands press them down instantly, pinning me flat. “Ah—no. Stay still.”

The demand is quiet but firm, and when I writhe again, his fingers squeeze harder at my hips, holding me in place as his mouth returns to its steady rhythm.

Heat pools low in my stomach, coiling tighter with each pass of his tongue. I can feel the edge rising, sharp and unbearable, but just as I get close—just as the tension threatens to snap—he pulls back.

The sudden absence makes me whine, high and desperate into the silk gag. My hips buck up, chasing him, but he only laughs softly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Too soon,” Jungkook says, voice dripping with satisfaction. “Not letting you off that easy.”

The bed shifts as he pulls back, and I can hear it—the slow, deliberate sound of a zipper, the rustle of clothes hitting the floor. My pulse spikes, blindfold cutting me off from everything but sound and touch.

Then the mattress dips under his weight again.

His hands spread me wide, the blindfold amplifying every sensation until I feel him everywhere at once. The blunt head of his cock presses against me, hot and heavy, dragging slowly through my slick folds as if to remind me what’s coming.

I barely manage a muffled whimper before he thrusts forward in one hard stroke, splitting me open. The force of it knocks the air from my lungs, my body arching off the bed as the gag swallows my cry.

The stretch burns, sharp and unyielding, but it’s full—so full I can’t breathe, can’t think. My thighs tremble against his grip as he buries himself to the hilt, his groan rumbling low above me.

“Fuck,” Jungkook snarls, holding me down as my body clenches tight around him. “So fucking tight.”

Jungkook doesn’t give me time to adjust. The moment he’s inside me, his hips snap forward again, the rhythm brutal, relentless. Each thrust drives me deeper into the mattress, the sheets twisting beneath my fists as my body struggles to keep up.

The blindfold shifts with every slam, sliding against my damp skin until it slips lower, light bleeding in at the edges. My head jerks side to side, trying to keep it in place, but his pace is merciless, every movement shaking it looser.

The gag catches my cries, turning them into broken, muffled sounds that only make him groan louder above me. His hands grip my thighs like vices, holding me spread open as he pounds into me, skin meeting skin in sharp, wet slaps.

“Fuck,” he snarls through clenched teeth, his breath ragged. “You take me so well—look at you.”

The blindfold dips lower, the edge of it sliding past my lashes until faint light seeps in. I gasp against the gag, thrashing my head to keep it in place, but Jungkook’s sharp eyes don’t miss a thing.

His pace falters, slowing into deep, rolling thrusts. A laugh slips out of him, low and breathless. “Blindfold’s not doing its job anymore, huh?”

The sudden change makes me giggle around the gag, muffled and weak. Jungkook smirks at the sound, leaning down until his breath fans hot against my cheek. His hand slides up, fingers tugging at the silk knot until it unravels and peels away.

The world floods back into focus, and there he is—sweaty, flushed, eyes locked on mine. He holds my gaze as his hips snap forward again, slow but brutal, each thrust deep enough to make me cry out behind the gag.

“Much better,” he murmurs, his smirk softening into something more dangerous as his stare pins me. “I like watching your eyes when I fuck you.”

Jungkook’s thrusts stay slow and deliberate, his eyes locked on mine. Then his gaze flicks to my gagged mouth, his smirk curling.

“Let’s change this up,” he mutters, pulling back just enough to tug the scarf free from between my lips. The fabric is damp with spit, cool as he slides it from my mouth. I suck in a ragged breath, my voice finally free, but he’s already moving, already grabbing my wrists.

He pins them above my head, pressing them into the mattress with one hand. With the other, he knots the silk around them, tight enough to hold but not enough to hurt, the dark fabric binding me in place.

“There,” Jungkook says, voice low and satisfied. He leans down until his lips brush my ear, his thrusts still rolling into me slow and hard. “Now you’re not going anywhere.”

I gasp, my arms straining instinctively against the gag-turned-restraint, but the knot holds firm. His hand slides down to my jaw, turning my face back toward his.

“Be quiet,” he warns, his tone sharp enough to cut. “Or I’ll stop.”

The next thrust drives deep, making me choke on a moan I barely swallow in time. His eyes narrow, watching me struggle, the threat hanging heavy between us as his hips keep moving—slow, deep, punishing.

Jungkook’s warning still echoes in my head, but the moment his pace changes, I know I won’t survive it. His hips snap harder, faster, the rhythm brutal now, each thrust slamming deep enough to rattle the headboard against the wall.

A sharp moan rips out of me before I can stop it, muffled only when I bury my face into his shoulder. My bound wrists strain above me, but I can’t hold back—the sound spills hot against his skin.

For a second, I brace for him to stop, to punish me like he promised. But he doesn’t.

Instead, his chest shudders against mine, his breath hitching as he drives into me harder. A low groan tears from his throat, raw and unrestrained, and then he drops his head into the crook of my neck.

The heat of his mouth ghosts over my skin, damp with sweat, his voice breaking into moans that mix with mine. Every thrust rocks us both, the bed creaking under the force, the air thick with the sound of skin meeting skin and our voices tangling together.

The threat is gone. There’s no more pretense of control—just the messy, desperate rhythm of us both falling apart.

Jungkook drags me upright with him, his grip unrelenting. My bound wrists are pulled down, forced around his neck until the scarf tightens, holding me flush against him.

“Here,” he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. “You stay right here. Wrapped around me.”

I nod quickly, breath shuddering, but he isn’t satisfied. His eyes catch mine, dark and burning. “Say it.”

“I’ll stay,” I whisper, my voice breaking. “I won’t let go.”

“Good girl,” he breathes, and then he pulls me down on him again.

The stretch makes me moan into his shoulder, but this time he groans with me, his forehead pressing hard to mine. His hands tighten on my hips, guiding me, forcing me to ride him, but the way his eyes stay locked on mine makes every thrust feel heavier, deeper.

“God,” Jungkook pants, his voice fraying. “You feel like you were made for me.”

My wrists tighten instinctively behind his neck, pulling him closer. “Jungkook…”

His lips brush my temple, his thrusts slowing but hitting deeper, filling me completely before dragging out again. “That’s it,” he murmurs, his voice breaking with heat and something softer. “Say my name. I want to hear you… I want to feel every bit of you.”

The scarf bites into my wrists as I cling to him, his words as overwhelming as his body, every thrust pulling another sound from me, tangled with his own moans against my skin.

Jungkook’s thrusts are deep, rough, every snap of his hips forcing me to take him to the hilt. The scarf around my wrists keeps me bound to him, my chest pressed tight against his as his forehead rests against mine. Each movement knocks a muffled cry from me, my whole body straining against the pace he sets.

But then his rhythm falters—just a beat, just enough—and something inside me surges. My hips roll forward, grinding down on him, and the groan that rips out of his throat makes heat flare low in my stomach.

I shift, pushing harder, bouncing on him before he can take back control. The angle changes, his cock dragging deeper with every drop of my hips, and suddenly it’s me fucking him, riding him like I’ve been starved for it.

“Please,” I gasp, the words tumbling out as my wrists pull tight against the scarf behind his neck. “Please, Jungkook—let me cum. I need it.”

His head tips back, a guttural moan tearing from his chest, raw and wrecked. His hands slip from my waist, falling to the sheets as I ride him faster, slamming down on him with frantic, desperate rhythm.

The sight of him undone beneath me—throat bared, chest heaving, fists clenching the sheets—makes my body clench tighter around him, my own release spiraling dangerously close.

“Look at me,” I pant, tugging the scarf until it pulls him closer. His head snaps down, dark eyes locking with mine. I grind harder, bouncing faster, my voice breaking. “Don’t look away, Jungkook. I need you to see me.”

His jaw flexes, his moans spilling rough and unrestrained, but he doesn’t fight me. He nods once—sharp, deliberate—giving me the permission I’ve been chasing.

His hand slides between us, fingers finding my clit. The first press makes me cry out, my whole body jerking as he rubs tight, merciless circles.

“Fuck—yes, just like that,” he groans, his voice breaking. “Cum for me, baby. I want to feel it.”

The pressure detonates, my body clamping around him as release rips through me. My moan shatters in the air, raw and desperate, every nerve sparking as I writhe against him. My thighs tremble, my cunt squeezing him in spasms that drag his own broken sounds from his throat.

“God—” Jungkook’s head drops to my shoulder, his rhythm stuttering. He slams up into me once, twice more before he unravels, his groan guttural as he spills inside me.

The heat of it floods me, each twitch of his cock dragging another aftershock from my body. We shake together, tangled and breathless, until the movements slow and we’re left clinging to each other—sweat, silk, and the sound of our ragged breathing filling the room.

Our bodies still tremble as the rhythm slows, the heat of him spilling inside me, my own release pulsing through the last aftershocks. For a moment, there’s only sound—our ragged breaths, the creak of the bed, the faint hum of the camera forgotten across the room.

Then Jungkook exhales, long and shaky, and his grip softens. His hands leave my hips to trail gently up my sides, fingers stroking like he’s smoothing the fight out of me. He untangles the scarf from my wrists, freeing me, and the moment it’s gone I collapse against him.

His arms wrap around me instantly, tight, protective. He buries his face in my hair, pressing hot, lingering kisses to the crown of my head, then my temple, then the damp line of my jaw.

“You were so good,” he whispers, his voice rough but tender now. “So, so good for me.”

I melt into him, my chest pressed to his, and let my hands finally roam—across the slick lines of his shoulders, down his back, pulling him even closer. His skin is warm, trembling under my touch, and when I tilt my head, his lips find mine without hesitation.

The kiss is nothing like before. It’s soft, deep, achingly slow. His mouth moves against mine like he’s savoring me, like he doesn’t want to let go.

He pulls back just enough to brush his nose against mine, his thumb caressing my cheek. “I love you,” he murmurs before pressing another tender kiss to my swollen lips.

I sigh into it, arms curling tighter around his neck as he peppers kisses across my face—my eyelids, my cheeks, the tip of my nose. Every touch is gentle, reverent, as though he’s piecing me back together after tearing me apart.

The rough edges of moments ago dissolve into warmth. His hand strokes up and down my back, his lips never leaving my skin for long, and I cling to him, soaking in every kiss, every whisper, every careful caress that says more than words ever could.

The screen goes black, leaving me staring at my own reflection in the glass. My chest is still heaving, but the room around me is silent—too silent. No soft whispers, no lingering kisses. Just the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen and the faint tick of the clock on the wall.

I sit frozen, the weight of the video pressing down like a stone on my chest. It was ours. It was tender. It was private.

And now it’s out there, tangled in the hands of strangers who’ll never understand what it meant.

The quiet feels unbearable, my room suffocating with the ghosts of voices that aren’t here anymore. I fumble to shut the phone off, tossing it face-down on the bed like that might erase the images still burned into my mind.

Exposed Masterpost

Pairing: Jungkook x female reader

Total Word Count: 5.3k (ongoing)

Warnings: graphic smut, explicit sexual content, light BDSM, power dynamics, restraint, dirty talk, spanking, leaked sex tape (non-consensual distribution, not by main characters), strong language, angst, arguments, jealousy, possessiveness, public humiliation, reputational fallout, consensual rough intimacy, alcohol use

Summary: When a sex tape she thought was long buried suddenly leaks online, y/n’s world unravels overnight. The humiliation, the betrayal, the fury—it all points to one person: her ex, Jeon Jungkook.

Determined to confront him, she storms back into his life ready for war. But Jungkook’s shock is real, and so is his claim that he deleted the video years ago. He’s “moved on,” he insists, with no reason to expose either of them—yet the look in his eyes tells a different story.

Now forced to face each other again, y/n and Jungkook are pulled into a messy hunt for the truth, where old wounds reopen as fast as the sparks reignite. Between accusations and apologies, anger and desire, they’ll have to decide if the leak is the only thing dragging their past back into the light… or if some loves refuse to stay buried.

A story of betrayal, obsession, and the thin line between hate and longing.

Parts:

Part One; Leaked

Part Two; The Tape

Part Three; Alliance

Exposed Part 1; Leaked

Pairing: Jungkook x Female Reader

Word Count: 5.3k

Warnings: leaked sex tape (non-consensual distribution, not by main characters), explicit sexual memory/description (kink, blindfold, power dynamics), public humiliation, panic and anxiety, crying, argument/fight, emotional distress, anger, mistrust, accusations of betrayal

Summary: Y/n’s night out with her best friend takes a devastating turn when a shocking video surfaces, throwing her into a whirlwind of panic and betrayal. Convinced she knows who’s behind it, she sets out to confront the one person she never thought she’d face again.

Part 1; Leaked

The mall hums with its usual symphony of chaos—teenagers shrieking at the top floor arcade, a baby wailing near the fountain, and the faint buzz of pop music spilling out of a store that smells like cheap perfume.

I sit cross-legged on the concrete ledge outside the food stalls, balancing a flimsy paper plate on my lap. The skewer in my hand drips with sauce that stains the corner of my napkin orange, and the taste of fried batter lingers heavy on my tongue.

Across from me, my best friend is still buzzing, practically vibrating with excitement. Her left hand keeps flashing in the fluorescent lights, her new engagement ring catching every glow and gleam like it’s performing for an audience.

“Okay, but seriously,” she says for what has to be the fifteenth time in the last hour, “look at this thing. Doesn’t it make me look… older? Like I’m suddenly thirty and sophisticated or something?”

I smirk, biting into another piece of fried chicken. “It makes you look smug, that’s what it does. But in a cute way. The fiancée glow.”

She laughs, her whole face lighting up. “Don’t make me cry, I’ll ruin my eyeliner.”

I grin, leaning back on one arm, letting myself sink into the moment. This is normal. Just us, sharing greasy food and gossip like we’ve been doing since high school. For once, I don’t feel like I’m running behind on life. For once, I’m not measuring myself against anyone else.

My phone buzzes against the concrete. Once. Twice. A third time.

I don’t move at first—too content, too wrapped up in the sound of my friend’s happy ramble. But the buzz doesn’t stop, and finally I drag it closer, thumb unlocking the screen with practiced ease.

It’s from my roommate.

Is this you? That’s your bedroom.

A link sits beneath the two messages.

I blink at it, the words swimming for a second before they register.

“What’s wrong?” my friend asks through a mouthful of food. She notices my expression immediately, her smile faltering.

I shake my head, trying to play it off, but something in my chest feels wrong. Tight. My thumb hovers over the link, pulse flickering in my wrist.

Don’t. Don’t open it.

I open it anyway.

The video loads slowly—too slowly—until the blurred thumbnail sharpens, and my stomach drops. The air shifts around me. The noise of the mall becomes muffled, distant, like I’ve slipped underwater.

The play button flashes, and I press it with numb fingers.

My world fractures in an instant.

Because there I am. On the screen. In my bedroom.

And I know exactly what happens next.

The sound hits me before the sight does—my own voice, breathless, tangled between giggles and moans. It’s unmistakable.

The phone nearly slips from my hand.

I fumble to pause it, but the image burns itself into my eyes in that split second—the sheets, the walls, the headboard. My bedroom. My body. His hands.

My stomach lurches. I grip the ledge like it might stop me from falling straight through the floor.

“What is it?” My friend’s voice is soft at first, cautious. She leans forward, trying to peek at the screen.

I jerk the phone closer to my chest, heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat. “Nothing.”

“Don’t give me that. Your face just went white.”

“It’s—” My mouth is dry, words scraping like sandpaper. “It’s nothing, okay? Just—just something stupid.”

But the heat is already crawling up my neck, twisting into something sharp and hot. Anger. Shame. Fear. All tangled together until I can’t tell them apart.

I stand abruptly, sending my half-eaten food clattering to the floor. My friend calls my name, but I don’t stop. The noise of the mall is a dull roar in my ears as I push through the crowd and spill out onto the terrace, gulping at the cool evening air.

My hands are shaking when I unlock my phone again. Not to replay. Not to confirm. I already know.

I go straight to his account.

His profile stares back at me, smug and familiar, like it knows I’d end up here. My thumb hesitates only for a moment before tapping the glowing circle of his story.

The photo is grainy, taken in his studio, but his face is clear. He’s leaning against the wall, casual, unbothered, with a caption typed in block letters beneath:

Open hours today: 3–8pm. Swing by.

My blood runs hot.

Of course. He’s out there promoting himself like nothing happened, like my entire life hasn’t just been ripped open. Smiling, posting, carrying on as if he didn’t just put me on display for the world.

I scroll through more of his feed, searching for anything—some slip, some sign of guilt—but all I find are the same snapshots of his untouchable life. Him in the studio. Him laughing with friends. Him looking so infuriatingly normal, so untouchable.

“Y/n!” My friend’s voice cuts through my haze, her hand closing around my arm. “You’re scaring me—what’s going on?”

I pull away, throat raw with words I can’t say here, not with so many people around. Not with my chest about to split open from the weight of it.

“I need to go,” I manage, my voice sharp, final.

Her eyes widen, but I don’t give her the chance to argue. My phone is already back in my hand, the address of his studio burned into my mind.

If Jungkook thinks he can ruin me and walk away smiling, he’s about to learn just how wrong he is.

Tonight, I’m showing up at his door.

By the time I reach the parking lot, my body feels like it’s moving on autopilot. Keys, door, ignition—I don’t even register the motions until I’m gripping the wheel so tightly my fingers ache.

But I can’t stop seeing it.

The beginning is seared into my brain—the phone wobbling as I press record, my nervous laugh, the way his arms wrap around me from behind. He’d hummed against my skin, lazy and warm, before kissing down the side of my neck. His voice muffled into my shoulder, teasing, “Don’t get shy now,” as he guided me back toward the bed.

I swallow hard, but it doesn’t wash away the lump in my throat.

The rest unspools just as vividly. The way he eased me down onto the mattress, his hands sliding over me like he owned every inch. His voice was low, coaxing me, calling me his good girl when I listened, laughing softly when I hid my face in the pillow.

And God, the little things—the blindfold he tugged over my eyes, the silk scarf that made me trust him more than I ever thought I could. The way I reached for him without seeing, letting him kiss down my stomach, letting him tell me what to do.

It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t cruel. It was playful, intimate—kinky, yes—but it had been ours. Safe. Private.

Now it’s a spectacle.

Now strangers know what my voice sounds like when I beg. They’ve seen the way my hands twist in the sheets when I let go. They’ve watched the moment my blindfold slips and I laugh, embarrassed, and he kisses me like he loves me anyway.

My chest tightens so hard I can barely breathe.

That was supposed to stay hidden. Just ours.

I slam my palm against the wheel, frustration boiling into a sound somewhere between a growl and a sob.

How could he? How could he let this happen?

The closer I get to his studio, the more my humiliation curdles into fury. I can’t stop seeing it, can’t stop hearing my own voice through tinny speakers, can’t stop imagining his face when he pressed “delete” and promised it was gone forever.

He lied. He had to have lied.

And tonight, I’ll make him admit it.

By the time I pull into the studio’s parking lot, my heart feels like it’s been beating in my throat for miles. The neon sign buzzes above the entrance, casting the sidewalk in a sickly glow. My hands are still trembling when I shove the car into park.

The drive hasn’t cooled me off. If anything, the video has only replayed sharper, meaner, more vivid. Every second a blade against my chest. His voice. My voice. The blindfold slipping. The way I looked at him like he was the only thing in the world.

Tears sting my eyes as I step out of the car. I swipe at them furiously, but they just keep threatening, blurring the edges of the glass doors as I push them open.

The lobby is quiet, fluorescent lights humming overhead. A girl at the reception desk glances up from her computer, her polite smile faltering the second she sees me.

“Hi, can I—”

“Where is he?” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t help. “Jungkook. Where is he?”

Her brows lift, surprise flickering in her expression. “He’s here tonight, yes, but—”

“Where?” The tears finally spill, hot and fast, and I don’t care if she sees. “Please—just tell me where.”

The receptionist blinks, glances down at her screen like she isn’t sure she should answer. My nails dig into the edge of the counter, breath hitching as I wait.

Finally, she sighs. “Practice room three. Down the hall, second door on the left.”

I don’t even thank her. I’m already moving, the sound of my shoes loud against the polished floor.

The hallway feels endless, but my steps eat it up, fast and unsteady, until the frosted glass door of Practice Room 3 looms in front of me. My chest heaves, my hand slick against the cool metal handle.

I don’t think. I shove it open.

The door slams against the wall, the sound echoing through the empty studio.

Jungkook is crouched in front of the mirrored wall, a towel slung around his shoulders, a half-empty water bottle tipped to his mouth. Sweat beads down his temples, darkening the edges of his black shirt. He looks up, brows drawing together, the confusion immediate.

“Y/n?” His voice is rough, ragged from practice, but steady. Like he’s seeing a ghost. “What are you—”

“Don’t.” My voice breaks, tears sliding hot down my face before I can stop them. I step further inside, the door clicking shut behind me. “Don’t act like you don’t know why I’m here.”

His bottle lowers slowly, water still dripping down his chin as he straightens. He doesn’t move toward me—just studies me, bewildered, eyes sharp under the fluorescent lights. “I don’t. We haven’t seen each other in… what? Two years?”

“That doesn’t matter.” The words come out sharper than I expect, my voice shaking, my hands curling into fists at my sides. “What the hell is wrong with you? Why would you do this to me?”

His brows knit tighter, his head tilting. “Do what?”

“Don’t play dumb, Jungkook!” The sound rips out of me, raw, my throat tight. My reflection in the mirror looks wild, wrecked, but I can’t stop. “The video. You leaked it. My room, my voice, me—everyone’s seen it!”

For a moment, the silence feels deafening. His face hardens, but not with guilt—with disbelief. He just shakes his head once, eyes narrowing as if trying to process whether I’m serious.

Finally, his voice cuts through the static in my ears. “Proof. Show me what you’re talking about.”

My whole body shakes at his words. Proof. He wants proof.

The phone is heavy in my hand, burning against my palm like it knows what’s on it. The thought of showing him makes my stomach twist—like humiliating myself all over again, like handing him the knife he’s already twisted into me.

For a second, I can’t move. My throat locks up, tears hot against my skin.

But then anger wins.

“Fine.” My voice cracks, raw, as I swipe through the messages and pull up the link. My hand shakes as I march across the room, holding it out to him. “You want proof? Here.”

He takes it without flinching, thumb pressing to the screen. The video begins to play.

His face fills the silence—his arms looped tight around my waist, his mouth pressed to my neck, my nervous laugh. His eyes flicker down, watching for only a few seconds before his mouth curves.

A smirk.

Then he exhales sharply, shakes his head, and pushes the phone back toward me. “Why would I post this?” His voice is flat, almost incredulous. “It incriminates me too.”

The words hit like a slap. My face burns, shame and fury colliding all at once.

I snatch the phone back, my hand trembling as I lock the screen. His words echo in my head, cold and logical, but it’s the smirk that won’t let go. The curve of his mouth. The flicker of amusement like this is some kind of joke.

I wipe at my face with the back of my sleeve, breathing hard, trying to steady myself before I speak. My voice comes out calmer than I feel, but tight, clipped, defensive.

“Then why did you smirk?”

His brows lift slightly, his posture still relaxed, crouched there on the floor like I haven’t just cracked wide open in front of him.

“Because,” he says simply, like it should be obvious, “you storm in here accusing me of ruining your life, and the proof you shove in my face starts with you recording us like it was your idea.” He gestures loosely toward the phone. “Forgive me if I find the irony hard to ignore.”

“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, my voice ragged as the tears keep spilling. “You knew what you were doing. You’re the only one who had it—who else would’ve posted it?”

Jungkook pushes himself to his feet, the towel sliding off his shoulders and hitting the floor. His face is flushed from practice, but now his eyes burn with something hotter. “Posted it? Are you kidding me? Why the hell would I post something like that? What good does it do me?”

“It destroys me!” My chest heaves, the words ripping out of me. “That’s the point, isn’t it? You get to watch me crumble while everyone sees me like—like that.”

His laugh is sharp, humorless, cutting through the air. “You’re unbelievable. You act like I’m the villain here when you’re the one who pressed record in the first place! Don’t pin this on me.”

I choke, furious and humiliated all at once. “Don’t twist this, Jungkook! We both wanted it. You didn’t stop me—you never stopped me! You leaned into it, you—” My voice breaks. “You knew I wanted to remember us. And now everyone else gets to remember us too.”

“Because of you!” His shout reverberates off the mirrors, his chest rising and falling with each heavy breath. “You had to record it. You had to have proof, like pictures weren’t enough. I told you it was a bad idea, Y/n. I said it a hundred times!”

“You didn’t say no!” I fire back, pointing a trembling finger at him. “You wanted it as much as I did, don’t stand there pretending you hated it! You kissed me, you—” My throat tightens. “You made it feel safe.”

“And you made it permanent,” he spits. “You wanted the damn video, and now you’re standing here acting like I’m the one who ruined your life when all I did was trust you enough to go along with it.”

My hand curls tighter around the phone until my knuckles ache. “Don’t you dare blame me for this! You’re the one who leaked it, Jungkook. You’re the one who hit send, or upload, or whatever the hell you did. This isn’t on me.”

His glare sharpens, the disbelief twisting his features. “And you’re the one who made it exist at all. You can scream at me all you want, but if you’d never propped that phone up, none of this would even be happening.”

“God, you’re unbelievable!” I scream, my voice cracking under the weight of it. “You really think this is on me? That I wanted this to happen?”

“You sure as hell made it possible!” Jungkook’s voice booms through the practice room, rattling off the mirrors. His face is flushed, his jaw tight, eyes blazing. “You’re the one who had to record it, Y/n. You’re the one who pressed record. And now you’re standing here acting like I’m some villain plotting your downfall?”

“Because you are!” I shoot back, sobs shaking my chest, tears blinding me. “Who else had it, Jungkook? Who else could’ve leaked it? You held onto it for two years—don’t you dare act like your hands are clean!”

His fists clench at his sides, his voice rising into a shout. “I kept it because I loved you! Because it meant something to me! And you think I’d just throw it out there for everyone to watch? You think I wanted the world to see you like that?”

“Yes!” I roar, the word ripped out of me before I can think. “Because you hated me! You wanted revenge, you wanted me humiliated—well congratulations, you got it!”

Jungkook’s head jerks back like I slapped him, but his fury comes back twice as strong. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you stand there crying and tell me I wanted this. You begged for that video, Y/n! You made it happen. You pressed record. You—” He points at me, chest heaving. “You’re the reason it exists at all!”

“And you’re the reason it’s everywhere!” I scream, voice breaking into a sob. “Don’t you dare put this on me when you’re the one who let it out. You had the file, you had the chance to delete it—”

“I did!” he roars, cutting me off. His voice is raw, his throat as wrecked as mine. “The night we broke up, I deleted everything. You think I’ve been sitting on it, waiting for some perfect moment to ruin your life? That’s not love, Y/n—that’s psychotic!”

“And what you did to me wasn’t?” My voice cracks, ugly and bitter. “Dragging me through hell for years, making me beg for scraps of affection, making me feel like I was never enough unless I proved it—yeah, maybe you didn’t leak it, but you made me desperate enough to want the damn video in the first place!”

The room feels like it’s going to split in half, our voices still vibrating off the mirrors. My chest heaves, my face hot and wet with tears. His jaw works furiously as though he’s chewing through all the things he hasn’t said yet.

And then—silence.

Jungkook finally throws his hands up, dragging them down his face before letting them fall uselessly at his sides. The gesture is frustrated, exhausted, like he’s trying to shake the fight off him. For a heartbeat, neither of us speaks.

That’s when I hear it.

The phone, still lit on the floor between us. The soft, breathless moans pouring from its tiny speaker. My moans. His voice close behind them, low and coaxing. The room seems to shrink around the sound.

My stomach twists, my legs giving out beneath me as another sob rips from my throat. I cover my face with both hands, but it doesn’t block it out, doesn’t stop the shame that crashes over me in waves.

“God—” My voice breaks, muffled behind my palms. “God, I can’t—”

“Shit.” Jungkook moves before I can stop him, bending down to scoop the phone off the floor. The video cuts off with a sharp swipe, and the room plunges into silence again. He lingers there for a second, staring down at the dark screen, then sets it aside.

When he straightens, he looks lost for the first time all night. Awkward. Uneasy. His hands twitch like he doesn’t know what to do with them.

“Y/n…” His voice is quieter now, almost careful. “Don’t cry.”

The words only make me sob harder.

He hesitates, then takes a small step closer, his hand lifting like he might reach for me—but he stops short, letting it fall back to his side. His throat works before he tries again, softer.

“Look, I didn’t—” He exhales hard, scrubbing a hand through his hair. “I didn’t leak it. I swear to you, I didn’t. And I don’t… I don’t want to see you like this.”

I shake my head, arms wrapped tight around myself. My body won’t stop trembling. Every breath feels like a shudder.

For the first time since I burst through that door, Jungkook doesn’t look angry. He just looks… unsettled. Like my tears unravel him more than my shouting ever could.

“Don’t cry,” Jungkook says again, firmer this time, though his voice cracks under the weight of it.

I drag my hands down my face, my cheeks hot and wet, breath stuttering out in broken gasps. “Don’t tell me what to do. You don’t get to say that to me anymore.”

His jaw works, tension sharp in the line of his throat. “I’m not trying to tell you what to do. I just—” He cuts himself off, exhaling through his nose, frustrated. “You don’t cry like this. Not unless you’re really hurt.”

The words hit like a fist to the ribs. My head jerks up, eyes wide and raw.

Because I know what he means. He’s seen this before. Late nights, whispered fights, the kind of breakdowns I never showed anyone else. He was the only one who ever knew what it looked like when I fell apart.

And now he’s looking at me like nothing’s changed.

“Don’t,” I rasp, my voice trembling with fresh tears. “Don’t act like you still know me. You don’t.”

His lips press into a thin line, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “I know enough.”

I roll my eyes hard, dragging a sleeve across my wet cheeks like I can wipe away more than the tears. “There you go again. Acting like you’ve still got some claim on me. You don’t know me anymore, Jungkook. Stop pretending you do.”

His jaw flexes, his eyes narrowing as his patience thins. “I’m not pretending. I just—” He breaks off, exhaling sharply through his nose before his voice hardens. “Forget it.”

I cross my arms tight over my chest, my tone sharp, defensive. “No, go on. Say it. You were about to tell me what I feel, weren’t you? Because you always think you know better.”

He lets out a bitter laugh, low and disbelieving, dragging a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable. Even now. You’re standing here crying, wrecked, and instead of listening to me for one damn second, you turn it into another argument.”

The words cut, sharper than I want them to, but I lift my chin anyway, refusing to let him see it. “Because that’s all we ever did—argue. You never heard me then, and you sure as hell don’t hear me now.”

Jungkook shakes his head, frustrated, his voice rising. “No. You’re twisting it again. I’m trying to talk to you, but you don’t want to hear me. You just want me to be the villain in your story so you can keep screaming.”

“Villain in my story?” My voice pitches higher, trembling with rage. “You made yourself the villain, Jungkook! Don’t stand there acting like I wrote this out of thin air. You did this—you put me in this position!”

His eyes flash, his chest rising fast as his voice booms back. “And you won’t even consider that maybe you’re wrong! That maybe—just maybe—this wasn’t me! You’d rather tear me to pieces than face the fact that you’re not in control this time!”

“I’m not in control?” I scream, my whole body shaking. “I’ve been stripped bare in front of the entire world, and you’re telling me I just don’t like not being in control? Do you even hear yourself?”

“Yes, I hear myself!” he shouts, stepping closer, fury rolling off him in waves. “And I hear you too, Y/n—you’ve been screaming since the second you walked in. But you’re not saying anything except the same damn thing: it has to be my fault, it has to be me, because you can’t handle the idea that it might be more complicated than that!”

Tears stream down my face faster, hot and unrelenting. “Complicated? Complicated is a bad breakup. Complicated is moving on. This—” I stab a finger toward the dark phone on the floor, my voice cracking. “This is ruin, Jungkook! And the only person who could’ve ruined me like this is you!”

My words tear through the room like glass shattering. The silence that follows is sharp, jagged, until his voice cuts through it.

“I’m in that video too.”

I freeze, his words slamming into me harder than his shouting ever could. His chest is still heaving, his face red with fury, but his eyes burn with something else—something raw.

“I’m being exposed to the world too, Y/n,” he goes on, his voice ragged but forceful. “Do you think this is just about you? Do you think I wanted strangers seeing me like that? Hearing me? Watching me with you?”

The tears blur my vision until the mirror behind him is nothing but a smear of light and shadow. My mouth opens, then shuts, nothing coming out but a trembling breath.

“I didn’t leak it,” he says, quieter now but no less intense, every word sharp enough to cut. “Because I’d never humiliate myself like that either. So stop acting like I’m standing on the sidelines while you’re the only one bleeding.”

The words land hard, knocking the wind out of me. For the first time since I burst through that door, my mouth doesn’t know what to say.

I blink at him, my breath trembling as the silence stretches. He’s right—his face is there too, his voice, his body. The world isn’t just seeing me. They’re seeing us.

My arms wrap tighter around myself, defensive even as the edges of my certainty begin to fray. “You… you still had it. You promised me it was gone.” My voice is smaller now, cracked and hoarse. “You said you deleted everything.”

His throat bobs as he swallows, eyes locked on mine. “I did. Or I thought I did.”

My stomach flips, the hesitation clawing at me, threatening to undo the wall of anger I’ve built. I look away, shaking my head, because if I keep staring at him, I might start to believe him.

And believing him would be worse than hating him.

I look away, shaking my head, hugging myself tighter like that’s the only thing holding me together. The fight burns in my chest, but doubt seeps through the cracks, thick and heavy.

Jungkook runs a hand through his damp hair, his voice lower now, less sharp. “If you really think I leaked it… fine. Nothing I say is going to convince you otherwise tonight. But if you don’t…” He steps closer, cautious, his eyes steady on mine. “Then let me help. We’ll find out who did post it.”

I jerk my gaze back up to him, my tears stinging hotter. “Help? Why would I trust you with this? You’ve already—” My voice breaks, the rest swallowed in a ragged sob.

“Because I’m in it too,” he cuts in quickly, not letting me spiral. “It’s my face, my voice, my body. Whoever put it out there—” His jaw tightens. “They dragged me down with you. So yeah, I’ve got just as much reason to find them as you do.”

The logic in his words twists something in me. I hate it, but I can’t deny it.

He exhales hard, trying to shake some of the tension out of his shoulders. Then, almost too casually, he mutters, “Besides… I haven’t seen that video in a long time. Forgot how it even started until you shoved it in my face tonight.”

My breath catches, my whole body stiffening at the glint of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“You think this is funny?” My voice comes out sharp, trembling with fresh anger. “People are watching us—watching me—and you’re making jokes?”

Jungkook lifts his chin, not backing down. “I’m not making jokes.” His tone is firm, steady. “I’m surviving it. You want me to fall apart? You want me to scream and sob with you? Because if I start, I won’t stop.”

I blink at him, stunned, my tears catching in my throat.

His gaze doesn’t waver, his chest rising hard and fast. “So yeah, I smirk. I say something dumb. Because it’s easier than thinking about millions of strangers knowing what my voice sounds like when I—” He cuts himself off, jaw tightening, eyes flicking away for just a moment before he meets my stare again. “It’s not funny, Y/n. But if I don’t laugh at it, it’ll destroy me.”

The room is quiet, heavy with the weight of it. The sound of my breathing—ragged, uneven—is the only thing filling the space between us.

His words hang in the air, heavy and raw. My chest aches, my breath uneven, but something in me twists—not quite anger anymore, not quite relief. Maybe just exhaustion.

A weak, humorless laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “Well,” I sniff, wiping at my face with the sleeve of my shirt, “at least they caught your good side.”

Jungkook blinks, startled, then lets out a short, disbelieving laugh of his own. “My good side? I was dripping sweat, my hair was a mess—”

“Yeah,” I cut in, my mouth trembling between a smile and another sob, “but you’re still Jungkook. You could roll out of bed with pillow creases on your face and the internet would call it art.”

He shakes his head, the corner of his mouth twitching despite the tension still radiating off him. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” My voice is soft, brittle, but lighter for just a beat. “But if we’re both humiliated, might as well get something out of it, right?”

The silence that follows isn’t sharp this time. It’s heavy, but not unbearable—like for the first time since I walked in, we’re breathing the same air.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a short, almost reluctant laugh. But it doesn’t last. His expression sobers, the weight settling back over his features. He drags a hand over his face, shaking his head.

“I hate this,” he says quietly, voice rougher now.

I frown, my chest tightening. “Hate what?”

“Arguing with you.” His eyes meet mine, steady, pained. “I always hated it. Every time we fought, it felt like…” He trails off, searching for the words before finally finishing, “Like we were breaking a little more each time. Until there was nothing left to break.”

The silence that follows is heavier than any shouting. My throat tightens, tears pricking again, but not from rage this time.

I force a laugh, shaky and thin. “Yeah, well… we were pretty good at it. Fighting. Like it was our second language.”

“Too good at it,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “We never knew when to stop.” His gaze flicks to the mirror, then back to me.

By now I’m folded in on myself on the studio floor, my knees hugged tight to my chest, my face blotchy and wet. The fight has drained me, leaving nothing but raw edges and exhaustion.

For a moment, Jungkook just stands there, running a hand down his face, shaking his head like he’s trying to figure out how we got here. Then, with a sharp sigh, he crouches in front of me.

“Y/n,” he says quietly, almost impatient in the way he’s holding himself back. “Come on.”

I don’t move. My chin stays tucked against my knees, eyes staring at the polished floor through a blur of tears.

He exhales hard, then reaches out. His hand hovers for a beat—like he’s giving me the chance to refuse—but when I don’t pull away, he slides his fingers under my arm and helps me to my feet.

The contact is steady, familiar, the kind that hurts because it reminds me how easy this used to be. I wobble, and his grip tightens just enough to steady me before he lets go.

“Call me tomorrow.” His voice is firmer now, though still low. “We’ll figure out who posted it. Together.”

My lips part, a dozen retorts on the tip of my tongue, but none of them make it out. I just stand there, trembling, my arms wrapped around myself.

He tilts his head, his gaze never wavering. “I’m serious, Y/n. You can keep screaming at me if that’s what you need, but at least let me help fix this. Because whether you believe me or not—I didn’t leak it. And I don’t want to see you ripped apart over something I can help stop.”

The words twist in my chest, sharp and confusing. My throat burns, but I manage a hoarse whisper. “And if I don’t call?”