“Hand over the dumplings, thief.”

“I’m not a thief,” you say, already chewing. “I’m a sampler.”

Jungkook lifts an eyebrow. “A sampler who steals the last bite… veryyy interesting new species.”

“Endangered,” you say, reaching for the soy sauce. “Must be protected.”

“You’re definitely protected, pretty,” he murmurs, leaning in to kiss your forehead- quick, unshowy, like he’s done it a thousand times and plans to do it a thousand more. The kiss lands between your brows- his breath smells faintly of ginger and sesame.

“Mm. Try the noodles,” you say, pushing a carton toward him with a pair of chopsticks sticking up like antennae.

He laughs. “The chopsticks a threat?”

“They’re a friendly warning,” you say. “Approach with respect.”

“Noted.” He twirls noodles, slurps, gives a reverent nod. “Respect achieved.”

The record crackles. Somewhere between the couch and the kitchen, the apartment’s warmth gathers like a blanket. Rain fingers the glass, a thousand tiny taps. Streetlights blur into gold streaks through the droplets. Your shoes- kicked off- rest by the door, one tipped on its side, a tongue of rainwater dried across the rubber. You still catch yourself thinking it’s just his apartment sometimes, even though your things have been here a month now- your mug in his cabinet, your coat on his hook. The place already smells like the two of you.

“Rate the day,” he says, leaning back, one ankle hooked over his knee, hoodie sleeves shoved to his elbows.

“Solid seven,” you say. “Boss didn’t breathe down my neck, coffee machine didn’t revolt, I only screamed internally twice.”

“Only twice?” He clutches his chest. “Proud of you, baby.”

“What about you?”

“Eight.” He shrugs. “Somebody liked my mockups, and the train didn’t trap me in hell.”

“High standards,” you say, but you’re smiling.

He nudges your knee with his foot. “Want to split the egg tarts now or later?”

“Now,” you say immediately, and he grins like he knew.

You reach for the little paper bag on the far end of the table, but your fingers pause, hovering. The key bowl- a shallow, chipped ceramic dish you thrifted together- sits on the console near the door, a half-moon of shadow cupping it. You keep your keys there. You always put them on the right side, your small habit to make mornings easier. The dish isn’t where it usually sits. It’s slid left, just a few inches, as if nudged by a lazy hand.

“Did you move the bowl?” you ask, casual voice, not-casual pulse.

Jungkook follows your gaze. “Huh?” He looks, tilts his head, then looks at you again. “I don’t think so.” He squints. “Wasn’t it always there?”

“No. It was more… centered.” You gesture. Your fingers draw a ghost in the air. “It-” You exhale, shake your head. “It doesn’t matter.”

“You want me to put it back?”

“It’s fine,” you say, and you almost mean it. The rain talks to the windows like a busy friend. “I probably bumped it this morning.”

“You did leave in a rush,” he says, soft. He doesn’t make you feel silly- he never does. “We can mark a little tape X under it if you want. Scientific precision.”

You laugh. “You’re going to label our furniture like a crime scene?”

“If it helps the morning chaos,” he says, nudging the paper bag toward you. “Here you go, baby.”

The first bite flakes everywhere; he catches a crumb on your lip with his thumb, then pretends to eat it while you swat his hand away with exaggerated scandal. He’s all dimples and doe eyes and warmth- something about him dissolves your edges. You lean your shoulder into his, and the record on the player sighs through the end of a song, needle whispering along.

“You know what I learned today, baby?” he says, eyes glinting like he’s about to announce something groundbreaking.

“That you can’t microwave fish in a shared office again?” you shoot back instantly.

He laughs. “Again? That was one time, and technically it was salmon- very classy.”

“Classy people don’t fumigate their coworkers”

“You’re lucky I’m cute,” he says, mock wounded.

“Debatable,” you tease, kicking his knee under the table.

“Okay, I knew that,” he says with mock offense. “I learned that when you soak rice noodles too long, they turn into… rice ghosts.”

“Rice ghosts?”

“Slippery,” he clarifies, deadpan, and you snort.

“Terrifying.”

He gives you the last egg tart without comment, like it’s already decided. You break it in half and stuff both pieces into your mouth, cheeks bulging. He laughs helplessly, his eyes creasing, then props his elbow on the back of the couch and watches you chew like you’re the entertaining part of his meal.

The lamp by the couch throws a pool of amber on the wall, and your plant- an overconfident pothos- casts a long, jungle-ish shadow above the console. You set your chopsticks down. For a second, the air feels strange, like a held breath. It’s only rain and warmth and him, and yet-

Tap… tap.

You both freeze. Your eyes flick to the wall behind the console table.

Another heartbeat.

Nothing.

“What was-” you start.

“Probably the pipes,” Jungkook says, easy as a sigh. He cocks his head, listening. “Old building.” He gives the wall a fond, apologetic glance. “She’s grumpy when it rains.”

“She?” You try to smile. It lands crooked.

“She,” he repeats, solemn. “This lady has seen some things.”

You listen with him- your ears turned toward the plaster. The apartment answers with rain and record hiss and the low hum of the fridge. The earlier sound slots into memory- two quick, light taps. Not a burst pipe. Not a knock. More like the knuckle of the house rapping on bone.

“See?” he says finally, gentle. “It settles at night, love. Temperature drops, wood expands or contracts- science.”

“Science,” you echo, letting your shoulders loosen. “My favorite occult.”

He grins. “Want me to call the landlord tomorrow? Ask about the science of our haunted pipes?”

“You don’t have to-”

“I will,” he says, simple as a promise. He reaches over to squeeze your knee. “I’ll call.”

The lamp sighs again, and you realize the record has spun into silence, needle busy in a quiet groove. Jungkook gets up to flip it, passes by the console, straightens the key bowl without looking at it, the way you straighten your own hair- automatic, affectionate. He pauses to peer at the rain, his reflection ghosting over streetlight gold.

“There was a couple downstairs who hung wind chimes inside.” he says as he flips the record. “Maybe we should get some. If it’s going to be noisy, let it be on purpose.”

“Inside wind chimes are serial-killer behavior,” you say, and he cackles.

He comes back and drops onto the couch with that liquid, boneless grace that always makes you think of cats. He hooks one arm around your shoulders and tugs you against his side. 

You go easily, head finding the soft place where his shoulder becomes chest. His hoodie is warm and smells like laundry and the outside world- a damp, clean scent that sneaks into your lungs and persuades them to breathe slower.

“Better?” he says.

“Better,” you say, eyes on the lamplight’s halo. 

The room’s edges grow unimportant. Tap… tap becomes nothing more than rain negotiating with gutters. The couch puts a heavier hand at your back. You stretch your legs- bare feet, cold toes- and push your heels under the couch cushion. He hums a tuneless piece of melody just under his breath, not even a song, more like a shape of comfort.

“Tell me a story,” you say with your eyes closed.

“What kind of story?”

“One where everything turns out fine.”

“Ah,” he says, thumb tracing circles on your upper arm, lazy geometry. “There’s this girl who steals the last dumpling-”

“Endangered sampler.”

“Right. And this guy whose brand-new hobby is patience.”

“Sounds boring,” you whisper.

“It was,” he agrees, mouth close to your hair. “Until a storm came and they had to stay inside and-”

“And?”

“And eat noodles for the greater good of the world,” he says, scandalized, like the answer is obvious. “Noodles and egg tarts. And then they watched a dumb movie that one of them pretended not to like.”

“I like dumb movies.”

“Not the one with the cursed doll.”

You grimace. “She was misunderstood.”

“She killed six people.”

“Allegedly,” you say, which makes him laugh low and easy, vibration ringing through your cheek where it rests on him. The record winds into a favorite song of yours and the apartment feels like it’s nodding along. Outside, a car sends a shiver through puddles; their reflections stutter.

“Okay,” you concede. “Maybe not the doll.”

“Thank you,” he says, solemn again, which makes you smile into his sleeve.

“Promise me you’ll actually talk to the landlord?” you ask, the earlier stiffness not quite gone. You look past his shoulder to the wall- just a wall. Beige paint, one tiny chip near the outlet, plant shadow like a hand splayed.

“I will,” he says. He doesn’t hesitate. “First thing. I’ll call from the coffee shop so he can’t dodge me.”

“You’re very brave.”

“Braver than the doll,” he says.

“Low bar,” you say.

He squeezes. “I’ll get him to check the vents too. Maybe there’s a loose grate or something.” He’s casual, matter-of-fact, ordinary- his voice a handrail. “If anything’s off, we’ll fix it.”

“We?” You tilt your head up to look at him.

“Team,” he says. His eyes are warm- dark drowned gold in the lamplight- and the word lands somewhere behind your ribs and makes a home there.

You put your fingers under his hoodie cuff, touch the inside of his wrist, the delicate highway of tendons. His pulse tick-ticks against your fingertip, a tiny metronome. “You’re good at that.”

“At… blood circulation?”

“At making things feel simpler,” you say.

He shrugs with one shoulder. “Things usually are.”

“Not work,” you say. “Not rent. Not- life.”

“Those are complicated,” he agrees. “But us?” He tips his head down until his forehead brushes yours. “Simple.”

Your laugh fogs his mouth. You kiss him there, right on the corner where his smile lives when he’s trying not to show it. He catches the kiss with an easy hum, not deepening it, not heavy, just yes. The kind of kiss that says more later without rushing toward later at all.

From the kitchen, the fridge kicks on with a rattle that’s always sounded faintly like a bicycle bell. The building gives a small, settling sigh; your plant’s shadow wavers, then steadies. You breathe with the house. The house does not breathe back.

“Want tea?” he asks after a minute.

“Chamomile?”

“I can do chamomile.”

“I won’t sleep if I drink tea late,” you warn.

“You will,” he says, lifting your hand to kiss the undersides of your fingers, each press a punctuation mark. “I’ll bore you with a YouTube video about- what was it today… rice ghosts.”

“Educational,” you say.

“Terrifying,” he corrects, getting up. He doesn’t let go until the last possible second, fingers grazing yours as he stands, and you feel the tiny absence like a sudden draft. He moves around the coffee table, sidestepping cartons, and the lamp light catches in his hair; his hoodie rides up as he reaches for the kettle. You watch him in the ordinary choreography of your life- water, kettle, click- your gaze drifting back to the console while you aren’t thinking about it.

The key bowl sits tidy and centered now, holder of small metal moons. Your key fob peeks from the pile like a tongue. It looks correct, which is almost worse, because you can’t find a single thing wrong with a correct thing.

“Do you ever feel like this place is listening?” you ask, half-joke, because it’s easier you think when it’s disguised as a joke. “Like it’s a therapist we don’t pay.”

“Wow,” he says over a chuckle. “I was just thinking we should get it a plant friend.”

“It already has one.”

“More friends,” he says, and you hear the kettle start its tiny pre-whistle tremor like a bird clearing its throat.

You sink more deeply into the couch, the cushions accepting you with a soft, polite whomp. Rain gestures at the windows, finger-painting with water. Your phone buzzes: Hana, a meme of a cat that looks like it’s given up on capitalism. You send a crying-laughing emoji. You start to type:

You: come over soon 

But you erase it- it’s cozy here, and you’re tired, and you don’t want to get up to fix the blanket that’s sliding off your knees. The record is warm. He is warm. The evening is small and good.

From behind the console: tap… tap.

Your head turns without your permission. The sound is so light you could fold it in half and still have room for a thought. Two knocks, no echo. Your skin goes tight as silk stretched on a drum.

Jungkook’s head lifts. His eyes meet yours across the room- his expression open, attentive, eyebrows raised in a question. You hold very still together, like deer with shared breath.

The kettle’s tremor fattens into a clear whine. He reaches to turn the stove off without looking away from you. Steam breathes over his knuckles.

“It’s fine,” he says quietly, which is exactly what a person would say for everything simple and ordinary and explainable in a world where walls don’t have knuckles to rap with. “Old pipes. I’ll call the landlord.”

Your mouth is dry. “Okay.” The word feels small, the size of a breadcrumb on your tongue.

He brings the tea and sits, close enough that your knees bump. He sets the mugs down to cool and slips his arm around you again, more deliberate this time, his palm warm where it cups your upper arm. The hand is an anchor. Maybe you needed an anchor- you didn’t know until it’s there.

“Listen,” he says, and you try, you really do. You listen to the rain. To the record’s new track; a singer you like murmurs about moonlight and other benign lies. You listen to the apartment breathing the way all apartments do- a stomach settling, a throat clearing, a fridge politely announcing its intentions. You listen to your pulse decide to calm down. The air tastes of tea and takeout and damp wool. You exhale, and your breath ghosts the rim of your mug.

“Probably our neighbor,” he says after a moment, voice still quiet, as if he doesn’t want to wake the building, or maybe he just doesn’t want to wake anything in you that’s trying to sleep. “4B has that tiny dog that thinks it’s a horse.”

“Pony in a sweater,” you say, a smile cracking open like a small egg.

He laughs into your hair. “Exactly.”

“Do you ever-” You stop, embarrassed of the sentence you can feel forming because it sounds like a flashlight under blankets on a dare. “Never mind.”

“What?” he asks, not pushing. “Say it.”

“It sounded like… two taps,” you say. “Like someone… I don’t know, knocking to get attention. Not plumbing.”

“Could be the radiator,” he offers. “Metal expands, contracts-” He squeezes your arm once. “We can ask the landlord to bleed the lines. I’ll call, baby.”

“You’ve said that three times now,” you say, but there’s no accusation in it, only relief at the repetition of the promise, its familiarity, the way it fits the shape of the room. You like the idea of him talking to the landlord. You like the idea of someone older, someone official, shrugging and saying buildings do that, and handing you a form that explains it in words you forgot as soon as you read them.

He shifts so you can tuck your feet under his thigh. He’s heavy and warm, the pressure pleasant. You lean into him until your spine remembers how to stop pretending it’s a fence post. He sets his cheek on the top of your head like you’re a pillow he trusts.

“This building’s ancient,” he says, a smile in his voice. “It settles at night.”

You picture the building settling like an animal curling up, ribs on old ribs, brick on winter air. Maybe that’s the sound- bones on bones. The thought should be eerie, but the way he says it makes it cozy, like a folktale. You feel ridiculous for the way your breath is still too fast.

“Tomorrow,” you say. “Call tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” he says. “Promise, baby.”

The promise lifts and floats above the coffee table and the tea, gentle as steam. You sit very quietly with it and with him and with the rain. It’s not silence so much as everything soft that chooses to be a background. The key bowl sits obedient and centered, a good dog watching the door. You let your eyes close again because his hoodie smells like home and the record loves you and the rain says shh and your body listens.

“Hey,” he says, so quietly that if he were any closer it would be a thought. “I’m right here, pretty.”

“I know,” you say into cloth, the words muffled and safe. “I know.”

You don’t hear anything else from the wall. Not now. Not while his arm is warm and steady and the lamp is a candle no one blows out. The apartment is nothing but the size of a couch and two mugs and two people who learned how to be a shape together. If the house is a throat, it clears it politely and leaves you alone.

You sip your tea when it’s ready. You watch him blow on his. The rain keeps tapping its code against the glass. Neither of you knows the language, so you lean into the only translation you share- his thumb moving slow circles, your breath matching his, the little noises a home makes that mean, stay, stay, it’s fine, we’re fine.

═══════

Morning drizzles pale light through the kitchen blinds, slicing the counter into silver and shadow. The record from last night sits in its sleeve on the sideboard, half pulled out like a yawn. The air smells faintly of toast and detergent.

You’re perched on the counter in Jungkook’s hoodie, feet swinging, scrolling your phone. He moves in front of you, mug in one hand, hair still damp from the shower. His voice comes soft, half-sung.

“Morning, pretty.”

You hum in response. “You make coffee or a potion?”

“Potion,” he says, grin lazy. “Guaranteed to cure bad dreams.”

He presses the mug into your hands; it’s the color of earth and warmth. The first sip burns just right. “Mm. It works, baby.”

“That’s what I like to hear.”

He leans his hip against the counter, watching the kettle steam. The apartment is quiet except for the clink of spoons and rain tapping like distant footsteps on the balcony rail. Everything feels normal again- so normal it almost erases last night’s whispers.

You hop down to grab your anxiety meds from the shelf above the stove. The bottle stops you mid-reach.

Different color bottle.

Same label, but the pharmacy sticker looks new, the date recent.

You frown, twist it in your hand. “Huh.”

“What’s wrong, love?” he asks, pouring his own coffee.

“Did I- did I reorder these? I thought the old bottle was orange.”

He glances over, eyebrows lifting. “That your anxiety meds? Maybe the pharmacy changed suppliers? Different brand of the same thing. 

He steps close enough to bump your shoulder with his. “If they taste the same, it’s fine.”

You shake one into your palm. Same shape, same chalky coating that always sticks to your tongue. It clicks back into routine easily. He kisses the top of your head before moving to rinse a spoon.

“Generics always look different, baby. Same formula.” He adds lightly. 

“Where’s my charger?” you mumble, scanning the counter. The cable usually snakes out of the wall by the coffee pot. It’s gone.

Jungkook glances up, puzzled. “Didn’t you move it to the bedroom?”

“No, I always charge here.” You crouch to check the outlet. Empty. “Maybe I-”

“Maybe I did,” he says quickly, crouching to open a drawer. “I tidy on autopilot sometimes.” He finds it neatly coiled beside the scissors and holds it up with a sheepish grin. “See? I’m the guilty one.”

“You and your cleaning streaks,” you tease, taking it from him. “This is why I can never find anything.”

He bows his head. “The curse of domestic competence.”

You kiss his cheek. “Hot.”

He laughs, eyes half-moon bright. “Everything’s hot when you say it like that, pretty.”

You roll your eyes, plug in your phone. “You’re ridiculous.”

“True,” he says. “But you love it.”

You don’t answer out loud; the smile gives you away.

The morning unwinds in small rituals- toast popping, shoes by the door, the sound of water running for plants you’re still trying not to kill. You glance at the calendar on the fridge. The box for yesterday is a blur of highlighter: 

Overtime, 8 p.m.–midnight. 

You stare at it a second too long.

“You were up late again,” Jungkook says, noticing. “That’s why you heard things last night, love. You’re overtired.”

“Maybe,” you murmur. It’s plausible. Work’s been relentless. The walls last night were probably just the pipes doing pipe things.

He slides an arm around your waist, chin resting on your shoulder. “You’re not haunted, baby,” he says, and kisses your jaw. “Just tired. We’ll rest tonight.”

You let yourself lean back against him. “Promise?”

“Promise,” he says. “Cross my heart.”

Outside, the rain thins to mist. Inside, the apartment hums with ordinary life- the hum of the fridge, the kettle’s tiny sigh. On the counter, the prescription bottle sits bright and wrong in the corner of your eye, but you don’t look twice. It’s just new packaging, that’s all.

And somewhere behind the walls, unseen, a faint click echoes- the building settling again.

═══════

Rain has slowed to a soft hiss, a background lullaby against the windowpanes. The apartment smells faintly of detergent and his shampoo- warm, human smells folded into the dark. You’re lying on your side, one arm tucked beneath your pillow, half-dreaming. The digital clock paints a square of red light across the sheets: 12:47am.

Jungkook’s breathing is even beside you, low and steady, the sort of sound that convinces you the world is right. His hand rests on your hip, fingers lax, middle finger ring gleam catching the streetlight that filters through the blinds. You listen to him inhale, exhale, and your body learns the rhythm by heart.

Somewhere in that rhythm, the apartment hum changes.

It’s so subtle you almost miss it- air shifting through the vent, the faintest new tone under the white noise of rain.

Then:

“Y/N…”

The sound is the length of a breath, close enough that the syllables ruffle the space just above your ear.

You freeze.

Your first thought: dream.

Second: neighbors.

Third: the quiet before every horror movie ever.

Your pulse trips.

You push up on one elbow, stare into the dark. The window shows your reflection- two faint ghosts in red-lit sheets. The vent near the ceiling sighs again, only air this time. You lick your lips. “Hello?” slips out before you can stop it, the whisper small, absurd, already dissolving.

Nothing.

You glance at Jungkook. His lashes rest heavy on his cheek, mouth slightly open. He’s beautiful when he sleeps- unguarded, softer than the day allows. You almost leave it; almost convince yourself it was a fragment of dream memory chasing you awake.

But the air moves again, and with it- barely audible- your name, stretched thinner now, as though traveling through walls:

“Y/N…”

You jolt and grab his shoulder. “Jungkook.”

He makes a small sound- half groan, half question- and blinks into the dark. “Hm? What’s wrong, baby?”

“I-” You swallow. “Did you hear that?”

He props himself on one elbow, hair mussed, eyes still blurred by sleep. “Hear what, love?”

“My name. Someone- someone just said my name.”

For a heartbeat he’s completely still, listening. You both hold your breath. The apartment hums back: the fridge motor, the faint drip in the bathroom, the rain. Nothing else.

He rubs his eyes. “Maybe it’s the TV upstairs,” he murmurs. “Didn’t Mrs. Kim leave it on all night last week?”

“Maybe.” Your voice sounds thinner than you mean it to.

He reaches out, finds your hand under the blanket. “Come here.”

You let him tug you closer until your forehead finds the hollow beneath his chin. His heartbeat is slow against your cheek. He smells like soap and sleep.

“It’s just sound, pretty girl,” he whispers into your hair. “Old building, thin walls. She talks in her sleep sometimes; remember last week?”

You nod, trying to let the logic fit. “Yeah. It just-”

“I know,” he says, cutting softly across your stammer. His thumb strokes your temple. “it sounded close.”

“Too close.”

He smiles, eyes closed again, still tracing the same circle against your skin. “I’ll sleep closer to the wall tonight, okay? If anything knocks, I’ll hear it first.”

You manage a laugh- quiet, shaky. “That’s your plan? Human shield?”

“Always, baby.” He shifts, scoots closer until his back brushes the cool plaster. “See? I’m on guard duty.”

You try to match his calm, to settle back into the mattress, but your ears won’t obey. Every creak sounds deliberate now: the tick of cooling pipes, the faint vibration when a car passes below. You hold still, listening through the layers of dark.

“Go back to sleep,” he murmurs, voice already thick with it. “It’s nothing.”

You nod into his chest even though he can’t see it. The warmth of him seeps through and your eyelids start to drag.

Somewhere between waking and the slide into dreams, the vent sighs again- a long, low exhale that could be air conditioning, could be rain, could be something with a mouth.

This time it doesn’t say your name. It only breathes with you.

═══════

The afternoon light is the color of dishwater and rain. You stand in the hallway barefoot, fingers tracing the seam of paint that runs beside the utility closet door. The vent above it hums softly- ordinary white noise now, though you keep glancing up as if it might start breathing again.

“Okay,” you mutter to yourself. “Science experiment.”

You tap the wall once with your knuckle. A hollow sound.

You tap again- two short knocks, deliberate.

From somewhere behind the drywall comes a faint click, too neat to be echo, too quick to be accident.

You jerk your hand back. “Nope.”

Jungkook’s voice floats from the living room. “What are you doing, baby?”

“Being brave,” you call back. “It’s overrated.”

He rounds the corner, a dishtowel slung over one shoulder, amusement already in his eyes. “You look like you’re arguing with the closet.”

“The closet knocked back.”

He raises his brows. “A polite ghost? We love good manners in this house.”

You try to laugh but it comes out thinner than you intended. “Guess she wanted to say hi.”

He leans one shoulder against the wall beside you, head tilted toward the vent. “If she starts paying rent, she can stay.”

“Otherwise eviction?”

“Exactly.” He reaches up, presses his palm flat against the plaster near the vent grille. “You feel that? Warm air. Probably the heater kicking on.”

“Warm air doesn’t click.”

He shrugs, easy. “Pipes. Wiring. Tiny mouse with impeccable timing.”

You snort despite yourself. “Tiny mouse that says my name?”

He grins. “Multitalented.”

You let the humor settle between you until it feels like safety again. Then he reaches for your wrist and drags your knuckles gently back toward the wall. “Here- tap again, love. For science.”

You roll your eyes but comply. Tap tap.

Silence stretches. Just as you’re about to turn away, a single tick answers from behind the vent, soft and sharp as a fingernail on glass.

You stare up at him. “You heard that.”

“I heard something,” he says carefully. “Could be metal expanding. The ducts are right there.”

He steps back, eyes scanning the hallway ceiling like a man considering blueprints. His calm steadies you; it always does. “I’ll text the landlord,” he adds. “He mentioned duct cleaning next week, right? I’ll make sure he actually does it.”

“Please do,” you say, half-laughing, half-pleading.

He pockets his phone. “Done. In the meantime, I can get a white-noise machine. Drown out our ghost’s social life.”

“You and your gadgets,” you say, grateful for the levity.

“Gadgets keep us sane, pretty.” He wraps his arms around you from behind, chin settling on your shoulder. The hug lingers a moment longer than habit allows. His heartbeat thuds steady against your back; you match it without thinking.

“Better?” he asks.

“Better,” you admit.

He presses a kiss just below your ear. “She’ll quiet down. Buildings talk when they get old.”

You glance once more at the vent. The metal slats stare back, clean and still. “Then she’s got a lot to say.”

“Then we’ll listen,” he says easily. “From a safe distance.”

You laugh again, softer this time, and let him guide you toward the living room. The sound of your footsteps fades; behind you, the vent gives a tiny settling pop- almost approval, almost echo.

═══════

The apartment is all black edges and hush.

Rain has stopped, but water still murmurs somewhere in the gutters. The heater ticks once, pauses, ticks again.

You lie on your side, facing the wall, phone dark on the nightstand. The digital clock blinks 2:11am- each second feels wider than the last. Jungkook’s arm drapes loosely over your waist, heavy with sleep. His breath ghosts the back of your neck in even, slow rhythms that your body keeps trying to match.

The quiet isn’t empty- it’s too full, like a room that’s holding its own breath.

You start to drift.

Then a small current brushes your ankles: cold, delicate, deliberate. Air.

You blink into the dark. The vent near the ceiling is a faint rectangle against the black, almost invisible. You can’t see movement, but you can feel it- a whisper of wind licking the sheets.

Your skin prickles.

Then, very softly, like someone mouthing through cloth:

“Don’t… look…”

You stop breathing. The words are inside your ear, close enough to warm the tiny hairs there, and gone before you can decide they existed.

“Jungkook,” you whisper.

He shifts behind you, groggy voice rough with sleep. “Mm? Baby, what’s wrong?”

“I think-” You swallow hard. “It said something. The vent.”

He doesn’t laugh- doesn’t tease. He only props himself on one elbow, listening with you. The house answers with its small orchestra of night noises: a pipe settling, a branch somewhere scraping glass, the hum of distant traffic. Nothing speaks again.

“Could be wind, baby,” he murmurs, sliding his hand into yours beneath the blanket. His palm is warm, solid, the kind of warmth that rewires panic. “Weather app said gusts tonight. Maybe they got through the vent.”

“Maybe.”

“Shh.” His thumb strokes over your knuckles, slow as breathing. “It’s alright.”

The words are ordinary, but something in the way he says them presses the air flat, like smoothing the wrinkled sheet of a dream.

You let him pull you closer until your back fits his chest. The shape of him around you feels safe enough to trick your nerves into believing it. The cold at your feet fades. The vent hums a low, content sigh- nothing more.

He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, his mouth close when he whispers, “Go back to sleep, pretty. I’m right here.”

“Promise?”

“Always.”

You breathe in. His scent is warm linen and skin- the tension in your shoulders begins to slide away. His lips graze your temple, then your jaw, just enough to pull the static out of the air. The touch isn’t hungry- it’s grounding. His mouth traces another small, calming kiss, and another, until the spaces between them are only silence.

Outside, the weather app would show the wind picking up again- gusts threading through the city- but you don’t reach for your phone. The bed feels steady, the dark heavy with his warmth.

When your eyelids finally give in, the last thing you hear is his heartbeat against your spine and, just under it, the faintest hiss of air from the vent- breathing with you, not against you.

═══════

The day begins with the vibration of your phone on the counter, sharp enough to cut through the rain outside. You squint at the screen, still half-asleep.

PHARMACY NOTICE: Your prescription has been refilled. Ready for pickup.

Your eyebrows pinch together. You scroll through your texts just to be sure, but there’s no request, no auto-refill confirmation, nothing. You’d picked up a full bottle barely two weeks ago.

“Everything okay, baby?” Jungkook’s voice drifts from the doorway. He’s buttoning his shirt, hair still wet, collar sticking to the side of his neck.

“Pharmacy says my prescription is ready,” you say, showing him the screen. “But I didn’t ask for a refill.”

He glances at it, unbothered. “Maybe your insurance auto-renewed the script.”

“Wouldn’t they text me first?”

He shrugs. “Pharmacies love a mystery. I can grab them for you after work if you want.”

You hesitate. “You don’t have to-”

“I want to,” he says, the decision already made. He steps closer, fingertips brushing your hip as he leans past you for his keys. “You’ll forget anyway, pretty.”

You laugh because he’s not wrong. “Fine. Thanks, Kook.”

That evening, the new bottle sits on the bathroom counter, its label sharp white against the dim mirror light. You twist the cap and frown.

“Different color again,” you murmur. “I swear they change every week.”

Jungkook leans against the doorway, sleeves rolled up, watching you shake one into your palm. His reflection in the mirror looks taller from that angle, dark eyes heavy and unreadable. “That’s generics for you. Cheaper company, same thing.”

You hold the pill up to the light. “They look… smaller.”

He steps up behind you until his chest brushes your shoulder blade, his breath fogging the edge of the mirror. “Everything’s smaller lately,” he says softly, “except your stress level.”

The corner of your mouth lifts despite yourself. “Ha.”

You take it with a sip of water. It catches on your tongue before sliding down- same bitterness, same chalk. It should feel familiar, but something sticks in your throat anyway.

“Thanks for picking them up,” you say. “They said you could?”

“They asked for ID and your birthday. I told them I’m your emergency contact.” His smile is mild, reassuring. “You should’ve seen the pharmacist’s face- looked like I asked to adopt the entire store.”

You laugh, and the tension breaks. His hand settles briefly at your waist, fingers tracing idle shapes through your shirt before he turns to grab a towel. The touch leaves a print of heat that won’t fade.

Later that night, the two of you sit cross-legged on the bed, your phone propped on a stack of books. The idea was yours- proof, one way or another.

“If we catch something,” you say, “then we know it’s not just me losing it.”

“If we don’t catch anything, it’s just bad acoustics,” Jungkook says, leaning back against the headboard. “Either way, science wins.”

He says it like a joke, but the look he gives you isn’t. It’s softer, heavier. His thumb brushes over the inside of your wrist, and you realize his pulse is quick, too.

You hit record. The phone begins to hum its quiet, endless listening.

For a while, there’s nothing. Just the sigh of wind through the balcony rail, your breathing, the steady cadence of his thumb drawing circles against your skin. The small space between you feels charged- each exhale seems to fall into the same rhythm.

Eventually, sleep drags you both under.

When you wake, early morning sunlight stings your eyes. The phone lies face down on the nightstand, screen black.

“Morning,” Jungkook says, voice still gravel-thick with sleep. His hand slides lazily over your hip before he stretches. “Did it record?”

You reach for it, press the power button. Nothing. The screen stays dark.

“Battery’s dead,” you mumble. “Weird… it was full.”

Jungkook props himself on one elbow, squinting toward the phone. “Guess the app drained it overnight. Those background processes, baby- they eat power.”

You plug in the charger, watching the screen flicker to life. The low-battery symbol blinks, then the home screen loads. You open the app, scrolling through the night’s files- and stop.

The most recent recording shows a timestamp. Zero seconds. No playback bar.

A small gray pop-up flashes: File corrupted. Cannot open.

“What the hell?” you whisper.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s there, but it’s-” You hand it to him. “Corrupted. It didn’t save.”

He leans over your shoulder, hair brushing your cheek. The scent of his skin- warm linen, faint coffee- makes it hard to think straight. “Battery must’ve died mid-recording, baby. File probably didn’t finish writing.”

“That doesn’t make sense.”

He rubs your back in slow, soothing arcs. “Maybe the app glitched. My old phone used to crash if I looked at it wrong.”

You laugh, weakly. “Ours only crashes when ghosts are involved.”

“Exactly,” he says, mouth curving against your hair. “We’ll buy one of those cheap baby monitors instead. They’re motion sensitive- better than an app.”

“Good idea,” you say, relief creeping back in.

He smiles, presses a kiss to the edge of your shoulder. “I’ll grab one this week.”

Outside, the rain has stopped, leaving the windows smeared with light. The room smells like sleep and static, like something faintly burned out. You glance once more at the blank phone screen- your almost-proof- and set it aside.

Jungkook pulls you back down beside him, voice soft against your ear. “Hey. Team science still wins.”

You laugh, small and sleepy. “Guess so.”

You fall back into him, into warmth, into the illusion that everything is being taken care of.

═══════

The shower hisses loud enough to swallow thought.

Steam thickens the small bathroom until even the tiles sweat. You stand under the spray, eyes closed, water slipping through your hair and down the curve of your spine. For the first time in days, it’s quiet. Just sound and heat and skin.

When you finally reach to shut the water off, the room exhales. Steam lingers, ghosting around you as you towel your face. The mirror across from you is blank white fog- a sheet of breath over glass.

You turn away to grab your clothes. Behind you, there’s a faint drip. Normal. Everything drips. You pull your shirt over damp skin and glance back-

Something darker glistens through the fog.

Not letters exactly-  more like the idea of them.

Vertical, diagonal, curved.

You blink hard. The condensation shifts with your breath, and for one shivering second the shapes align into something that looks almost like your name.

Y/N

Your throat locks.

“Jungkook?”

No answer.

You step closer, bare feet sticking to tile. The letters glimmer faintly, uneven. Not perfect- human-drawn, maybe finger-traced from the other side of the mirror if mirrors had sides.

The air feels colder near it.

“Jungkook!” you call again, louder.

Footsteps pound down the hall, quick and heavy. The door slams open, and he’s there, half-dressed, hair still dripping, water streaking from his shoulders like he ran straight from the sink.

“What- what is it, baby?”

You point with a trembling hand. “There- look!”

He follows your gaze. The mirror stares back at both of you, two blurred reflections haloed in fog and light.

“I-” You take a shaky breath. “It said my name. It said my name.”

He moves closer. Too close. His chest nearly brushes your back as he reaches past you and wipes the mirror with his palm in one hard sweep.

The letters vanish in an instant.

“Hey. Don’t look,” he says quietly. His voice doesn’t match the movement- soft but firm, grounding. “Breathe with me, pretty. Just breathe.”

“I swear it was there.”

“I know.” His hands settle on your shoulders, fingers warm against your damp skin. “Probably cleaner residue. The glass spray, remember? I used it this morning.”

“I didn’t-”

“Maybe the ammonia streaked,” he interrupts gently, not scolding, just soothing. “Old marker stains can bleed through when it fogs up.”

You shake your head, but he’s already pulling you against him. His shirt is half-unbuttoned, still damp where it clings to his skin. He smells like soap and rain and something faintly metallic from the tap.

“I’m not crazy,” you whisper.

“Never said you were.”

His thumb traces the back of your neck, slow, careful. “You’re just tense. Anyone would be.”

He presses his forehead against the side of your head, breathing in sync with you. The heat from the shower seeps between you, steam curling around your legs.

For a moment, your pulse slows. The world narrows to the weight of his hands and the sound of both your breathing. He stays there until the mirror fogs over again completely- smooth, blank, empty.

“See?” he murmurs. “Nothing’s here but us.”

You nod, eyes fixed on the silver where the letters had been. It’s spotless now, except for the faintest smudge of his palm- an erasure you didn’t ask for.

He tips your chin up until you meet his eyes in the mirror. His reflection behind you looks steady, calm, but his pupils are blown wide, black swallowing brown.

“You trust me, right?” he asks softly.

Your chest rises and falls once before you answer. “Of course.”

He smiles, barely there. “Good.”

He presses a kiss to the spot just below your ear, a small wet punctuation mark. “Let’s get you out of here before you freeze.”

He shuts off the light on his way out.

In the dark, the mirror breathes once more- steam sliding downward- and for half a second, you could swear you see the ghost of a curve reappear, half-formed and vanishing.

═══════

Outside, the storm starts without warning- a sheet of sound against the windows, thunder stitched deep into the clouds. The apartment hums with it, the walls catching vibrations like skin picking up a pulse.

Jungkook drops the remote onto the coffee table and pulls the blanket higher around your shoulders. “Movie marathon,” he declares, voice steady over the rain. “The louder the better.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Therapy via bad horror films?”

He grins, dimples flickering. “Exposure therapy, baby. If we’re gonna get haunted, we might as well learn from the pros.”

You laugh, tension cutting in half. The movie's glow spills across both of you- cool blues and flickering whites. The curtains billow faintly behind the couch, rising and falling like slow lungs.

“Do you feel that?” you whisper.

He glances toward them. The fabric inhales again, exhales, a rhythm too regular to be chance.

“Draft,” he says quickly. “Probably the balcony door not sealed right.”

The wind outside moans through the gutter, an animal sound in metal.

You lean closer. “That’s a strong draft.”

“I’ll fix it in the morning,” he promises, and you believe him, because he says it like he’s already done it.

Another thunder roll rattles the frames on the wall. The lights dim, blink once, then hold steady. The air feels thick, heavy with rain.

Jungkook shifts closer, shoulder brushing yours. “You’re not sleeping until the monster dies,” he teases.

“I’m fine.”

He studies your face for a moment longer, then pulls you toward him. “C’mere, pretty. Warmth tax.”

You settle against his chest, cheek to his heartbeat. The sound fills your ear- steady, deep, anchoring. The movie continues, half-forgotten. Rain becomes applause against the glass.

After a while, the pattern of the curtains and the rhythm of his breathing start to blend. Inhale, exhale. The apartment seems to mimic it- a slow expansion, a gentle contraction. The ceiling creaks on every second beat, the sound almost organic.

Your eyelids grow heavy. “You ever notice the house sounds like it’s… breathing?” you mumble.

He hesitates just long enough for you to feel it- a pause so brief it might be nothing. Then, softly:

“Yeah. I did, actually. When I first moved in two years ago. But never like this.”

“Never like what?”

“Never this deep. Guess the storm’s giving it lungs.” He smiles, voice light again, hand never stopping its slow circles on your back. “Let it do its thing.”

You smile into his shirt. “Everything in this place has a thing.”

“Us too.”

Thunder murmurs again. The storm’s pulse syncs with the clock’s tick, the walls’ settling, his thumb’s movement. Everything- your breath, sound, pressure- falls into the same slow rhythm.

You drift.

The last thing you register is Jungkook’s voice, soft in your hair. “Stay with me a little longer.”

“Mm,” you manage, nearly gone.

When you wake again, it’s unclear if you ever truly slept. The TV has gone to black screen; its faint static reflects on the coffee table. Rain still whispers outside.

Then, very faintly, through the wall vent- not the television, not the storm- comes a tune.

A lullaby.

Not a melody you know, but simple, lilting- something a mother would hum to a restless child.

Your breath catches. You turn your head toward the sound. The curtains flutter once, like the apartment exhaling.

“Jungkook?”

He stirs behind you, eyes half-open, sleep-drugged. “What is it?”

“Do you… hear that?”

He listens, head tilted toward the vent. The lullaby fades into rain, leaving only the hiss of air.

“Just the storm,” he murmurs. “Go back to sleep.”

“But it-”

He hushes you gently, thumb brushing your temple. “Shh. I’ve got you.”

You try to stay awake, but his warmth pulls you back under. The baby monitor on the counter crackles once, sharp and soft- static that almost forms a note- then quiets.

Just before your eyes close, you think you hear something threaded through the storm- a single word breathed so quietly it could be wind curling under the balcony door:

“Sleep.”

You exhale.

He moves carefully, lifting you in his arms, the blanket falling away as he carries you toward the bedroom. You barely stir, head pressed against his chest. His heartbeat is steady. Solid.

“Got you,” he whispers again.

The door clicks shut behind you.

═══════

The clock’s red digits blink 3:02am across the room.

Outside, the rain has gentled into a slow drip, a metronome for dreams. The apartment hums with it- distant, steady, almost like breathing again.

You stir when fingers graze your hip. Soft. Careful. Testing.

A second touch follows- firmer this time, tracing the hem of your sleep shirt, sliding just beneath the fabric.

You inhale, eyes fluttering open. “Kook?”

“Couldn’t sleep, baby,” he murmurs against your neck. His voice is low, hoarse, thick with warmth. “You were moving in your dreams.”

His hand spreads across your stomach, palm warm, thumb brushing lazy circles that make your skin prickle. His breath is steady at your ear, every exhale tasting faintly like mint and sleep.

“Did I wake you?”

“A little,” you whisper, but your voice betrays no complaint.

He hums, the sound vibrating against your collarbone. “Sorry, baby. You just looked too good like that.”

The sheets shift as he pulls you closer, lips finding the base of your throat. The kiss is slow- a press of comfort that edges toward hunger without crossing it. His nose grazes your jaw, his fingers moving in soft, grounding motions, exploring the shape of you through the blanket’s half-slip.

Then, faintly- a sound.

A small click from somewhere across the room.

You freeze.

“What was that?” you whisper.

He stills, one hand resting against your hip. His voice drops to a hush. “What?”

“The closet.”

Another sound: metal tapping metal. A hanger nudging another hanger. The closet door creaks a few inches, slow enough that you feel the movement before you see it- a slip of shadow wider than before.

You sit up, sheet clutched to your chest. The air feels colder now, the hum of the vent muted, expectant.

“Do you see that?” you breathe.

Jungkook’s eyes follow yours into the dark. He doesn’t blink. His voice is barely audible when he answers.

“…Yeah.”

The single word lands heavy in the room.

You both stare. The door sways another inch, deliberate, measured. A hanger tilts, catching the faintest sliver of lightning from outside.

Click.

You flinch. His arm is around you instantly, pulling you close, body shielding yours.

“Shh,” he whispers. “It’s just the air, baby. Just the air.”

But his voice trembles, just enough to make you believe him. Or want to.

Another click. 

The rain begins again, louder this time- as if the house has exhaled. You clutch the blanket, pulse hammering in your throat. “Kook…”

“Stay here.”

He slips out of bed in one motion, bare feet silent on the floorboards. The room glows faintly from the streetlight bleeding through the blinds- enough to silhouette his shoulders as he moves.

You watch him approach the closet. The door is already cracked open, shifting gently as the storm breathes through the room. He steadies it with one hand, pushing it wider just enough to look inside. The hinges complain softly, the sound small but sharp in the quiet.

Inside: stillness.

He exhales slowly, stepping closer, pushing the hangers aside one by one. Each one gives a soft click, too quiet to be the sound you’d heard.

“It’s empty,” he says finally, glancing back at you with a small, reassuring smile. “See? Probably just air pressure. Storm pushed the air through the vent again.”

You stay frozen for a moment, staring past him at the open space, waiting for something- anything- to move.

Nothing does.

He crosses back to the bed, sits beside you, and brushes your hair from your face. “Hey. Look at me.”

You meet his eyes. They’re calm, steady. “You okay?”

You nod, though your heartbeat’s still too fast.

“Good.” His hand finds your jaw, thumb stroking slow and sure. “Let’s try to sleep again.”

He pulls you against him, tucking your head beneath his chin. His skin is warm from movement, the scent of rain still clinging to him.

The closet door stays open, the hangers still.

You keep watching them until the dark softens at the edges, until his breathing evens out beside you.

Then- just as your eyes start to close- one of the hangers gives a tiny, single click.

Not loud enough to wake him.

Loud enough to keep you awake.

═══════

Morning filters through the blinds in soft gold bars, painting stripes across the kitchen counter. The air smells like coffee and detergent. For once, the apartment is quiet. No hum, no sigh- just the small, rhythmic sounds of a normal morning trying its best.

Your phone sits on speaker beside your half-eaten toast. Hana’s voice crackles through the line, warm but threaded with concern.

“Babe, I’m serious. You sound like you haven’t slept in days.”

You twist the mug in your hands, tracing a ring of condensation around the base. “It’s just the storms keeping me up. The walls are old, they make noise.”

“Uh-huh.” Hana’s tone sharpens. “And the whispering? The mirror thing? That’s not old pipes, that’s you losing peace of mind. I don’t like it.”

You smile faintly, though she can’t see it. “You make it sound haunted.”

“It sounds bad. You should stay here. I’ve got the guest room now- bring your meds, we’ll binge something stupid, detox from spooky-boy apartment energy.”

You laugh despite the knot in your chest. “You’re dramatic.”

“I’m observant,” she counters. “When was the last time you were alone there without Jungkook?”

You pause. “I don’t know. Why?”

“Because maybe you’d notice what’s actually weird if he wasn’t distracting you every five seconds.”

Your laugh comes out thinner this time, softer. “He’s not trying to distract me, Hana- he’s just… trying to help. He hears it too sometimes. The noises freaked him out when he first moved in, but he says you get used to it.”

“You said he keeps saying it’s the building. That’s cute and all, but if he’s not freaked out, I am. Stay with me a few nights. Please.”

The word hangs between you, tempting. Stay with me. You picture Hana’s apartment- bright, cluttered, safe. A space where walls don’t whisper and vents don’t breathe.

Before you can answer, the front door opens behind you.

“Baby?” Jungkook’s voice drifts in, calm, easy.

You flinch. “Hey,” you say into the phone quickly. “I’ll text you later, okay?”

“Wait-” Hana starts, but you’ve already hung up.

Jungkook steps into the kitchen, setting his keys down with a soft clink. His smile is gentle, the kind that melts through whatever’s left of your nerves. “Who was that?”

“Hana.”

“She checking in?”

You nod, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. She, uh, wants me to stay with her for a bit.”

For a moment, his smile doesn’t move- it just freezes, like he’s thinking how to respond. Then he steps closer, tone warm, careful. “If you need to go, we’ll go together.”

You blink. “What?”

He brushes a strand of hair from your face, thumb resting just beneath your chin. “You shouldn’t be alone if you’re scared. We’ll finish the lease repair tomorrow, then pack a few things, okay? We’ll make it a little break.”

“Jungkook, I didn’t mean-”

He cuts you off softly. “Hey. I get it.” He smiles again, the kind that almost convinces you he’s relieved too. “Sometimes people just need space. I can take a few days off.”

The tension in your chest loosens a fraction. “You’d really do that?”

“Of course,” he says. “I’d do anything for you, baby.”

You look up at him- the easy warmth, the small crescent of dimple at the corner of his mouth. Nothing about him looks wrong. Maybe Hana’s overreacting.

The hum of the fridge clicks louder, filling the silence.

Then you notice it- the note on the refrigerator, a new one in his neat, tidy handwriting:

DUCT CLEANING - 10 AM. TOMORROW

You tilt your head. “When did you put that up?”

“This morning,” he says easily, reaching past you for his coffee mug. “Finally got the landlord to schedule it.”

“Oh.” You nod slowly. “That’s… good.”

He kisses your temple on his way out of the kitchen, leaving a faint warmth behind. “Don’t worry about anything today, pretty. I’ll handle it.”

You stare at the note again.

The tape at the corner flutters slightly, moved by a breeze you don’t feel.

A second later, somewhere deep inside the wall, a low metallic whirr starts- soft, mechanical, rhythmic.

It could be a fan. It could be something else.

You press your palm against the drywall. It vibrates faintly beneath your touch.

“Already starting,” you whisper.

The hum answers, almost like a sigh.

═══════

By the time evening settles, the light through the blinds is syrup-thick and orange, pooling across the counter.

The sink is empty, dishes drying in neat rows. Knives rest on the cutting board, clean but catching the last streaks of sunset in their silver edges.

You lean against the counter, scrolling through your phone. Somewhere below, a car alarm chirps once, stops.

Then- bang.

You flinch.

It comes again, sharper this time- a fist on drywall. Then muffled shouting, words tangled in distance.

Jungkook’s head lifts from where he’s seated at the table. “4B again,” he mutters. “They’ve been fighting all week.”

You listen. A woman’s voice, loud, furious, cut off mid-syllable. Then nothing.

“Should we-”

He shakes his head before you finish. “They’ll stop. They always do.”

You stare at the wall a moment longer, the echo still vibrating faintly behind it. “You said the duct guys were coming this morning?”

He nods, reaching for his mug. “Came and went while you were at work. I stayed to let them in. Just a few minutes of drilling, then gone.”

“Huh.” You glance toward the vent above the stove. The metal looks… newer somehow. Polished. “Did it help?”

Your phone buzzes against the counter, a message notification lighting the screen. It’s from Hana:

Hana: If anything else happens, promise you’ll call.

You type a quick Promise. and flip the phone facedown.

From the corner of your eye, movement catches- a shadow crossing the crack of light beneath the front door. Someone passing in the hallway, slow, dragging footsteps.

You and Jungkook both go still.

A pause. Then another soft bang- this one lower, near the baseboard.

He rises, crosses to the door, and peers through the peephole. “It’s fine,” he says after a beat, his tone reassuring. “Probably someone taking out trash. Sound carries weird through these halls.”

He’s smiling when he turns back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come here. You’re shaking.”

You hadn’t noticed until then, but your hands really are trembling. He steps behind you, palms settling on your shoulders. His thumbs trace slow, rhythmic circles at the base of your neck, grounding you back into the kitchen light.

The simple touch pulls you in two directions- one part of you relaxes, the other feels cornered.

“Here,” he says suddenly, reaching for his phone with one hand while the other stays warm against your back. “Look what I found earlier.”

He scrolls, taps a link, and holds it out toward you. “Building forum. Someone posted this morning- said they’ve been hearing whispers through the vents, too.”

You take his phone. The page loads slowly, the glow lighting both your faces in blue.

Anyone else in Northview Towers hearing things? Late night vents making weird breathing noises?

Replies trickle down the thread:

Yes omg thought I was losing it

Maybe plumbing?

Moved my bed away from the wall. Still happens.

Your breath catches halfway down the list. “Oh my god,” you whisper. “So it’s not just us.”

He leans closer, chin brushing your shoulder as he reads with you. “Told you, pretty. Old buildings talk to each other.”

You laugh, a small, nervous sound that dies fast. “Still… this many people?”

“Yeah,” he says softly, pressing a kiss just behind your ear. “It’s kind of comforting, isn’t it? We’re not alone.”

His words echo strangely in your head. We’re not alone.

You set the phone down. The room feels too quiet again, the orange light dimming toward gray.

Outside, the hallway is still.

Somewhere above, faint and steady, a vent hums back to life- low, hollow, and far too deliberate to be wind. It could be air conditioning. It could be the storm settling.

Either way, it keeps breathing long after the sun disappears.

═══════

The room feels too close tonight.

The blackout curtains swallow every hint of light; even the glow of the digital clock looks muted, as if the darkness has thickened into something you could touch.

You lie on your side, knees drawn up, heartbeat tripping. The air feels heavy, like breathing through fabric.

“Baby,” Jungkook murmurs. His voice is low, half-asleep, but he hears the way your breath catches. “Hey… what’s wrong?”

“I can’t-” Your throat tightens. “It’s too dark.”

He shifts instantly, sitting up. His hands find your shoulders, steady but soft. “Okay. Breathe with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” His thumb presses beneath your jaw, a point of warmth. “In through your nose.”

You shake your head, tears already burning at the corners of your eyes.

“Shh,” he says, leaning close until his forehead touches yours. His breath mixes with yours, slow, even, patient. “One… two…”

He inhales, guiding you with the rhythm. You match him- barely at first, then deeper, until the trembling in your chest starts to ease.

“See?” His voice gentles. “That’s it. Just us. Nothing else.”

Your lungs finally fill without catching. “It’s not stopping,” you whisper. “The panic. It just- keeps looping.”

“I’ve got you,” he says, firmer now. “Tell me what you need.”

You hesitate. The word won’t form, but he already understands. 

His hand slides down to your wrist, his fingers tracing the inside slowly, deliberately, sending a shiver up your arm that’s equal parts nerves and budding desire. 

“Okay,” he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that vibrates through you. “We’ll go slow. You stay in control.”

You nod, eyes closing as you lean into him, the solid press of his chest against yours a reminder that you’re not alone in this apartment.

He doesn’t rush. Every movement is careful- a grounding weight, a quiet rhythm between breath and touch. His free hand cups the back of your neck, thumb stroking the sensitive skin there while his other hand drifts upward, fingers grazing the edge of your sleeve before slipping beneath the fabric to brush your forearm. 

He keeps whispering small reassurances, the kind that anchor more than words: “You’re safe with me,” he breathes against your ear. “I’ve got you. You can stop anytime- tell me, and I’ll stop.”

You breathe in time with him, your inhales syncing with his, the rise and fall of your bodies creating a shared pulse. 

The panic begins to melt, replaced by something steady, human, real- the kind of closeness that pushes the dark a little further away, even with the faint creak of vents echoing distantly in the background.

His hands stay gentle, exploring with permission in every inch. He tugs lightly at your shirt, waiting for your subtle nod before easing it up and over your head, exposing your skin to the cool air. 

His palms glide over your shoulders, down your sides, thumbs circling your ribs in soothing patterns that make your nipples tighten. 

“You feel so good,” he whispers, leaning in to press a soft kiss to your collarbone, his lips warm and unhurried. “Tell me what you need. More? Less?”

You murmur a quiet “more,” your voice steadier now, and he responds with a quiet hum. His mouth follows the path of his hands, kissing along the swell of your breasts before taking one nipple between his lips, sucking gently, his tongue flicking in slow, deliberate strokes that draw a soft gasp from you. 

His hand slides lower, over your stomach, pausing at the waistband of your pants. “Can I?” he asks, eyes searching yours for confirmation.

“Yes,” you breathe, and he slides them down your legs along with your underwear, leaving you bare before him. He moves slightly, hands on your hips, kissing the inside of your thigh, inching closer to your core but never rushing. When his fingers finally part your folds, they’re feather-light, tracing your wetness with reverence. 

“You’re already so ready for me,” he says softly, circling your clit with the pad of his thumb in lazy loops that build heat without overwhelming. “I want to make you feel everything- only good things.”

You grip his shoulders, nails digging in just enough to ground yourself as pleasure coils low in your belly. He watches your face, adjusting his touch- slower when you tense, firmer when you arch into him- always in tune. 

“Look at me,” he whispers eventually, rising to meet your gaze as he sheds his own clothes, his cock hard and straining but held back by your pace. You do, and for a moment, nothing else exists- not the apartment, not the vents, just his warmth surrounding you, his heartbeat aligning with yours.

He lays down gently, settling between your legs without pressure, his tip nudging your entrance. “Tell me when,” he says, holding still, one hand stroking your hair while the other teases your breast. 

When you nod, he pushes in inch by inch, his thick cock stretching your cunt slowly, the initial pressure giving way to a deep, satisfying fullness that makes your inner walls flutter around him. 

He pauses after the first few inches, his breath hot against your neck as he waits for your body to adjust, his fingers interlacing with yours to squeeze reassuringly. 

"Breathe with me," he whispers, his voice steady and low, guiding you through the sensation until you relax enough for him to slide deeper, bottoming out with a shared sigh.

His groan rumbles from his chest, vibrating through where your bodies connect, mingling with your moan as you arch slightly, feeling the heat of him buried inside you. 

He rocks his hips in a measured rhythm, pulling back almost all the way before thrusting forward again, deep but unhurried strokes that let you feel every ridge of his shaft dragging along your sensitive folds, every pulse of his arousal throbbing against your core. 

His free hand rests on your hip, thumb tracing small circles on your skin to keep you grounded, never gripping too hard, always checking your face for any sign of discomfort.

"You’re perfect," he murmurs against your lips, capturing them in a soft kiss that deepens as he moves, his tongue sliding against yours in time with his gentle thrusts. 

He breaks away just enough to add, "Safe. Mine to care for," the words punctuating each roll of his hips, his cock plunging steadily into your wetness, building friction that sparks pleasure without overwhelming the tenderness.

You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, and he responds by angling his hips to hit that spot inside you with precision, his pace remaining slow, deliberate- each withdrawal slick with your combined arousal, each entry filling you completely. 

Sweat beads on your forehead, and he leans down to lick it away from your temple before kissing your jaw, your throat, murmuring, "That's it, feel how good we fit. Tell me if it's too much." But it's not- the rhythm coaxes your body to open further, your cunt clenching around him involuntarily, drawing a low hiss from his lips as he fights to stay controlled.

The intimacy builds like a gathering storm, your bodies slick and synced, skin sliding against skin with every careful push and pull. His hand leaves yours to cup your breast, pinching your nipple lightly between his fingers, rolling it until you gasp, the sensation shooting straight to where he's buried deep. 

He watches you intently, eyes dark with desire but soft with care, whispering, "You're doing so well- let go baby, I've got you," as his thrusts grow just a fraction firmer, his cock swelling inside you from the tight heat.

Your breaths come faster now, matching the increasing tempo, though he keeps it reined in, focused on your pleasure. One arm braces beside your head, the other slips between your bodies to rub your clit in slow circles with his thumb, the dual stimulation making your toes curl. 

"Cum for me when you're ready," he says softly, his voice breaking on a groan as your walls tighten around his length. The pressure coils tighter in your belly, every nerve alight from the way he fucks you- steady, attentive strokes that grind against your depths, his balls brushing your ass with each hilt.

His reassurances weave through the rising ecstasy, a constant thread: "You're safe here, just us," he breathes, nipping at your earlobe before soothing it with his tongue. The words push you higher, your hips bucking up to meet him, chasing the edge. 

When it hits, you shatter around him, your cunt clenching tight in rhythmic spasms, milking his cock as waves of release crash through you, your cry muffled against his shoulder. He holds still for a moment, letting you ride it out, his thumb pressing firmer on your clit to prolong the bliss.

He follows soon after, unable to hold back against your pulsing grip, spilling inside you with a shuddering breath- hot spurts of cum flooding your depths as he thrusts shallowly through his orgasm, groaning your name like a prayer. 

His body trembles above yours, but he doesn't collapse- instead, he gathers you close, rolling to the side so you're tucked against his chest, his cock still softening inside you. 

Through the aftershocks, he strokes your back in long, soothing lines, kissing your forehead, your eyelids, murmuring, "I've got you, always," his arms a protective cage of warmth and touch that lingers long after the pleasure fades, the distant hum of the vents a faint reminder of the world beyond this moment.

The storm outside starts again, a faint drizzle tapping the glass. The air between you hums low and alive.

And then silence.

He strokes your hair, thumb brushing along your temple. You’re still catching your breath when it happens:

Soft. High-pitched. A giggle.

You go still.

It comes again- quick, light, like a child’s laugh, echoing faintly through the vent above the bed. The breath leaves your lungs all over again.

“Jungkook.”

He lifts his head, listening. For a heartbeat, you’re sure you see something shift in his expression- surprise? concern?- before it smooths away.

“What is it?” he asks softly.

“Did you-” Your voice breaks. “Did you hear that?”

He glances at the vent. Nothing moves. “It’s probably wind, baby. Air pockets make weird sounds when pressure changes.”

You shake your head, tears spilling before you can stop them. “That wasn’t wind.”

He gathers you closer, voice almost a lullaby. “It’s okay. It’s over. I’m right here.”

You bury your face against his chest, sobbing quietly while he rocks you, whispering that you’re safe, that it’s just the house.

But the sound lingers behind your ribs, the echo of that laugh- too small, too soft, too human to be air.

When you finally fall asleep, his hand is still tracing slow circles between your shoulder blades.

The vent hums once. Just a breath. Almost… pleased.

═══════

Morning comes in fragments- the soft echo of the shower shutting off, the smell of coffee already made.

You stand at the sink, towel around your hair, light from the frosted window painting the counter in pale squares. The pill organizer sits where you always leave it: seven little compartments, days marked in neat white font.

But the pills inside- they’re wrong.

At first glance, it’s small things.

The Tuesday capsule looks more ivory than white. Thursday’s has a number stamped sideways instead of centered.

You frown, flip open Monday’s lid, and spill one into your palm. The tablet is smooth, coated, a color you don’t recognize.

You grab your phone, thumb flying through your photo gallery- old screenshots from refills, careful notes you’d taken months ago when your dosage changed.

There: last month’s batch. Same shape. Different imprint.

You zoom in and your stomach turns.

This one says GG257.

Your photo says 031R.

“What the fuck…” you whisper.

You scroll further, comparing timestamps. The pictures line up perfectly- all taken when you thought you were double-checking refills. No irregularities. No gaps.

Except… the codes are always different.

“Everything okay, love?”

You jump at Jungkook’s voice. He’s leaning in the doorway, mug in hand, hair still damp from the shower.

“I don’t know,” you say, your voice shaking a little. “These don’t match. They changed something again- the pills, the code, everything.”

He sets his coffee down and crosses the room slowly, eyes scanning your face. “You think it’s the pharmacy?”

“Who else could it be?” you say, heat rising behind your eyes. “Look-” You thrust your phone toward him, scrolling through pictures. “See? Every refill’s a different code, but the label never says anything. They shouldn’t do that.”

He studies the images for a moment, then looks back at you. “Could be a new supplier. Insurance companies swap generics all the time.”

“I know, but-” You shake your head. “Not every month. That’s not normal. It’s like-”

“Hey,” he says softly, placing a hand over yours. “Let’s not spiral, pretty. We’ll call them, okay?”

You nod, chewing the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll call.”

You step into the hall, phone already ringing. After a few tones, a click- then a woman’s voice, friendly, professional.

“Northview Pharmacy, this is Nari.”

“Hi- uh, I’m calling about a refill issue. My medication looks different this month. The pills are a different color, different code.”

A brief shuffle of keys clacking on the other end. “Can I get your name and birthday?”

You tell her. There’s a pause, the faint tap of nails on a keyboard.

“Everything looks consistent on our end,” she says finally. “Same generic, same manufacturer, same lot number as last time.”

“That’s impossible,” you say quickly. “The pills are different. I still have the old ones.”

“I understand it’s concerning,” she says, tone even. “But we’ve dispensed the same product to you for the last six months. Nothing’s changed.”

Your chest tightens. “Are you sure?”

“Positive,” Nari says gently. “You can come by and compare if it helps, but it’ll be the same bottle.”

You thank her, hang up, and stand there staring at the phone until the screen goes black.

They said it’s the same. Exactly the same.

“Baby?” Jungkook’s voice floats down the hall. “What’d they say?”

“They said…” You force a laugh that sounds nothing like one. “They said it hasn’t changed. At all.”

He steps closer, his expression softening, brows furrowing just slightly- perfectly. “Maybe the coating oxidized a little. Humidity does that. Want me to grab a silica pack from the drawer?”

You shake your head. “No. It’s fine. I just…” You trail off. “I must’ve mixed them up.”

He brushes a hand through your damp hair, thumb pausing just below your ear. “We’ll switch pharmacies if it helps.”

You nod slowly, your pulse still climbing for reasons you can’t name.

He smiles, presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re doing everything right, pretty. You just need a break.”

You return the smile- small, tight, grateful- and turn back to rinse your mug.

When you look up again, the mirror over the sink catches your reflection. For a second, it looks normal- two figures in soft light, domestic and calm.

Then you blink.

And the reflection doesn’t.

It stares back half a beat longer- your face frozen mid-motion while the real you flinches. Then, like a buffering screen, it snaps to match.

Your breath catches in your throat.

“Kook,” you whisper.

He glances up, following your gaze. “What is it?”

The mirror is normal again.

“I thought-” You stop. The words sound stupid even before they form. “Nothing.”

He tilts his head, concern painting his features in soft strokes. “You sure?”

You nod, forcing a smile. “Yeah.”

He touches your chin lightly, guiding your face back toward him. “Good. Don’t let this place mess with you, okay?”

You try to laugh, but it comes out thin. “Yeah. Okay.”

He keeps watching you a moment longer before stepping away, humming under his breath.

The mirror stands behind you, the glass cold and still- until your reflection doesn’t. For one long second, your face stays in mid-motion while the image in the glass watches you with a steadier stare. Then your reflection snaps into place.

═══════

The blackout hits like a slap.

One blink, and the apartment is gone- swallowed in wet, electric dark. The television dies mid-sentence, the refrigerator cuts out, the hum you’ve learned to live with collapses into a void so dense it feels like the air itself stops moving.

You stand in the living room, every hair on your arms lifting. The only light comes from the window- lightning flashes that strobe white across the furniture, then leave everything ink-black again.

“Kook?”

Nothing. Then, from the hall: “Fuse blew. Stay there.” His voice is calm, distant, swallowed by the dark.

You take one step. The floorboards groan beneath your heel- louder than they ever have, like the wood itself is straining.

Another flash. For that single pulse of light, the reflection in the blank TV screen doesn’t look like you. It looks almost … tilted.

The thunder hits a beat later, shaking the windows.

Then you hear it.

At first it’s a hiss- air through the vents- until it starts forming shapes of sound. Not words yet, just syllables, stacked on top of each other like overlapping breaths.

“sssshhhhh- ahhhh- nnnn-”

Your pulse jumps. You step back until your shoulder hits the wall.

The hiss rises, twisting, breaking apart and reforming into something almost human:

“leeeeeeeave-”

“-don’t-”

“-no one’s there-”

“-can you hear it-”

The voices multiply. Men, women, children, all whispering over one another in a cadence that makes no sense. Some are right beside your ear, others echo from behind the drywall.

“Stop,” you whisper, covering your ears. “Stop it-”

It doesn’t. It changes.

A scraping sound starts inside the vent above the couch. Slow. Dry. Metal against metal. Then, distinctly, something drags.

You stagger backward, hit the edge of the coffee table, pain flashing up your thigh.

“Jungkook!”

No answer.

The emergency lights kick on with a faint hum- dim, red, barely enough to carve outlines in the dark. Every shadow looks alive.

The dragging stops.

You wait, breath held, until you hear the tiniest tap-tap-tap, like fingernails against the metal vent cover.

Then a whisper- clear this time, close enough to vibrate through your ribs:

“Y/N.”

You freeze.

It says your name again, sharper, like a child learning to speak.

“Y/N. Y/N.”

You lunge for the switch out of instinct, but the power’s dead. The button clicks uselessly beneath your thumb.

The whisper turns to laughter- light, brittle, as if two voices are laughing out of sync.

“Stop it!” you shout, voice cracking. “Stop!”

A loud clang answers- the vent cover snapping once, hard, like something struck it from the inside.

“Hey!” Jungkook’s voice finally, cutting through the dark. Footsteps. Then the narrow beam of his phone light slicing across the room. “What happened?!”

You spin toward him, sobbing. “There’s something in the walls! It said my name-”

He’s already pulling you into his chest, the phone beam jerking wildly as you shake. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay,” he says, voice steady but low, like he’s afraid of spooking something invisible. “Power outages mess with the wiring. Pressure in the ducts. It’s nothing.”

“It wasn’t nothing!”

He hushes you, hand sliding to the back of your neck. “I’ll light candles. I’ll stay up all night if I have to.”

The vent rattles again. Both of you look.

The beam of light catches dust falling- slow, lazy motes drifting from the metal grate. No movement. Just dust.

Still, the sound of whispering hasn’t stopped; it’s lower now, just under hearing, like the noise your mind makes when it’s too quiet.

You can’t tell if it’s outside or inside your head.

“See?” Jungkook murmurs. “Nothing there.”

You try to speak, but the words won’t come. He guides you down onto the couch, presses your forehead to his chest, rocks you gently. His heart beats steady, unbothered.

“It’s okay,” he whispers. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

You clutch at his shirt, sobbing until your voice burns out. The apartment stays silent except for the thunder miles away.

After a while, your breathing evens. He wipes your cheeks, tells you to rest.

You close your eyes because there’s nothing else to do.

The dark behind your lids is red. You can still hear the faint hum of the emergency light.

Just before sleep drags you under, something brushes your ankle. Light as a fingertip.

Your eyes snap open. Jungkook’s arms are still around you. He’s whispering something- soft, rhythmic, like a lullaby you can’t quite catch.

You stare past his shoulder. The vent above the couch is open an inch wider than before.

The air that seeps out is cold. Wet. Breathing.

You start to tremble again, whispering, “Please make it stop.”

“I will,” he says into your hair. “Tomorrow we’ll fix it. I promise.”

You nod, but your thoughts are a jumble, looping back on themselves.

Maybe it’s not the house.

Maybe it’s me.

Maybe the house is quiet… and I’m the thing that’s wrong.

The red light flickers once, twice.

From the vent, a sound like laughter crawls out and dissolves into static.

═══════

The voices stopped after that night.

Or maybe they just moved deeper into the walls.

For two mornings, you wake to silence so complete it hurts. The kind that doesn’t ring or hum, the kind that feels like holding your breath. Jungkook says it’s because he fixed the vent- tightened the screws, cleaned out the filters. He even replaced the air freshener plug-ins with sage bundles he burned himself, waving the smoke through every room while the windows cracked open.

It worked.

It must have worked.

The apartment smells like rosemary and citrus now instead of dust. You tell yourself that’s what calm smells like.

Sunlight pools through the living room again- real sunlight, gold and heavy. The coffee table gleams, every surface has been wiped down. The carpet looks freshly vacuumed, the tracks neat and straight like a heartbeat that’s finally evened out.

The white noise machine hums softly by the bed- except it’s not humming. It’s off. The plug dangles just short of the outlet, tucked behind the nightstand.

You notice it every morning. You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. The quiet feels earned.

“See?” Jungkook says, smiling as he carries in breakfast. “Told you it just needed attention.”

He’s barefoot, sleeves pushed up, hair falling into his eyes. He sets the tray down, arranges your cup exactly the way you like- milk before sugar, not after.

You lean back against the headboard. “You didn’t have to cook again.”

“I wanted to.” He slides a plate toward you: eggs, toast, sliced strawberries. “You’ve been sleeping better. You look better.”

“Do I?”

He nods, brushing a crumb from your cheek with his thumb. “A hundred percent. Color’s back in your face.”

You smile, weak but real. “Guess I needed rest.”

“Guess so.” He sits beside you, crossing one ankle over the other. “And maybe food that isn’t instant noodles.”

You laugh. “That too.”

He grins at that, boyish and easy. The light catches in his eyes, and for a moment he looks exactly like the Jungkook you moved in with- warm, attentive, the version of him that made the apartment feel like home.

Days pass this way.

He keeps busy- cleaning, cooking, fixing little things you never knew were broken. You nap in the afternoon sunlight, the quiet stretching like silk through the rooms.

No rattling. No whispers. No laughter from the vents.

Sometimes you catch yourself standing in the hallway, listening. The silence presses close, thick enough to feel- not empty, not exactly, just… waiting.

You shake it off.

Jungkook finds you there once, hand still on the wall. “You okay, baby?”

“Yeah,” you say quickly. “Just listening.”

He tilts his head. “To what?”

“Nothing.”

He smiles and kisses your temple. “That’s the point, right?”

You nod. He squeezes your shoulder once before heading to the kitchen, where the sound of water running and soft music fills the air again.

You hear his voice from the other room, cheerful.

“Found us a new place, by the way. Bigger kitchen. Actual backyard.”

Your heart stutters. “Wait- really?”

He leans against the doorway, grin widening. “Told you I’d get us out of this shoebox. It’s out near Bansong-dong, up by the base of the mountain. Quiet streets, trees everywhere, no neighbors pressed against the walls.”

You blink. “That’s… pretty far from the city.”

“Yeah,” he says easily, crossing the room to you. “But maybe that’s good, right? You said you needed space. Somewhere peaceful. No noise. No stress.”

You nod slowly. “What about work? Hana, my friends-”

He brushes a hand through your hair, gentle. “You’ll still see them. It’s not that far—just a short drive. It’s perfect, baby. It’s clean, private, ours.”

You hesitate, the word ours lingering in your chest. “Just us, huh?”

He smiles, presses a kiss to your temple. “Exactly. Time to start over. You deserve something real, love.”

He means it. You can hear the sincerity in his voice. And for the first time in months, you almost believe him.

Almost.

Because when you lie down that night, eyes half-lidded, the quiet feels heavy again- not hostile, just too perfect.

The kind of silence that watches.

And just as sleep starts to pull you under, the vent above the bed exhales- one slow, shuddering breath that smells faintly of metal.

You don’t open your eyes.

You just whisper, “Let’s move soon.”

═══════

The boxes make the apartment feel smaller.

Everywhere you look, there’s cardboard- stacked against walls, sealed with strips of tape that whisper when the air shifts. The furniture looks naked without the framed photos and throw blankets, the corners sharper somehow, unfamiliar.

You tell Jungkook it’s a good kind of strange. He agrees, smiling like it’s all progress.

The days leading up to the move stretch thin and anxious. The weather turns muggy- thunder stays on the horizon, never quite coming close enough to break the tension.

You wake early each morning to find him already packing- always busy, always humming under his breath. When you offer to help, he hands you light things: clothes, books, the harmless stuff. Anything breakable, anything heavy, he insists on handling himself.

“Don’t strain yourself,” he says, brushing dust from your fingers. “I’ve got it.”

He always says that. 

“I’ve got it.”

And he does. Every box labeled, every drawer emptied, every trace of the old life folded into neat rectangles.

Still, something feels off.

The bedroom lamp (unplugged since yesterday) glows faintly when you pass by, a ghost of current flickering through the bulb. You stare at it, heart skipping, until the light winks out. When you call Jungkook’s name, he’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, wrapping glasses in newspaper.

“It must’ve been a charge,” he says easily, not even turning around. “Static from the storm.”

You tell yourself that makes sense. You tell yourself a lot of things.

By evening, the air feels heavy with dust and candle smoke. The living room is mostly bare now, walls showing faint outlines where frames used to hang.

Jungkook pushes open the balcony door, the hinges sighing. “Come on,” he says softly. “You’ve been cooped up all day.”

Outside, the city hums under the fading sky. The streets below glint with rainwater, headlights streaking into silver lines. You lean on the railing, inhaling the damp air.

He stands close beside you, his hand brushing yours. “Looks better out here, huh?”

“Yeah,” you say. “Like it’s waiting for us.”

He smiles faintly. “Maybe it is.”

You watch the skyline for a while, the quiet between you comfortable. The horizon bleeds from gold to violet, and the scent of wet pavement drifts up from below.

“Thank you,” you say at last, turning toward him.

He glances over. “For what?”

“For… everything. For staying. For saving me.”

He laughs softly, shaking his head. “I didn’t save you, baby.”

“Yes, you did.”

He takes your hand, brings it to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles. His eyes meet yours, warm and unwavering. “You saved yourself. I just helped you see it.”

You swallow hard, smile through it. “You always know what to say.”

“I just say what’s true.”

His thumb moves slow against your wrist- steady, reassuring. Behind you, a soft sound interrupts the stillness.

A tap. Then another.

You turn your head, expecting wind against the windowpane, but the glass door is open- nothing could be hitting it.

Another sound, this one duller- the faint shuffle of a box sliding across the hardwood floor inside.

Jungkook doesn’t look. Doesn’t even blink.

“Probably the draft,” he murmurs, still tracing small circles on your wrist. “Or the building settling.”

You look back into the apartment. The box in the corner has shifted an inch closer to the door.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Settling.”

He smiles, satisfied with your answer, and pulls you a little closer. The last of the sunlight fades behind him, leaving the balcony in amber gloom.

For a while, neither of you speak. The city hushes. A car passes somewhere below, its tires whispering through puddles.

Finally, he speaks- voice quiet, certain.

“Once we’re in the new place,” he says, “we’ll leave all of this behind. No more whispers, no more bad nights. Just us.”

You nod, leaning your head against his shoulder. “You really think it’ll be that easy?”

His thumb traces lazy circles against your wrist. “Doesn’t have to be easy,” he murmurs. “Just has to be ours.”

That makes you smile. “Then ours it is.”

He turns his head, kisses your hair, and breathes, “That’s my girl.”

Inside the apartment, a single box shifts again- a low scrape, quick and almost shy.

Neither of you notice.

═══════

The new house breathes differently.

It’s not loud like the old apartment- no neighbors above or below, no pipes sighing in the walls- but there’s a kind of pulse to it, slow and patient, the way wood expands in heat. The silence feels alive in a way you can’t name.

By the time the sun starts sinking, the rooms are golden. Light spills through the half-unpacked boxes, striping the floor in warm, straight lines. The smell of fresh paint lingers beneath the faint sweetness of sage.

Jungkook sits propped against the headboard, a book closed on his lap. You’re stretched across his chest, head on his shoulder, your breath syncing with the rise and fall of his. Outside, cicadas start their evening chorus, a soft droning that fills the gaps between your heartbeat and his.

“Feels weird,” you murmur, eyes half-closed. “Too quiet.”

He hums low in his throat, fingers combing through your hair. “Good weird or bad weird?”

You shrug against him. “I don’t know yet.”

He chuckles- the sound rumbles under your ear. “When I was a kid, I used to hate quiet. Thought it meant something bad was about to happen.”

You lift your head slightly. “Really?”

“Mm.” His thumb strokes idle patterns along your arm. “During storms, I’d hide under the blanket and pretend I was asleep. The thunder used to sound like someone knocking on the door. Drove me crazy.”

“You? Scared of storms?”

He grins. “Don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my image.”

You smile, eyes drifting shut again. “I like thunder. Makes me feel small in a good way.”

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm.” You yawn. “Makes the world sound alive.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “Maybe that’s why you’re so good at hearing things.”

You open one eye, glance up at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just that you notice stuff most people don’t,” he says easily. “The way the apartment creaked, the way wind shifts.”

You study his face. “You make that sound like a bad thing.”

He smiles- soft, reassuring. “Never bad. Just rare.”

You hum in response, too tired to question it further. The light outside fades from gold to blue, the edges of the room softening into shadows.

The house is utterly still. No voices. No scraping. No breathing vents.

You let yourself relax for the first time in weeks.

His fingers drift through your hair again, slow, rhythmic, like the motion of water. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear- not loud, but insistent, a quiet metronome of safety.

You whisper something- maybe his name, maybe thank you- and he murmurs, “Sleep, pretty.”

You do.

But as your breathing slows, the quiet begins to feel heavier, thicker, like something holding its breath.

The last thing you hear before slipping under is the faintest creak- the kind a house makes when it’s settling, or when someone steps lightly just outside the door.

He doesn’t move.

He just keeps stroking your hair.

And in the silence, the rhythm of his heartbeat never misses a beat.

═══════

jungkooks’s pov:

She fell asleep on his chest again.

The weight of her- warm, trusting- pressed into him like proof that everything had worked. The storm had passed. The ghosts were gone. The house was quiet, and she was safe.

That was all he’d wanted.

For her to feel safe.

He keeps his hand in her hair, brushing slow patterns down the strands, careful not to wake her. The room hums with the faint breath of night air through the open window. The clock ticks in soft, regular beats.

He lets his mind drift- not forward, never forward, but back.

═══════

He’d known the apartment before she ever saw it.

The walls, the vents, the crawl spaces- all of it mapped in his mind from the year he’d lived there alone. The place had quirks, sure- weak sound insulation, old pipes, ducts that carried noise like secrets. He’d learned them like language.

That’s how the tapping started.

He’d unscrewed one of the vent covers months before she moved in and mounted a small hinge plate behind it- a bent piece of tin attached to an old fan motor from a discarded alarm clock. It clicked on at intervals, soft tap-tap-taps against the drywall, irregular enough to sound organic.

He’d sit beside her on the couch, arm around her shoulders, and feel her stiffen when the sound came.

She’d gone still, eyes on the wall.

“Old pipes,” he’d murmured, hiding his smile behind a sip of wine.

It was perfect. Simple. Believable.

═══════

The whispers came next.

He’d already known where the ducts met- the perfect echo chambers. From the utility closet, his voice carried like breath. He didn’t need to raise it; just a whisper would do.

“Y/n…”

“Y/n…”

Sometimes he’d use the Bluetooth speaker hidden behind the bookshelf to play pre-recorded sounds - his own voice, layered and slowed, whispering fragments of her name between static.

That’s how she heard him even when he was next to her.

He’d tested the timing: the loop would run for twenty seconds while he held her, pretending to listen. He’d glance at the ceiling, jaw tight, eyes wide in mock concern. “It’s the neighbors,” he’d say. “Or maybe the wind.”

She’d tremble against him. He’d tighten his arm around her.

“Shh. I’ve got you.”

He’d even accounted for nights when he was asleep.

Or when she thought he was.

The small speaker on the nightstand, tucked behind the lamp base, had a timer app synced to his phone. It whispered at 2:17am- precisely when her REM cycles were deepest, when her dreams blurred with the dark.

Sometimes, half-awake, she’d whisper his name, and he’d mumble something back without opening his eyes.

Perfect synchronization. Perfect control.

═══════

The first real test had been the phone recording.

He remembered the hum of her breathing while she slept, the soft red light blinking on the nightstand. The app was recording. He waited.

Then he triggered the ping- a quiet, invisible pulse from the Bluetooth speaker hidden behind the dresser. It drained the battery just enough to corrupt the file. No proof, no playback.

She’d been so sure she’d caught something that time. Her face had fallen when she saw the black screen, eyes wide and wet.

He’d hated that part. But she needed to see that she couldn’t trust the noise- only him.

“Battery must’ve died mid-recording, baby.”

He’d said it so gently. And she’d believed him.

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The mirror had been an experiment.

A leftover remnant from before she moved in- the silvering along the back was damaged, just enough to catch moisture patterns. He’d traced her name across it once with a cotton swab dipped in diluted cleaner, faint enough to vanish when dry.

He’d waited.

Steam did the rest. The letters appeared ghostlike through condensation.

When she screamed, he’d come running- barefoot, half-dressed, water still dripping from his hair. He’d grabbed her shoulders and wiped the glass clean, quick and firm.

“Don’t look. Breathe with me.”

And she did.

He’d felt her heartbeat racing through her palms. The memory still made his chest ache with something like pride.

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The hanger trick had been easy. A cracked window, a bit of fishing line looped through the metal hook, pulled tight to the vent’s rhythm. Just enough movement to catch her eye, never enough to show the string.

He’d tested it a dozen times before letting it happen. He remembered the way she froze when the closet door creaked open by itself, her breath catching against his chest. He’d whispered reassurance into her hair, feeling her pulse flutter beneath his hand.

“Shh. I’ve got you.”

And he had. Every piece of her fear was threaded through his fingertips.

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The pills had been harder.

That part scared even him sometimes- not the doing of it, but how easily it became routine.

He’d switched the capsules slowly, one bottle at a time, enough for her to doubt herself but never enough to hurt her. She always looked at the pills like they were strangers.

And before handing the bottle back to her, he’d taken her phone, opened her gallery, and edited the timestamp metadata on the old photos- replacing one imprint with another.

He’d paid the pharmacist to confirm her fears were baseless. A small envelope, a quiet favor, an understanding.

“We’ve dispensed the same product for six months.”

He’d stood beside her that morning, hand on her back, feeling her tension unravel while the lie played through the phone speaker. She’d cried afterward. He’d held her until she fell asleep.

“You’re not crazy,” he’d whispered into her hair. “You’re just tired.”

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The posts about the building had been his favorite. He’d typed them in the dark while she slept beside him, glowing phone light soft against his knuckles.

“Anyone else hearing weird noises in the walls of 4B?”

“Might be the plumbing or something”

A few replies. Enough to seed the thought that it wasn’t all in her head- just enough to make her trust his calm even more.

Because that was the point. It wasn’t about ghosts or fear or madness.

It was about dependence.

She needed him. She always had.

He presses his lips to the top of her head now, breathing her in- shampoo and sweat and sleep.

Her breathing is steady, shallow, the kind of sleep that only comes after surrender. He watches the rise and fall of her back, the little curls of hair caught against her lips. The rhythm soothes him- predictable, soft, his.

She used to flinch in her sleep. Now she doesn’t. Now she trusts the silence.

He leans forward, pressing a quiet kiss into her hair again. “Good girl,” he whispers.

For a moment, he just listens. The new house hums differently than the old one- heavier, denser. The kind of quiet that doesn’t simply exist, but waits.

He reaches for the vent above the headboard, the one he sealed earlier. The metal is cool beneath his fingers. He tugs gently- it doesn’t move. The screws are tight. He smiles.

No gaps. No echoes. No ghosts.

Just him.

He sits back, the shadows folding around him. The streetlight through the window slants across the floor in thin, trembling stripes. He can almost hear her heartbeat still, even from here.

He thinks about how easy it had been to make her doubt herself- not out of cruelty, but necessity. She had needed order. She had needed someone steady enough to hold the noise for her.

He convinces you you’re losing your mind. Moving your things. Switching out your pills. Whispering your name at night until you think you’re hearing voices.

It had never been about hurting her. It had always been about love- the kind that fixes, that quiets, that teaches.

He traces the edge of the blanket where it meets her shoulder, fingers light as breath. Her skin is warm. Her body trusts him even in sleep.

He leans close, his voice barely a whisper against her ear. “Don’t worry, baby,” he murmurs, tone soft enough to sound like a dream. “I’ll take care of you. Nobody else will.”

He presses one last kiss to her temple, eyes open now, watching the darkness settle around them like a second skin.

The house is utterly still. No wind. No voices. No sound at all.

And yet- if you listened closely, past the hush of sleep and the hum of distant power lines, you could swear the walls themselves were learning to breathe.

Learning to whisper.

Because he was teaching them how.

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Post A/N: did we see the twist coming 😭 or did i pull it off???

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JKWRITOBER ♡ MASTERLIST ♡ a03

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

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Posted: 10/24/2025 (let’s just pretend lol)