Seokjin’s Pizza

The entire university is pulsating with the energy of drunk frat boys in capes, girls dressed in skimpy lingerie calling it their costume, and at least three professors who are far too old to be dressed up amongst the students. You, however, are in your true element: large hoodie, fuzzy socks, a half-eaten Snickers bar on your nightstand, and a thick law textbook open in front of you.

Parties aren't your thing. You'd rather be sued than make small talk with a guy dressed as a ketchup bottle. While your roommate, Jieun, spent hours hot-gluing rhinestones onto her platform space boots for her "sexy astronaut" outfit, you politely declined all invitations and instead declared war on your midterm readings. The only spooky thing in your life right now is the growing realisation that you don't actually want to be a lawyer, the thought that you'll probably die single, and knowing you'll be buried in student debt by the time you graduate.

And honestly? That's still more appealing than the campus party.

You take a break from studying around 2am and finally decide to turn off the light and get some rest. Until the door of your dorm room creaks open.

You pause, blinking your eyes open in the darkness of your room. Maybe Jieun forgot her phone. Maybe she brought back a stray alien from the party. Either way, you don't move, not until the unmistakable dip of the mattress under your legs almost sends your soul flying from your body.

Someone just climbed into your bed.

Your eyes widen to the size of saucers, your heart racing in your chest. It's pitch black, the only light coming from the little slit under the door.

"Jieunieee," the voice whispers, smooth and far too seductive. "Are you ready for the best dick of your life?"

That's it.

You scream as loud as you can, springing straight up. You grab the bottle of Chanel perfume on your nightstand and spray it directly into his eyes.

"AHHH—WHAT THE F—!"

The stranger falls out of your bed with a loud thud, hitting the floor dramatically like he's been shot in a Western.

"What the hell?!" he groans, writhing on the floor with a hand covering his eyes and the other holding his head. "You maced me!"

"That was perfume!" you yell, feeling your heart in your throat, the perfume clutched tightly in your hand, holding it out in case you have to spray him again. "And why are you in my bed, you psychopath?!"

"I was looking for Jieun!"

"You can't just crawl into beds like a raccoon in the night!"

"I thought this was her bed!"

"Do I sound like Jieun?!"

He blinks rapidly on the floor, his voice strained through his agony. "I don't know, it's dark and I was promised a sexy astronaut!"

You switch on the bedside lamp with the force of a woman ready to kill.

And there he is.

Black leather pants. Tight black shirt. Fake bruises and cuts on his face, presumably made with makeup. An eyebrow piercing. Tousled hair. Ridiculously attractive even while clutching at his eyes like he's just been gassed in battle.

Your brain fills in the blanks before he even says it.

"You're Jeon Jungkook, aren't you?"

He lowers his hand just enough to smirk at you. "And you're ___. The infamous roommate I've heard so much about."

You sigh, flopping back against your headboard in disbelief. "Of course she's hooking up with you of all people."

Jungkook is a campus legend. The boy whose reputation includes at least two streaking incidents, three girls who dropped out of the university due to their heartbreak, and a tongue that's done unspeakable things according to the word on the street.

And now he's on your floor, still very much looking like the kind of man your mother warned you about even after being sprayed in the eyes with perfume.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "For the record, I've had a lot of entrances, but that was definitely my worst."

"You scared the crap out of me!" you exclaim, tossing your pillow at him. "Who just walks into a dorm and climbs into an unfamiliar bed?!"

"I didn't walk," he scoffs, catching the pillow with an insufferable grin. "I strode."

You glare at him.

He grins wider. "Come on, that was funny!"

"You have a concussion, don't you?"

He wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms, settling on the edge of your bed. "Honestly? If you weren't so terrifying, I'd be impressed."

"Excuse me?"

"You're terrifying," he deadpans. "You sprayed me in the eyes and insulted me all within five minutes. That's worse than most of my Tinder dates. Not by much, but still."

You fold your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at him. "Maybe don't go crawling into beds with strangers."

"Technically, you're the stranger," he quips, pointing a finger at you. "And you've maced and verbally abused me. That's a lot for a first impression."

You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Unbelievable. Are you always this irritating?"

"I like to think of myself as…persistently charming," he smiles.

You give him a dry look, your eyes narrowing. "You're the human equivalent of an unsolicited dick pic."

"Oof," he winces, placing his hand over his heart. "Okay, that one hurt. But also...kinda hot that you're this mean."

You blink at him. "Do girls actually fall for this crap?"

"Usually," he shrugs.

"Well, congratulations," you scoff. "You've officially found the girl who's immune to your bullshit."

He holds up his hands in surrender, laughing softly. "Okay, you've made your point. I'm sorry I invaded your bed. I didn't mean to scare you like that. I apologise."

Your face softens ever so slightly, giving him a curt nod. "Thank you."

"But also," he adds, leaning back on his hands, "you're hilarious. And clearly not afraid to defend your space. We should be friends."

You stare at him. "What?"

"Friends," he repeats, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You and me. I'm serious."

You narrow your eyes once more. "You literally came here to hook up with my roommate."

"Which clearly isn't happening anymore," he sighs, lounging on your bed like he's at a beach club. "But now I've met you. And I like you."

You scoff. "You don't know me."

"I know you don't care about going to a hot party and hooking up on Halloween night, and would absolutely tase someone if you had the chance. Right?"

You pause. That…is not incorrect.

"I also know that girls like you usually avoid guys like me. Which is fair. But still…" He swings his legs off the bed, standing up. "I want to be friends."

"Why would we do that?" you ask, genuinely curious.

He grins. "Because you're the first girl who's actually told me I'm full of shit to my face."

You open your mouth, then close it again, and he takes that as a win.

"Anyway, I'll see you around," he smiles, walking toward the door. "If Jieun asks, tell her I tested positive for an STD or something."

You roll your eyes. "Get out!"

He's halfway out when he turns back and winks. "Nice meeting you, ___."

"Likewise, Satan," you grumble, gesturing for him to shut the door.

He laughs, loud and boyish, and disappears down the hall. And just like that, your quiet Halloween night turned into something totally unexpected.

You met Jeon Jungkook. And he wants to be your friend.

God help you.

The library is dead silent, but your soul is screaming.

You've been staring at the same paragraph in your property law textbook for the past eleven minutes and it's starting to feel unbearable. You've underlined the phrase "freehold estates" three times in three different colours, and it still means absolutely nothing to you. Your highlighter is on life support, your brain is fried, and you'd sell your soul for caffeine.

But instead of caffeine, you get Jungkook. Perfect.

"Hey, bestie."

You flinch so hard your pen skitters off the desk.

He slides into the seat across from you like he owns it, as if you invited him. As if this is a casual meet-up instead of a sacred study bubble you built with blood, sweat, and overpriced stationery.

"Why," you whisper, your eyes narrowing, "are you here?"

He blinks innocently, shrugging. "Checking on my friend. You did say we'd be friends."

You raise a skeptical brow.

He leans in closer, his voice mock-offended and far too loud for the library. "Which is interesting, because I've texted you three times this week and you haven't replied once."

You open your mouth, then close it, unable to come up with a valid excuse.

"I had to force you to give me your number last week when we ran into each other in the cafeteria," he continues, his arms crossed over his chest. "Do you always ghost your friends, or am I just special?"

You groan, rubbing your temples. "I've been busy, Jungkook."

"You probably didn't even save my contact," he mumbles dramatically. "I'm still just a number. I feel so objectified."

You blink at him, fighting the chuckle threatening to bubble up your throat. "You're so dramatic."

"And you're so avoidant. Classic enemies-to-friends arc," he muses. "We're already ahead of schedule."

You roll your eyes, glancing back down at your textbook. You really don't have time for this, but Jungkook props his chin on his hand and looks at you with that annoyingly charming smile of his, like he's got nowhere else to be. Like being here, distracting you, is the most important thing in the world.

You hate how disarming it is.

"You done soon?" he asks.

"I have a property law test tomorrow," you mutter dryly. "So, no. I will never be done. I will die in this library and haunt the footnotes of this stupid textbook."

He laughs loudly, earning a 'shhhh!' from a student two tables away. "What if I bribe you with coffee?"

You look up, contemplating it for a second before going back to the dreaded textbook.

"Not interested," you mutter lowly, though it's not even convincing to your own ears.

"You're clearly tired," he scoffs, raising an eyebrow. "And cranky. And there's a weird twitch in your left eye. Come on, ___. Take a break with me."

You purse your lips, letting out a deep sigh. The twitch is real. And your head is pounding. And caffeine does sound like heaven right now.

"You're really annoying," you mutter. "I mean it."

"I've been told," he grins, rising from the chair like he's already won. "Come on. Twenty-minute coffee break. Your brain cells will thank me."

Against your better judgment, and possibly because you might actually fall asleep in your chair, you shut your textbook and drag yourself to your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"Fifteen minutes," you grumble. "If I fail this test, I'm blaming you."

"Fair," he shrugs, grinning as he holds the library's door open for you. "But at least you'll have had the best coffee of your life, so it'll be worth it."

The café is warm and noisy, filled with the comforting smell of espresso and baked goods. Students sit hunched over laptops. A barista is arguing with the espresso machine. Someone's crying in the corner over what sounds like an econ midterm.

You're halfway through the line when Jungkook turns to you, holding two fingers in front of the glass display.

"Okay," he huffs dramatically. "Crucial decision. Strawberry muffin or banana cinnamon walnut?"

You blink up at him, your eyes narrowing. "What?"

"I can't decide," he confesses, peering at them like they're ancient artefacts. "I want both but I can't get both. That's too much sugar and fat and I'll lose my abs. A girl licked whipped cream off my abs two days ago. I need them."

You snort, taking a step forward as the line starts moving again. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm serious," he whines. "Pick one for me. I trust your judgment for some reason."

You sigh in resignation. "Do you want nuts?"

"I don't like nuts," he mutters with a grimace. "But I also don't like not liking things. Feels like I'm limiting my potential."

You stare at him like he's actually insane.

He stares at the muffins.

"Banana walnut it is," you nod.

He looks at you like you just sentenced him to death. "Really? I was kinda hoping for strawberry."

"You said you don't like not liking things. Expand your horizons. Live a little. Face your fears. Eat the nut muffin."

He lets out a groan like he's being tortured. "If I hate it, this is on you."

"Oh relax, you'll live," you scoff, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"What if I die?"

"If you die, I get that expensive laptop of yours."

He nods solemnly. "Deal."

After a long wait that's most definitely over fifteen minutes, you sit down at a corner table by the window, both of you nursing warm drinks. He watches you take the first sip of your mocha like you're some sort of science experiment.

"You were desperate for this, huh?" he chuckles.

"Don't judge me."

He laughs and takes a bite of the banana walnut muffin. He chews slowly, his face unreadable.

You watch him, waiting for the verdict.

He swallows, licks a crumb off his thumb, and looks pleasantly surprised. "…Woah. This is amazing."

You smile, sipping your coffee. "Told you."

"Who knew I liked nuts?"

"I did. You're welcome."

He leans back in his chair and smiles over at you. It's soft, genuine, not the usual grin he uses when he's being annoying.

"I'm starting to think we're meant to be," he quips.

You nearly choke. "Over a muffin?"

"Yeah. You just made a decision that changed my life. This is fate."

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat up nonetheless.

He nudges your foot gently under the table, slowly sliding the muffin over to you to taste.

"Thanks for coming with me."

You take a little bite of the muffin, nodding at the taste. "Thanks for the invitation."

And just like that, it starts. A small, insignificant tradition that might mean more some day, but for now, it's just comfortable and easy.

Just…friendship.

—

The kitchen is a mess. There's flour on your cheeks, frosting on your elbow, and a criminal amount of cupcake batter missing from the mixing bowl. Your cousin asked you to bake a batch of vanilla cupcakes for her bridal shower and of course, the new pain in your ass decided to come over to your dorm to 'help'.

"Jungkook," you warn, pointing your spatula at him, "if you eat one more spoon of raw batter, I will throw you out. And no, that's not a threat, it's a promise."

"I'm not eating it," he mumbles, his mouth full. "I'm...quality testing."

"You're gonna get salmonella and die."

"I'll die a happy man because this batter's really good," he grins.

You sigh, scraping the last of the creamy batter into the cupcake liners while Jungkook leans against the counter, licking the spoon you gave him to keep him busy. He has cake batter on the corner of his mouth, and somehow he still looks good. Ridiculously good. Stupidly, unfairly rude levels of good. You pretend not to notice.

"You're supposed to be helping," you sigh.

"I am helping," he says proudly. "You said these are for your cousin's bridal shower. What better way to show my support of the union than selflessly sacrificing my digestive system?"

"You don't have a logical bone in your body."

He grins, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "And yet, here I am, in your kitchen, helping a friend who desperately needed me."

"You invited yourself," you deadpan. "As usual."

He shrugs. "You didn't say no."

You sigh and slide the tray of cupcakes into the oven before setting the timer. The warmth of the kitchen hums around you. It smells like vanilla and feels like a comforting hug in the midst of exams and stress and the impending doom of early adulthood.

Jungkook hops onto the counter, swinging his legs to entertain himself now that the fun part—eating raw batter and watching you stress over quantities of baking powder—is over.

"I still can't believe you made all this from scratch," he murmurs, looking genuinely impressed. "These are, like…actual, professional cupcakes."

You wipe your hands on a dish towel, chuckling. "My cousin's paying me, so that's kinda the point."

He tilts his head, watching you intently. "You're really good at this."

Something in you blossoms at the compliment. He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like it's a fact. It feels good, something you're not sure you've felt before.

You smile faintly and sit down at the little table in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the mess around you; edible flowers, mixing bowls, an empty packet of cupcake liners.

"It's what I love," you murmur softly, a look of tenderness blooming in your gaze.

He raises a brow. "Baking?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Always have. Even when I was a kid. I used to make these terrible little chocolate chip cookies that were more like…burnt rocks...but I'd still force everyone in my family to eat them."

He laughs.

You don't.

"I used to dream about owning a bakery," you add, your voice a little softer, more vulnerable. "Still do, I guess."

There's a pause. He watches you, remaining quiet, waiting for you to elaborate without making a silly comment. You don't look at him, but you can feel it, the shift, his attention going from teasing to genuinely trying to understand you a little deeper.

"But…" you sigh, leaning your chin on your palm. "My parents want me to be a lawyer. That was always the plan. It's respectable. Stable. It makes sense."

"Do you want to be a lawyer?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together.

You hesitate, letting out a deep sigh. It's as if a gate has opened inside your chest because you don't seem to hold anything back.

"No," you scoff. "Not even a little."

The confession feels heavier than you expected. It feels like you're finally being honest with yourself, which is far scarier than being honest with him. You can ignore his teasing remarks, but you can't ignore that little mocking voice in your head that tells you your dreams probably won't work out anyway.

Jungkook doesn't say anything right away. He just keeps swinging his legs slowly, tapping his fingers against the edge of the counter.

Finally, he asks, "Then why are you doing it?"

You roll your eyes, looking anywhere but his eyes. "Because…I'm good at it apparently...and they expect it. I don't want to disappoint them."

He nods slowly, his eyes downcast.

"You know what would be more disappointing?" he murmurs, his smile barely reaching his eyes.

You tilt your head, looking over at him.

"Waking up ten years from now and hating your life," he deadpans. "And never even trying."

Your chest tightens, your head racing with endless possibilities of a future you thought was already set out for you.

"You're so good at this, ___," he smiles, gesturing to the cupcakes in the oven, the kitchen, the part of you he wants to explore further. "Like, actually good. Not just hobby-good. This is your thing."

You swallow thickly, remaining silent. You don't usually tell people this stuff. You don't usually let yourself say it out loud because then it feels too real. Too scary. But for some reason…with him, it doesn't. You've come to realise he makes you feel seen, which is weird, considering he usually forgets girls' names and faces after a single encounter. This is different, though. You're not a girl he wants to sleep with. You're ___, the girl he wants to hang out with at 2am just because. You're the girl he genuinely wants to spend time with because he enjoys your company, your friendship. You like that. It makes this all feel more genuine.

There's a long beat of silence before you begrudgingly admit the thoughts plaguing you. "You can be really sweet when you're not being an idiot."

He laughs, his nose scrunching up in that way that makes your stomach feel tingly and fluttery. "Don't spread that around. I have a specific brand to maintain."

You laugh, loud and sincere.

"I think you'd make a great bakery owner," he murmurs softly, flicking some leftover flour in your direction.

You wave him off like it's nothing and check your cupcakes, but for the first time since you started studying law, you finally believe you're capable of more than settling, all thanks to the boy on your counter with flour in his hair and sincerity in his eyes.

—

It's almost midnight when Jungkook's phone buzzes on the nightstand. He's half-asleep, sprawled out on his bed, wearing nothing but his boxers, one sock missing. He squints at the screen through bleary eyes, seeing your contact name.

He's awake in an instant.

"Hello?" he croaks, already sitting up, his hair sticking up in all directions. He hears the catch in your voice before you even say a word.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, sniffling. "Did I wake you?"

His heart drops. "Are you okay?"

"...Seungcheol...he cheated on me."

Jungkook is already pulling on sweatpants before the word 'cheated' leaves your lips.

Of course. Fucking Seungcheol. You weren't even really looking for love when you met him. He was just a friend of a friend in one of your classes—a smooth talker who carried around a leather briefcase like he was already a full-time lawyer instead of a sleep-deprived undergrad. Jungkook never liked him, always thought he was a bit pretentious, but of course he wouldn't burst your bubble. Looks like he was right about the dick after all.

"I'll be there in ten."

You open your dorm door in your pajamas, eyes red, nose pink. Your expression crumples the moment you see him, and he doesn't hesitate, just wraps you up in his arms, no questions asked.

Even after just seven months of friendship, you cling to Jungkook like a lifeline, like he'll put all your broken pieces together again. Sure, your relationship with Seungcheol only lasted two months but that means a lot to an eighteen-year-old, so there are still a lot of broken pieces nonetheless.

"He said he didn't mean to," you mumble against his chest while you lie in bed together, willingly this time. "Like that makes it better. Like I should be grateful that it only happened once."

Jungkook exhales hard, like he's trying not to yell. "He's a fucking idiot."

"He said I made him feel…small. That I was trying to outsmart him. That I was too independent. That I...made him feel like he couldn't 'be the man', whatever that means."

Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes fierce, his hands cupping your face.

"You are smart. And independent. And so beautiful. And funny. And you make the best desserts in this entire goddamn city. If he couldn't handle that, it's not because you were too much. It's because he just wasn't enough."

Your eyes well up again, tears silently slipping down your cheeks.

"He cheated with a really pretty girl. Blonde. Really big boobs," you grumble.

Jungkook's voice softens, his thumbs stroking your wet cheeks. "Don't compare yourself to some other girl. You are...so fucking gorgeous, by the way."

You snort, shaking your head. "Shut up."

"I'm serious." His thumb brushes away another tear. "You walk around like you're not insanely beautiful, and you think no one notices. But I do, ___."

You stare at him, stunned into silence.

He shrugs, pulling you closer to rest your head against his chest. "Just saying. Don't cry over some knock-off loser when you're literally you."

He stays wrapped around you for as long as you need, one hand gently running through your hair. You sniffle into his neck, your eyes eventually fluttering shut from the warmth and safety of it all.

Eventually, you fall asleep against his chest, breathing steady, a hand loosely clutching his hoodie.

Jungkook remains still, simply looking at you, admiring you in all your glory. Memorising the curve of your cheek against his collarbone. The way your lips part ever so slightly when you dream. The way your fingers curl, even in your sleep, like you're afraid to let go.

He's not the guy who stays for too long. Not the guy who commits. He's built his whole identity around not being that guy, but holding you like this, he kinda wishes he was.

He stares up at the ceiling and sighs, a quiet, hopeless sound.

"I wish I could be the man you need," he whispers into the dark. "But I'm not there yet. I don't know if I ever will be."

And even though you're fast asleep, you still mumble something soft and unintelligible into his chest. You still hold on, and so does he.

—

Your dorm room is lit by a single lamp, the soft yellow glow contrasting violently with the hyper-pink DVD menu of Legally Blonde looping on your laptop. You've watched it a million times before but it's a Friday night and you're having a movie night with Jungkook, so naturally, you're introducing him to one of the classics.

Jungkook is sprawled across your bed, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand buried in a bowl of popcorn and the other dramatically thrown over his forehead as if he's on his deathbed.

"I swear I don't deserve this," he groans. "I mean...I know I call her Number Three but she didn't have to ghost me just because I wouldn't be exclusive with her. I was actually planning on seeing her again and then calling it off, like a gentleman."

You blink, glancing over at him. "Number Three?"

He sighs. "We've been over this, remember? The girl from the accounting party. Short. Cute. Gave me a hickey shaped like a continent. I think South America?"

You stare at him, slowly shaking your head. "You're insufferable."

He brightens. "Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"You say that," he grins, grabbing another handful of popcorn, "but I feel like you secretly admire my dedication to the craft."

"What craft?" you deadpan. "Being a man-whore?"

He gasps, clutching his chest. "You wound me."

"And you wound women," you chuckle.

"Wow. That hurt, ___."

You toss a pillow at him but he dodges like an athlete. Of course he does. Jackass.

Eventually, when the popcorn is half finished and your patience is half gone, you nod toward the laptop screen. "I'm honestly surprised you're not out tonight."

He blinks. "What do you mean?"

"It's Friday," you deadpan. "Your natural habitat is...I don't know...bars, random beds, broom closets. Anywhere but here watching Legally Blonde with me."

He pouts, actually pouts.

"Hey, I like hanging out with you. I cancelled plans to hang out with you."

You scoff, visibly unconvinced. You secretly feel very special and quite flattered, but that has to be too good to be true, right?

He continues casually, "I'm not completely heartless, you know. I have layers. I'm like an onion. A sexy onion."

You snort. "Please never say 'sexy onion' again."

"But it's true!" he insists, nudging your calf with his foot. "I really like hanging out with you. You're fun, easy to talk to, and you don't pretend to be someone else around me."

"And your other girls do?"

"They pretend to like whatever I like, dislike whatever I dislike. It gets boring listening to them just agree with whatever I say."

You roll your eyes. "Poor baby."

He rolls his eyes right back, as if you don't understand how hard it all is for him.

"You know what your problem is?" you ask, adjusting the laptop and pressing play.

"Oh, here we go."

"You don't believe in romance. Or in actual relationships. Or in…anything that requires feelings."

That's not entirely true, but he shrugs anyway. "Feelings are messy. Hookups are simple. Everyone wins."

"Not everyone," you mumble under your breath, your eyes trained on the laptop screen.

He tilts his head, his mouth stuffed with more popcorn. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You ignore his question and push on. "I just…I don't get it. How can you have meaningless sex with someone? Doesn't it feel empty?"

"Actually when I do it, they usually feel very full," he smirks.

You throw a balled-up pair of socks at his face and he catches it one-handed. What a show-off.

"Look," you clarify, sighing, "I'm just saying, I personally...want something real. Someday. Something that actually matters. A person who actually matters."

"Happily ever after, huh?" he teases.

"Maybe," you mutter, growing defensive. "Why not?"

He makes a face as if you just told him the Earth is flat. "Uhmmm...because that doesn't exist."

"You're so dramatic, yes it does."

"You're the dramatic one!" he argues. "You act like the universe is going to drop Prince Charming out of the sky."

"Maybe it will."

"It won't," he laughs.

You sigh, your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. "You don't know that."

"I do. I know love ends in heartbreak ninety-nine percent of the time."

"So what? You avoid the one percent just in case it hurts?" you challenge.

"Yes," he chuckles carelessly. "And I'm thriving."

You stare at him for a long moment—this beautiful, aggravating, confusing man who can make you laugh until your ribs hurt and then say something that makes you want to shake him.

He has no idea what he does to people.

Especially you.

Especially because lately you've been catching yourself staring at his hands more when he gestures, or the way his hair falls into his eyes while he plays video games, or the sweet, sincere smile he gives you right before he ruins the moment and says something stupid.

You refuse to acknowledge any of it. Crushes on Jungkook are a disease, and you are absolutely vaccinated.

You distract yourself with the movie. Elle Woods is about to confront Warner. Great scene. Then—

His phone buzzes on the bed. Just once.

You don't mean to look but your eyes flick down instinctively while he rambles absentmindedly about the scene playing out on screen.

There's an unanswered text still waiting on the screen from his friend, Seokjin, asking about some business admin assignment. He didn't bother to respond yet. You're sure Seokjin is used to him taking forever to respond to texts, considering they've known each other since high school and now share a few classes together, which you found out on a tipsy Wednesday night when Jungkook decided to share his whole life story with you.

That's not the text that matters right now. The second text is the one that really catches your eye. The number isn't saved, but you don't have to be a genius to know that it's one of his hookups.

xx - xxx [10:32pm]: i had a lot of fun tonight. same time tomorrow ??

He slept with someone. He had sex with some girl literally right before coming over.

Your stomach drops. It shouldn't—not when you've known him for almost a year and you know him to be this way—but it does anyway. It drops because he said he cancelled plans to be with you, but it turns out you're just leftovers.

And now he's here, laughing with you, acting like you're such good company, when in reality you were the afterthought once again. The backup plan. The safe, comfortable option when he's done with whatever girl came before.

You clear your throat. "Your, uhm...your phone buzzed."

"Oh?" he mutters lazily, not even reaching for it. "Probably Jin. He's obsessed with me," he jokes.

You look back at the laptop screen before he can see your face. Your voice is neutral when you murmur, "You should probably respond. Maybe it's important."

"Nah," he shrugs. "I'm here. I'm hanging out with you."

You nod, forcing a smile.

Something inside you clicks—a silent, sharp realisation. This is who Jungkook is. This is who Jungkook will always be. He's funny, and charming, and a little bit addictive, if you're being completely honest.

But Jungkook will never be yours.

He will never be the perfect man for you. He will never be your one percent. So, you bury the tiny, blooming crush before it can grow roots, and you decide firmly, painfully, that a friend is all he'll ever be to you.

And you're sure you can live with that.

Ten years later...

If someone had told you back in university that the chaotic intruder you maced with Chanel perfume would become your favourite person, you would've recommended they seek help urgently.

And yet, ten years later, here you are.

Somehow, despite Jungkook's questionable life choices, endless line of women, and the fact that he once tried to microwave ramen without water, the two of you grew into something solid. Something constant. Something quietly threaded into every part of your adult life.

You grew up together.

Late-night study sessions turned into late-night grocery runs. His hangovers turned into your "you have to stop being so irresponsible" lectures. Your heartbreaks turned into his "give me his address" threats. You were there to celebrate with him when he landed his first high-paying corporate job and he was there to support you when you were grieving your dad's passing.

You became inseparable. A matched set. A pair of platonic soulmates. And in the past ten years, your life took a path younger you would've fainted over.

Sure, you graduated with your law degree and your family was proud, your grandmother bragged to her knitting group, and you spent several months pretending you were totally thrilled to be entering a profession that slowly devoured human souls.

But the truth? You hated it. The corporate offices. The endless contracts. The panic attacks you had in bathroom stalls pretending everything was fine. Law was stable and respectable, but it sucked the life out of you.

Your dream had always smelled like sugar, butter, and rising dough, so one day, with the determination your professors once called "excessive," you quit your job, emptied your savings, fought with your mom for a full year about your life choices, and opened the bakery you always wanted.

Honey & Hearth Bakery; your pride and joy, your entire heart with an overpriced oven attached. The tiny cake shop that eventually grew into a beloved neighbourhood spot with warm lighting, mismatched mugs, cozy booths, and the smell of fresh bread always lingering in the air.

And Jungkook? Well, he painted the walls baby-pink with you at 1am and drilled shelves with no prior experience. He showed up to your grand opening with an extravagant flower bouquet, three balloons that were far too big and dramatic for a bakery opening, and a promise to always support you and your happiness.

He's been your most loyal customer ever since.

Which brings you to now.

The bell above the front door jingles at 8 on a Thursday morning and you don't have to look up to know who it is.

"Morning, superstar," Jungkook calls out, his voice warm and annoyingly bright for a man who has a meeting to attend in an hour. Working in the corporate world isn't the most thrilling profession in life, but he earns the big bucks and he looks hot wearing a suit, and that's enough for him.

You grin without turning around, already whipping up his coffee. "You're late."

"It's 8," he scoffs, winking at a random woman that walks past him.

"Your usual time is 7:20."

"Sorry. Morning sex happened," he sighs, sliding onto his usual stool at the front counter. "That girl from the bar stayed the night and don't get me wrong, she's hot, but I had to explain the whole 'no overstaying your welcome' rule."

"Is that a part of your 'no back-to-back sex' rule?"

"Yes, exactly," he sighs.

"Isn't that basically the same thing as your 'no more than once a week' rule?"

"No, the 'no more than once a week' rule specifically only works from Monday to Friday."

You scoff. "Oh, so theoretically you could sleep with someone on Sunday night and it wouldn't break the rule if you slept with them again on Monday morning?"

"Now you're getting it," he nods.

You finally glance over your shoulder, listening to him go on a long tangent about his recent sexual endeavours. He's completely different from the mischievous boy who crawled into your bed a decade ago…yet somehow exactly the same. Older now, bigger, broader, jaw sharper, hair perfectly styled. Still stupidly handsome in that infuriating, effortless way.

"Pick one for me," he grins, looking over at the pastry case.

That little tradition certainly didn't end in university. In fact, it's become an every-morning thing. He comes in before work and insists you surprise him with a new pastry to try. Apparently it keeps him on his toes, which he believes is very important in life.

You lean against the counter, your arms crossed. "Hmm. What's your vibe today?"

"I don't know," he sighs, pretending to think. "Handsome. Dashing. Maybe a little mysterious."

"Delusional," you chuckle.

"See? This is why this works," he smiles. "You keep me humble."

"What about a slice of apple and cherry crumble?"

"Nah, I had that one last week," he shakes his head.

"Lemon butter cream cup maybe?"

"Not really feeling a cream cup today," he shrugs.

"Hmmm..." You scan the display of desserts, pursing your lips. "Pistachio croissant?"

"___, come on. You're losing your touch," he teases.

"Okay, okay, uhmmm..." You scan the display once more, picking a popular new item on the menu. "Okay, today you're getting the honeycomb and lavender custard tart."

He lights up instantly, like a puppy being offered a treat. "Yes. Excellent choice. I knew you'd pick that."

"You didn't know anything," you scoff, plating it for him.

"I had a feeling."

"You always have a feeling."

"And it's always right," he grins.

The bell rings at the front door and you quickly turn your attention to the cash register to serve one of your regular customers, Mrs. Park—an elderly woman who always makes pleasant conversation and compares you to her granddaughter. She's incredibly nice and always compliments you on the frilly dresses you wear.

"What will it be today, Mrs. Park?" you smile sweetly.

"My usual, dear," she chuckles warmly. "One of those lovely chocolate eclairs of yours. My daughter tells me I should stop eating them so much because of my blood sugar but what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

You chuckle, wrapping one up for her in a little pastel-pink box, taking her cash with a polite bow of your head. "My lips are sealed," you wink.

She laughs and takes the box before walking off with a little wave of her wrinkled hand.

That brings you back to the man waiting for his breakfast.

"Here," you murmur, sliding the plate and mug of coffee toward him. "Eat and try not to break anything. You already broke two mugs last month and I'm seriously going to start charging you for them."

He takes a big bite of the mini tart and groans in delight. "God, marry me."

"You literally just told me about how you were balls deep in some girl from the bar," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Besides, you fake-propose to me every morning."

"And I mean it every morning."

You snort. "Please. You'd never."

He leans an elbow on the counter. "Only because you'd divorce me for eating in bed and getting crumbs on the sheets," he sighs, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Correct," you nod, wiping down the counter. "I have standards."

He sets down his mug and straightens up, getting to what he's been meaning to discuss this morning. "So, you busy this Saturday?"

You shrug, mentally checking your schedule. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"Because I need you."

You pause. "You do?"

"It's an invitation actually."

"Okay…" you murmur sceptically, narrowing your eyes at him. "To what?"

"My father's engagement party. Shocker."

Your rag pauses mid-swipe across the counter. "Which one?"

"Engagement or father?" he grins.

"Both."

"Engagement number ten. Father number one."

You blink. "Ten?"

"Ten," he repeats, like it physically pains him. "She's twenty-three, gorgeous, has a skincare routine that could bankrupt nations. I think she was in diapers when my dad got married the third time."

You gape. "Wait, who's the one that sold protein powder on Instagram?"

"That was number eight." He takes another sip of his coffee. "This one does yoga retreats in Bali and says things like 'alignment is a mindset'. Ridiculous, I know. And she only wears bags that are made from real baby alligator, allegedly."

"That's disgusting and inhumane," you grimace. "So...why do you need me?"

"Because," he groans, "he's having some fancy dinner-slash-engagement party and he wants me there, and I am not suffering through that circus alone. And my dad likes you. And you make me look balanced and emotionally stable."

"That's a lot of responsibility for one woman," you tease.

He shrugs. "You used to handle lawsuits for fun."

"Yeah but I don't do law anymore," you deadpan.

"You still look like you could send someone to jail," he grins, taking another bite of his dessert. "Anyway, you know how these things go. Everyone's going to ask why I'm still single, and I'll end up getting irritated because my dad's fiancée—who's younger than me—insists on calling me 'sweetie'. I need backup. Please come, ___. I'll owe you forever."

You laugh softly, leaning across the counter. "You already owe me forever, Jeon."

"Yeah, but this time I'll actually admit it," Jungkook mumbles, meeting your eyes with that boyish half-smile that hasn't changed in a decade.

"Fine. I'll go," you sigh, tossing the rag into the sink.

Jungkook beams, and you pretend your stomach doesn't flip.

"You're amazing," he grins and claps once, pushing off the counter with a mouth full of custard tart. "I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday. Wear something fancy. And also maybe emotionally prepare yourself."

"For what?" You chuckle.

He grimaces. "Stepmom Number Ten is…a handful."

You chuckle. "Aren't they always?"

He points at you as he backs toward the door. "Exactly why you're coming with me."

The bell jingles again as he leaves, and your day continues with familiar customers while he rushes through the morning traffic.

Jungkook's father's estate is something you would never be able to afford even if you opened ten more bakeries. Calling it a house would be like calling the Titanic a canoe. There are fountains—yes, plural. There is a driveway long enough to train for a marathon. There's valet parking and a floral arch made of white roses that look like they cost more than your entire bakery.

And there are people. A lot of people. Champagne clinks in the air, soft jazz plays somewhere in the distance, and laughter rolls in every direction.

You exhale, adjusting the strap on your dress. "I always feel very commoner-in-the-palace when I'm here."

Jungkook tucks your hand into the crook of his arm, pulling you closer as he leans in, looking dapper in his black tux. "Relax. You're one of the only sane people here. That automatically makes you royalty."

"Does it?"

"Yes," he smiles confidently. "And when my father inevitably lets me inherit this place, which I'll force him to do, then I'll make you queen of the fountains."

You snort. "I don't want to be queen of the fountains."

"Too late. You've been coronated." He taps your forehead with his finger. "Boop."

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. He always does that; makes you feel like you belong wherever he is.

Inside, the party is in full swing. There are waiters weaving between people, guests mingling in glitter and silk, the future bride squealing in a voice that sounds like it's powered by helium and Mr. Jeon himself proudly showing off the engagement ring on her finger that could double as a murder weapon. There's even a towering cake on display, five tiers of gold-trimmed extravagance that you can't wait to recreate in your free time.

Jungkook grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and hands you one, taking a big gulp.

The moment his father spots the two of you, his entire face lights up.

"There's my favourite duo!" Jeon Jaehyun sweeps you both into a hug—more you than Jungkook. Jungkook gets a pat on the back like a border collie. You get an affectionate double cheek kiss and a squeeze.

"Mr. Jeon," you greet with a polite bow and a soft smile. You've always liked him. He makes questionable choices when it comes to women, but he's nice and he always treats you like you're a part of the family. It's also clear where Jungkook gets his good looks from, not that you ever look for too long or else he'd make you Wife Number Eleven.

"You look stunning tonight, sweetheart," he beams. "I tell you, if I were thirty years younger—"

"You'd still be making terrible decisions, dad," Jungkook cuts in, unamused.

Jaehyun clicks his tongue. "I'll have you know, son, that marriage is an unpredictable thing."

You glance at the fiancée across the room, who is taking a selfie with the champagne tower, not noticing that she's flashing half the guests.

"Unpredictable, huh?" you echo with a soft smile. Sure.

The fiancée, Seulgi—with a gorgeous face, waist-length extensions and breasts that defy gravity—bounces over.

"Kookieee," she sings. Her voice is airy, like her brain has never had to carry anything heavier than a single thought.

"Kookie?" you whisper.

He grimaces. "Don't."

"Oh my gosh, is this your girlfriend?" she asks, looking you up and down like you're a lost child she found at the mall. "I didn't know my future stepson has a special lady!"

"This is ___," he sighs. "My best friend. Strictly platonic."

Seulgi nods, smiling like she understands exactly none of those words, before turning her attention to her future husband. "Love-muffin," she coos, kissing Jungkook's father on the cheek. "The guests are asking when we're cutting the cake."

Jungkook leans toward you, whispering, "My dad's nickname for her is Sugarpuss."

You almost choke on your champagne. "No."

"Yes," he grins sarcastically.

His father pats her waist affectionately, grabbing your attention. "Isn't she wonderful?"

She smiles. "I got my nails done for today."

She wiggles her fingers in front of your face. They're pink and sparkly and probably cost more than your monthly grocery bill.

You smile, nodding. "Very pretty."

"Thank you!" she squeals. "I got them done at—oh look, champagne!" She wanders away mid-sentence.

Jungkook closes his eyes, groaning. "My latest stepmother, ladies and gentlemen."

Jaehyun gives you both an apologetic smile. "Listen, she's...youthful. Nothing wrong with that."

"She probably can't even spell 'youthful', dad," Jungkook deadpans.

Before Jaehyun can respond, another round of shrieking laughter erupts from Seulgi's direction. Jaehyun sighs deeply, chuckling.

You squeeze his arm, a soft smile settling on your face. "Congratulations. I really hope you're happy, Mr. Jeon."

He softens at that, looking between you and Jungkook. "With people like the two of you around? Hard not to be."

Jungkook, knowing how much of a sap you are, drags you away before you can tear up, but that doesn't stop you from clutching your chest like your heart might physically burst right through it.

The buffet tables are the size of actual battle stations. You and Jungkook each grab cake slices and slip outside, where fairy lights glow over small round tables. You sit at one, kicking off your heels with a relieved sigh.

"Vanilla for you," Jungkook says, sliding your plate over. "Chocolate for me."

"And we share," you remind him.

"We always share."

You scoop a bite of chocolate from his plate. He steals some vanilla from yours. It's instinctual.

While you eat, you glance out at the dance floor. Couples are slow dancing under the lights, chins tucked against shoulders, fingers intertwined, faces soft with something that makes your chest ache a little.

"I love that," you murmur softly.

Jungkook follows your gaze. "What? Dancing?"

"No," you scoff, taking a small bite of the vanilla cake. "The...closeness. The comfort. You know, two people who actually like being around each other."

He snorts, stuffing his mouth with cake. "Boring."

"You literally treat dating like a casual sport," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "You can't even do something as simple as cuddling."

"I could cuddle if I really wanted to," he mumbles defensively, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Jungkook, you once pushed a girl off your chest because she said your heartbeat sounded like a lullaby."

He points his fork at you. "Okay, but after I pushed her off of me, I played her an actual lullaby on Spotify, so..."

You laugh so loudly someone glances over at your table.

He leans back in his chair, studying you. "You should be more spontaneous. You fall in love too quickly and you assume every boyfriend is the one. You ever think maybe you'd have more fun if you didn't plan out every part of your life?"

"I'm not planning," you argue, eating a forkful of the chocolate cake. "I just...I like security and stability in life."

"Or," he counters, "you're waiting for this perfect man who doesn't exist."

You shrug, absentmindedly poking the cake with your fork. "I'm not looking for perfect; I'm looking for someone who sees a future with me, not a guy who 'goes with the flow' because he doesn't know how to commit. Someone I can build a life with."

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at you. "One; that's kinda delusional. Two; you're twenty-eight, you still have time for all that later in life."

"Not according to my mom. She believes I should have been married and had babies by now."

"That's insane," he scoffs. "I'm thirty and I'm perfectly fine the way I am."

"We're very different people with very opposing views on relationships, Jungkook," you murmur gently. "And besides, I do kinda agree with her to a certain extent. I want to build something soon and not waste time dating men who only want a weekend. I'll die alone if I don't get a move on."

He softens, almost imperceptibly. "You don't have to rush. It'll happen with the right person when it's meant to be."

You nod down at your plate, dragging your fork through some frosting. "Yeah. I guess."

"Besides, do you want to get married just for the sake of being married? Look at my father who's on his tenth marriage and soon, his tenth divorce."

"Don't be so negative," you murmur with a faint smile. "Maybe this one will be his person."

"My mom was supposed to be his person," he grumbles, picking at the vanilla cake. "This one is just another mistake to add to the list."

"Jungkook," you smile. "Even if you know it's a mistake but it's not your place to intervene, you simply say, 'I'm happy you're happy' and move along."

"Yeah, yeah," he scoffs, bringing his fork up to his lips. "You're always right. I hate that."

You chuckle, taking another bite of his slice of cake. The moment settles between you, and you take it as an opportunity to share something with him that's been on your mind lately.

"Speaking of being spontaneous…"

"Oh no," he teases. "That tone is never good."

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. "No, it's not anything crazy, it's just...I've kinda been thinking about going to London for the summer."

His fork freezes halfway to his mouth, his eyes growing double its size. "London?"

"Mhm. For a short pastry course," you explain. "Three months at this prestigious culinary institute. It's kinda a dream opportunity."

Jungkook is silent, his fork gently clinking against the plate as he sets it down.

"When were you gonna tell me?" he asks softly. He's not upset, just very caught off guard.

"Just now," you shrug. "I was on the fence about it for a while."

"Wow," he swallows thickly. "Three months?"

You nod.

He forces a small smile, the kind of smile he uses when he doesn't like something but refuses to ruin things for you. It's a smile that tells you he doesn't know how to live without you for that long, but he'll pretend like he's totally fine.

"That's…wow, that's amazing, ___."

"Yeah." You pick at your cake some more. "But I don't know. It's expensive and I'd be away from the bakery for months, and I've never been out of the country alone before, and—"

"Hey," he smiles, softly nudging your knee under the table. "You can do it."

"I don't know," you mumble. "It feels like…a big jump."

"You like big jumps."

"No, you like big jumps. I like stable ground, a clear path and preferably a railing."

He grins. "I'll install a railing in London."

You glare at him but your laughter slips out effortlessly.

His smile softens even more. "Seriously. If you want it, go for it. The bakery will survive. The other staff can run it. And you should do things for yourself for once. You're always taking care of everyone else."

You open your mouth to argue, then shut it when you realise you don't have an argument. You hate that he's not wrong.

"I'll miss home," you mutter quietly.

"Home will always be here, ___, it isn't going anywhere," he shrugs. "Seoul will always be your home. Three months in London won't magically change that."

You want to tell him that you'll miss him as well, but saying that you'll miss home is close enough. It's one in the same anyway.

"And," he adds, "if you get lost, I'll fly over and find you."

You roll your eyes. "Right, because you're definitely responsible enough for that."

"Hey, I'd bring a GPS."

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as warm air settles around you, the fairy lights flickering overhead and Jungkook licking frosting off his fork like it's nothing.

"You think I'll do well?"

"Of course," he smiles, nudging your shoulder. "It's you. You're gonna shine. And I'll visit, or we'll video call...or I'll just break into the institute and steal you back."

You laugh, but your chest tightens. He's trying so hard to be happy for you. You can tell.

"You sure you'll survive without me?"

He scoffs dramatically. "If anything, I'll thrive. I'll become stronger, faster, a new man."

"Right," you chuckle. "You'll last three days before you start texting me pictures of pastries and asking which one to buy."

"I give it two," he admits in defeat.

You laugh, the last of the tension easing as the music swells in the distance. Your face slowly melts into a tender smile, your eyes softening ever so gently. It all feels so warm and intimate, and strangely bittersweet.

"Thank you for always supporting me," you murmur quietly.

"Always," he smiles before feeding you a piece of cake on his fork.

You're mid-bite into your cake when Jungkook's entire face suddenly drains of colour.

"Oh no," he whispers.

You pause, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What?"

He doesn't answer in words. Instead, he subtly tilts his head toward the patio doors.

You follow his gaze. A woman in a tight pencil skirt and glasses, hair in a too-tight bun, is clutching a binder to her chest like it's a bible and she's about to testify. Her eyes scan the place with an intensity that could cut steel.

"Uhm…who is that?" you whisper.

"One of my dad's senior analysts." He swallows, setting down his fork. "Her name's Yuri."

"She looks...friendly," you tease.

"She made a blog about me," he hisses.

Your eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"A blog. It's called 'All Things Jungkook'. Can you believe that?"

You snicker, covering your mouth so you don't get cake everywhere. "You're kidding."

"I wish."

You laugh too loudly and Jungkook shushes you frantically before it can catch Yuri's attention.

"She wrote an entire essay analysing my facial structure," he whispers. "Like, paragraphs. There were diagrams."

You bite your bottom lip to keep from cackling, your face contorting with amusement. "Diagrams?"

"She compared my jawline to Renaissance sculptures," he mutters miserably. "Sculptures, ___."

You wheeze.

"At least she doesn't think my nose is too big or my arms are too scrawny," he adds under his breath, pouting.

You stop laughing, your smile fading.

"Who said that?"

He stares at you.

"You did," he scoffs. "Back in university."

You gasp. "I did not say that!"

"You did," he nods solemnly. "You also said my top lip is too thin."

You slap a hand over your mouth, horrified and amused all at once. "Okay, to be fair, I was an extremely critical eighteen-year-old who was drowning in law textbooks, so I didn't really have a nice thing to say about anyone."

He looks in Yuri's direction, who is still scanning the crowd like a Terminator. "She's gonna see me. She's gonna corner me and ask if I read her four-page analysis about my eyebrows."

You're already laughing again.

"___," he begs, grabbing your wrist. "Dance with me."

"Wait, what?"

"Please," he hisses. "If I'm on the dance floor with someone, she won't approach me."

You arch a brow. "You want me to publicly claim you as occupied?"

"Yes."

You chuckle faintly but stand anyway. "You so owe me."

The music has shifted to something smooth and slow—a romantic melody playing that makes older couples sway like they're reliving their youth. Jungkook places a hand lightly on your waist as you join the crowd. It's familiar but warmer than usual. Or maybe it's the champagne going to your head.

You rest your left hand on his shoulder and your right hand in his palm as you both begin to sway, your faces a lot closer together than they usually are.

"Okay," you smile, "which part of your face did she analyse the hardest?"

"My jaw," he mutters. "Apparently it has a 'mathematically perfect slope', or something like that."

You smile, letting him sway you to the music. "Well, she's not wrong."

He does a double take, staring at you like you said something completely crazy.

"What?" you chuckle.

"What did you just say?" he asks, leaning in closer.

"I said she's not wrong," you shrug.

He squints at you. "You used to call me a pretentious dick."

"That was also true."

He shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."

You grin, then hesitate just a fraction, but he notices.

"What is it?" he asks softly.

You shouldn't say it. You really shouldn't say it, but the music is soft, and the lights are warm, and you're pressed just a bit too close to a man you trust more than anyone in the world, so you blurt it out before you can stop yourself.

"I always thought you were...cute. You know, back in the day. I might've...had a little crush on you..."

His entire body goes still, his eyes growing wide.

"You what?"

"It was a teeny tiny...stupid crush," you clarify. "Very small and insignificant. Microscopic, actually."

Jungkook continues to stare at you, his lips parting in disbelief. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"You..." he scoffs, smiling. "You had a crush on me?"

"Don't say it like that," you chuckle, growing flustered.

"No, I'm just..." He searches your face, bewildered and—although he tries to hide it—quite pleased. "I thought you hated me in university."

"Oh, please. If I hated you, I wouldn't have wasted my time insulting you."

He laughs, loud and delighted.

"So, all those insults were, what? You flirting?"

You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Calm down, Jeon."

"You secretly pined for me," he grins smugly, gently twirling you around until you're facing him again.

"Pined? Relax. It lasted, like, two weeks."

"Mhm, sure," he teases. "I bet you were doodling my name in all your notebooks and imagining what our children would look like."

You give him a deadpan stare. "Don't push it. That ship sailed a long time ago."

His smile falters just enough for you to notice if you're really paying attention, but he recovers quickly, tugging you a little closer as the music swells.

"Right, of course," he mumbles softly, looking past you while you sway to the music.

You clear your throat, feeling desperate to redirect the conversation before the air gets heavy.

"So…London," you murmur softly.

He hums, twirling you around once more before pulling you in close. "London."

"I think it'll be good for me," you admit. "A break. Something new."

He studies you—the bright excitement in your eyes, the uncertainty underneath, the hope, and something flashes in his expression that you don't catch, something soft and affectionate.

"Well," he smiles, his voice quieter than before, "I guess I'll have to see you off at the airport, huh?"

You smile, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

He closes his eyes, savouring the moment, his voice coming out just a tad louder than a whisper. "Fuck, I'm gonna miss you."

You roll your eyes, feeling a warmth bloom deep within your ribs. "You're a sap like me now."

He smirks, the earlier tension slipping away. "Don't tell anyone."

"Your secret's safe with me."

He dips you playfully, the two of you laughing, brushing shoulders, standing closer than friends should—close enough that the air between you buzzes with something you both feel.

Outside the dance floor, Yuri is still circling like a shark, but Jungkook doesn't look her way once. Not when he's looking at you.

Incheon Airport buzzes with summer chaos; children dragging suitcases bigger than their bodies, couples taking teary selfies, businessmen speed-walking like their lives depend on it. In the middle of it all, you stand with your luggage, passport, and a rapidly beating heart.

Jungkook is beside you, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

"So…" he mumbles, rocking back on his heels, "I guess this is it."

You nod, clutching the handle of your suitcase. "Three months."

"Three months," he echoes.

There's a brief moment where the airport noise fades and it's just you and him and ten years of friendship sitting between you.

He reaches out and flicks a piece of fluff from your sweater, even though you're ninety percent sure there never was any fluff to begin with. "You'll text me when you land?"

"I'll text you as soon as I get WiFi," you nod.

"And you'll video call me?"

"Only if you don't answer while you're at the gym and make me look at your sweaty forehead again."

"That was one time," he chuckles.

You grin. He grins back, but his fades first.

"Go be brilliant, okay?" he murmurs softly. "London's waiting for you."

Your chest warms. "I'll miss you."

Something flickers in his eyes but he blinks fast before you can question it.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Me too."

You smile, lightly punching his arm. "I love you, idiot."

He rolls his eyes, his lips twitching at the corners. "Yeah, yeah, I love you too. Now go."

When you finally walk toward the gate, you don't turn around, but Jungkook stays in place, watching until you disappear. When he finally walks out of the airport, he tells himself the heaviness in his chest is pride, not anything else.

Definitely not. It couldn't be.

—

London greets you with fresh summer air, the faint smell of rain, and immediate sensory overload. The taxis are louder, the buildings older, and everyone talks like they're narrating a BBC documentary.

And you feel more alive than ever.

Your first day at the culinary institute feels like stepping into a whole new world. The kitchens gleam like they've been polished a thousand times. The finest plates await your creations. The ovens are fancier than anything you could ever dream of using.

You learn laminated dough, the perfect method for chocolate tempering, advanced patisserie techniques, all things you used to watch on YouTube while telling yourself you'd perfect someday.

Now 'someday' is here and it's better than you anticipated.

You snap pictures of everything—your flaky pastries, your fancy meringues, your messy apron—and send each and every one of them to Jungkook, even if he responds hours later because of the time difference or his busy schedule.

Between classes, you make the most of your London summer. You buy dresses and blouses that make you feel like a character in a Bridget Jones movie, you carry around flowers wrapped in brown paper that will sit in the middle of the coffee table in your hotel room, you sip tea at cute cafés and buy souvenirs for Jungkook every chance you get.

A vintage Beatles t-shirt.

A Big Ben keychain.

A tiny corgi plush.

Your classmates take you in immediately and within your first month, your nights are filled with dinners at pubs where everything is fried, rooftop wine with the funny Brazilian girl from your pastry group and late-night tube rides where you and the others fall asleep leaning on each other. You make memories that will last a lifetime, and at one point, you don't even think about everything waiting for you back in Seoul.

It's a quiet Saturday afternoon when you find yourself wandering through the sculpture gallery of the Victoria and Albert Museum. There's a hush in the air, as if the marble statues are asleep and everyone else is just trying not to disturb them.

You stop in front of Canova's "Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss."

It's breathtaking. It's delicate and romantic and heartbreakingly intimate, like stone brought to life. Cupid leans over Psyche, gently cradling her as if she might shatter. You've seen it in pictures before, but seeing it in person makes it that much better.

You step closer, completely mesmerised, but a shutter clicks beside you, catching you off guard and pulling you from your daze.

There's a man standing next to you, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark cardigan and round glasses that slide slightly down his nose. His hair is dark and frames his face, and a film camera hangs from a strap around his neck. He's just taken a photo of the sculpture, and when he notices you looking, he offers a warm, slightly sheepish smile.

"Sorry," he murmurs in a low, honey-smooth voice, the British accent doing something tingly to your insides. "Didn't mean to interrupt your moment."

You smile politely. "You didn't, don't worry about it."

He turns to look at the sculpture again, tilting his head. "It's beautiful, isn't it? There's something timeless about it." He glances back at you. "Makes you believe that it's worth it to wait for a love like that."

Your eyebrows raise, feeling a bit taken aback by the rather romantic stranger.

He laughs softly. "Sorry. That was…dramatic."

"No," you shake your head, smiling wider. "It was really nice...and true."

"I guess that means I'm not being overly sentimental."

"Or we both are," you smile.

"Could be worse," he shrugs. "I'd rather be overly sentimental than chronically indifferent."

You let out a soft laugh. "That's a good line."

"Thank you, I read it in a book once," he smiles down at the ground, fidgeting with his camera.

You both turn back toward the statue, standing in comfortable silence for a beat, watching how the late afternoon light casts golden shadows on the white stone.

"I'm Kim Namjoon, by the way," he says after a moment, holding out a hand.

"___," you smile, shaking it.

"You're not from here, are you?"

You shake your head. "Seoul, South Korea."

His eyes light up. "Really? Me too...well, kinda. My parents are Korean but they met here in England while they were both studying at Oxford. They moved back to Korea after getting married. That's where I was born, but we moved back to England when I was about five. I haven't been back in a while."

You nod, your interest piqued. "And now you…take pictures of sculptures for a living?"

He chuckles. "Not exclusively. I'm a photographer, mostly travel and editorial, but I come here a lot on my days off. It grounds me."

"I get that," you murmur. "Bakeries do that for me."

He looks over at you, his eyebrows raising. "You're a baker?"

You nod. "I own a small bakery back in Seoul. It's kinda why I'm here, actually. I'm doing a summer course at a culinary institute nearby to brush up on my skills. I'm only here for three months."

"That's incredible." His smile is genuine, his eyes shining under the museum lights. "Honestly, I think bakers are like magicians. You turn flour and cocoa into happiness. It's very impressive."

You laugh, nodding along. "That's very nice of you to say, thank you."

"You're very welcome, Miss ___."

He looks back at the sculpture for a moment, then turns back to you, a little more tentative this time.

"I know this is a bit forward, but…do you perhaps have plans after this?"

You feel your heart pound harder, your head shaking almost too excitedly. "No, not really."

He smiles, clearly a little nervous, like he's not used to doing this. "Would you maybe want to grab a coffee with me? I could show you around London if you'd like. There's a place just down the road; very tiny and unassuming but the coffee's good and they have these absurdly large cinnamon buns that are to die for."

He's handsome, has an accent that makes your thighs clench, and he wants to take you to a café. You don't even have to think about it.

"I'd love to."

His face softens, looking like he didn't quite expect you to say yes.

You chat while you walk out together, side by side, stealing one last look at Cupid and Psyche, and somewhere deep in your chest, you wonder if he is a part of the fresh start you've been craving.

—

It all starts with a simple coffee date.

After the museum, you and Namjoon tuck yourselves into a quiet corner of a café near Hyde Park, where he stirs his cappuccino with one hand and nervously fidgets with the strap of his camera with the other. He asks thoughtful questions, listens like he genuinely cares and laughs with the cutest expression that makes your cheeks flush every single time. He walks you home that night—hands brushing, hearts pounding—and from there, it all blossoms at the speed of light.

Your second date is dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant where you end up talking for hours, sharing pasta and trading childhood stories. He shyly admits he once cried when his favourite bakery shut down, and you know then and there that he's your type of person.

On the third date, you sit beside the Thames at sunset, barely an inch between you, and when your head falls against his shoulder, neither of you move. Your first kiss happens in the rain after a trip to a vintage bookshop, hesitant at first—until it isn't. Until his hands are warm on your waist and yours are in his hair, time melting into the taste of his mouth.

You start to crave his presence, his voice, his intellect wrapped in a British accent and kind eyes.

One night, after too much wine and too many loaded glances, you kiss him breathlessly in his hallway and let him lead you to his bed. It's slow and sweet, and he makes you feel like the most beautiful woman he's ever laid his eyes upon. That happens quite often after the first time. You have sex in the shower, the backseat of his car, on the floor of your hotel room, and it's always better than the last.

By the start of August, Namjoon is a fixture in your London summer. He waits for you after class. He carries your shopping bags without a complaint. He reads books aloud when you can't sleep, chuckles at your terrible attempt at a British accent, and takes endless sneaky photos of you mid-laugh just because he loves the way you look when you're at your happiest. He even drives you out to the English countryside to have dinner with his parents.

Somewhere between the late-night talks and stolen kisses, you fall for him harder than you ever meant to. And the scariest part isn't how fast it happens…it's how disappointed you are that it's all temporary.

—

Namjoon unlocks the door to his flat, stepping inside with the same subtle confidence you've come to love. He holds the door open for you—always a gentleman, even when his fingers were just threaded through yours all the way home from the pub, even when his lips were pressed against your neck as you waited for your Uber, even when his voice had dropped into that low, breathy register that made your knees weak.

You step into the warmth of his space. It smells like him, which you've come to love as well. The lights are dim, a large bookshelf lines the wall, vinyl records stacked neatly near a player and a blooming houseplant stands tall in the corner.

He toes off his shoes and reaches for your jacket. "Here," he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek from behind.

You slip your jacket off your shoulders, your pulse jumping as he hangs it up with care. He rests his hands in his pants pockets, watching you as you turn to face him. His eyes flick over your lips, your neckline, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear like you're totally not still nervous around him.

"Wanna watch a movie?" he offers.

You shake your head, smiling.

He nods slowly and takes the hint, cupping your face in his large hands. The kiss that follows comes easily, mouths moving languidly, your fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt. You've kissed Namjoon a million times over the past three months—on couches, in doorways, on sidewalks lit by streetlights—but this time it feels far more gentle and intimate.

By the time he breaks away, you're breathing in shallow little waves.

"C'mon," he murmurs softly, taking your hand in his. He leads you down the hall, into his bedroom. It's minimalistic, very clean. There's no pretence, just him.

He doesn't pull you into bed. Not yet, at least.

He stands beside the low bookshelf near the window, arms folded loosely, watching you run a hand through your hair.

"Is this really just for three months?" he asks softly. "You being in London? You're really going back to Seoul?"

You sigh, realising you'd have to have this conversation eventually. "Yeah. I mean…that's always been the plan, Joon."

He nods slowly. He just needed to hear you confirm it. "Right. Just…three months."

You sit down on the edge of his bed, your hands resting in your lap. "I just...didn't think I'd actually…meet someone here. I just came to bake things and buy overpriced souvenirs for my best friend."

He smiles at that, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

You tilt your head, your eyebrows furrowing. "Why do you ask?"

Namjoon exhales and smiles. "I guess I've just been thinking about it a lot more than I expected to."

He walks toward you slowly, kneeling down so he's at eye level, his hands resting on your knees with the utmost tenderness.

"___, I know we've only known each other for a short while," he murmurs, keeping his voice steady. "But..."

You swallow thickly, sensing a shift in the air.

Namjoon pulls out a small velvet box from his pants pocket.

You freeze, completely at a loss for words. "Wait. Namjoon, is that...?"

He nods and opens it, his eyes moving from the little box to your face. Inside is a simple, vintage ring; an oval-cut diamond set in an antique band. It's timeless and stunning.

"Kim Namjoon, you're insane," you whisper, letting out a soft, breathless chuckle. "You actually bought a ring?"

He smiles up at you, shaking his head. "I didn't buy it."

Your head tilts in confusion.

"It was my grandmother's," he explains. "She wore it for over fifty years. My mum kept it after my granny passed…and last week...I asked her for it."

Your throat tightens, your eyes widening. "You…asked for it?"

He nods, glancing down at the ring. "I called her and told her that I'm serious about you. I told her that you make me feel like I'm a better version of myself just by existing next to me."

You press a hand to your mouth, feeling overwhelmed with a whole mixture of emotions.

"She told me I was a little nuts," he adds with a chuckle. "That no sane man proposes to someone he's only known for three months."

You laugh, nodding. "Your mom's smart."

"She is." His smile melts into something softer, more serious. "But I'm in love with you. And I don't want to wait."

There's a beat of silence, just the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears, the hustle and bustle of the city outside his window, and the impossible weight of the moment sitting in your chest.

"I know it's really fast," he says gently, "but when I look at you, it doesn't feel fast or crazy. It feels like I've been waiting for you my whole life without even knowing I was waiting."

You don't say anything right away.

This man wants to marry you. This man who instantly took a liking to you when he met you. This man who's intelligent and kind and effortlessly elegant. This man who just presented you with his grandmother's wedding ring like it was meant to be yours all along.

Namjoon watches your expression carefully, waiting patiently.

Then, cautiously, he smiles.

"Will you marry me?"

—

At first, it all just feels like a mild inconvenience for Jungkook.

You're in a different country, in a different time zone, and of course it's normal that your texts come through while he's asleep or his calls are missed because you're stuck in class. Days pass where your voices never reach each other, just fragments—missed calls, unread messages, half-finished voice notes.

At first, he tells himself it's normal, maybe even healthy. You're living your best life halfway across the world, and he refuses to be the needy friend who holds your back. Still, he finds himself reaching for his phone too often, typing things and deleting them, falling asleep with your chat left open like maybe, somehow, it will make you feel closer.

He goes out a lot in June.

He texts you at 2am after coming home from drinks with Jin and two girls he doesn't remember the names of. The text says, "Miss your dumb face," followed by a blurry selfie. You don't answer until seven hours later with a laughing emoji because you just finished rolling a million croissants and you're too tired to ask how his night went.

He smiles at his phone like an idiot every time your name pops up on his screen, but the more time passes, the more the silence starts to hurt.

In July, he hooks up with a girl he met at a rooftop restaurant. She's beautiful, super tall, wears a silk dress that shows off just enough to have him on edge. She calls him "handsome" and laughs at all the right moments. Her perfume is strong, her lip gloss sticky. He pulls her into his apartment and they undress in a haze of clumsy heat, getting straight to the point of the evening—sex.

Jungkook grunts and squeezes his eyes shut as he thrusts into her in missionary, his head spinning as he desperately tries to focus on the task at hand and not the text he sent you a few hours ago that still hasn't been answered.

When he opens his eyes again to kiss her, he's completely thrown off his game when it's not her face he sees contorting in pleasure—it's yours.

It's the familiar curve of your smile.

It's the sparkle in your eyes when the two of you slow danced at his father's engagement party.

It's the look of longing you had on your face when you said goodbye at the airport.

Jungkook stops moving, his hips halting mid-stroke. The girl moans something but he doesn't hear it, far too distracted by your eyes fluttering in his head. He closes his eyes once more, his breathing ragged, his heart hammering. Once he finally gets it together, he forces himself to finish but it just feels hollow now.

When August arrives, Jungkook decides to soldier on until you eventually get back to Seoul.

He meets up with a different woman on a random Monday afternoon—a friend of a friend. They get coffee, then lunch, then dinner a week later. She's cute and easy company. She asks about the meanings of all his tattoos, kisses slow and rides him fast.

She seems genuinely interested in him, so on their fourth hangout—which he insists on calling it instead of a date because he doesn't want her to get the idea that he's serious about her—he takes her to your bakery.

It's his safe place and it smells like you. It's comforting, and warm, and always welcoming. And maybe he takes her there because some part of him just misses home.

The display case is full of your signature work; dainty cupcakes decorated with edible flowers, fluffy cinnamon donuts rolled into perfect spheres, sticky toffee buns that always taste better each time he eats them.

Jungkook stares at the options, his hands in his pockets. "I can't decide what to get," he sighs, testing the waters. "Pick one for me."

She blinks, her pretty doe eyes filled with confusion. "Why?"

"I don't know, it's kinda fun," he smiles. "Just choose something for me."

She raises a brow, looking at the array of desserts. "Okay…a cookie."

He pauses, glancing at her. "No, like...be specific."

"Okay." She stares at the case, then smiles over at him. "A really big cookie?"

He smiles, but it's so fake it almost physically hurts. "Right. Sure."

She doesn't get it, of course she wouldn't. It's not about the dessert. It's so much more than that.

They end up leaving with one cookie for her and nothing but disappointment for him.

—

The days blur and the nights stretch endlessly.

He scrolls through your texts again and again, reading old ones just to be reminded of how funny you are. He reads the ones where you got into a debate about 'sex weather', in which you insisted that rainy weather is always the best time for sex, or rather "making love" as you put it, because you hate being sweaty while trying to be romantic. He listens to the voice note where you tried to explain a French baking term and got so flustered when you lost your train of thought that you ended it with, "Anyway, I'm a fraud, bye."

He plays that one three times, chuckling to himself in bed like a crazy person.

He wants to call you, to hear your voice and listen to you ramble about oven temperature settings and undercooked soufflé.

He wants to say...well, he doesn't really know what he wants to say. He just knows that no one else makes him feel whole the way you do.

That everyone else feels like a filler. Like static. Never you, though. You feel like home.

He tosses his phone aside and stares up at his bedroom ceiling, running a hand through his hair with a huff. It hits him gently, like a slow wave that unexpectedly knocks him off his feet and drowns him in an instant:

You're not just his best friend or the girl he jokingly flirts with out of habit. You're more than just someone who knows how he likes his coffee or which songs make him cry or why he hates sleeping in certain positions because it hurts his back.

You're it.

You're the one he'll always look for in a crowd of people, the one he still wants to talk to at the end of every stressful, shitty day. The one he hasn't stopped thinking about since the moment you walked through that departure gate—hell, since the moment he accidentally stumbled into your bed ten years ago.

And he doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to do with that.

The thud of the basketball echoes through the gym as Jungkook dribbles, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart pounding from exertion. Seokjin's guarding him—kinda lazily—and Wonwoo's near the free-throw line, his sleeves rolled up and jaw set with focus. Mingyu's off to the side, taking his sweet time sipping water and pretending like he doesn't play the most aggressively of all four of them.

Jungkook fakes left, cuts right, and lands the shot. It bounces once, then rolls in.

"Still got it," he grins, jogging back as Mingyu throws him a towel.

"You've got cardio," Wonwoo pants. "Not game."

"Don't need game when I'm playing against geriatrics," Jungkook shoots back.

"Hey!" Seokjin wipes his forehead. "I may be a father now, but I could still outrun you with one baby strapped to my chest and another in the oven."

"You're not even the one with the oven," Mingyu snorts.

"My point still stands," Seokjin shrugs.

They keep playing—passes, dodges, light-hearted trash talk—but somewhere between defence drills and free throws, Jungkook finds himself zoning out. He leans against the padded wall, bouncing the ball absentmindedly, his thoughts far from the gym.

Seokjin notices first.

"You good?" he asks, tossing his friend a water bottle.

Jungkook catches it, hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"That's suspicious," Mingyu scoffs. "When you think too much, you start texting your exes."

"No," Jungkook mutters quietly, shaking his head. "Not this time."

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, walking over. "What's going on?"

Jungkook rolls the ball along the floor with his foot, sighing. "I think I'm in love with ___."

There's a silence that stretches just a second too long, the guys all shooting each other a look.

Seokjin's eyebrows furrow, his hands resting on his hips. "Wait, what?"

Mingyu whistles, patting Jungkook on the back. "Holy shit. That's not what I was expecting."

Wonwoo just leans against the wall and crosses his arms, his expression unreadable.

Jungkook shifts, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't know. It just hit me all at once. I've been trying to date, distract myself. I took a girl to the bakery the other day and asked her to pick something for me like ___ always does…and she picked a fucking cookie. Just said 'a big one'," he snorts humourlessly. "Didn't even get the point."

"You do realize she's not ___, right?" Seokjin chuckles. "How would she know what you meant?"

"Exactly. That's my point," Jungkook groans. "No one's her, dude. I've been around her for ten years, and I think I convinced myself I'd always have time to figure it out, but now she's in London, living her dream, probably flirting with a bunch of British guys."

"Let's not spiral," Wonwoo mutters.

"I just…" Jungkook exhales sharply. "I don't want anyone else. I want her. And...I actually want to do something about it."

The guys pause before Seokjin grabs his shoulder, smiling. "Well, shit! That's called growing up."

"You're not wrong," Mingyu mutters, grabbing the ball to dribble again. "But don't ask me to relate. I'm good with casual sex and no one touching my closet space."

"You say that now," Seokjin scoffs. "Then one day you're holding a baby while your wife cries watching dog rescue videos and suddenly it's the best moment of your life."

"Wow," Wonwoo deadpans. "That got oddly specific."

Jungkook laughs quietly, glancing down at the floor. "I never thought I'd want that. Not the marriage thing or the kids. I thought I'd stay the way I was forever. Just…you know, vibing."

Seokjin smiles, fond and a little smug. "Now 'just vibing' feels kinda empty, huh?"

Jungkook nods.

"She's different," he murmurs softly. "She makes everything feel like it matters. Without her, everything feels off."

Mingyu makes a dramatic gagging noise. "Can we go back to basketball now? This sappy talk is giving me indigestion."

Seokjin chuckles, giving Jungkook a hard pat on the back. "Tell her when she gets back. Don't wait."

Jungkook nods, determination setting in as he jogs over to play another round.

He's not sure how you'll react to all this, but he's done running from his feelings. He's finally ready. He just hopes you are too.

—

Jungkook listens to your voicemail multiple times when he gets home from work Friday evening.

"Hey…I'm back in Seoul! I've missed you so much. Can we have dinner tonight around 7? I was thinking of going to our usual restaurant. I have so much to tell you. It feels like I've been gone forever. Let me know, okay? Okay, I love you, bye!"

Your voice is bubbly, laced with excitement. You sound like you dialed his number as soon as you got off the plane, the airport noise in the background a clear giveaway.

Jungkook doesn't waste a second. He showers, sprays himself with his most expensive cologne and pulls out a navy suit he usually reserves for weddings and important meetings. He doesn't usually go out of his way to look good for a woman because he's him—he doesn't have to try, but this is you and he wants to leave a lasting impression when he tells you his feelings. Tonight is different. It's significant, and he doesn't want to screw it up.

On his way to the restaurant, he stops at a street vendor and buys a bouquet of peonies—your favourite. He might not be the most conventionally romantic guy on the planet, but he knows you hate roses because you think they're cliché and typical. He knows that you prefer fish over red meat, and that you hate big gatherings because they make you anxious. He knows you better than anyone else on Earth, and he loves you.

The restaurant is buzzing when he walks in—dim lights, quiet chatter, the smell of red wine and garlic butter thick in the air. He spots you immediately, perched at the bar at the far end of the restaurant, laughing at something.

His breath catches at the sight of you.

You look like London. That's the only way he can describe it. You're glowing, your cheeks rosy, your lips stained red. It's different but still you, like something bloomed while he wasn't looking.

He starts walking toward you, a smile pulling at his lips.

But then he sees him.

A tall man standing beside you, dimples on full display like someone's paying him to smile that brightly. He leans in close, says something in your ear, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. It's all a bit too casual, too familiar.

It stops Jungkook in his tracks. When he starts walking again it's fast and panicked. So much so that he doesn't see the waiter passing by until it's too late.

"Sir, excuse m—"

There's a loud crash, a blur of limbs flying about as Jungkook collides into the poor guy carrying a full tray of glasses. Water, wine, forks, the tray itself, it all goes flying as both men go down in a heap right in the middle of the restaurant.

"Shit—!"

"Oh my goodness—Jungkook?!"

You're off your stool in a second, rushing over with wide eyes. The man beside you joins you just as quickly, crouching down to help both Jungkook and the waiter up.

Jungkook winces, pushing himself up to sit.

You're already reaching for him, pulling him up to his feet. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? You just...you slammed into that guy—"

"I'm fine," Jungkook mutters, straightening up, brushing water off his sleeves. He glances down at the scattered bouquet now lying halfway under the barstools.

You crouch to pick it up, glancing up at him.

"And you bought flowers?" you ask with a hopeful glint in your eyes.

Jungkook freezes, glancing at the flowers. He clears his throat, then grabs the bouquet and abruptly shoves it into the startled waiter's hands. "No. These are his."

The waiter is taken aback, and so are you.

Jungkook claps the poor guy on the back, offering him a fake smile. "Congratulations on your...anniversary or whatever."

You raise an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Mhm," Jungkook nods, his voice tight. "Just clumsy, I guess. Classic me."

You exchange a look with the man Jungkook is still unsure of, who offers your best friend a faint smile. The three of you start walking toward the table—your table, the one you and Jungkook always request when it's just the two of you.

Jungkook doesn't say anything. He sits across from you and watches as the other man pulls out your chair like he's done it a dozen times before, which makes Jungkook's jaw twitch.

And he waits.

Waits for you to explain.

Waits to figure out why he suddenly feels like the only person in the room who didn't get the memo.

You smile and gesture toward the man beside you, your face lighting up at you look at him, a look Jungkook hasn't seen on your face in a really long time.

"Jungkook, this is Kim Namjoon. Namjoon, this is Jeon Jungkook; my best friend I've been telling you all about."

Namjoon leans over with a warm smile and extends his hand to Jungkook. "It's really nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I've heard so much about you from this lovely lady."

Jungkook forces a smile, reaches out, and shakes it. "Yeah. Nice to meet you too."

His voice sounds normal but his chest feels hollow.

"I've been trying to picture you this whole time," Namjoon continues in that British accent that makes Jungkook's bile rise in his throat. "___'s mentioned you in almost every story she's told me."

You laugh, your cheeks turning pink. "I might've overdone it."

"No," Namjoon murmurs softly, gazing at you like the rest of the world has vanished. "I loved it. Felt like I already knew him."

Jungkook looks down at the table, wishing he could gouge out his eyes with the silverware. "So…what's the deal with you two? You met in London?"

Your smile widens as you nod. "It was so random! I was at a museum, just minding my business, and I was standing in front of this gorgeous sculpture, and then Namjoon just appeared next to me with a camera."

Namjoon chuckles. "She was so focused on the piece, I wasn't even sure if I should say anything."

"But he did," you grin. "He struck up a conversation, and we ended up at a little café for cinnamon buns and coffee, which was amazing, by the way."

"You had cinnamon buns with a stranger?" Jungkook murmurs, trying to sound amused, not crushed.

You wave him off. "Oh please. It just felt so natural. And after that, we just kept seeing each other. Museum dates, dinners, exploring the city. We couldn't stay away from each other."

Namjoon affectionately rubs your back with his palm. "I couldn't help myself, she's irresistible."

Jungkook watches the gesture, taking note of how you lean into it like muscle memory. "Sounds like it all happened fast."

"It did," you admit, your smile softening. "But it felt so right."

He nods, staring at the breadbasket in the middle of the table, and wishes he could crawl into it and disappear.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks, his voice quieter than before. "I mean…I know we missed a lot of calls but I would've wanted to hear about this."

You shift in your seat, your expression falling slightly. "I wanted to, I really did. But things just got so hectic. Classes ran late, we were always on the move, and then the time difference made everything harder. I drafted messages and forget to send them, and after a while, I figured…I'd tell you everything properly when I got back."

You look at him with so much honesty that it only hurts him more.

"I'm sorry for not telling you sooner."

He nods, offering you a faint smile. "It's okay."

It's anything but okay, but he'll suck it up and bite his tongue for you.

Namjoon clears his throat, shifting forward. "I know it's probably a lot to take in all at once, but I wanted to tell you myself. I asked ___ to marry me."

Jungkook's eyes flick up to meet his, his face unreadable.

"And I said yes!" You smile and lift your left hand, showing him your ring. It glints under the restaurant lights, sitting delicately on your finger, mocking him.

Jungkook swallows thickly, a pleasant mask glued to his face. "Wow. It's…beautiful."

You beam. "Isn't it? It was Namjoon's grandmother's."

Namjoon takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. "I figured it could be lucky for us."

Jungkook lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, glancing between you and Namjoon. "Yeah. Guess so."

He smiles at all the right moments, pretends like his chest isn't caving in, nods as if he's really listening when you tell him all about your summer with Namjoon, but all he feels is regret and bitterness that some other guy gets to take you home tonight instead of him.

You're in love. You're engaged. You're sitting across from him glowing like a woman who's found her forever. And Jungkook is just the best friend—the one who waited too long to be ready for you.

"So…" you begin, your voice light but a little nervous, glancing at Namjoon. "We've actually already started planning the wedding."

Jungkook looks startled, looking between you two. "Already?"

Namjoon nods, smiling. "We figured there's no reason to wait."

Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, looking back at you. "But…you just got back."

"I know," you murmur. "But we're getting married in England in a church Namjoon's dad helped build. It's near their home in the countryside. It's perfect, Jungkook."

"Mm, it's right across from the distillery," Namjoon nods.

Jungkook looks between the two of you, trying to process. "Distillery?"

"Yeah," you say, brightening. "Namjoon's parents own a whiskey distillery."

Of course they do. Of course his parents own a distillery and build churches and probably rescue injured animals in their free time.

"And the wedding is in a month," Namjoon adds.

Jungkook's eyebrows shoot up, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets. "A month?"

You nod, resting your head against Namjoon's shoulder. "We didn't wanna drag it out. It just makes sense, you know? Why wait when we're sure?"

He doesn't answer. He's too busy trying to remember how to breathe. And then, as if the conversation hasn't already taken a sledgehammer to his heart, you turn to him with a hopeful smile that just about finishes him.

"Anyway, I wanted to ask you something," you murmur. "I know it's sudden, and maybe kinda weird, but…Jungkook...would you be my maid of honor?"

His brain flatlines, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find something to say that won't be totally offensive right now.

"I mean," you add quickly, laughing, "knowing our relationship, you'd probably want me to be your best man someday, right? So, it's only fair."

Namjoon laughs softly, clearly charmed by the idea. "I think it'd be perfect, actually. You two clearly have such a strong bond."

Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Instead, he stands too fast, knocking his thigh into the edge of the table and spinning sideways just in time to collide for the second time that evening with the same poor waiter from earlier.

The tray clatters to the ground once again. The waiter lets out a yelp of disbelief, flat on his back. Jungkook stumbles, caught between horror and absolute emotional overload.

"Dude, are you serious?!" the waiter yells, throwing a dish towel at his chest.

Jungkook mumbles something that might be an apology, but you're already scrambling to help, wide-eyed and flustered.

"Again?! Jungkook, what is wrong with you tonight?"

Everything is wrong.

Everything has gone so terribly wrong.

—

It's a sunny Monday afternoon in the middle of Seoul and the park is alive with movement—joggers passing through, street vendors preparing fresh teokkbokki, and office workers on their lunch break scattered across benches in a sea of undone ties and styrofoam containers.

Jungkook is sitting on a bench with a hotdog in one hand and a death grip on his dignity in the other.

Seokjin takes a massive bite of his chilli dog, glances over at him, and swipes ketchup off his cheek with a napkin as he prepares to tackle the shipwreck sitting next to him.

"So…" Seokjin mumbles, his mouth full. "You gonna tell me why you've looked constipated since we sat down? I only have ten more minutes left of my break and my boss is already on my ass."

Jungkook stares down at his hotdog, his appetite barely there. "___ asked me to be her maid of honor."

There's a short pause before Seokjin chokes on a laugh, quickly covering his mouth to avoid spraying onions all over the bench. "I'm sorry, her what?!"

"Maid of honor."

Jin is full-on wheezing now. "God, I hope the dress makes your ass look good. You've been squatting for this moment your whole life."

Jungkook slumps further in his seat. "This isn't funny, Jin."

"It's hilarious, dude," Seokjin laughs.

"I'm dying, hyung. She gets back from London and all of a sudden she's getting married."

Seokjin finally reins in the laughter, wiping the corners of his eyes. "Okay, okay. Sorry. It's just...you gotta admit, that's a hell of a plot twist."

"I was going to confess," Jungkook mutters flatly, his voice low. "I showed up in a suit. With her favourite flowers. And then I walked in and watched her get kissed by her fiancé and knocked over a waiter in the process."

Seokjin winces. "Yikes."

"She's getting married at a church across from her new fiancé's family whiskey distillery, in a month." Jungkook groans and drops his head back against the bench. "She even showed me the ring. It was his grandmother's."

Seokjin lets out a soft whistle, nodding. "Yeah, that's a lot."

"I feel like I missed the entire movie and just showed up for the credits."

They sit in silence for a moment, birds chirping merrily around them like little assholes.

Then Seokjin finishes his hotdog, balls up the wrapper, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Listen, it sucks, I'm not gonna lie. But this doesn't have to be the end."

Jungkook gives him a side glance. "You realise she's engaged."

"And you're the maid of honor." Seokjin grins. "Which means you're right there, centre stage. You're planning the whole thing, hearing every detail. You're literally the man behind the scenes."

"You make it sound like I'm in a heist movie."

"You are," Seokjin shrugs. "Except instead of robbing a bank, you're trying to steal a bride."

Jungkook snorts despite himself. "That's so dumb."

"Love is dumb, man," Seokjin scoffs. "I proposed to my wife in a Pikachu onesie, and now we have a kid who chews on HDMI cables. But I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Jungkook stares at the sky, feeling unsure. "You really think I should stay close? Not back off?"

"I think," Seokjin says, "if you're really in love with her and not just having a meltdown because someone else got there first, then don't give up on this. You be her best friend. You support her. And if there's even the tiniest crack in her heart, she'll know you were there the whole time, waiting."

Jungkook lets that settle for a moment. He takes a slow bite of his hotdog, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay," he sighs. "But I'm not wearing a dress."

"I will pay you money to wear a dress," Seokjin laughs. "Like, real money. I want full lace. And cleavage."

Jungkook stuffs his mouth with the hotdog to avoid swearing at his friend, but when he leans back again, squinting up at the sky, the weight in his chest feels just a little bit lighter at the reminder that this isn't over yet.

When Jungkook arrives at your apartment Saturday morning, he's met with the familiar comfort of your sweet scent, frilly pillows scattered across the couch, and little trinkets decorating the shelves.

He's spent countless nights here—binging your favourite shows, eating endless amounts of cake as his way of helping you with new recipes, sitting patiently as you give him a faux fashion show of the millionth pair of shoes you bought—and yet this time is not like any of the rest. This time he's here to help you plan your wedding.

"You rang, future Mrs. Kim?" he calls out, kicking off his shoes in the entryway.

You pop your head out from the kitchen with a smile. "You're late, Jeon. You said you'd be here at 8. It's 10."

He takes off his leather jacket and hangs it on your coat rack, rolling his eyes. "You've been engaged for five minutes and you're already a bridezilla."

You scoff, making your way over to greet him with a hug.

He grins at the short embrace, pulling away to get a proper look at you. "Damn, your hair looks good today. Is that a new thing, or is it just the 'I'm-getting-married' glow?"

You roll your eyes, but your smile shows how flattered you are. "Such a suck-up."

"I'm your maid of honor," he says, smiling smugly. "Sucking up to you is literally my job now."

He walks into the living room and settles onto your couch. It feels normal but there's a certain nervous energy in the air today. It's officially the start of preparations for the wedding party, and he's not sure how ready he is for all that. But today isn't about him. It's your day, and he'll support you even if it slowly kills him.

"The bridesmaids are almost here," you murmur, sitting down with him, turning to face him.

"Do I know them?"

"Well, there's Mina," you smile, knowing how well they get along.

"Mina's great, I like Mina," he nods, scooting a bit closer to you.

"And Jeongyeon. You haven't met her yet but she's really chill, you'll love her."

"Okay, who else?" he asks, reaching out and absentmindedly twiddling a strand of your hair between his fingers.

"Uhm..." You sigh, preparing yourself for his reaction. "And Lisa."

His face falls, his fingers pausing in your hair. "Are you serious? She hates me."

"I had to, Jungkook. She's my cousin," you sigh. "And I mean, can you blame her? You had sex with her then ghosted her the next day."

"She almost broke my nose," he groans.

"It was an accident," you chuckle, rolling your eyes as he goes back to playing with your hair.

"She literally punched me in the face," he deadpans. "I told her it wasn't anything serious and she agreed. I can't help that she caught feelings for me."

You smile in amusement, shaking your head at how truly humble he is. "She's wanted to be my maid of honor since we were little, so she hates you even more now."

The doorbell rings right on cue.

You grin and rush over to get the door, welcoming them in. Jungkook isn't sure if the loud entrance is your bridesmaids greeting you at the door or a pack of hyenas cackling. He lets out a huff and stands up as they enter, plastering a smile on his face.

Mina hugs you first; your bakery manager and unofficial work wife. She's organised as ever, carrying a stack of bridal magazines that she's probably had since forever.

Then Jeongyeon, your friend from high school. She's less organised than Mina but equally as excited for you.

And finally…Lisa, your beloved cousin.

Jungkook fights the urge to roll his eyes when he sees her, forcing a smile to remain civil.

She freezes when she sees him, her eyes narrowing into slits.

You smile, choosing to ignore the tension between them for your own sanity. "Jungkook, you remember Lisa, right?"

Jungkook clears his throat, nodding as he sits back down on the couch. "Yeah. Of course. Hey."

Lisa offers a sweet, pointed smile that could kill him if she really wanted to. "Oh, trust me, I remember Jungkook."

The tension is very palpable.

Mina, sensing the shift, gives a diplomatic little nod and walks over to the couch. "Well, we should probably get started, hm?"

You clap your hands together, trying to regain control of the room. "Okay! So, thank you all for coming. Please, sit. I'll go get some snacks then we can start going over fittings, schedules, things like that."

"Can't wait," Jeongyeon smiles, getting comfortable on an armchair while you head to the kitchen.

"I already know this is going to be chaos," Mina chuckles, sitting next to Jungkook, watching as Lisa stabs him with her eyes.

"Some of us thrive in it," Lisa mutters. "Don't we, Jungkook?"

Jungkook scoffs, shooting her a pointed look. "Are we doing that already?"

"Doing what?" Lisa smiles, feigning innocence. "I just meant you're probably used to this; being around a lot of women, multitasking."

You return to the living room before they can start going at each other, carrying a tray of sandwiches and some iced tea before grabbing your wedding binder and sitting down with everyone else, getting right to business. You start listing off dates and logistics—dress fittings, the bridal shower, the family brunch the morning of the wedding—but the air is already charged. Jungkook asks too many questions, honestly, and Lisa's patience visibly deteriorates with every clueless comment.

"Wait, is the brunch before the church rehearsal thing?"

Mina shakes her head, jotting some things down in her planner. "No. The brunch is the morning of the wedding. We've been over this, Jungkook."

"Oh, right. Right."

Lisa laughs under her breath. "God help us."

Jungkook turns to her, raising a brow. "Got something to say?"

Lisa shrugs, taking a glass of iced tea from the coffee table. "Not really. Just wondering how someone who can't even follow a calendar is supposed to help plan a wedding."

"Lisa," you mutter, shooting her a look that says 'behave, please'.

"Well, I didn't know I was going to be graded on my maid-of-honor performance," Jungkook grumbles.

"Well, just fyi, I'd give you an F," she shoots back.

"Settle down, you two," you sigh, gently placing a hand on Jungkook's arm.

Jeongyeon smirks into her drink. Mina, smiling calmly, jumps in before the room ignites.

"Cut him some slack, Lisa. I'm sure he didn't grow up dreaming about tulle and seating charts."

"Yeah, no kidding," Jungkook mutters.

"Exactly," Mina smiles. "So, let's all just be cool."

Lisa takes a slow sip of her iced coffee and doesn't say anything else, but Jungkook catches the flicker in her eyes that says she should've been your maid of honor instead of the man who clearly doesn't know what he's doing.

Your phone rings on the coffee table, Namjoon's name lighting up the screen. "Sorry, I have to take this," you murmur shyly. "It's Joon."

Your bridesmaids all swoon at the mention of your future husband, and Jungkook has to resist the gag threatening to spill from his lips.

As soon as you excuse yourself to take the call in the next room, Lisa jumps into action.

"I've been a MOH six times before, so I'll organise everything that needs to be done, even though I'm not the MOH here," she mutters, crossing one leg over the other.

Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, clearly clueless. "What's a MOH?"

"M-O-H," Lisa mutters pointedly.

"It stands for maid of honor," Mina smiles over at Jungkook. "That's you."

"Oh, yeah, of course," he chuckles, ignoring the eye-roll from Lisa.

"Okay, so we've got the bridal shower coming up that Jungkook will plan, our bridesmaid hair and make up trials, shopping for ___'s trousseau," Mina lists off, reading from her planner in her lap.

"Trousseau?" Jungkook's eyes narrow, leaning over to peek at Mina's planner. "What is a trousseau?"

"It's lingerie for her wedding night," Lisa deadpans, looking fed up with his questions that she feels are completely unnecessary. "How do you expect to be a good MOH if you don't even know that?"

"Oh wow, look, she's actually talking to me," Jungkook quips.

"No, I'm not," Lisa mutters quickly.

"You just did."

"Oh, my bad, Jungkook," she smiles sarcastically. "Did I break one of your rules?"

"Okay, that's enough!" Mina whisper-yells. "Can you two stop and think about ___? She's happy with an amazing guy, so could we all please, for ___'s sake, just get along, put a smile on our faces and pretend like everything is perfect?!"

"Okay, fine," Jungkook mumbles, holding his hands up in surrender.

The tension in the room is thick, but you don't notice, too giddy after hearing that deep British voice tell you how excited he is to get home to you later. You return after the call with Namjoon, turning your attention back to the ladies—who seem perfectly fine after Mina's little pep talk, all of them smiling brightly.

"Okay, I'm back," you grin, getting comfortable. "So, while we're all over there, we'll be staying at the Kims' holiday home."

Lisa's brow arches, her interest piqued. "Holiday home?"

"Yeah," you murmur while flipping through your binder. "Namjoon's family has this gorgeous house out in the countryside. I swear it's like something out of a Jane Austen novel. It's got over enough guest rooms for everyone. The garden even has an actual maze."

Jungkook blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it, then clenches his jaw in silence.

Of course Namjoon's family has a spare country mansion lying around. Why wouldn't they? Probably stocked with limited-edition wines and antique candleholders. Maybe even a butler named Charles who plays the violin at breakfast.

He forces a tight smile. "Wow. A holiday home. That's nice."

Lisa snorts. "Bit of a step up from your one-bedroom apartment, huh?"

Jungkook slowly looks over at her, smirking. "You'd know. You've been in my bedroom."

You sigh, taking a big gulp of your iced tea. Jeongyeon's eyebrows hit her hairline, finding this all too amusing.

Lisa gives him a razor-sharp glance, crossing her eyes over her chest. "Yeah. Once. Unfortunately."

Mina cuts in with perfect timing, like she's trained for this. "I think this is all amazing, ___. I mean, talk about a dream wedding."

Jeongyeon nods. "Seriously. And Namjoon seems so thoughtful. You guys make a really sweet couple."

You smile bashfully, your cheeks heating up. "I think so too. It all feels like it was meant to be, you know?"

Lisa hums. "Mhm. Must be nice to be that in love."

Jungkook's lips press into a thin line as he stares at the coffee table, remaining silent.

When you flip through wedding magazines with Mina, gushing about colour swatches and invitation templates, he finds himself tuning you out, not because he doesn't care, but because he cares too much.

Wedding planning has his iced tea tasting more like acid than anything else.

due to the 1k block limit, you can read the rest of the story HERE

Jeon Jungkook has been your best friend since cradle. Your mother and his shared a room at the hospital, and since then, have kept a tight-knit relationship. Growing up, you and Jungkook shared more life experiences than siblings would. Conjoined birthdays, first day of school, puberty, heartbreak. It was hard not to imagine him in your life, when he had already invaded every part of it with his infectious smile and doe-like eyes.

Every Christmas, since you were six years old, Jeon Jungkook gave you a kiss under the mistletoe. It started innocently enough, with your parents cooing sweetly as he pressed his little lips to your warm cheek. Your face burnt like a volcano shortly after, your hand pressing up to touch the spot where his lips met your skin every few minutes. 

When you were nine, he upped the ante. He grabbed your face with his grubby hands, and smushed his lips onto yours with a peck. It was precisely three seconds and two milliseconds long (you know because you held your breath). When he pulled away, he smiled that big bunny smile and ran off to play with your toys. Life continued on as such, leaving you behind to pick up the pieces of everything you thought you knew. 

At the age of fifteen, he got his first girlfriend, Haeun. They met in Science class, paired up by accident, but the crush he had on her was with such certainty it took you by storm. That Christmas, he didn’t give you a peck on the lips or the cheek. That year, your body felt empty. That fateful holiday, you watched as Jeon Jungkook gave Park Haeun a big, sloppy, romantic kiss under the mistletoe, one that rivaled any one he ever gave you. 

And so, Christmas went from your favorite day of the year, to your nightmare. 

Even when his and Haeun’s puppy love died out by high school graduation, she was swiftly replaced by Eunji. And then Chaeyoung. And then Sana…and the list went on, and on, and on. 

So, yeah. Christmas. Not your best day. In fact, it’s pretty low on the totem pole, right next to the anniversary of your grandfather’s death. 

All this to say—this is why you’ve been ignoring your best friend’s pleas for the past thirty minutes on hosting the annual Christmas soiree at your apartment. Your humble abode. Your sanctuary. There’s no way in hell you’ll be stringing red and green lights from your ceiling, singing ‘ho, ho, ho’ and passing around jell-o shots that were crafted by the devil himself. And you most definitely, certainly, will not hang up a mistletoe. 

“But why not?” Jungkook whines again, bouncing up and down on your couch cushion like a puppy. His bottom lip juts out slightly, which would be endearing if he was a teenager and not a 28-year old man. 

“Because I don’t want to. I don’t like Christmas.” You ignore him as best as you can, thumbing through your Instagram feed. Engagement posts, pregnancy announcements… god, the holidays are the worst. No, you won’t be blowing ‘baby dust’ to your friends trying to get pregnant. 

“Since when?” He gawks, pausing his movements to stare at your side profile intently. 

“Since forever. You know this,” you say calmly. “The Grinch is my favorite movie.”

He scoffs. “So? It’s mine too. That doesn’t mean I hate Christmas.”

You don’t have the heart to tell him that your abhorrence for the holiday stems from his inability to give you a kiss since the age of fifteen. Thirteen years later, you can’t help but want one still. 

You roll your eyes. “You don’t hate Christmas because you like giving gifts and receiving them.”

“That’s not true,” he argues, snatching your phone out of your hand and tossing it on the coffee table. You finally turn to look at him, and he’s all red cheeks and wide eyes, and it makes you want to die. “You have the nicest apartment out of all of us. We can’t do Namjoon’s because they just had the baby, we can’t do Jisoo’s because Tae is allergic to dogs, and we can’t do mine because I’m renovating. Yours is the best option.”

All true points, but none that you want to confront head-on. “Might it also be that you don’t want to do yours because then people will know you haven’t moved on from Hana?” 

Jungkook’s face contorts, and for a split second, you feel guilty for sinking that low. You didn’t mean to, but it’s true. His most recent ex-girlfriend, Hana, doesn’t live in that apartment anymore, but it almost feels like she does with the amount of her stuff lingering around. They were together for a year, but mysteriously broke up after Christmas last year. 

“Not cool,” he mumbles, playing with his sleeve. 

“I’m sorry,” you sigh, “I just really don’t wanna host, Koo.” 

“C’mon, do it for me,” he pouts, and it becomes even harder to say no to him. You’re putty in his reliable hands. 

“What will I get out of hosting?” You cross your arms over your chest. A hint of a smile creeps onto his face as he realizes you’re slowly beginning to cave. You always do when you start asking questions. 

“Namjoon and Dahyun will cook. Taehyung will make the drinks. And I, your trusty best friend, will task myself with decorating the entire place,” he says proudly, chest puffed out like he’s the Superman of Christmas or something equally as idiotic.

“Jeon Jungkook is going to decorate my apartment?” you question, dumbfounded. “The one who put the star on upside down last year?” 

The memory plays as vivid as ever, a reel of images flashing through your mind of Jungkook proudly grinning at the miniscule tree he helped construct in your living room. The lights barely worked, the ornaments were hanging on by a thread, and the star was upside down, but he swore Michaelangelo would’ve thought it was abstract art.

He rolls his eyes. “Why can’t you let anything go?” 

“And tangled the lights so bad Namjoon had to come over and cut them with scissors?”

Jungkook pouts the same way he used to when he was three. “But—”

“And ate the gingerbread house before we could even display it?”

Jungkook’s mouth opens to defy you, but decides it’s best not to go up against your vicious truths. “I was hungry and you had nothing but expired Chinese food in your fridge,” he grumbles. It’s annoying how easily he can disarm you when he’s boyishly upset at the world. 

In the grand scheme of things, hosting the Christmas soiree at your house is nothing. Nada. Zilch. A blip on your radar. It’s not like he’s asking you to loan him a million won, or donate a kidney to his brother (albeit those are all things you would do for him). He’s simply asking you to open your home to your closest friends to spread holiday cheer. 

Somehow, some way, it feels like the hardest thing you have to do.

Maybe because in the grand scheme of things, you’re also hopelessly, relentlessly, disgustingly in love with Jeon Jungkook, and the word no is not one that leaves your lips often when he’s around. 

“Fine,” you relent. His entire face lights up, and your heart does the same dance it always does. “I have conditions, though.”

“Anything you want.” He scoots closer. You can smell his cologne, a pine and bergamot scent he wears for the holidays. “I’m at your service.”

“We’re gonna do classy Christmas. I’m talking silver decorations, maybe some gold. None of that tacky red and green shit from the dollar store.”

“Uhu.” He nods. “Aligned, captain.”

“All the food will be catered. I’m not making poor Dahyun cook. She has enough on her plate already.” 

He salutes you, which makes you snort. 

“Lastly, and most importantly, no mistletoe.”

His smile falters. Tips downward so that it’s almost unrecognizable. The light in his eyes dims, and now you almost feel guilty. “Wha—why not?”

See, if this were a Christmas romcom broadcasting on Hallmark, this is the pivotal moment where you’d confess everything. How you’ve been in love with him since you were old enough to feel that feeling of warmth in your chest, how watching him kiss other girls made all your kisses seem foolish, how every Christmas without his lips on yours (even platonically) makes you want to move to a foreign country. He’d probably gasp, pull you close, and kiss you right there on your sofa while snow fell cinematically outside your window. Credits would roll over a montage of you two ice skating and baking holiday cookies, all set to some Kelly Clarkson cover of “Last Christmas.”

But this isn’t a Hallmark movie, and you’re not that brave. 

So, instead, you say, “It’s tacky and overdone. I don’t want it in my apartment.”

Jungkook seems genuinely concerned, as though you just informed him you have four days to live and your final wish is to jump out of a plane. “But it’s tradition. Every year, there’s a mistletoe.”

You huff, hugging the blanket wrapped over your legs tighter to you. “Well, I don’t care. That’s my conditions. Take it or leave it.”

He watches quietly for a moment as you inspect the fibers of the blanket. He knows you well enough to not pry further, but he also knows that he’s the only one you’ll talk to if he does decide to investigate. There’s no sound except the rattling of your heater and the sound of cars honking past your window. The television screen remains paused on a scene from The Grinch you could probably recite by heart. 

“Okay,” he finally says. “No mistletoe.”

“Good. Glad that’s settled.” You stand up, desperate for distance. “Now get out. I have work to do.”

“First of all, it’s Sunday. Second of all, we’re watching the Grinch. That’s not work,” he points out.

“I’m sure I could find something to do. I’ve been meaning to dust my bookshelf,” you counter. 

“Oh, really? You walking your squirrel after that?” he teases, smirking. 

“I am actually.” You cross your hands over your chest, the signal you make when it’s time for him to exit your apartment. 

He stands, stretching his arms above his head. His shirt rides up slightly, exposing a sliver of toned stomach, and you have to look away. You’ve been down this road too many times.

“I’ll text you tomorrow about picking up supplies,” he yawns, heading for the door. “We’ll need to grab stuff from my place anyway. I’ve got extra string lights in storage.”

You trail behind him. “Fine.” 

He pauses at the threshold, turning back to look at you. “Thanks for doing this. I know it’s not your favorite thing.”

Oh, If only he knew it was his fault. “Yeah, well. You owe me.”

“I always do,” he grins, and then he’s bounding down your staircase, leaving you alone with the Grinch and the hollowed feeling in your chest that never really goes away.

When you’re certain he’s finally gone, you lock the door and sink back into the couch, pressing play on the remote. On screen, the Grinch is plotting to ruin Christmas, and you can’t help but think to yourself, same, buddy. Same.

He’s probably got the right idea. If you steal all the decorations before he can hang them, accidentally forget to buy eggnog, or come down with the Black Plague on the day of the party, you could ruin the whole thing. 

But you won’t. Despite everything, you can’t actually hurt him. You’d host a thousand Christmas parties, hang a million strands of lights, bake cookies until your hands cramped, if it meant making Jeon Jungkook happy. That’s the real bittersweet tragedy of your situation. Not that he doesn’t love you back, but that you love him enough to pretend you don’t.

Jungkook likes to call his apartment his ‘modest mancave.’

He’s called his bedroom that since you two were old enough to be in school. However, one spring day during Sophomore year, you’d barged in unannounced and found him scrambling to hide a bottle of lotion and suspiciously large pile of tissues. He came up with some daft excuse about allergies, but you knew what the option meant. He knew that you knew. It became just another shared moment in the encyclopedia of your friendship, because that’s what you two always did. You witnessed each other’s embarrassing moments and life continued on.

Which is why his apartment’s state right now doesn't deter you. It's a little messy (okay, a lot messy) with random moving boxes he’s never unpacked stacked haphazardly in corners and furniture pushed against walls at odd angles. There’s a pile of paint swatches on the coffee table, each one a slightly different shade of beige that all look identical to your untrained eye. 

He had texted you earlier in the day to get started on Operation: Un-Grinchify Christmas, as he referred to it. You weren’t really up for it, but he sent you three crying emoji’s and then you were halfway out the door with mismatched socks on. 

Jungkook swears he has a box of light-up reindeer somewhere when you first arrive to his home. Something about them looking like they’re having a seizure when they’re plugged in. He's so entranced in his search he’s completely forgotten about your own holiday dilemma. 

“Koo?” you yell down his hallway. You venture down, stepping over a stack of books and what appears to be a broken lamp, following the sound of muffled cursing.

You find him in his bedroom, halfway inside the closet, ass up in the air. Boxes and random junk are scattered around him—old magazines, a deflated basketball, what looks like his matching Halloween costume with Hana from two years ago.

“I know it’s here somewhere,” he mutters, voice echoing from deep within the closet. Leaning against the doorframe, you cross your arms over your chest, utterly amused by his same old childish ways. 

“Need help, or should I just enjoy the view?” 

“Shut up,” he says, but you can hear the smile in his tone. “I’m finding an ancient artifact.”

“How ancient is it? We talking middle school? Elementary?”

“I don’t know, all I know is—aha!” He backs out, brown hair flopping around, and cracks his head on the closet rod with a thunk. “Fucking fuck—ow—”

You can’t stop the giggle that falls from your lips, and it turns into full-blown laughter when you catch wind of his appearance. He’s rubbing his head, hair sticking up in five different directions. 

But then you see what’s in his hands, and all laughter ceases with a wheeze. It’s the most hideous collection of green and red tinsel garland you’ve ever witnessed. It looks like it’s gonna shed all over your home, and there’s no way you’ll let your cat named Ginger anywhere near that. 

“Ta-da!” He holds it up proudly, grinning brightly. 

“Are you insane?”

“What?” he gawks, inspecting it for himself. “This is the epitome of Christmas.”

“Jungkook, I said classy Christmas. Elegant. That looks like a drunk elf threw up.” You gesture at the…thing, deeply perturbed at the fact he would even show it to you. 

He shakes the garland at you like it might change your mind. “But Christmas needs a little green and red! That’s literally the symbolic colors of the holiday.”

“I don’t care if it was sent down by Santa himself. It’s not going in my home,” you argue. 

“But why?” he pouts, and you can already tell which direction this conversation is going. But you’re standing your ground this time, because if you don’t you’ll fold like papier mache. 

“It looks like it has dust mites from 2014,” you grimace. 

He moves closer, forcing you to look at the grimy strings. “C’mon, just one strand? For your old pal?”

“No.”

“Please?” 

“I will leave, Jungkook.”

He sighs, defeated, and holds the garland out to you anyway. “Fine. But you have to be the one to throw it away. I can’t bear to part ways with her.”

Rolling your eyes, you take it from him, and your fingers brush his. Softly, gently, barely even there to the naked eye. You doubt he even notices it. But heat crawls up your spine and nestles a home in your chest. 

You snap out of it, tossing the garland in the trash in his bedroom. “Why do you even have that anyway?” 

“It was Hana’s.” 

You freeze in your tracks, hand hovering over the trash bin. When you look back at him, his ears are pink, eyes trained on some shadow on the wall behind you. “Oh.”

“Yeah.” He clears his throat, rubs the back of his neck. One of his nervous tics from childhood. “I’ve been meaning to get rid of her stuff. What you said yesterday... it kind of stuck with me.”

Guilt settles in your bones. “Koo, I didn’t mean—”

“No, you’re right.” He finally catches your gaze. “I’ve been holding onto things I shouldn’t. Not even because I miss her, really. It’s just—I don’t know. Easier to keep it than deal with it, y’know?

You do know. You know all too well. You’ve been keeping your feelings in a box for years for the exact same reason. 

“But I’m trying now,” he continues. “To move on. Actually move on, not just say I am. It still feels weird, throwing away a part of my life. Even if I know it’s the right thing to do.”

Throughout your life, you have continuously kept a square of people in your life that you care about. It mostly consists of your parents, Jungkook, his parents, and your friends. You don’t ever really rearrange it to make space for others, because you already have the ones that matter. You hope that when Jungkook rearranges his square, maybe removes Hana, you take up a bigger chunk of it. 

“I’m proud of you,” you smile. Even if the selfish part of you has been waiting for this moment since last Christmas.

He returns your smile with a feeble one of his own. “Thanks.”

For a moment, you two stand there, soaking in the silence. But just like that, it always falls back into place the way it’s meant to be. “I need your silverware for my kitchen, by the way. I’m not using mine for this party.”

“What? Why not?” He furrows his brows. 

“Because I don’t want Taehyung's drunk ass dropping my good forks down the garbage disposal like last New Years.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “He apologized and paid for new ones.”

“But it wasn’t the same exclusive ones I had,” you sing-song, leading him back down the hallway to his kitchen. “Show me what you’ve got, mister.”

For the next hour, you two bicker over everything. He wants to bring the fork set with wooden handles, but you object with the fact that they look like they belong in a cabin in the forest. 

Then it’s the string lights. He’s insistent on multicolored ones, big bulbs of green, yellow, and red that would look outdated against the rest of your apartment. You opt for the warm white ones, and he sticks his tongue out at you and says you’re boring. 

He’s a child. You make sure to tell him that about five separate times. On the sixth time, however, he retorts, “You take that back.”

“Make me.”

He waves a serving spoon at you. “I’m not playing with you, young lady.”

“Oh, please,” you wave him off. “You’re the one who begged me to host.”

It’s comfortable, the way it always is. The bickering, the back-and-forth, the way you can read each other’s expressions before the words even come out.

At some point, while you’re debating whether his punch bowl is too tacky (it is), he wipes his hands on a dish towel and tosses it over his shoulder. “You should check the closet in case you see anything else you wanna take.”

“The old shit in there?” 

He smacks you with the towel. You yelp, leaping back a few inches. “There’s goodies in there too, I’ll have you know.”

“Sure, Koo. Goodies, otherwise known as old shit.” But you’re already laughing, walking back into his room and diving into the closet.

You push back the ugly garland’s former neighbors. There’s a box of tangled charging cables, some old textbooks from college, a pair of busted headphones. It’s very standard Jungkook chaos. His mind is also disorganized, so it’s no wonder he has the room to match. 

You rummage around a bit more, sighing as you wave the dust from your face. 

On the top shelf, shoved way back in the top corner, you come across a box. 

Small, cardboard, duct-taped on the bottom half into oblivion. There’s a piece of paper taped to the front, and even in the dim closet light, you can make out your name written in his messy handwriting. [Y/N].

For a moment, you blink at the box, heart pounding, and then realize you have no idea what to do. 

If you open it, maybe he’ll know. Then you’ll look like a stalker. On the other hand, he’s been your best friend since birth, so finding out you have stalker tendencies might not be a dealbreaker. 

You stretch up on your toes, tugging the box toward you just enough to peek inside. A flash of worn brown fur catches your eyes, and then you see the teddy bear ear flopping out. Your teddy bear. You lost it in middle school, and you assumed it was gone forever, donated or thrown away during one of your mom’s delirious cleaning sprees. 

He kept it. 

“Find anything good?” Jungkook’s voice migrates from the kitchen. You jolt, almost dropping the box. Your hands shake as you shove it back into place, blood whooshing through your eardrums. 

“Nah,” you call back. Your voice sounds a bit shaky, but you hide it behind several coughs. “I was right. Old shit.”

You back out of the closet, closing the door carefully. What else is in there?

Later that night, when sleep proves itself to be unfeasible, and you’re tossing and turning underneath your comforter, you ponder what else might be in the box, and if he keeps it for the same reason you’ve kept every birthday card he’s ever written you. Tucked away in your own closet, in your own box, with his name on it. 

Apparently, hosting a Christmas soiree is not as straightforward as you’d hoped it would be.

First, there’s Jisoo, who texts a novel about how she’s trying this new clean eating thing and can there please be gluten free and dairy free options? You respond with a thumbs up, and then run to text Jennie to see if she’s actually serious. She sends back a skull emoji, which 1) you’re not sure what that implies and 2) you guess it’s confirmation that yes, she’s serious, but also yes, she’ll quit and eat regular food after two glasses of wine. 

Then Taehyung calls to inform you he’s trying to maintain a vegetarian lifestyle, and not the kind that occasionally eats fish, but the kind that will know if you used chicken stock in any recipe. You add “vegetable stock” to your growing shopping list, since catering cost more than your rent, and resist the urge to bang your head against the counter.

Namjoon sends his regrets that he and Dahyun can’t stay long because baby Haewon is ‘in turmoil right now,’ which translates to ‘we’ll be there for an hour max.’ You’re not even annoyed about that one—you’ve seen the bags under Namjoon’s eyes, and honestly, you’re impressed he’s coming at all.

The point is, you’ve given up. By Wednesday, your Notes app looks like a grocery list written by someone having a mental breakdown, and you’re seriously reconsidering this whole thing.

To his credit, Jungkook tries to help as much as possible. Inevitably, this means dragging him to your apartment on weekends, even though you do that often enough already. Saturday morning, he shows up with boxes, four different sets of more lights, some ornaments, all of them white, all of them looking functionally identical.

“Okay,” he says, holding up the first strand. “Which one screams ‘this is a classy Christmas’?”

You squint at it from the couch, hugging your mug of hot chocolate. “Hmm. I don’t know. That one kinda screams dollar store.”

“Cut.” He drops it and holds up the second. “This one?”

“Hmm, uglier than the first.”

“How can someone be so picky?” He holds up the third, and you can see him struggle to hold a straight face. “Fine. This one. Final answer.”

Tilting your head, you study it. It has a warm hue, the bulbs delicate and tiny. It’s kind of pretty, sans the scratches on some of the bulbs. “I think we have ourselves a winner.” 

“Sold.” He drops the others in the pile he’s been gathering. The ones on the right are the takers, the ones on the left are getting deposited in your dumpster at 5PM sharp. “See? This is why we make a good team.”

You have to fight not to let your mind wander off when he says things like that. “Barely. When we were five, we were on the same team for kickball and you nearly broke my ankle.”

He frowns, “Okay, but then I patched you up good as new with a Hello Kitty bandaid. That shit wasn’t easy to find.”

It was over two decades ago, but still remains a permanent fixture in your brain. You were sprawled on the playground, crying so hard you’d given yourself hiccups, convinced your ankle was shattered and your legs would be cut off. Jungkook had run to get the teacher, but came back before she did, sliding on his knees beside you like some action hero. He’d pulled a crumpled Hello Kitty bandaid from his pocket (you have no idea why he had it, he’d never explained) and stuck it on your ankle with the utmost seriousness, tongue poking out in concentration. “All better,” he had promised. Miraculously, you’d stopped crying. It wasn’t because the bandaid helped, but because Jungkook looked so proud of himself, you didn’t have the heart to tell him your ankle still hurt. 

“You’re still a pain in my ass.”

“Yeah, yeah, but who’s doing this home renovation for free? Me.”

You can’t argue with that. 

He continues pulling things from the boxes. More tinsel, garlands, ornaments in muted golds and silvers. Each item gets held up for your approval, and you find yourself less focused on the decorations and more on him. His cheeks flush crimson when you compliment one of his choices. A bright smile overtakes his features when you agree to something halfheartedly just because it makes the smile grow tenfold. 

You’d fallen for him a long time ago, but even now you realize how far down you’ve already gone. 

“Oh shit,” he exhales, freezing midway through a box. “No way.”

“What?” You shift excitedly on the couch, trying to peer into the box.

He pulls out a photo album, the edges frayed and the cover dusty. You recognize it as soon as you see it. It was one of the many your moms had compiled over the years, chronicling every significant (and insignificant) moment of your joint childhood.”

“I forgot I even had this,” he says incredulously, flipping it open. He moves to the couch, dropping down beside you, and his knee brushes yours.

Your body knows to jerk back instinctively, heart jumping into your throat. He doesn't notice, too absorbed in the photos, but your knee burns where it touched him.

“God, look at us,” he laughs, pointing to a picture of you both at around 7 years old, covered head to toe in mud. “Your mom was pissed at us.”

“Yeah, she was pissed because you pushed me into the puddle,” you remind him.

“And then I got you out of it.” 

“You said ‘watch this’ and then did it. I don’t think you really won brownie points with Mom,” you laugh at the memory. 

He flips through the book, oohing and aahing everytime you stumble across a cute picture. They’re reminiscent of a time when everything was easy, when you didn’t have to worry about adult things like taxes and bills and groceries. It was just you and Jungkook, conquering the world one playdate at a time. 

Jungkook flips to the next page. There’s a photo taped to the page, with your mom’s handwriting underneath. “Christmas, 9 years old, Busan.”

You're both standing under a mistletoe that looks comically large above your small heads. His lips are pressed to yours in that brief, earth-shattering peck you still think about once in a while (or more precisely, when it’s late at night and you’re missing his presence).

You take a deep breath. Your chest feels tight, like someone’s tugging on it by the ends of a string. 

Jungkook stares at the photo for what feels like forever, an unreadable expression crossing his face. “I remember this,” he quietly says. 

You can’t speak. Your tongue feels like deadweight. 

“You held your breath and everything,” he reminisces, and you suddenly feel breathless. Like you’re drowning and gasping for air, but even when you hit the surface, it’s not enough. 

He flips the page again, and there's another one. Age 10. Same mistletoe, different living room. It was the year your parents moved homes, but remained down the street from Jungkook’s. You’re wearing a red dress your mom made you wear, and he’s in a sweater that's too big. His hand is on your cheek, and you can see, even in the photo, how red your face was.

“We did this every year,” he notes, and there’s a nostalgic edge to his voice that wasn’t there before. 

“Yeah.” The word comes out hoarse. You clear your throat. And then the words are out before you can stop them, tinged with wistfulness, "Until we didn’t.”

Jungkook doesn’t acknowledge that. Just flips again. Through age 11, age 12, age 13, age 14. Each photo is a documentation of a tradition that meant everything to you. 

Then he turns the page, and the mistletoe is gone. Age 15.  You’re standing stiffly next to Haeun, who’s tucked under his arm, beaming at the camera. You look like you want to disappear.

“Hm,” he hums, frowning. “I guess we stopped here.”

It’s so juvenile, so high school it’s almost embarrassing. He hadn’t cared for the absence of your kiss. For him, it was a silly thing your families let you partake in. “You had Haeun. The mistletoe thing was for kids anyway”

“Was it though?” He studies the photo, and you wish he would stop, wish he would close the album and move on to anything else. The question isn’t meant to be flirtatious but a selfish part of you wishes it was. “I always thought it was fun.”

“Our parents got so excited over it.” He flips back to the earlier photos, running his finger over the vintage picture. “We’d be right under the mistletoe and she’d count down with her camera ready like it was the New Years countdown.”

“She was probably hoping to plaster us on some kids’ Christmas ad.”

“It was cute.” He lands on the photo from when you were six—the very first one. His tiny self kissing your cheek, your hand frozen mid-reach to touch the spot. “Look how tiny we were. Little babies.”

He says it so innocently that something inside you stumbles. 

You cover your face with your hands, as if he could see the adoration written all over your face. But even if he could, he probably wouldn’t say anything “I’m mortified. I didn’t realize my mom took so many pictures of us kissing as kids.” 

He scrunches his brows, looking over at you. “Was it really that bad?” 

Yes. No. It was the best and worst thing that ever happened to you. “Kinda. I mean, I survived, didn’t I?”

“Barely, from the looks of it.” He taps the photo, where baby you looks seconds away from a panic attack. “It’s not like I had cooties.”

You smile. “Oh, yes you did. If anyone had cooties, it was definitely you. You ran that playground like it was your personal dating pool.”

“Rude.” He bumps your shoulder, turning the page slowly, lingering on each mistletoe photo. “I can’t believe we did this for almost a decade.”

“Used me for practice?” It doesn’t feel like there’s enough air in your apartment, even with the window cracked open. It’s taking tremendous effort to breathe.

“Worked well for us, I think.”

“Why’d you stop?” 

Oh god, you’ve really done it now.  

Surprisingly enough, the embarrassment comes belatedly, but it settles in your stomach all the stronger. 

Surprise flashes across his face. “What?”

“After Haeun. I guess… I don’t know. You never—” You wish you could say the words, wish you could be brave, wish you could be six years old again with Jeon Jungkook’s lips on your cheek. “Why’d it just… end?”

He’s quiet. The sound of your space heater rattling and Ginger purring fills the room, but not enough to quell the anxiety that’s rumbling in your stomach. He’s going to let you down gently, you hope. Quick and painless, like a bullet to the head.

“I don’t know. I guess I thought you didn’t want to anymore. We were older. I thought it would feel weird to you.”

Weird. 

And this whole time, for you, his kiss was nothing short of ethereal. 

“Plus,” he continues, oblivious to the way your heart is splintering, “I figured it’d be uncomfortable doing it once I had girlfriends. Like it would be... I don't know. Inappropriate or something.”

He was being considerate. Somehow, and you know you’re being irrational, that makes it worse.

“It makes sense.” You force a smile. “Relax, Koo. I’m not writing sonnets about your lips every night.”

He snorts. “Oh, please, you wish you could have lips as luscious as mine.”

You push his shoulder, and then it’s just you and Jungkook again. Nothing more, nothing less. 

He flips through a few more pages, ogling at pictures even you’d never seen before. He points to one where you're both wearing matching reindeer antlers. “Now, this should be on a Christmas card.”

“I’m shocked my mom didn’t have cards made. I would’ve burned them”

“You’re such a Grinch.” He closes the album but keeps it in his lap, fingers tracing the worn cover. Jungkook is quiet for another moment, and you catch the look on his face, the one he makes when he’s struggling to choose his words correctly. Decisively, he says, “Did you really hate it? The mistletoe thing?”

Your heart hammers. This is it, you think. This is where you could tell him. Where you could say actually, I loved it, I lived for it, I died a little every year you stopped.

But he’s looking at you with curiosity, as if he’s pondering what your favorite color is or what you had for breakfast. As if the answer doesn’t matter beyond satisfying his momentary interest.

You lie. “It was fine. Just a stupid kid thing.”

He sets the album aside, wiping his dusty palms on the front of his pants. “Yeah. Totally.” 

Jungkook moves back to the decoration boxes, and you remain frozen on the couch. You grip your safety blanket as tight as you can, until you think you feel your blood flow cutting off. You just want to feel numb. 

“You know what is crazy, though?” He pulls out a string of garland, examining it for tangled bits. “You used to be obsessed with Christmas.”

Your stomach does a somersault. “I was not.”

“Yeah, you kinda were.” His eyes linger on the garland, although you’re certain it’s in perfect condition. “You made us watch Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and Frosty the Snowman on repeat. You also made us build snowmen every single time it snowed, even when it was like, two inches.”

“Everyone loves those things when you’re a kid.”

“Yeah, I guess.” he sighs. “But I don’t know. You had a countdown, you’d call me everyday in December to tell me how many days were left. That was your favorite holiday, and now I’m the only one who likes it.” 

You shrug, hoping to come across as nonchalant, but you know he can read your face like an open book. “People change.”

“When did you even stop liking it?” He picks up a few string lights, untangling them as he’s doing to you currently. 

Your throat tightens. “High school, maybe?”

“Cause of stress or something? School shit?” 

“Sure.”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

“That’s the answer you’re getting.” You really, really wish there was a sinkhole that could swallow you entirely right now. 

He studies you, and you can see him thinking, piecing together something you don’t want him to figure out. But despite it all, he just shrugs, letting it go. “It's depressing. You used to light up the whole room when Christmas came around. Now you look like someone killed Ginger."

She purrs in the corner. 

“Sorry, Ging.” He throws the lights to the yes pile. It’s surprisingly larger than the no pile. “I just want you to be happy this Christmas. That’s all I care about.”

You half-smile at him, nodding. You don’t know how to tell him that you could be happy, could be ecstatic, if just this Christmas, you felt his lips on yours again.

Turns out, it’s a lot easier to throw yourself into party planning when you’re trying to distract yourself from something.

This whole debacle makes you realize you’ve never actually hosted a Christmas party. You actively avoid Christmas. What made you think you could pull this off? (Granted it’s all Jungkook’s fault, but that’s neither here nor there.)

The group chat you made for the attendees is already chaos—Jisoo asking about the playlist, Taehyung confirming he’s still vegetarian (yes, still, it's been four days), Dahyun asking if she can breastfeed in your bedroom. Your anxiety spikes with every notification.

So it’s no surprise that the day before the party, you wake up in a cold sweat at 6AM with the horrifying realization that you have no idea what you’re doing. By the time Jungkook arrives at noon, you’ve managed to rearrange your furniture three times and stress-clean your bathroom until it’s sterile enough to perform surgery in. 

“Wow,” He steps inside, taking in the boxes of decorations you’ve laid out for him to tackle. “Did you even sleep?” 

“I would, but Jisoo and Jennie are blowing up my phone like this is the fucking MET Gala or something.” You huff, not pausing your incessant scrubbing of your kitchen sink. 

“They know it’s just the annual Christmas party… right?”

You puff another exasperated breath. “Yes. But none of that matters to them because they’ve sent me 30 different outfit options like I’m going to be judging them personally or something.”

He bites back a smile. “It’s time to call in the big guns. Where can I get my hands dirty, sergeant?”

You really are grateful he’s here. And exists. And all those other sentimental things that your heart sings about constantly. 

You two go full decorator mode, moving through your apartment like a well-oiled machine. He hangs the garland while you untangle lights, arrange the ornaments while he figures out how to make your bookshelf look “festive but not icky.” His words, not yours.

It’s disgusting how much Christmas is invading your space. Your minimal, clean apartment now looks like Santa threw up in it. There are silver bells on your kitchen counter, a wreath on your door that's so aggressively pine-scented you can taste it. There are candles labeled things like “Winter Wonderland” and “Cinnamon Craze” that you know will take weeks to burn through after this is all said and done.

But you keep going, because if you stop, you’ll think. If you think, you’ll remember the photo album, the mistletoe pictures, the dumb kid thing.

“Alright, I need my harshest critic.” Jungkook motions to you to survey the living room. 

Standing beside him, you inspect the damage. Warm white lights are strung along your windows and wrapped around your bookshelf. A garland drapes elegantly across your mantle (you don't have a fireplace, but the decorative mantle suddenly feels worth it). There are small golden ornaments scattered tastefully on your side tables, and the wreath on the door is admittedly very pretty, even if it does smell like a forest. 

“Not too shabby, Jeon.”

He looks offended. “Yeah, no shit. I deserve better than that.”

“Subpar at best.”

“I’m gonna punt Ginger like a football.”

“I think the lights are nice,” you finally concede, because they are. They make your apartment look warm, cozy even.

“Told you I was good at this." He's grinning like a Cheshire cat, that proud, bunny-toothed smile that makes your chest hurt. “Admit it. I crushed this.”

You roll your eyes. “You did alright.”

He gapes, blinking frantically. “Okay? Okay? I turned your Grinch lair into a winter wonderland!”

“My abode is not a lair.”

“It was before I arrived.” He sticks his tongue out, and you shove his shoulder. 

“I think we're done,” you say, more to yourself than to him. “This is... yeah. This is enough.”

“Well… almost.” Jungkook looks like a kid who’s just been told he can’t have dessert before dinner but is already plotting how to sneak a cookie anyway.

Your stomach sinks. “What do you mean almost?” you ask, even though you think you already know. 

“I have a surprise.” 

You protest, “Jungkook—”

“Wait right here.” He holds up a hand, jogs back toward the entryway where he’d dropped his bag earlier. You stiffen like you’re made of ice, the only thing moving in your body being your heartbeat that thumps along the walls of your ribcage. 

Please don’t be what you think it is. Please don’t be what you think it is. 

He turns around, and your heart sinks lower than where your stomach sat.

In his hand, dangling from a red ribbon, is a mistletoe.

It’s small, crinkled, fake plastic leaves bent at weird angles like it was shoved in the back of his closet for years. It probably has been. 

“No,” you object immediately. 

“Come on—”

“No. This is a hard no, Jungkook.” And you know you’re being harsh, but it’s the only way you’ll get him to stop whatever efforts he’s decided are worth his time. 

“You said no mistletoe in the apartment,” he argues, walking toward you with that stupid sprig held up. “Technically, this is going above the doorway, which is a threshold. Not in the apartment.”

“That’s the worst logic I’ve ever heard.”

“But it’s tradition!” You can see the hope in his eyes, the genuine excitement, and it makes you want to rip your hair out. “Every Christmas party needs a mistletoe.”

“Not this one.”

“Especially yours. Ours.” His voice softens, and that's worse somehow. “For old times’ sake?”

You hate the tone in his voice, the guilt-tripping, the pity. 

“I don’t want it,” you repeat. “I told you this already.”

His smile falters as he realizes you’re truly serious. “Why not?

“Because it’s stupid and outdated and I don’t want people making a big deal about it.”

“Why would any of our friends make a big deal—”

“Jungkook,” you plead, crossing your arms, putting a physical barrier between you and that mistletoe. “I said no.’

He just stares at you, confusion and hurt flickering across his face. “I don’t get it. It’s literally just a mistletoe. It’s supposed to be fun.”

Fun, weird… a list of words that describe the opposite of what mistletoe makes you feel.

“It’s not fun for me.” You burn holes into your floor, refusing to look at his puppy eyes that would make you feel more guilty than you already do. 

“Why not?”

Because everytime I look at it, I think about you kissing me when we were kids. Because it reminds me of when Christmas was my favorite day of the year. Because seeing it in my apartment, above my doorway, at my party, will make me think about all the Christmases you kissed other girls and not me.

“Because I don’t like it,” you decide upon, “Can’t you just respect that?”

An awkward silence spreads amongst you two, punctured only by Ginger purring in the corner. Jungkook's hand drops to his side, mistletoe dangling limply from his fingers.

“Fine,” he murmurs. “No mistletoe.”

“Thank you,” you sigh in relief. 

He walks back to his bag and shoves it inside, and you should feel relieved. You should feel like you’ve won. But instead, you just feel like you’ve punched him square in the face.

“I should probably go,” he says, not meeting your eyes. “Let you rest before the big day tomorrow.”

“Oh, uh, yeah.” You shift on your feet awkwardly. 

He gathers his things timidly, and you know he’s giving you time to take it back, to say you’re sorry, to explain, to undo the angst you’ve created. 

At the door, he pauses before reaching for the doorknob. Jungkook turns, clutching his bag strap so tightly his knuckles resemble those of a ghost. “I really don't understand what's going on with you.”

“Nothing’s going on,” you mutter. 

“That’s utter bullshit,” he snaps, and you raise your eyes to meet his. The usual warm chocolate shade of his orbs now shifts to onyx. “You’ve been weird about this whole Christmas party thing since day one.”

“I said, there’s nothing going on. I don’t want to talk about it,” you repeat, hoping it’ll stick.

“But I do!” His voice rises, and you flinch. Jungkook doesn’t yell. Not once in your lifelong friendship has he ever raised his voice or laid a finger on anyone. You were never involved in any of his relationship arguments, but you imagine he never argued with them like this. You suddenly feel dizzy, like the world is spinning too quickly for you to catch your breath. “I’ve known you forever. You’re my best fucking friend, and something is clearly wrong, so just tell me.”

Frustration coils in your stomach. Why can’t he ever leave anything alone? “Stop it. Please, just stop. Why can’t you just respect my boundaries? I said no mistletoe. I said I don’t want to talk about it. Why isn’t that enough for you?”

“This obviously is not just about the fucking mistletoe, [Y/N].” He tugs at his hair, rage rolling off him in waves. “Since the moment I brought up you hosting, you acted like I was attacking you.”

“Because you are!” None of it makes sense, not one bit, but you can’t tell between anger and panic and all you can see is red. “Maybe because you just bulldoze through my life, rearranging things, making decisions, assuming you know what's best—”

“We’re best friends. We help each other with everything,” he grits through clenched teeth.

“I’m not Hana, Jungkook. I won’t just let you decorate my life and pretend everything's perfect.”

For a moment, Jungkook seems taken aback by your outburst, recoils a step, landing with his spine against the front door. His face goes pale. “Wow. That’s fucking low.”

“Is it?” You're on a roll now, unable to stop even though you can see you’re hurting him. Maybe you just want him to hurt the way you do. “Because when you kept all of Hana’s things, when your apartment was basically a shrine to her, I never said a fucking thing about it. I just let you deal with it however you needed to. So why can’t you give me the same courtesy? Why can’t you just let this go?”

“Hana and I broke up!” His voice cracks, eyes glassy, “That’s so different and you know it.”

“How is it different? Enlighten me.”

“She was my girlfriend. And it hurt, okay? It hurt to let her go. But I did it. I'm doing it because it’s over and I don’t miss her that way anymore. And you’re the one who pushed me to. So don’t—" He pauses, jaw clenched, and you can see he’s trying to swallow his tears. “Don’t throw that in my face like I’m some pathetic asshole who can't move on.”

Fuck. “Koo—”

“No.” He holds up a hand. It’s shaking. “You want boundaries? Fine. Here’s one: don’t call me until you figure out what the fuck is actually going on with you. Because this isn’t you. The you I know doesn’t make me feel like shit for trying to care about you.”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Jungkook, I’m so sorry—”

“Save it.” His voice is quieter, and you miss the yelling, because at least then he still cared about you. He’s given up. “I’ll still come to the party tomorrow because I told everyone I would. But after that… maybe we should take a break from each other or something.”

“Oh.”

Throughout the duration of your friendship, you and Jungkook have only ever fought once. It was known as The Great Argument of 11th Grade, and it was so juvenile that even your parents got involved. Now, you don’t really remember the specifics of what went down or who started it, but you do remember that it only lasted a day, because Jungkook said, “you know I can’t stay away from you for too long.”

The concept of space from him is one you’ve never considered. 

He leaves before you can say anything more, the door clicking shut with finality, echoing through your decorated apartment.

You stand there, frozen, staring at the space where he was. The mistletoe is still in his bag. He took it with him.

The rest of your unfortunate day is spent spiraling about your argument with Jungkook. You sit on the couch, crying to some stupid Hallmark movie where the girl gets the guy and everything works out perfectly. Then you cry in the shower, the water mixing with your tears until you can’t tell which is which. You go so far as to cry in your car on the way to the grocery store, because you two were supposed to go together to prepare for this stupid party.

Even the supermarket is taunting you. There’s couples everywhere walking around gleefully, hand-in-hand, debating between red or green napkins like it’s the most important decision of their lives. Meanwhile, you’re shuffling through the aisles in a massive oversized hoodie that’s doing nothing to hide your puffy eyes and red nose.

Sniffling, you round the corner to the next aisle, looking for Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth. Your cart collides with someone else’s with a loud clang, and you’re thrown, apologizing like crazy, “Ohmygod, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention—”

“[Y/N]?”

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Hana. 

The last time you saw Hana was last January after the breakup. She was collecting her things at Jungkook’s apartment, and you’d shown up at the wrong moment. Her eyes were bloodshot, movements solemn as she shoved books and clothes into a duffel bag. She’d barely looked at you, just mumbled a quiet “hey” before brushing past you in the hallway. You had felt guilty then, even though you had no reason to be. 

At least now, she looks radiant. Her skin reflects off the luminescent overhead lights, cart stocked full of fancy cheeses and wine bottles and overpriced crackers. She looks like someone who has her shit together. Someone who’s moved on.

Unlike you, apparently, who looks like you’ve been crying in your car. Which, by all means, you absolutely were. 

“Hana,” you slap a smile onto your face, although you’re 99 percent certain it looks strained. “It’s good to see you.”

“You too!” She seems actually happy about the encounter. It’s not like you two ever had a bad relationship, but you weren’t besties by any means. “It’s been forever.”

“Yeah, almost a year.” You’re too hyperaware of your puffy eyes, your ratty hoodie, the fact that you probably look like you’ve been hit by a truck. But of course, she looks like she just stepped out of Vogue.

“How have you been?” she asks. 

“Good. Busy. You know, the holidays,” You nod at your cart, which contains three different types of cheeses, ten bags of chips, and a bag of chocolate chips for yourself because you need to eat your feelings when you get home. 

“I do,” she laughs. “Work has been insane lately. I barely have time to go outside.”

“Right, you’re at that new marketing agency now?” You remember Jungkook mentioning it once, back when talking about Hana was therapeutic for him.

“I do.” she nods. “It’s a lot but I love it. What about you? Still at the magazine?”

“I am. I actually just finished a pretty big piece, so that’s good.”

“That’s amazing,” she earnestly responds. You want to hate her—it would be easier if you could hate her—but she’s always been kind. Even when you wanted to despise her for being with Jungkook, she made it impossible.

There’s a lull in conversation, and you debate making a run for it until she asks, “How are you and Jungkook?”

You furrow your brows. She could just ask you about Jungkook. You wouldn’t judge her  for wondering. “What do you mean?”

“I just—” A crimson blush creeps onto her cheeks. “I mean, how are you guys doing?”

Why would she ask about you both together? Granted, it’s not that unreasonable. You and Jungkook are attached at the hip; everyone knows that. “We’re… good? He’s good.”

“Cool,” she says, but she doesn’t even look convinced by your answer. 

You don’t know why you feel the need to overshare, but it all comes tumbling out like word vomit. “Yeah, he’s actually been helping me plan this Christmas party. Total nightmare, honestly. He’s been at my place basically every day this week, decorating and—”

She cracks a smile. “That’s so cute you guys are still inseparable.”

“I mean… “ you trail off, slightly confused by her angle. “We’re best friends. So yeah.”

“Of course,” she rushes to say. “Duh. Silly me.”

“Is that... weird?” You clear your throat and shift on your feet. You don’t even know what she’s trying to get at anymore, and honestly, you really need to get as far away from this supermarket (or Seoul) as fast as you can. 

“No! No, not weird. I think it’s sweet, actually.” She pauses before adding, “I'm really happy for you guys”

Either you must be braindead, or she’s undergoing memory loss. “I’m sorry Hana, I don’t think I’m following.”

She laughs softly, but it’s not mocking. “Come on, [Y/N]. You don’t have to pretend with me.”

Your stupid heart skips a beat, your brain struggling to make sense of her words. “Pretend about what?”

“That you and Jungkook aren’t together, obviously.” 

Have you entered an alternate universe? Did you accidentally drive into another dimension in all your sadness, missed the supermarket completely?

“What?” you sputter. “No, we’re not—oh my god, no. We would never, I mean—we’re best friends.”

She reaches out, placing a warm hand over your own. You’re going to die. It’ll be a painful death, but you’ll make it work. Anything to get out of this. “No, it’s okay. You can tell. Honest to god, I’m seeing someone now. I’m not like, jealous or anything.”

It’s confirmed. You’ve entered an alternate world where you’ll soon grow a second head and become the queen of a make-believe land. 

“Hana, I’m dead serious. Jungkook and I are not dating.” You need her to believe you. You need someone to believe you, because if Hana thinks there’s something there, what the fuck does that mean? “We’ve never dated. We’re just friends. That’s all we’ve ever been.”

She studies your face, searching for the lies. Confusion replaces her certainty. “Wait, really?”

“Really.”

“But you…” She trails off, shaking her head. “Wow. Okay. I genuinely thought you guys had finally gotten together.”

Your throat constricts. “W-Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she stops, biting her lip. “Nevermind. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed.”

It gives you pause for a minute, and your heart—that idiotic organ of yours that can never let go of anything—trembles in your chest. 

“No, what were you going to say?” You’re not sure you want to know, but you can’t let it go now.

She casually flicks her hand. “It’s nothing, I swear.”

You exhale a breath you didn’t realize you were holding. “Hana. Please.”  

She sighs, shifting on her feet. “It’s just... when Jungkook and I were together, it was always pretty clear that you were the most important person in his life. Which, like, I totally respected! I did, I get it. But it was also kind of hard sometimes, you know? Like I was always competing with this... ghost. This idea of what you two had.”

Ever since you were young, people had this tendency to group you and Jungkook into this category of fate, as if the universe had done you both a favor by placing you in adjacent hospital cribs. It was always “you’re lucky to have each other” and “what a gift to be so close,” that you had never stopped to consider that your luck, your fate, your happiness, your shining star, might cast shadows on the people who tried to love him.

“Hana, I never meant to—”

“No, no,” she rushes to say, “Trust me, it wasn’t you. You did nothing wrong. Neither did he, really. He tried his best. But I could always tell his heart wasn’t fully in it. At least, not in the way it should have been.”

Words fall short of what you want to say. Hana and Jungkook’s relationship had always felt like something out of reach to you. An enigma. The plot of some braindead romance novel. They met at a concert, an underground indie band that only the two of them liked.  He had stumbled home that night with a smile on his face that couldn’t be erased, eyes bright as exploding stars, talking so fast his words tripped over each other. You remember thinking this is it, the real thing, the love that rewrites him.  You had never imagined that magic would ever run dry. 

“Anyway,” Hana continues, “I just assumed that once we broke up, you two would figure it out. The way he talked about you, the way he’d light up when you texted... I don't know. I thought it was inevitable.”

“Well, it’s not.” The words prick your tongue like thorns. “We’re just friends.”

“Oh. Well, that’s still cool,” she offers, but her eyes have gone all soft. 

For a while, it’s quiet. She’s staring at you intently, chewing on her lip like she has more to say but needs to mash it down. But you really just want to grab Taehyung’s stupid vegetable broth and get the fuck out of here. 

“It was great to see you, Hana. I need to go and—”

“[Y/N], wait.” She latches onto your arm before you get a chance to escape. 

You stare at her, wide-eyed, heart racing, mouth dry. 

“I probably shouldn't be telling you this. Maybe it should be him, I don’t fucking know," she says, rolling her eyes. "But clearly he hasn’t grown the balls yet. Well, that, or his peanut brain hasn’t pieced it together. But I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

Your hands grip the cart handle. “Tell me what?”

There’s a long pause, and you can feel her weighing her words. Until, finally, she admits, “Last Christmas, when we were under the mistletoe… when Jungkook kissed me.” She takes a deep breath. “He was looking at you.”

Your first reaction is to laugh. Which you do, actually, loud enough to bounce off the cans of corn on the shelves. At the sound, Hana raises an eyebrow. 

“What are you talking about?” you giggle. “No, he wasn’t.”

She’s watching you now with something that resembles pity.

“We were under the mistletoe at your friend Jisoo’s apartment. Everyone was there, all your friends. And he kissed me, but…” Hana swallows thickly. “When we pulled apart, his eyes were open, and he wasn’t looking at me. He was looking across the room at you.”

You think you’re going to die in this godforsaken supermarket. 

“I didn’t say anything that night. I thought maybe I’d imagined it, but then it kept happening. He’d be with me, but he’d be watching you. Listening for you, waiting for you to text or call.” She laughs dryly, but you’re not sure either of you find this funny. “On New Years, I asked him about it. I asked him if he was in love with you.”

Bile rises up in your throat. You don’t even think you want to hear the rest of this. If she’s right, if it’s true, if you’ve missed this, if, if, if..

“What did he say, Hana?”

“Obviously, he lied and said no. He said you were just friends, and that I was being ridiculous. But then we broke up two weeks later. We both agreed we needed space, and I said that he wasn’t ready for something serious. And maybe that's true, maybe I was reading into things." She finally meets your eyes again. "But I don’t think I was.”

Last Christmas, you were so drunk on Jisoo’s eggnog that you hardly remember anything. You try to piece together the snippets of the night you have. There was dinner, which you scarfed down in under a millisecond. Then you all played pin the cock on the Santa (not suitable for kids, but luckily, baby Haewon only lived in Dahyun’s uterus at that point). You barely even remember the mistletoe portion of the night. That’s got to be some kind of trauma response to the stupid little leaf. 

“Why are you telling me this?” Your voice sounds far away, like it belongs to someone else.

“Because," Hana’s lips curve upwards into a soft smile, “I spent a year loving someone who was in love with someone else, and it sucked, but you know what sucks more? Watching two people who are meant to be together waste time pretending they’re not.” 

She reaches out and squeezes your arm. “I’m not bitter about it anymore. I’m happy now. I want him to be happy too. I think... I think he could be very happy with you.”

You want to argue. You want to tell her she’s wrong, that she’s misremembering, that she too was poisoned by Jisoo’s eggnog, that there's no way Jungkook feels that way about you.

But then you think about the box in his closet with your name on it. The teddy bear he kept. The way he’s been trying so hard to make you love Christmas again. The mistletoe he wanted to hang in your apartment.

No. It can’t fucking be. 

“I gotta go,” you say abruptly. 

“[Y/N]—”

But you’re already moving, abandoning your cart in the middle of the aisle, heart pounding so hard you can feel it in your throat. You make it to your car before the tears start again, but this time they’re different. This time, you don’t know if you’re crying because you’ve been in love with someone who doesn't love you back, or because you might've missed the entire thing completely. 

There’s not enough wine in this apartment, nor this world, that will get you through this Christmas party in one piece.

It feels like the world is moving around you but you’re just glued to your kitchen, gripping your glass of white wine so tightly you’re surprised the stem hasn’t snapped. Surprisingly enough, everyone arrived on time—even Namjoon and Dahyun, balancing poor baby Haewon on their hip, her tiny Santa hat slipping over one eye. There’s enough alcohol floating around to feed a bar, courtesy of Taehyung’s overenthusiastic mixology skills. 

It’s truly a splendid evening. A roaring success. Everything going exactly as planned. 

Except, there are two minor (major) insignificant, soul-crushing details that are fucking up your perfect evening: 

Hana’s words have been playing on loop in your brain all day. 

When Jungkook arrived, he looked at you for exactly 0.5 seconds, said absolutely nothing, and spent the last hour charming everyone else in the room.

Other than that, splendid evening. Gatsby would be seething with jealousy if he saw the kind of party you were throwing.

Jungkook had walked in, present in hand for Haewon (because he was her godfather and she practically got whatever she wanted when he was around), and he’d met your eyes before looking away. No smile. No “hey.” Not even a nod of acknowledgment. 

Naturally, since torturing you seems first on his agenda, he chooses this night to become the town jester. Jennie has been laughing at his jokes for what seems like ages, her hand on his arm, her head thrown back in delight. Taehyung keeps pulling him into conversations, clapping him on the shoulder. Even Dahyun, who normally has her hands full, is more entranced by Jungkook than her own daughter. 

Everyone loves Jungkook. Everyone always loves Jungkook.

Yet, he won’t even spare you a passing glance. 

It’s what you deserve, you know that, but your heart is cracking at the seams and your brain isn’t faring any better. 

You feel ill. Fucking ill.

Turning to the kitchen sink, you brace your hands on the counter. Breathe in. Breathe out. You’re fine. You just need to get through the next few hours without having a complete breakdown in front of all your friends.

“You alright?”

You jump, releasing an exhale when you see it’s just Jisoo. She’s holding a glass of red wine, matching with her burgundy turtleneck, eyebrow raised in that knowing way of hers that says she sees right through all your bullshit.

“Oh, yeah,” you reply. “Just taking a quick breather.”

“Mhm.” she eyes you up and down, leaning against the counter. “You’re basically hiding at your own party.”

“Could’ve sworn you did this last year at your Christmas party when your lasagna came out burnt,” you point out. 

Jisoo deadpans. “This isn’t about me. We’re talking about you.”

Damnit. You were hoping she would let it go.

“I’m just here making sure everything’s to perfection. Y’know, Taehyung with his… vegetarianism..”

Jisoo takes a slow sip of her wine, “You wanna try that again, or should I just cut to the part where you tell me what’s actually wrong?”

Your heart falls to your ass. Jisoo is the one friend on this planet who has consistently read you down to the bone. She’s going to see right through any lie you try to feed her, so you’re wondering if it’s even worth it. 

It’s worth one last shot. 

“Nothing’s wrong—”

“Bitch just tell me.”

You close your eyes and try to imagine a beach, somewhere tropical with waves kissing your ankles and sand that burns your feet. Try to imagine a world where you don’t have to answer Jisoo's question, where Hana never ambushed you in the grocery store yesterday, where your feelings for Jungkook stayed frozen at age nine, still innocent and within reach.

Unfortunately, when you open your eyes again, you’re at a Christmas party—your Christmas party, in your annoyingly red sweater—and Jisoo is staring at you expectantly. 

“I fucked up.”

Jisoo doesn’t look surprised in the slightest, which, okay. Rude. “With Jungkook?”

You raise an eyebrow. “How did you know that?”

“I mean, you’re not having a fight with any of the girls, or I would’ve heard an earful. That and he won’t glance in your direction and you look like you’re about to throw up. Doesn’t take Einstein.” She places her wine down. “What happened?”

Keeping it bottled up has never done you any favors, so you steady your voice and explain everything.  How you didn’t want to host the party in the first place because Christmas makes you miserable. How Jungkook kept pushing about the mistletoe. How you snapped at him, brought up Hana, threw his grief in his face. How he left and told you he needed space and you haven’t spoken since.

You probably could’ve told her more, but you don’t want to tell her about the mistletoe tradition. You don’t tell her about being in love with him for thirteen years. Those truths feel like just yours. 

When you finish, Jisoo is quiet for a long moment. Then, she sighs, levels you with a look, and says,  “That was a low blow.”

“I know.”

“Like, really bad.”

“I know.”

“He was just trying to help, and you basically told him he’s pathetic for not being over his ex.”

“I know, Jisoo. Trust me, I know.” You press the heels of your palms against your eyes. “I feel like shit about it.”

“Have you apologized?”

“He said he needed space. Hence why he won’t look at me.”

“I mean, space doesn’t mean you can’t say sorry.” She picks up her wine again. “Look, I get it. You were overwhelmed. The party planning, the decorations, whatever else is going on in that head of yours. But Jungkook didn’t deserve that”.

“I know he didn’t.” you reply, now having trouble controlling your voice. “I just... I don’t know how to fix this.”

“The word you’re looking for, my dear, is sorry,” she smiles sympathetically. 

You nod, even though the thought of approaching him right now makes you want to crawl into a hole. 

The party outside seems to pick up in volume, and through the crack in the doorway, you see Jungkook holding baby Haewon, cradling her carefully against his chest like she’s made of glass. He’s wearing a dark green sweater, the color of mistletoe, and his skin looks golden under the string lights he helped set up. He’s cooing at the baby, making ridiculous faces, and Haewon is giggling, her tiny hand reaching up to grab his nose.

Dahyun is standing next to him, saying something that makes him laugh, and the light sound carries over the music and chatter. It’s his real laugh, the one that crinkles his nose and shows all his teeth, the one you thought you only got to see. 

And suddenly you can picture it with perfect clarity: Jungkook, a few years from now, holding his own baby. His and someone else’s, some girl who isn’t you, who doesn’t have years of baggage and unspoken feelings weighing her down. Someone who can give him the uncomplicated love he deserves.

You didn’t even realize Jisoo was talking until you feel her hand on your arm. 

Blinking out of your daze, you snap back to the kitchen, to the party, to reality. “Sorry, what?”

But it’s too late—Jisoo isn’t looking at you anymore. She’s following your gaze to the dining room, to Jungkook and the baby, and understanding dawns across her face.

“Oh,” she says. 

Who knew a single syllable could carry so much weight?

“How long?” Jisoo questions.

“How long what?”

“Do not play dumb with me, missy. How long have you been in love with him?”

You’ve been tiptoeing around the truth for a long time. But you’re so tired of pretending, and the wine has loosened your tongue, and Jisoo is looking at you with such gentle understanding that the truth just spills out.

“Since I was a kid.”

Jisoo's eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, [Y/N].”

“Yeah,” is all you can offer.

“Does he know?” She lowers her voice, leans more into you like he might somehow hear across the room. 

“Absolutely not,” you retort. “He can’t, and he won’t. It would ruin our friendship.”

She opens her mouth to protest, to probably give you some grand speech on how love wins above all, but you hold your hand up to stop her. “I’m serious, Jisoo. You can’t tell him. Pinky promise me.”

She studies you for a long moment, and you can see her debating whether to push. Finally, she sighs and holds out her pinkie. “I promise. But for the record, I think you’re an idiot.”

“I get that a lot.”

From the dining room, you hear Jungkook laugh again, and it feels like someone’s wrapped barbed wire around your heart and pulled tight.

“You really should talk to him, though,” Jisoo repeats. “Like tonight, before it gets worse.” 

It’s already worse. 

“I can’t,” you disagree, taking a gulp of wine. “You saw him. The man won’t even look at me.”

“Because he’s pissed, not ‘cause he hates you.” She squeezes your arm. “This is Jungkook we’re talking about. Your Jungkook. He’s probably just as miserable as you are.”

The words your Jungkook make you shiver. He’s never actually been yours in any way that matters. But god, the way Jisoo says it makes you want to believe it. Makes you want to crawl inside those two words and live there, in a world where your Jungkook means he’s yours the way you’ve always been his. Completely, irrevocably, in every way a person can belong to another.

“I don’t know, he seems to be the fucking class clown tonight,” you mumble into your wine, and Jisoo snorts. 

“I promise you he’s waiting for you to make the first move. He said he needed space, but that doesn’t mean he wants the space. You know how he is—he’s a loverboy. Gets all up in his feelings and shit.”

You do know. You’ve known Jungkook long enough to recognize all his patterns.

Either way, you know just what to say to appease Jisoo. “Maybe later.”

“Later as in tonight, or later as in you’re going to avoid him until you two just forget about it and move on?” 

Yeah, exactly that. 

“We’ll see.”

Jisoo gives you a look that says she knows exactly what “we'll see” means in your vocabulary. “What’s your therapist’s name again? I want to give them a call.”

You hold up your middle finger. 

“It’s gonna be a loooong night,” she exhales a loud breath.

And truly, she must have magical powers or something, because it is nothing short of a treacherous evening for you. 

It all starts with Dahyun intercepting you, forcing you to hold Haewon. “Can you hold her for a sec? I need to use the bathroom and Joon’s three drinks deep trying to explain some conspiracy theory to Taehyung.” 

You’re halfway through your protest when she just plops Haewon into your arms. She settles against your chest with a little coo, her Santa hat askew. She smells like powder, milk, and Dahyun’s perfume. Her tiny fist curls into your sweater, and despite the trainwreck that is your life, you smile brightly. 

“Hi, pretty girl,” you murmur, adjusting her weight. “I bet you don’t know what it’s like to be in love with someone who doesn’t love you back. Because everyone loves you, since you’re perfect.”

Bouncing her gently, you two sway in place, and she makes a happy gurgling sound as if to say “yes, I know I’m perfect.” Someone has put on Nat King Cole, and the crooning voice of “The Christmas Song” fills your apartment with a nostalgic warmth you’ve been trying to avoid all month.

Haewon has the cutest little fingers and even tinier toes, and it amazes you how someone so utterly perfect could exit your friend Dahyun’s body. Before she met Namjoon, she was nothing short of a party girl, but now, her days are filled with Mommy & Me yoga classes and supermarket runs. 

It’s your dream life, you think. One that you would give anything to live with Jungkook. 

You’re so focused on this fantasy, the one you’ve conjured up in your head and dreams for years, that you don’t even realize Jungkook is blatantly staring at you. 

He’s standing near the drinks table, a bottle of beer frozen halfway to his lips. You meet his eyes, and it’s just you and Jungkook (and Haewon). 

Haewon squirms in your arms, breaking your gaze. You look down at her, adjusting her hat, heart hammering against your ribcage. When you look back up, Jungkook has turned away, saying something to Taehyung that you can’t hear over the blood whooshing in your ears.

But his knuckles are white around his beer bottle. 

Later on in the night, after you’ve tended to Taehyung’s vegetarian needs and listened to Jisoo rant about how clean eating relates to consumerism, you retreat to the kitchen under the guise of refilling the snack bowls. No one needs more chips—there are three unopened bags on the counter—but you need a moment of reprieve. 

You rip open a bag of pretzels, and a few go flying everywhere, but you manage to catch them in your hand. 

“Need any help?”

Your body goes rigid. You’re certain even your heart has stopped its beat. 

Jungkook is standing in the doorway, hands shoved in his pockets, looking anywhere but directly at you. The green sweater really is unfair. The golden undertone of his skin shimmers under your fluorescent light, makes his eyes look lustrous. 

“All good here,” you retort. “I’m just restocking.”

He makes a noise of acknowledgment, shuffling closer toward you. 

You pour pretzels into a bowl with more force than necessary, and several bounce onto the counter.

“The party’s a hit,” he offers. 

“Yeah. Everyone seems happy.” 

“The food’s really good too.”

“It was all Namjoon and Dahyun,” you snort. Your dream of getting food catered pretty much died immediately. Then you tried cracking open a recipe book and nearly fainted. 

This is excruciating. You’ve never done small talk with Jungkook. Never needed to. 

“Listen—”

“Jungkook,” you say in unison. 

Words cease to exist. You both stop. A dreadful, awkward silence fills the kitchen.

He clears his throat. “I want us to talk later after everyone leaves. If that’s okay with you?”

Where the idea of talking to him used to excite you, is now replaced by a pit in your stomach that won’t budge. 

Hana’s words crash back into your consciousness. He was looking at you.

But what if she was wrong? What if she saw something that wasn’t there because she was hurt and wanted an explanation that made sense? What if you let yourself hope and it destroys you?

“Maybe, Jungkook.”

Disappointment flashes across his face. He nods slowly. “Cool, yeah, uh, just let me know.”

He turns to leave, and you want to say more, want to stop him from leaving.

Your mind runs back to the grocery store, Hana’s words. 

You open your mouth—to say what, you don't know. Sorry. Wait. I need to tell you something.

“Jungkook.”

Jennie pokes her head into the kitchen, oblivious to everything. “There you are! Tae’s trying to make everyone play some weird drinking game. You have to come referee before I murder him.”

Jungkook looks back at you, a question in his eyes.

“Go ahead,” you smile. “I’ll join in a sec.”

He hesitates for just a second, then follows Jennie to the party.

By the time you make it back to the living room, Taehyung has indeed corralled everyone into some drinking game involving Christmas trivia. You slide into an empty spot on the couch next to Jisoo, who gives you a pointed look that you ignore. 

“Is this a joke?” you ask. 

“Tis not, Christmas hater,” Taehyung jokes. He explains the rules of the game, most of which you spend picking at your fingernails. The game begins with Jennie getting a question wrong about Rudolph and has to take a shot of tequila. Dahyun argues that her answer about Home Alone is technically correct. Jungkook keeps score attentively, tongue poking through his teeth. 

You're almost starting to relax when Namjoon, flushed from wine and dad-exhaustion, looks around your apartment with squinted eyes.

“Wait,” he says loud enough to make Taehyung’s and Jisoo’s current feud halt. “Where’s the mistletoe?” 

Last Christmas by Wham is blaring from your speakers, and you can hear traffic from the street below, but a barrage of red alerts blasts through your brain. 

Shit. 

Your throat goes dry.

“Yeah!” Dahyun laughs, adjusting Haewon on her lap. “Where is it? I thought mistletoe was like, mandatory at Christmas parties.”

“Maybe she forgot,” Jennie offers, and you could kiss her on the lips. 

“Feels like a crazy thing to forget,” Jisoo chimes in, and you shush her with a glare. 

“I didn’t forget.” You can feel Jungkook’s eyes on you, but you don’t look at him. “I just didn’t put one up.” 

“Why not?” Taehyung interrogates, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s tradition.”

Tradition. That stupid fucking word. 

“It’s not really my thing.” You shrug. 

“Since when?” Jennie arches a brow. “In college, you made us all kiss under the mistletoe in Jihyo’s dorm.”

You were obliterated and desperately trying to create some scenario where kissing Jungkook would happen again, even as a joke. It hadn’t worked. He’d kissed Jisoo on the cheek and you’d kissed Namjoon and everyone had laughed and moved on and you’d gone home and cried into your pillow.

“I was drunk,” you argue. 

Jisoo is studying her drink intensely, and by the sheer force of mind reading, you beg her not to say something.

“I think it's nice,” Dahyun says, attempting to ease the awkwardness. “More elegant without it, you know? Like out of an Ikea catalogue!”

You throw her a grateful look. 

“It does save people from those awkward forced kisses with people they don’t want to kiss,” she adds, and multiple other people nod in agreement.

“Exactly! That’s exactly it.” You practically leap out of your seat. 

But you can still feel Jungkook looking at you. You chance a glance in his direction and immediately regret it. He’s not trying to hide his expression anymore. He looks visibly hurt, with his jaw tight and lips twitching. 

“Should we keep playing?” Jennie asks, and bless her for it.

“Yeah,” Taehyung shuffles his trivia cards. “Alright, next question is for Jungkook.”

The game resumes, clockwise around the room, but even then, neither you or Jungkook care about anything else but each other. 

Jungkook’s not sure when it happened.

There wasn’t a single moment, no dramatic revelation where the clouds parted and you were all grown up. It was more like watching a sunrise, so gradual that he didn’t even notice it was happening until the entire sky was painted in vivid bright colors. One day you were his best friend, the girl who knew all his secrets and laughed at his dumb jokes and fell asleep during movie nights with your head on his shoulder. Then, somewhere along the way, you became something more—flourished into a beautiful flower. 

He thinks it might have started in high school, when you showed up to junior prom in that light blue dress that complemented your eyes. Your mother spent thirty minutes poking and prodding at your dress, noting that you were ‘filling out nicely,’ and it had taken all of Jungkook’s might not to ogle at your growing chest. 

It could’ve also been in college, after you went through your first breakup and decided the proper next step was to cut your hair short, revealing the curve of your neck. He had stared for the better half of a week, and luckily, it went away once winter rolled around and you wore turtlenecks. 

It could have been last year, when you laughed so hard at one of his stories that you snorted wine out of your nose, and instead of being grossed out, he’d thought it was the most endearing thing he’d ever witnessed.

Maybe it’s always been there, lurking underneath your friendship. 

The thing is, Jungkook has always been sure he’s not in love with you. He’s never let himself think about it in those terms, never let the thought fully form before shoving it back down where it belongs. You are his best friend, have been since before he understood what friendship meant. You’re the person who knows him better than anyone, who’s seen him at his worst and somehow still shows up. You’re the constant in his life, the thing he’s never had to question.

But in the quiet of his own mind, he can acknowledge that you are utterly and thoroughly beautiful. 

You’re brilliant too, in ways that constantly surprise him even after knowing you for years. Sharp and funny and creative, with this ability to see people that makes everyone feel understood. You remember things, stupid little details about people’s lives that they mentioned once in passing. You’re the kind of person who makes playlists for your friends based on their moods. 

You made one for him last month. Called it ‘when koo is in his feelings.’ 

He listened to it on the way to the Christmas party.

And yeah, okay, maybe he thinks about you more than a best friend probably should. Like when he’s dating someone, there’s always this small part of his brain remembering things to tell you later, moments you’d find funny or interesting. Sometimes, he compares every girl he dates to you without meaning to… it’s just the way they laugh never quite measures up, their sense of humor is always slightly off, their understanding of him remains surface-level.

But that’s all normal friend stuff, he thinks. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” 

Namjoon sidles up beside Jungkook, hugging a beer bottle tight to his chest. It’s the first time he’s drank in a while, and Jungkook resists the urge to laugh at just how drunk he looks. 

Jungkook takes a long sip of his beer, watching you over the rim of the bottle. You’re laughing at something Jisoo said, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. “It’s nothing.”

“Shut up.”  Namjoon leans against the wall for stability. “Tell me what’s up.”

“Nothing’s up.”

“Shouldn’t you be out there, making my wife laugh harder than I have?” 

Jungkook rolls his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“You have the energy of a bunny, so I doubt that,” Namjoon snickers. “C’mon, fess up. I never get involved with drama anymore after Haewon. Enlighten me.”

Jungkook considers deflecting again, but what's the point? Namjoon's going to stand here until he cracks. “We got in a fight. Me and [Y/N].”

“Oh shit, for real?” When Jungkook meekly nods, Namjoon takes another swig of beer. “What about?”

“I wanted to hang up a mistletoe for the party and she said no.” God, saying it out loud seems so stupid. “I pushed it and then she…”

“She what?” 

“She said some mean things, then I said some things. It got messy.”

“This sounds kinda dumb,” Namjoon jokes, and Jungkook levels him with a piercing glare. He knows it’s dumb, knows this whole thing is stupid, but he can;t shake the feeling that there’s something unresolved lingering underneath. “You’ll be fine.”

“Yeah.”

“That was not a confident yeah.”

“I mean, I told her we should talk after the party. She said maybe,” Jungkook laughs dryly. “Chances of us talking are looking pretty low right now.”

“Dude,” Namjoon exhales a breath. “She’s not going to stay away from you. That girl loves you.”

“I don’t know…”

“You know where she lives. You have a key, for god’s sake.”

Jungkook does have a key. In his defense, you have one to his place too. It’s never not been a thing—you’ve been trading apartment keys since college, back when you lived in that shitty studio with the broken heater and he needed to water your plants when you went home for your mom’s birthday.

“I think she really wants space this time, though,” he frowns. He doesn’t like the idea of it, but it’s part of his fault you’re even in this predicament right now. 

“You guys are idiots.” Namjoon stares at him. “Why do you look so sad about this? It’s just a little fight, right?”

Jungkook opens his mouth to agree, but he chokes on the words forming in his throat. His eyes find you across the room again. You’re holding Haewon, swaying gently, and the baby's grabbing at your hair with her tiny fists. You smile down at her, and even from here, he can see the softness in your expression, and how you’ve adjusted your hold to support her head.

He doesn’t really know why, but his heart seizes.

“Yeah. I think so.”

Namjoon hums. “It’s not like, …anything more, right?”

Jungkook furrows his brows, tearing his gaze away from you. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Y’know what I mean…” Namjoon starts doing some weird vague gestures with his hand, and Jungkook’s beer-soaked brain struggles to keep up. “It’s not like that with you two?”

Oh. 

“No, no. It’s not like that with us,” Jungkook denies quickly, almost too quickly. He knows it’s not impractical for someone to suggest. Ever since he was a young boy, he’s been curbing questions regarding your relationship status. It never annoyed him; in fact, it filled him with pride knowing people thought he was worthy of what sunshine you had to offer. “She’s my best friend.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Excuse me?”

Jungkook’s chest feels tight. 

But Namjoon doesn’t note the way his face goes pale, or the way his fingers flex around his bottle. He continues on, “Bro, I’m not trying to start anything. But I’ve known you since college, and I’ve watched you do this thing where you date someone, it gets serious, and then somehow it always ends. And you know what the common denominator is?”

He really doesn’t want Namjoon to say anymore. Doesn’t want him to vocalize what might actually be true, but has been something Jungkook has been mashing down for decades of his life. Naked, unmistakable fear courses through him. 

“Her.” Namjoon points with his beer bottle. “Every single time, you come back to her. You text her more than your girlfriend, or you cancel dates if she needs you. You measure everyone against her without even realizing you’re doing it.”

Jungkook can’t speak, because it’s true. He knows it’s true. He’s done it countless times, like when it was he and Sana’s one-year anniversary, but you had the flu, so he dropped everything to take care of you. Or when Chaeyoung got upset with him because he had responded to your text before even giving hers a second glance. 

He can’t help it. 

“You’ve been dragging her through your relationships for years,” Namjoon says, “At some point, you need to ask yourself why you keep coming back to her.”

“But she’s my best friend!” Jungkook protests petulantly. “We always show up for each other.”

“Yeah, but do best friends look at each other the way you’re looking at her right now?’

Jungkook hadn’t even realized he’d been staring again. You’ve handed Haewon back to Dahyun and you’re laughing at something, a hand flying up to cover your mouth in that way you do when you think your laugh is too loud. It’s not, Jungkook thinks, It’s never too loud.

“What do you want me to say?” Jungkook mumbles, averting his eyes to his scuffed-up shoes. 

“I feel like you should just be honest with yourself, Kook.” Namjoon claps him on the shoulder. “I’m willing to bet money on the fact that your fight wasn’t really about the mistletoe.”

“I don’t think so,” Jungkook scoffs. He hopes he looks nonchalant, but his hands are trembling.

Namjoon doesn’t utter another word, and for a moment, Jungkook thinks it’s over. Namjoon will let it go and they’ll move on. He shifts weight onto his other foot, taking a swig from his beer.

“Jungkook.”  Fuck, if the way Namjoon’s looking at him right now is any indication of what’s to come, he’s so fucked. “You know she’s in love with you, right?”

It’s out in the open, and he can’t believe Namjoon just said it, doesn’t know where he even got that idea, but he does know that it must be the truth. It has to be, because he would never suggest otherwise. And the notion should be earth-shattering, world-tilting, but it’s not. 

Maybe Jungkook knew this whole time. 

“No-No, she’s not—we’re not—”

But the more he ruminates on it, he realizes: you can’t be. You’ve never—there’s never been any indication—you’ve never said anything or done anything or—

In all the years he’s known you, you’ve never dated someone seriously. Like living together, talk of engagement. Sure, there were a few guys here and there in college, but nothing that stuck. Nothing that lasted more than a month or two. He’d always figured you were just picky, focused on your career, not interested in settling down.

Was there more to that? Jungkook’s heart jolts in his chest. 

Oh god. Oh fuck.

How long? How long have you been carrying this? Since you were kids? Since high school? College? How many years has he been obliviously parading girlfriends in front of you, kissing them under mistletoe, talking about his relationships, asking for your advice about girls who weren’t you?

His hands are shaking. He sets his beer down on the nearest surface before he drops it.

“I think, maybe, you’ve always known.” Namjoon’s voice sounds like it’s coming from far away. 

All those times he came back to you after dates that didn’t go well. All those nights you stayed up listening to him talk about his problems with whatever girl he was seeing. All those moments he chose you over them without even thinking about it because being with you was easy and comfortable and right in a way nothing else ever was.

He can never remember half of those girls’ names. Can’t remember what he saw in them or why he thought any of them were worth it. 

But he remembers every Christmas with you.

He remembers all of it. 

Jungkook looks up, searching for you in the crowd, and finds you emerging from the kitchen with Jisoo. 

Panic claws up his throat. “But she’s never said anything—like, we never—”

“If I were her, I wouldn’t say anything.” Namjoon shrugs. 

Jungkook feels like he can't breathe. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re just—you’re guessing—”

“I am assuming, but I know enough. Dahyun has me watching a ton of kdramas, so I know when someone’s pining.”

His credentials are questionable. 

“That's—” Jungkook runs a hand through his hair, tugging hard enough to hurt. “Fuck. Why wouldn’t she tell me?”

“Probably because you introduce her to new girlfriends everyday.” Namjoon’s words are blunt, but his expression is sympathetic. “Think about it. When has she ever had the space to tell you?”

Never. The answer is never. Because he’s always been with someone or getting over someone or talking about someone, and even when he wasn’t, he was busy treating your friendship like it was sacred. 

Jungkook was so busy protecting what you had that he never stopped to think about what you could be. 

“I didn’t know,” Jungkook admits weakly. 

“It’s fine. You do now.” Namjoon takes a massive gulp of his beer, placing the empty bottle on the nearby table. “By the way, why did you care so much if she hosted? Why did it matter if it was at her place? You knew Dahyun and I didn’t mind.”

Jungkook’s guilt wraps around him like a hug. He does feel guilty about lying, he truly does, but he doesn’t have a good answer. Namjoon’s place would have worked fine, baby or not. Jisoo’s apartment was an option despite Taehyung's dog allergy. They could have figured something out.

But he had told everyone secretly that you needed to host this year. 

For a long, long moment, Jungkook is silent. He pushes through the fear, the nerves, the voices in his head telling him otherwise. He tells Namjoon, “Because Christmas is ours.”

To no one’s surprise, Namjoon and Dahyun are the first to make their exit. Haewon is already fast asleep on her father’s shoulder, snoring peacefully. Then Jisoo leaves, who gives you a long, meaningful look and a whisper of “text me later” that you have no intention of following through on. Taehyung and Jennie linger for a little before they realize they have more pressing matters to attend to (read: their new vibrator they ordered).

You’re certain Jungkook slipped out sometime in the middle of the exodus. You don’t see him leave, but you hear the door close a final time and feel the absence of him.

Wonderful. You can clean up in peace and spend the rest of the night spiraling about Hana’s words, the talk you never had with Jungkook, and how quickly you’ll be able to move countries and change names.

You’re elbow-deep in soapy water, scrubbing at a wine glass aggressively, when you hear footsteps behind you.

What the fuck. Did you leave your door unlocked?

It’s definitely Taehyung. With a gulp, you crane your neck to see behind the doorway. 

And then you scream. 

You drop the glass into the sink, whirling around with your wet hands up like you’re going to fight off an intruder with dish soap.

Jungkook jumps, hands flying up in surrender. “Oh my god, sorry! Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry—”

“Fucking hell, Jungkook!” Your heart tries to escape from your body. “I thought you left!”

“I was in the bathroom.” His eyes are wide, looking genuinely distressed at having scared you. “I didn’t mean to—I thought you knew I was still here?”

Soap suds drip down your arms. He’s pressed against your bookshelf, trying to camouflage into your books. It’s ridiculous, but it’s so like you both that it makes you giggle. 

It’s a soft one, but he notices it and snorts in response. And then you two erupt into endless laughter, your heart soaring at the familiar sound of his timbre. His chest shakes with each laugh, and tears fall from your eyes.

But after a few seconds, the laughter finally fades, and you two stand there, sizing the other up. 

“What are you still doing here?” you ask, reaching for a dish towel to dry your hands. 

“I wanted to see if you were open to talking.”

You turn off the running water, pivoting to face him fully.

“I am.”

He takes a deep breath, swallowing thickly. Jungkook does this thing where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek when he’s struggling to find the right words. You’ve seen him do it countless times.

His tongue pokes the inside of his cheek.

“I’m sorry.” Jungkook says. “About the fight…about pushing you to host…and the, uh, the mistletoe thing.” He runs his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. I just—Christmas has always been our thing since we were kids. It was always ours, and I don’t know… I guess I didn’t want that to change.” 

With him, things are always stagnant. They’re stable, trustworthy, and you know they’ll always be there. You’re not sure where his childlike wonder went—all those times he would drag you to unknown places to explore, or made you try new foods even if you knew you’d hate it. 

But maybe you’re not worth the risk for him. 

“Me neither,” you agree quietly. 

You swivel back to face the sink, tears brimming your eyes. Reaching for another glass, you flick on the water, dousing your hands in soap. The water is frigid but you plunge your hands in anyway. 

“Hey,” comes Jungkook’s calm voice. 

You keep scrubbing. 

“Hey.”

His fingers wrap around your arm, and you let out a sigh. 

“That’s it? That’s all?” 

You can’t look at him. If you look at him, you’ll break. “What else do you want me to say? I forgive you? I do. Jungkook, this is stupid.”

“I don’t know. Something. Anything.” His hand lingers on your bare skin. “Don’t shut me out. We had one fight and for some reason, it feels like I’m losing you and I don’t—” He stops, takes a breath. “Talk to me.”

There’s so much you could say. You could tell him about the mistletoe tradition and how it’s haunted you. You could tell him about watching him fall in love over and over with people who aren’t you. You could tell him about Hana and the grocery store and how you haven’t been able to think about anything else since.

But most importantly, you could tell him the truth: you’ve been in love with him since you were a child, and every Christmas since you were 15 years old felt like getting stabbed repeatedly.

Jungkook’s eyes are red-rimmed, lips quivering. He’s still tethered to your arm, unable to let go as if you’ll disappear. You’re disgustingly terrified of this moment, not of losing him, but because he’s never even been yours to lose. Everything could change. You could say the words and watch your friendship shatter. You could tell the truth and have him look at you with pity, or worse, he’ll look at you and apologize, say he doesn’t feel the same towards you. 

What if what you need to move on isn’t to ignore it, but accept the rejection?

You can do that, you think. 

You swallow, “Jungkook—”

“Please,” he pleads, “I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s wrong.”

You finally turn to face him, and his hand slides down from your arm but doesn’t let go completely. His fingers catch yours, wet and soapy as they are, and hold on.

“I don’t even know where to begin,” you admit. 

“Start anywhere.” His thumb brushes against your knuckles, and you don’t even think he realizes he’s doing it. “Maybe… start with why you don’t like Christmas anymore.”

That’s the question, isn’t it? That’s the thread that, if pulled, will unravel everything.

“Do you… remember our mistletoe tradition?”

He furrows his brows. You had just reminisced on it a few days ago, but somehow it feels like a lifetime. “Of course.”

“Do you remember when it all started?”

He looks at you like you’re an apparition. “Yeah.”

“We were just kids… but you kissed my cheek and I thought it was the most magical thing in the world. We did it every year, every year until you finally kissed me on the lips.”

Jungkook inhales audibly, nods once, and squeezes your hands tighter. 

“It became my favorite day of the year,” you continue, and you sound out of breath. “It wasn’t because of the presents, or the food, or Santa. It was those three seconds under the mistletoe with you. I lived for it. Counted down the days to it. And when we were 15, you got your first girlfriend.”

Understanding starts to dawn on his face, and it’s almost worse than if he didn’t get it.

“You kissed her under the mistletoe that year.” You swallow back the sob that climbs up your throat. “I watched and I stood there and you gave her this real kiss, this romantic kiss, and I realized that all those years… they were just a game to you. A tradition.”

He opens his mouth, most likely to object, but you speak over him. 

“It just kept happening. There was always someone there, someone who wasn’t me. I smiled and pretended I was happy for you while I was watching you fall in love with people who… who…” Now or never, you think. “....who got to have what I wanted.”

Tears begin to blur your vision, muddling Jungkook’s features. 

“I’ve been in love with you for god knows how long, Jungkook. And every Christmas since I was 15 is just a constant, giant, unavoidable reminder that you don’t love me the way I love you.”

The tears are falling freely, hot and fast, painting your cheeks. 

“That’s why I didn’t want to host. That’s why I didn’t want the mistletoe. Because I can’t—” Your voice breaks. “I can’t watch you kiss someone else under it again. I can’t do it anymore. It’s killing me.”

You remove your hands from his, wiping furiously away at the wetness on your face. When you blink, you notice Jungkook’s also crying. Cheeks ruddy and chest heaving, lips trembling. “[Y/N]. I-I… how come you never said anything?”

“You’re my best friend, Koo.” You wrap your arms around yourself, self-soothing the ache that’s built in your chest. “If you don’t love me like that, I completely understand. I do. You’ve never given me any indication that you feel the same way and that’s okay, that’s fine, I’ll get over it eventually—”

Jungkook’s face falls, softening. “[Y/N]-”

“I don’t want to lose you. I can’t. You’re the most important person in my life and if telling you this means you’re going to look at me differently or feel weird around me or—”

“Stop.” he firmly says, and his hands come up to cup your face. His thumbs wipe at your tears and you know you look like a wreck, but he’s looking at you as though you were sent from the heavens above. “Just stop for a second.”

You hiccup, trying to catch your breath. 

“Can we stand in the doorway?” he asks. 

You deadpan. “What?” 

“The doorway,” he repeats like that’s supposed to clarify anything for you. He takes one of your hands in his, peeling you away from the counter. “Can we stand in the doorway?”

“I–what? Why?” 

You blindly follow him, like you always do. Let him lead you out of your kitchen. Your living room is a mess—empty glasses and crumpled napkins, remnants of your Christmas party.

Jungkook positions you in the doorway between your living room and hallway. His green sweater brings out his sparkling eyes, and your heart flutters in your chest. 

“Jungkook, can you just reject me quickly so we can move on—”

“Look up.” He smiles. 

With shaky breath, you crane your neck. 

Hanging from your doorway is a mistletoe. There’s a red ribbon tied around it, dangling back and forth to the tune of your oscillating fan. 

You snort out a snot bubble, but neither you nor him seem to care too much. “When did that even get there?”

“Well, I had to wait till the end of the night,” he remarks sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck that iss now flushed crimson. “I thought you might rip my dick off or something if I did it earlier.”

You sink your fingernails into your palms to keep yourself grounded, to keep yourself from leaping paces ahead. Behind your ribcage, your heart stumbles. 

He’s the first to laugh—it’s wet and graceless, body shaking in tandem. You’re laughing too, but also crying. 

Your heart soars like it’s trying to escape your chest and fly around the room. 

Jungkook settles down, and something softer crosses his expression. When he speaks next, his voice is steady, sure of himself. 

“You think I don’t feel the same way?” His voice breaks. “You think—Jesus Christ, [Y/N], you’re all I think about. You’re all I ever thought about.”

“Really?” you whisper, voice so feeble you think he can’t possibly have heard it. 

But he nods. 

“I wake up, and the first thing I do is check my phone to see if you’ve texted me. I go through my entire day remembering things to tell you later—stupid shit, important shit, all the stuff in between. When something good happens, you’re the first person I want to tell. When something bad happens, you'’re the only person I want to see.” He wipes a stray tear that’s made its way down his cheek. “You’re the first person I think of when I wake up and the last person I think of before I fall asleep, and most nights I dream about you too.”

“You…” you trail off, shake your head. There’s no words to describe how you feel, no proper sentence to show how your entire body feels like it’s on fire. 

“Let me say this because I should have said it years ago. A decade ago. I should have said it every single Christmas instead of being with people who weren’t you and pretending that was enough.”

Jungkook takes a step forward. His scent envelops you, makes you feel at home. Like you’re six years old again and anything is possible. 

“I kissed you under that mistletoe when we were kids because if anyone was going to be my first kiss, it was going to be you. I didn’t even really understand what kissing meant. But I knew I wanted it to be you.”

He lets out a breathy, quiet laugh. And it feels like you’re kids again, standing under the mistletoe, pulling into each other like magnets. 

“I kept doing it every year because—because those three seconds were mine. They were ours. It didn’t matter that I was too young to understand what it meant or why it made my stomach feel weird or why I’d think about it for weeks afterwards. I just knew that kissing you under the mistletoe was the best part of Christmas… the best part of my whole year.”

“You know, I was never able to understand why my relationships never seemed to work. Why no one ever wanted to stay with me for the long run. And it took me a long time, but I’ve got it all figured out now.” He has to stop to clear his throat, and it’s then, and only then, that you see the tears glistening in his eyes again. “I think… I think I’ve been looking for pieces of you in every girl I meet.”  

Your feet remain frozen to your floor. If you pinch yourself, you’ll wake up from this dream, and you want to live in it as long as life will allow. 

“I’d find a girl who had your hair color, or a similar sense of humor, or the way you scrunch your nose when you’re thinking, and I’d think ‘this is it, this is the one.’ But it never was, because they weren’t you,” he says. “I would be on dates, and think about what you’d say about the restaurant, or the movie, or the conversation. I could be kissing someone and wonder why it didn’t feel the way it felt when I kissed you when we were children.”

He takes another step, hardwood floor creaking beneath his weight. 

He’s so close you can almost taste his woodsy scent. 

“I’m a coward, [Y/N]. I kept dating people, kept trying to make it work with someone else, because I thought if I could just find the right person, I’d stop being in love with you.”

“Koo,” is all you can manage.

“But there is no right person for me. There’s just you, there’s only ever been you. You’re not a piece of the puzzle, [Y/N]. You are the whole fucking puzzle. Every piece, every corner, every goddamn edge. And I’ve been trying to force other pieces to fit for years, but they don’t. They can’t.” His tears are moving faster than he can stop them, and he lets them pour out of his eyes onto his sweater. 

“The only reason I stopped kissing you under the mistletoe was because I was falling in love with you.” He’s grinning through his tears. The kind of grin you’ve been the only person to extract out of him. “I was a stupid kid who was falling in love with their best friend and the first thought I had was: what if you didn’t feel the same way? What if I told you and you laughed in my face? And I know I’m stupid, but I stopped because I needed to tell myself I was over it, that it was a phase, that we were just friends.”

Jungkook takes one final step forward until you’re practically nose-to-nose. 

His voice is no higher than a whisper. “I never got over it, though. I never stopped loving you.”

Your head is spinning. Jeon Jungkook. Your best friend, your platonic soulmate, your everything…

“You… you love me?”

“I love you so fucking much,” he confirms. “I love the way you sing off-key during all our car rides together, and the way you cry during commercials with pets. The way you remember everyone’s birthdays, even if they don’t remember yours. I love how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating and how you chew your lip when you’re nervous. I love your terrible jokes and your beautiful laugh and how magical everything suddenly feels when you’re around.”

Inevitably, you’re sobbing too. Not in a pretty way, but you don’t think it matters anymore. Nothing matters but this. 

“I love that I was lucky enough to be born the same day as you, that the universe knew before we knew that there was no me without you. I love that I know everything about you—your favorite color, your biggest fears, how you like your tea. I love that you know me better than anyone else in the world.” 

His hands go to cup your face. “So, yeah, I do love you. And I know I wasted time, but I am telling you now with utmost certainty. If you'll let me, I want to make up for all the time I wasted being too scared to love you the way you deserve.”

Your hands come up to cover his, pressing them harder against your face. 

“I want you to be mine and I want to be yours, in every way possible, [Y/N].”

And you really, really need to stop crying, but it’s impossible. They well up, like all those emotions you’ve been mashing down for decades, ballooning into something too large for your body to handle. 

“Those are happy tears… right?” he chuckles. 

“Yes,” you sob. God, he’s never going to let you live this down. “I love you. I love you so much—”

“I love you too.” He kisses your forehead, cheeks, the tip of your nose. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I'm going to make sure you never doubt that again.”

You laugh, a watery bubbling sound. 

You look up at the mistletoe hanging between you two. It’s a small piece of plastic and ribbon, but somehow it represents years of longing and heartbreak and fear that just needed time to blossom into something ethereal.

“You still remember the tradition?” Jungkook tucks a stand of hair behind your ear. 

You couldn’t forget even if you tried. “When you’re under the mistletoe…”

“You must kiss the person you’re with,” he finishes. 

His thumbs linger over your cheekbones, gazing into your eyes. They’re still the same from when he was little. Wide-eyed, full of childlike wonder and innocence. His pupils are blown. 

“Can I kiss you?” 

You stupidly smile. You nod just as he gets the last syllable out. Nodding so hard and so frantically it’s almost manic, tears streaming down your face, your hands coming up to grip the collar of his green sweater—that goddamn green sweater the color of mistletoe.

“Yes,” you breathe, “Yes, please, yes—”

He kisses you. 

And oh.

Oh. 

You hold your breath, counting the seconds in your head. It’s longer than three seconds and two milliseconds. 

Your knees buckle under the weight of his kiss, with his hands cradling your face gently. Your fingers twist tighter in his collar, pulling him closer, closer, never close enough.

The salt of both your tears mixes on your lips, can feel the way his breath stumbles against your mouth. One of his hands slides into your hair, angling your head just so, and you make a sound you didn’t know you were capable of making. You’re pliable in his arms. 

His tongue outlines your bottom lip, and you grant him access immediately, needing to feel more of him, any part you can grasp to know this is real. You’re both still crying—you can feel fresh tears sliding down your cheeks—but you’re also smiling, laughing into the kiss like idiots because this is insane.

Jungkook’s tattooed hands slide down to your waist, pulling you close to him until there’s not an inch to spare between your bodies. Your apartment, the mess of cups and plates scattered around, the snazzy Christmas decorations you’ll throw away tomorrow—it all fades away until there’s just this. Just him.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your mouth, and then he’s kissing you again before you can say it back. “Love you so much, I’m a fucking loser, I—”

“Shut up,” you giggle. “Shut up and kiss me.”

You don’t know how long you stand there, kissing under the mistletoe like teenagers who just discovered what kissing is. It could be seconds or hours—time feels irrelevant when his mouth is on yours, when his hands are holding you.

At some point, you know it’s not enough. You want more. 

Finally, you think to yourself. 

You’ve never wanted someone this bad. Never craved someone’s brain, heart, and soul like this. 

He’s possibly thinking the same thing as you, and if the way he holds you is any indication, you’re the luckiest girl in the world. His hands travel over your waist, until they reach your thighs. In one smooth motion, he picks you up, and your legs wrap around his waist instinctively.

Jungkook is stronger than you though, even though you know he goes to the gym everyday, even though you’ve watched him rearrange the furniture in your apartment on a random Tuesday after work. But feeling him hold you up effortlessly while kissing… your panties might drop before you even reach the bedroom. 

You kiss him as he tries to navigate with his eyes closed, stumbling slightly down the hallway, both of you giggling between kisses like drunk teenagers. He nearly crashes into the wall, overcorrecting and spinning you both around.

“Smooth operator, hm?” you tease. 

“Shut up,” he mumbles. “I swear to god you switched where your bedroom was.” And then he’s kissing you again, and you forget about his horrible navigation skills. 

Miraculously, you make it to your bedroom. Lays you down on your bed, following you down until he’s hovering over you, weight balanced on his forearms on either side of your head. The lamp on your nightstand casts soft shadows across his features. He chews his lip anxiously. 

“Do you, um—” He stops, tries again. “Do you wanna maybe—”

You can’t help but giggle. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth when you see the way his face falls. “Koo. I know you’re not a virgin.”

“Oh my god.” He drops his forehead to your neck with a groan, and his face is burning hot against your skin. “I know. I know I’m not. But it’s you, it’s so different. I’m nervous.”

Jungkook is experienced—far more than you, that’s for certain. You were never bothered by the difference. You had lost your virginity solely as a means to an end, to just say you did the damn thing so you weren’t a complete and total loser. But Jungkook has plenty of notches on his belt, and your heart melts at the thought of you being the one to dismantle him completely. 

You slide your fingers into his hair, tugging until he lifts his head to look at you. His eyes are dark and vulnerable, full of love it makes you want to cry all over again.

“Hey. It’s just me, Koo.”

“Well, that’s kinda the problem,” he gruffs, playing with the necklace around your neck. “It is you. It matters a lot.”

“It matters to me too,” you rush to agree, cup his face with both hands, thumbs brushing over his scarlet cheeks. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. We can just—we can just lie here. We can talk. We can—”

He kisses you, cutting off your rambling. Slower, assured. “I want to. I really, really want to. I just… I want it to be good for you.”

Your fingers trace the constellation of moles on his face, and there’s just so much of him you want to uncover, so much golden skin and muscle. “It will be.”

This time, when his lips meet yours, he relaxes into it, earlier nervousness melting away. Your hands slide up under his sweater, feeling the bare skin, the sculpted abdomen you’ve sparingly seen. Your fingers find the hair at the nape of his neck, playing with the soft strands there, and he makes a sound—half-sigh, half-groan—that strikes straight through you. His hips shift slightly, pressing against yours, and now it’s your turn to gasp into his mouth.

“Still nervous?” you mutter. 

“A little,” he says through a moan as you roll your hips to press against his growing length. “What if you think I-I’m, fuck, bad in bed?”

“You won’t be.” You kiss down his sharp jawline, down the vein that protrudes from the side of his neck. 

“You don’t know that. I could be really bad at this.”

You laugh, tugging him closer, wrapping your legs around his waist. “Jungkook, you’re not going to be bad at sex.”

He nuzzles into your neck, inhaling the scent of gingerbread cookies that still lingers on you even after hours of burning them. “But what if I am?”

“Koo. I love you. I wouldn’t care even if your dick was 2 inches.”

He lifts his head from your neck. “Okay, don’t push it.”

Jungkook kisses you, warm tongue swiping against your bottom lip. His calloused hands slide up your red sweater, feeling the black lace bra underneath. His breath stutters at the realization, fondling your breasts in the way he’s always dreamed of. 

Messily, hungrily, your sweater comes off first, then his, a tangle of fabric and laughter as he fumbles with the back of your bra. Jungkook apologizes against your lips, but you don’t care in the slightest, just want more and more and more. He flings your bra across your bedroom, greedily taking your nipple into his mouth, sucking the hardened nub. And you’re so wet, can feel it pooling in your panties, soaking through the fabric. Every roll of his hips, every flick of his tongue sends shocks of lightning through you. 

“So fucking pretty,” Jungkook groans, readjusting your body higher on the bed until your head reaches the pillow. He unclasps your legs from around his waist, making room for himself to wiggle down in between them.

You can’t stop the familiar swell of nerves racing through your body, even as he kisses down the valley of your breasts, down to your stomach, past your navel. His lips hover over the button of your jeans, delicately undoing. Taking his time as though not to miss a single moment. 

You weirdly get the urge to cover yourself, to hide under the strength of his burning gaze. What if he compares me to all the other girls? you think. What if I’m not as beautiful as Sana or Eunji or Hana?

And then Jungkook says, “You’re so beautiful, baby. Most beautiful girl I’ve ever known.”

Tears threaten to appear again. 

He tugs your jeans off, his hair tickling your inner thigh as he goes. His lips follow, pressing chaste kisses along your naked skin. The mattress dips as he adjusts himself, wraps his arms around your thighs and tugs your clothed, soaking cunt to his face. You gasp, your walls clenching around nothing. “Relax, baby,” Jungkook bites your inner thigh, soothing it with his tongue. “Gonna take care of you.”

“Please,” you beg, and you don’t even know what you’re begging for, but when you meet his eyes you know exactly what. More of him, more of his mouth, his tongue, his lips. 

He pushes your panties to the side, and without preamble, you’re spreading your legs further.

Immediately, Jungkook’s eyes go to what lies between them. 

“So wet, baby,” He lets his pointer finger gather your arousal. “You always get this wet for your best friend?”

You gasp, eyes trained on his. His voice has gone husky, eyes hooded and dark. He presses into your sensitive nub, and you jolt forward, hands tightly gripping the sheets underneath. “Answer me.”

“Y-yes, Koo. Always wet for you, just for you.”

That seems to be enough for him. He leans forward, dragging your underwear down your legs until they’re no longer his concern, and then his mouth is on you. 

“Fuck!” You practically scream, body lurching forward, humming violently underneath him. It’s been a while—maybe more than a while, possibly years—since you’ve had someone willingly eat you out, and by the way Jungkook does so, he seems enthralled to get a chance to enjoy the taste of you. His tongue strokes through your folds, wet and wide, working its own rhythm that has you withering underneath his grasp. His hands press into your hip bones, stabilizing your movements. He buries his whole face in it, lets himself soak up every last bit of arousal you’ve produced. Two minutes of this and you’ll be a goner, but you don’t want this to end, not now, not ever. 

“Tastes so sweet, baby,” Jungkook moans into your wetness, licking a long stripe from your hole up to your clit. “Been hiding this from me, hm?”

“I-It’s yours, Koo. Always has been,” You squeeze your eyes as tight as you can, stars blooming in your vision. He taps your thigh, and you know he wants you to look at him, but you can hardly breathe or think or speak. 

He wraps his lips around your clit and sucks, and your fingers fly to his unkempt hair, tugging and pulling until you’re certain it’ll come off his scalp. Without warning, he pushes one finger into you, testing you. He watches as you keen, profanities falling off your lips. Jungkook’s finger crooks into you at an angle you thought only you could reach, and you’re putty in his unrelenting hands. “Fuck—oh my god, yes, right there Koo, oh, yes—”

“Feel good, baby?” He gathers his saliva, spitting onto your clit and letting it drip down to his fingers, a second digit entering you. “Talk to me.”

He’s gentle about it, tentative, as though he’s trying to learn you, teach himself the new side of you he’s unlocked. 

“M-more,” you keen. “Faster, please.”

And he’s so willing, so ready. It’s so wet, unlike anything that happens when you touch yourself. His tongue and fingers fuck you through it, squelching sounds echoing against the thin walls of your bedroom, sweat slicking down the valley of your breasts. You feel your walls clench around him once, twice, and your legs tremble in his hold. You can feel it dripping down your inner thigh, onto your sheets, onto his chin. 

“So tight around my fingers,” he groans, and you watch as his other hand travels down to his belt buckle, furiously trying to undo it. “So hard just thinking about bein’ inside you.”

“I-I want that,” you reply breathlessly. “I want you inside me.”

“Fuck,” he grunts, working his nimble fingers quicker, tongue vacuum-sealed around your clit, milking you entirely. “I want to feel you cum for me. I want to taste it.”

You nod, bunching your bedsheets into little fists of agony. When you look up, you can see Jungkook’s hair spread across your lower stomach, tattooed biceps straining. His free hand strokes his cock, and a swarm of butterflies release in your stomach at the sight. You’ve made him so desperate that he has to touch himself. You have. 

And the sight is just too much for you to handle. “Aghh–Koo, fuck, I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum.”

He doesn’t say anything, just lets his tongue continue at the same pressure, same speed, until you’re coming undone all over him. You feel it everywhere, in your chest, in your core, in your toes. You arch off your mattress, legs quivering and locking around his head. It feels like time is a myth, Jungkook fucking you through your orgasm until you almost collapse. 

You tap him on the head with your foot, falling back onto your pillows tiredly. 

Jungkook peers up at you, still the same wide-eyed expression on his face, except this time, your arousal is glistening on his face, scarlet lips swollen and wet. He presses a few kisses on your thighs, stomach, before dragging himself up on his biceps to hover you. He kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you can’t help but moan into his mouth. It’s so dirty, so scandalous, sends a shock through your spine. 

“I want you to fuck me,” you whisper between kisses. 

His cheeks turn red. 

“M-me too. I want to be inside you,” he stutters, kissing down your neck. “But I might need a second.”

You furrow your brows, suddenly self-conscious. “Why?” 

He kisses your jaw, avoiding eye contact. “BecauseIcamealready.”

“What, Koo?”

Jungkook sighs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder. “Because I came already.”

Oh. 

Your heart won’t be able to handle this much affection tonight. You just know it. 

You giggle, unable to hide the smile on your lips. 

“Stop,” he groaned into your neck. “Don’t laugh, I’m humiliated.”

“No, I’m not—” you laugh, “I’m not laughing at you. You’re so cute, Koo. I love you.”

He grins toothily. “I love you too.”

And then you laugh again, and he laughs with you, and it feels like your heart is blooming, petals unfurling in your chest. 

You wrap your arms around his neck, tugging him to you as close as humanly possible. You kiss him and try to make him understand—through the press of your lips, the desperate grip of your hands—just how completely he owns every part of you. 

You use your weight to roll him over, straddling his buff thighs, letting your soaked cunt linger over his growing length. 

“Hi,” he smiles big and wide, peering up at you like you hold the entire universe in your palms.

“Hi,” you repeat, kissing his cheeks, forehead, jawline. 

Behind you, you reach to grab his length in your hands, trace the veins that protrude. His mouth gapes open, watching as you realize… holy fuck. 

You’ve always been respectful of Jungkook’s boundaries. Never once peeped on him or seen him in his boxers. The farthest you ever got was a pair of grey sweatpants, and even then, it didn’t reveal much. There was no way to prepare yourself for this moment.

But as you stroke his cock languidly, you realise one thing for certain: that is not going to fucking fit inside you.

You don’t even need to vocalize it, because he’s already saying, “We’ll work with what we can. But I think you can take it, baby.”

Gulping, you nod. You want to take it. Want to feel every inch inside of your gummy walls, want to hear him wither underneath you. 

He’s hard again too, you note. You could cry, knowing just how bad he wants this. Wants you. 

You align his tip to your sopping hole, jaw slack as you gather the juices to hopefully make it easier. And then you’re sinking onto him, inch by inch, curses falling from his lips, hands gripping your hips tight enough to bruise. “O-oh fuck, Koo.”

“Keep going, baby,” he moans, guiding you onto him until your clit meets his pubic bone. “Just like that, all the way.”

A sound rips free from the very core of you, both hands landing on his stomach to steady yourself. For a moment, you just sit there, trying to accommodate his length inside you. Feels so painfully good, stings just right. 

“You okay?” He reaches to brush a strand of wet hair from your face. 

“Yeah,” you exhale, rocking your hips gently, back and forth, figure-eights. You can feel him in your stomach, can see the bulge protruding from your body. His eyes lock onto it, bottom lip tucked behind his front teeth. “Feel so full, Koo. It’s so deep.”

“Fuck, baby.” His fingers dig deeper into your hips, directing your movements. A swell of confidence runs through you, and you brace yourself, lifting yourself off his cock to slam back down on it. He all but screams, thighs quaking beneath your weight.

“You’re a fucking goddess,” he moans, head lolling back against the pillow. “I love you so much, my sweet girl, my best girl, fuck.”

“I love you too, Koo.” Your fingernails scrape down his chest, leaving red marks in your wake. 

You can see his abdomen muscles rippling with effort as he tries not to come undone too fast, jaw clenched tightly. His tattoos are slick with sweat. 

Your orgasm sneaks up onto you, but you don’t want it to end, don’t want to know the feeling of separation from him. Falling forward, you bury your face into his neck, and he wraps his arms around you, fucking up into you. 

His cock hits just where you need him, and your moans bounce off the walls, your headboard creaking with each thrust he makes to meet your movements. “I-I’m so close, Koo,” you moan.

“Me too, baby,” he says. His cock plunges greedily into your wetness, and you whimper. “I love you so so much, can’t live without you.”

You can’t help the tears that stream down your face. It’s too much—not just the sex, but that it’s sex with him. Jeon Jungkook, your best friend since birth, since before you knew anything else. You love him so much you don’t know how your heart will contain all this. It might burst any second. 

He feels the tears on his skin, and he’s slowing his thrusts, whispering, “Are you okay, baby? Did I go too fast? Want me to—”

“No, no. I want you to keep going.” You look into his eyes, and his expression softens. “I just—I love you. I can’t believe this is real.”

He kisses you, barely more than your mouths slotting together, and then his thrusts continue, more desperate and sloppy but still full of the same devotion. “I love you,” he murmurs into your mouth. “I-I know I’ve said it so many times tonight, but I love you so fucking much.”

Your warm, wet heat clenches around him. Little moans and whimpers escape you, teetering on the brink of another orgasm. “I know,” he gasps, and he’s crying now too, his whole body shaking. “I know, baby. Me too. I’ve got you.”

You stop moving completely, letting him take over, and the sounds are filthy, but the love that runs between you both is anything but. “My baby. Mine, you’re mine,” His teeth sinks into your shoulder as he thrusts up into you, wetness dripping onto his cock and the sheets below. His hands cup your ass, slamming you up and down his girth.

“Yours,” you cry, clutching him. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his face is soaked with tears, eyes red and swollen and so full of love it physically hurts to witness. “I’m never letting you go,” he says, crying so hard he can barely get the words out.

“Me too,” you promise, “I’m not going anywhere. I’m right here.”

“Shit, I’m gonna cum, [Y/N], I can’t—”

Your fingernails dig into his biceps, mouth ripping open to moan out his name along with i love you i love you jungkook please please, and you feel him release inside you, spurts of his cum painting your walls as you tighten around him. You milk him dry until he can’t take it anymore, until you feel so full you think your DNA has been adjusted to match his. 

You all but collapse onto him, staying like that with your hearts thrashing against your ribs, reaching for each other through flesh and bone.

You want to stay here. Right here, in this specific moment, where his arm is around you and his breathing is shallow and you feel like you’re at home.

It’s a ridiculous thought. Childish, even.

You’ll have to get up soon—your bladder is already making demands, and reality is waiting just outside this bed. But not yet. You’re not ready yet.

Jungkook sighs into your hair. “I don’t wanna move.”

“Me either.”

“Do you… do you want this with me?” His chest rumbles with the question. 

“What do you mean?”

“I just… this meant something to you, right? The fact that we had sex?”

“Of course it did.”

You prop yourself onto your shoulders, brushing the hair out of his eyes. They twinkle and glow underneath your low light. He gulps before speaking, “I want us to be together. Or, at least try. I want us to take the risk because you’re worth every goddamn risk.”

Every birthday candle since you were a child was dedicated to him. Every shooting star, every 11:11 on the clock, every stray eyelash, every penny thrown into a fountain. You wished for this—for him—so many times you lost count. Wished for him to look at you the way he’s looking at you now, like you hung the moon and painted the stars.

You almost want to pinch yourself. But his hand is warm on your waist, heartbeat steady under your palm, and when you dig your nails slightly into your thigh, you don’t wake up to your blaring alarm. This isn’t a dream.

“I want that too. I want to wake up next to you and fight about whose turn it is to do the dishes and learn all your weird habits I don’t know yet.”

“[Y/N],” He cups your face in his hands. “You literally know all my weird habits. Even the fact that I collect Captain Underpants original copies." 

“Well yeah but I want to learn the new ones,” you shrug. 

He chuckles. “I can’t wait.”

Jungkook kisses you again. When he pulls back, he’s smiling that bunny smile that’s been your undoing since childhood. “Your party tonight was awesome, by the way.”

“It was all you.”

He smiles. “We’re really doing this.”

You know he’s not talking about Christmas anymore. 

You laugh, resting your forehead against his. “Having second thoughts already?”

“Not even a little.” He pauses, then his eyes go wide. “Oh my god. Your Christmas gift!”

He shoots up, still naked, peppering your face with a hundred tiny kisses. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin, eyelids, everywhere he can reach while you dissolve into giggles.

“Koo, what—”

But he’s already scrambling off the bed, running to where his bag is discarded by your front door. You hear his feet padding against your floor as he runs back, jumping onto the bed with enough force to make you bounce. He’s grinning so wide it must hurt, holding something behind his back.

“Close your eyes,” he demands. 

“Jungkook—”

“Close them,” he whines.

You do as he says, and you feel the bed shift as he settles in front of you, feel his warmth as he leans close.

“Okay,” he softly says. “Open.”

Timidly, you open them. 

He’s holding a teddy bear. Your teddy bear. The one he kept in a box with your name on it.

It’s exactly as you remember—worn brown fur, one ear more floppy than the other, the tiny red bow around its neck that you’d tied when you were 7. He even kept it clean, maintained.

“Oh my god,” you exhale. Tears form in your eyes until they’re streaming down your face as you stare at this piece of your childhood, this tangible proof that he’s been carrying you with him all along.

His face falls. “Oh crap, do you not like it? I thought—I mean, I kept it because I thought maybe one day I could give it back to you, but if it’s weird or—”

“No, no.” Shaking your head frantically, you reach for the bear with trembling hands. “I love it. I fucking love it, Jungkook.”

His smile returns, like’s 6 years old again and just kissed you for the first time under the mistletoe.

Jungkook nuzzles into your neck, and you both burrow under your comforter, teddy bear clutched between you. His arms wrap around you from behind, pulling you flush against his chest, and you’ve never felt safer. Never felt more loved. 

It’s quiet for what feels like eternity. His breath syncs with yours, fingers tracing illegible patterns on your hip. 

“What was in that box in your closet, by the way?” you quietly wonder aloud as you stroke the bear’s fur. 

He pauses. Goes completely still.

“You saw that?”

“It has my name on it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and then he presses a kiss to your shoulder.

“Everything I love about you. That’s what’s in there.” 

You hug him (and the bear) tighter to you. 

After about an hour or so of intertwined limbs and lazy kisses, his breathing begins to slow, face buried in your hair. Sleep always comes easy when he’s around, and your eyes hang heavily. 

“Can we watch the Grinch tomorrow?” The words come out slurred with exhaustion.

In the darkness, you smile, tangling your fingers with his over your stomach. 

You’d curled up with that green, bitter creature every year, finding solace in his hatred of the holiday because at least someone understood. At least someone else knew what it felt like to watch everyone around you celebrate something that only brought you pain. You’d watch him scheme and plot and try desperately to steal Christmas away, and you’d think yes, exactly, take it all. Because if you couldn't have the Christmas you wanted, the one where Jungkook kissed you under the mistletoe and meant it, then what was the point of any of it? 

The Grinch was safe. The Grinch was yours. The Grinch never asked you to be anything other than bitter and broken and sick of watching other people get their happy endings.

But that girl who needed the Grinch, she’s gone. She got her happy ending, her Christmas miracle. 

Plus, the Grinch is overrated. 

“Actually,” you whisper, “I’m thinking we watch Frosty the Snowman.”

Gentle reminder that all rights are reserved, so please do not copy, translate or repost my stories. Also I do not own BTS or their actions, the stories are entirely fictionnal and does not depict real-life events or involve any actual member of BTS.

DECEMBER 13.

You did it. You finally did it.

Right up until the very last second, you thought they were going to stop you, grab you and send you back there —but the doors finally slid shut behind you, and you’re safe.

You did it. Now all you have left to do is—

“Miss Lee! Wait!”

Damn it. Pretending not to hear the voice calling after you again and again, you keep walking, your stride firm, your handbag clutched tightly against your side.

No way you’re sticking around. Everything’s already planned: your taxi is waiting outside, and if all went well, your suitcase is already—

“Miss Lee, please !”

A hand suddenly clamps down on your shoulder, yanking you backward so hard you almost land flat on your ass. You spin around, stunned —a small cry of pain slipping out before you can stop it— but it dies instantly when you come face to face with a giant. Literally.

A man nearly twice your size, both tall and wide, dressed head to toe in black, looms over you. Beside him, a small woman with thick glasses hurries up, completely out of breath.

“I’m very sorry, Miss Lee, but your father was quite insistent. You’ll have to get back on the plane.”

She looks genuinely apologetic —which does absolutely nothing to soften your irritation. You had made it, damn it. Why does your Dad always have to ruin everything?

“First of all —ouch,” You snap, glaring at the security guard as you swat his hand off your aching shoulder. “And second of all, no thank you. Kindly pass along my regards to my father.”

Your words crack sharply through the air, but you don’t wait to see how they react. You’re a little ashamed to admit it, but you bolt. For a split second, you even consider running —if you remember the airport layout correctly, you should be able to reach the exit pretty fast.

The idea dies almost immediately.

You’ve barely taken five steps before several guards converge on you, clearly alerted by the brute who grabbed you earlier. It doesn’t take long to realize you’re surrounded. An exit would be nice right about now.

You don’t get the chance to find one.

You’ve barely stopped —panic rising as you take in all these guards who very clearly do not want to welcome you— when the same colossus grabs your forearm this time.

“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

You react without thinking.

“Don’t touch me,” You growl, teeth clenched as you shove his hand away. You can already hear your Dad telling you this is for your own good. What a funny way to show concern.

“I’m sorry, Miss Lee. These are your father’s orders,” the woman with the glasses mutters, cheeks flushed from running.

You clench your jaw even tighter.

When you were little, your Mom always said that during the holidays, everyone should behave properly —because it’s the Christmas spirit, after all.

Let’s just say the holidays start tomorrow.

“Oh yeah?” You shoot back, blowing a strand of hair out of your face. “Well, you can shove my father’s orders where the sun doesn’t shine.”

Saturdays are usually quiet.

When he arrived, they told him that with the end-of-year holidays approaching, crowds were pouring in and airports were often completely overwhelmed.

Apparently, the small town of Sarton is an exception.

Not that he would’ve been drowning in work either way —his job is to hand out flyers to people exiting the airport. Not the hardest thing out there.

Still, if there had been more people around, Jungkook might not have noticed what happened.

Then again… even buried under a swarm of tourists hunting for Christmas activity pamphlets, he wouldn’t have missed this. It’s that simple.

One second, the main hall is nearly empty —quieter than ever. The next, screams echo through the space, and smoke pours out of the main corridor —the one leading to the boarding gates.

It takes him a few seconds —people rushing past him, coughing, security agents sprinting in panic— to realize it isn’t smoke.

It’s gas.

Gas billowing from a fire extinguisher clutched tightly in the arms of a young woman. She walks with determined strides, completely unfazed by the chaos, heading straight for the exit while aiming the hose and spraying anyone foolish enough to get close.

“Miss Lee, please!”

One voice rings out louder than the others, and Jungkook frowns, confused. Miss Lee? Why does that name sound familiar?

He doesn’t have time to think. In the blink of an eye, she’s only a few meters away. The extinguisher sputters —empty— and she drops it to the floor without a second thought, utterly indifferent to the dozens of people trapped in the haze behind her, coughing and shouting.

Up close, Jungkook can finally see her face —her shining hair, the elegant long coat she’s wearing, the gold watch at her wrist.

His breath catches. It really is you.

You notice him as you pass, your gaze settling more on the flyers in his hands than on him himself. Guards try to approach, waving their arms to clear the gas, but you barely spare them a glance, instead plucking one of the pamphlets from his stack and skimming it.

When you look up at him, Jungkook can’t miss the crooked smile —or the mischievous sparkle in your eyes. “They’re probably going to ask if you saw me,” you say, biting your lip to keep from grinning too widely as you wave the flyer lightly. “Tell them I violently threatened you before stealing this. I’d hate for you to lose your job over something so trivial.”

Then, without a backward glance, you walk away and push open the heavy door, a rush of cold air flooding the hall.

“And Merry Christmas!” you call cheerfully, handbag swinging from your arm, blowing a kiss toward the guards before vanishing into the dark night, gone in less than a second as the door slams shut behind you.

Jungkook remains frozen, too stunned to move, as silence slowly settles back in. The guards return to their posts, but the woman with the glasses stays behind, ranting breathlessly about how Mr. Lee is really not going to be happy.

Jungkook, meanwhile, can’t get over it —his eyes still locked on the door where you disappeared. For him, it’s simply unbelievable.

A fire extinguisher. Seriously.

How the hell did you manage to become even crazier than before?

DECEMBER 14

Mom isn’t coming.

That’s the bitter truth you’ve finally had to accept after a long string of messages —she isn’t coming.

And you’d already been so excited. The house decorations, gingerbread men, movie nights wrapped in a blanket. All of it —gone.

All that effort, for nothing.

You wish you could be angry —part of you is— but mostly, you’re just sad. In part because you’d been so proud of myself: your coming here was meant to be a Christmas surprise. A way to keep your traditions alive, like every year, despite all the changes.

But there’s no point in traditions if you’re the only one left to carry them.

You’ve never been so happy to be back in your childhood home —its scent, the decorations, everything brings you straight back to your younger years. And yet, you hate how sad you feel now that you’re finally here, after pulling off a plan you’ve been preparing for months.

More than anything, it makes you angry that they managed to make you sad. Again. And especially at this time of year.

Mom — 9:17 a.m. Please don’t be too hard on your father. It’s the holidays, after all.

The message warms your heart just as much as it hurts.

Your sweet mom is thoughtful enough not to want to upset your Dad —but not quite thoughtful enough to notice how much this whole situation hurts you. She didn’t even react when you told her you’d arrived.

You sigh, grumbling under your breath, head in your hands. Then suddenly, you straighten up.

Enough.

With renewed determination, you grab the little flyer you left on the table last night and get moving, pulling on your coat and boots in record time. According to the paper, all volunteers are welcome —and Christmas market setup starts this morning.

You have nothing special to do, since your Mom isn’t here. And one thing’s for sure: nobody is ruining your December.

And if your Dad isn’t happy about it —well, too bad for him.

The town square looks exactly like you remember.

Red cobblestones dusted with a thin layer of snow, the same snow resting on the rooftops of the small shops lining the square. In the center stands a massive Christmas tree —almost tall enough to rival the Rockefeller Center one— still bare for now.

Around it, about a dozen people in coats and thick hats bustle about, stacking boxes at the tree’s base and pulling out what very clearly looks like garlands. Farther away, small groups are already hanging glittering stars from the lampposts.

You pull your nose out of your scarf and take a deep breath. No matter where life takes you, you still love the feeling of Christmas.

You’ve barely stepped onto the square when an elderly man greets you, handing you the same flyer you picked up at the airport yesterday and cheerfully explaining all the preparations underway.

Every year, ever since you were little, the town organizes public events throughout the entire Christmas season —which probably explains a lot about your love for it.

You don’t have to insist much before he accepts your help —that’s why you came, after all— but he still insists on giving you a full tour of the square, explaining everything in detail.

You listen with a small smile, attentive —at least until your gaze drifts to a man standing off to the side, struggling to untangle a long string of lights.

He doesn’t look very old —about your age— and even though you can’t see his face from here, you suddenly get the unmistakable feeling that you know him.

When the old man finally leaves you with a last warm smile, you instinctively head toward the stranger, smiling at people you pass —many of them familiar faces from your childhood.

When you reach him, his back is to you, too focused on the endless knot in the garland to notice you. “Isn’t it a little late to decorate the tree? It’s already the 14th —I thought this would’ve been done earlier.”

“You could’ve done it yourself if you’re not happy about it,” he mutters irritably, clearly assuming you’re one of his coworkers.

He turns toward you —and freezes when he realizes you’re not. And you freeze too. Only for a very different reason.

Messy dark strands escape from beneath his gray beanie, framing two large black eyes that widen in surprise.

Those eyes —you’d recognize them anywhere.

“Just leave me alone already!”

“Come on! You know I’m too short to hang the star —I need you to carry me on your shoulders!” You whine, tugging at him with all your might.

He resists —already much stronger than you at eight years old. “Why should I do that, anyway?”

You stare at him, incredulous. “It’s the school tree, Kookie! It needs a star!”

He frowns, cheeks puffing slightly as a pout forms. “You’re annoying,” he mutters —before giving in and following you anyway. Just like every year.

“Jungkook ? Jeon Jungkook ?! Is that you?”

In front of you, the neighbor’s kid —your childhood partner in crime, even if he rarely agreed to your antics— immediately darkens, cheeks flushed from the cold.

“So it really was you yesterday. Damn it.”

“Wow, you grew, like, fifty centimeters since the last time I saw you!” You blurt out, completely ignoring him. “And are those muscles I see, Kookie?”

Anticipating your move, he dodges before you can pinch his arm like you used to, jaw clenched. “Stop calling me that,” he grumbles.

You roll your eyes, unable to hide your smile. “Grump.”

It’s like you’re not even there anymore as Jungkook pointedly ignores you and goes back to his garland. He’s always been good at that —blocking out anything he deems unimportant.

Which often meant you. But hey, the boy’s always had focus issues. You can’t blame him for not concentrating on you, as perfect as you are.

Anyway.

“I didn’t know you still lived here!” You exclaim, just as undeterred as you were as a kid. If he doesn’t want to listen, he’ll at least have to hear you. “Are the others still around?” you ask, smiling as you remember his high school friend group.

You both barely talked back then, but you always kept an eye on each other from afar. Even if Jungkook would rather die than admit it.

“No,” he mutters, eyes fixed on the lights. “And you? Weren’t you studying to become a lawyer?”

You suddenly feel a strong urge to look away, your hands twitching in your pockets. Six years ago, you waited only until graduation before buying a plane ticket and getting out of here. You needed air —away from your parents who couldn’t stand each other anymore, away from all the pressure they put on you. You left without telling anyone.

At the time, it felt like the only right option. But you hated yourself for it —because you’d basically abandoned everyone you knew. Jungkook doesn’t need to know any of that, though.

You snatch the garland from his hands, eyes locked on it as you automatically undo the knot he’s been stuck on for minutes. “Vacationing at my mom’s. Didn’t know you worked for the city.”

If he notices the sudden change of subject, he doesn’t say anything.

“Because I don’t,” he replies curtly —just like when you were kids. “I work at the fine dining restaurant on Main Street. In the kitchen.”

“That’s awesome!” You still remember how much he loved cooking as a kid. “I think I might apply here toward the end of the month. Helping out at the Christmas market sounds fun and—”

“Cool. Guess I’ll just quit then,” he cuts in, clearly exasperated.

“What?” You mumble, startled.

He sighs, adjusting his beanie. “I offered to help to make some extra money, but all this Christmas crap? No thanks. And if I have to put up with you all day on top of that, I’m out.”

Ouch.

You’re about to snap back, offended, when a vague memory resurfaces —you pestering him all day to come to the Christmas market with you, eventually dragging him by the ear.

You grimace. Being your neighbor every Christmas probably wasn’t easy.

“‘Christmas crap’?” You protest instead —because honestly, you kind of deserve the jab. And you’re clearly not as close as you were as kids, so it’s not like you can say anything really.

He just gives you a look that says it all. Hand to your chest, you nearly choke. “No way. Don’t tell me you’re still a Scrooge?!”

The word sounds like an insult —especially with your shocked tone— but he just rolls his eyes, gently taking the garland back and placing it with the others.

“You’re kidding. Tell me you’re joking!”

You follow him as he grabs a crate and joins the group near the tree without even looking at you.

Even as a kid, he hated Christmas —or rather, you think your enthusiasm annoyed him so much that he just checked out completely.

Still. It’s Christmas.

“If you want my honest opinion, all this excitement is ridiculous,” he mutters. You almost choke on air.

“Ridiculous?! It’s Christmas, for God’s sake! Presents, candy canes, ice skating, Mariah Carey —hello?!”

He stops and turns to you, one eyebrow raised —and only then do you realize you’ve almost shouted, feet planted firmly in the snow, with everyone staring at you. The hint of a smile tugs at his lips. “I see Mariah Carey still has the same effect on you, Twinkle.”

The sound of that old nickname makes something twist in your chest, but you ignore it, shaking your head fiercely. “Nope. I refuse. You cannot be almost 25 and this bitter about Christmas!”

“I turned 24 three months ago, but sure,” he replies, utterly unimpressed as he hands the crate to a guy and listens to two women explain how to decorate the tree.

“You’ll see —I’ll teach you the real Christmas spirit. I’ll stick to you all day if I have to, but I will change your mind!”

“Sticking to me all day would be a change,” he mutters —an obvious reference to your childhood winters when you forced him to play in the snow with you.

Actually… You forced him to play with you year-round, now that you think about it. You grit your teeth, narrowing your eyes at him.

It only makes him smile. Which somehow annoys you even more.

“Go on, laugh,” You threaten, pointing a finger at him. “By the end of the month, you’ll be begging me to binge Alvin and the Chipmunks with you!”

He looks down at your finger, unimpressed, clearly about to reply —then stops. “Y/N,” he says with a sigh, his voice deeper than you remember. Not at all like the whiny kid you used to know.

Deeper —and suddenly sadder too. “Forget it. I don’t care what you have to say. I don’t do Christmas.”

His tone is final, and his look dares you to argue.

Unfortunately for him, if there’s one thing you’ve always excelled at —it’s proving Jeon Jungkook wrong.

“We’ll see about that.”

DECEMBER 15.

Getting hired by city hall to organize the Christmas activities turns out to be the easiest thing you’ve done in a long time.

Over the past few years —ever since you decided to pay for your law studies yourself just to piss your father off— you’ve spent your life juggling crappy little jobs. You’ve been rejected so many times that you never would’ve believed landing this position could be so easy.

But apparently, around here, while everyone eagerly awaits the Christmas setup, no one actually wants to organize it. So they take anyone who volunteers. Which is how, on Monday morning at exactly 7 a.m., you’re in the middle of brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes with a message from city hall.

Ho ho ho! City elves, time to get to work! Meet at 8 a.m. sharp in the town square!

You snort to yourself —you can very clearly picture the face Jungkook must be making while reading that.

When you step outside, car keys in hand, you come face to face with Jungkook, already standing by his car a few meters from yours on the sidewalk. Instinctively, when your door clicks shut, he turns toward you —and it takes everything in you not to burst out laughing.

His eyes are puffy, his hair a complete mess like he just rolled out of bed, and he’s thrown on a thick sweater —black, obviously— to face the cold. Beneath his hair, you watch his brows knit together when he spots you, his nose scrunching as he tries to make sense of your presence.

You can see the exact moment it clicks. “This is a fucking joke…” he mutters, just as you slide into your car, grinning.

This is going to be a very interesting day, you think as you start the engine.

“Can you pass me the cream, please?”

Jungkook barely looks at you, simply extending an arm to grab and toss you the closest bottle —the milk.

You take it automatically, blinking. Jungkook keeps stirring the thick mixture in his bowl with a wooden spoon, his arm muscles flexing with every movement because the dough is ridiculously dense. You’ve been debating for several minutes whether to tell him to add milk instead of more flour —but you don’t do it.

And that has nothing to do with the view in front of you. “The cream, Jeon,” You remind him gently after a few seconds.

He freezes mid-motion, eyes still fixed on the bowl —but unfocused. Staring into nothing. He used to do that as a kid too, zoning out when he was thinking. And for the record —no, you do not find that adorable at all.

After a moment, he reaches out again, this time grabbing the bowl of cream and handing it to you, giving you a clear view of his tattoos as you take it.

You say nothing.

The last time you commented on them —about twenty minutes ago, when he rolled up his sleeves— he growled that if you kept it up, he’d happily show them to you up close.

By choking you with his elbow. And no, that didn’t make you blush, that’s ridic —Okay. You went bright red.

Without realizing it, your eyes drift back to his arm. Has it always been that big?

“What the hell am I doing here, seriously?” Jungkook mutters, snapping you out of your thoughts.

It’s clearly not meant for you, but you seize the opportunity anyway. He’s so grumpy —you’d be stupid not to. “That’s a good question. What are you doing here? Is the restaurant closed for Christmas?” You ask casually.

He turns toward you, suspicious, but you keep your eyes fixed on the gingerbread dough you’re struggling with. You’ve always been better at cookies and shortbread, but unsurprisingly, these were one of the first workshops chosen.

“Not really,” he replies after a moment, once again focused on his rock-solid dough. “My boss forced me to take the vacation days I didn’t use this year.”

Silence falls again, broken only by our movements. After a few seconds, he adds quietly, “My dad always wanted me to help with these stupid preparations.”

This time, you freeze. The subject of his father has always been sensitive —probably because he was the only parent Jungkook ever had, and kids used to tease him for it. Back then, you used to punch anyone who made fun of him.

Jungkook’s dad was always so kind —he’d give you candy whenever he picked you both up. In middle school, you stopped punching the kids who mocked him. Jungkook said it embarrassed him. 

You still threatened the bullies behind the cafeteria wall, though.

“You’re really weird, you know that?” You finally say, shaping sugar paste into a tiny scarf for your gingerbread man. “You’re the guy I know who hates Christmas the most, and instead of going, I don’t know, to the Caribbean, you choose to spend your vacation organizing it.”

Apparently, that was the wrong thing to say —especially with sarcasm— because he scowls immediately. “I’m the weird one? You literally applied here just to stick to me!”

You clutch your chest dramatically, fake-offended. “What, I’m not allowed to look for a job to pay for the end of the year? Get over yourself, Jeon. My world doesn’t revolve around you.”

He raises an eyebrow like he strongly disagrees —which, honestly, is fair. Anyone who’d seen you as kids would’ve sworn otherwise. “Say whatever you want,” he mutters, “it doesn’t change the fact that you’re still just as unhinged.”

It’s so quiet you can’t even tell if he’s joking.

“And you’re still the same lost little kid,” You shoot back, “You know, the one who came crying to me every time he lost a toy?”

His cheeks immediately turn red. “At least the ‘lost kid’ didn’t drop everything to become a lawyer just because he had ‘good arguments,’ only to completely fail his career.”

Okay. Now you’re actually offended.

You didn’t fail your law career —you just didn’t start it. This year wasn’t exactly ideal for that. You should’ve known rumors would spread around town. Still —it stings.

“You little—” You mutter through clenched teeth.

Jungkook has the audacity to give you a smug little look. “What? Isn’t it true? If it wasn’t, why would you come back to this dump?”

For a split second, he looks genuinely sad —like he himself regrets never leaving. It almost calms you down. Almost.

Then he brings back the smug look, and you snap.

When you were kids, he always won —every game, every stupid little challenge. It made him kind of arrogant sometimes. Someone has to put him in his place, right?

He opens his mouth to speak —but Jeon Jungkook loses that infuriating smirk before he can say a word, because a violent handful of flour slams straight into his nose.

He starts coughing violently, clouds of white powder exploding with every breath. He flails his arms to push you away —but you’ve already reloaded, both fists full of flour, ready to strike.

“Say that again!” You growl when he finally manages to open his eyes, his face completely white.

“You’re completely insane!” he practically yells, drawing the attention of the other volunteers.

“Yeah, you’ve said that already,” You reply, raising your hand again. “Go on. Say it again.”

“You’re just a spoiled daddy’s girl who doesn’t know what she wants!” he blurts out, looking seconds away from sticking his tongue out at you.

“And you’re a stuck-up idiot!” You fire back, launching flour straight into his face.

This time, he doesn’t wait to stop coughing before retaliating. Blind in the flour cloud, he reaches into the bag, grabs a handful, and throws it at you with way more force than necessary.

You cough, eyes squeezed shut, letting out a furious yelp. “That’s cheating! You’ve got bigger hands!”

“You started it,” he snaps —right before grabbing the back of your head and smashing flour into your face.

You’re going to kill him.

You don’t know who’s yelling or attacking more —only that suddenly it’s nothing but shouting, grabbed clothes, and flour flying everywhere.

When you deliberately shove some into his ear, he retaliates by dumping it into your hair. You shove some down the collar of his sweater, making him yell. He scratches at his back, trying to shake it off —and instead trips over the table leg.

Naturally, he takes you down with him.

Your eyes widen at the same time when you realize he’s about to crush you —but somehow, miraculously, he catches himself. One hand grips your waist, and he takes the worst of the fall, landing flat on his back with your full weight on top of him. You both groan in pain.

You push yourself up on your forearms, Jungkook’s hand still steady on your waist. Fine clouds of flour drift around you like snow, and you can feel his breath on your cheek —just like he must feel yours on his.

Your gazes lock. Your noses are only inches apart.

And suddenly, you both become painfully aware of how close you are —your body pressed against his, one hand on his chest, one of his still on your waist. And yet, the moment your eyes meet his dark ones, you find yourself completely unable to move.

He doesn’t seem any better.

“Alright, children! What on earth is going on here?!” Mr. Rodolph’s voice— assistant in charge of Christmas activities— booms across the room.

Jungkook and you both jolt like you’ve been struck by lightning. You quickly scramble to your feet, immediately putting distance between the both of you.

You’re covered in flour from head to toe. So is he. Around you, the other volunteers stare in stunned silence. Heat floods your face —and when you glance at Jungkook, his cheeks and ears are bright red.

You apologize in unison, promise to pay for the wasted flour, and once everyone gets back to work, you resume your baking like nothing happened.

Still red.

You’re the first to speak. “Just so you know,” you say. He turns toward you, wearing something other than his usual grumpy expression for once. “You hit the ground first. I’m counting that as a win.”

You suppress a smile when he raises an eyebrow, offended. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Twinkle,” he mutters —his tone sounding suspiciously like a promise of a rematch.

Your smile grows —but you hold it back. At least until you see him hiding one of his own.

When you burst out laughing, he joins in, cheeks still flushed —but this time with a real smile lighting up his face.

Silently, you think that Jungkook is really handsome when he lets himself go like that. You don’t say it out loud, of course.

But when he goes back to stirring his awful dough while half-heartedly holding the conversation you’re forcing him into, you grab the milk bottle and pour at least half of it into his bowl.

And he lets you. Without a single comment.

DECEMBER 17.

Out of all the Christmas activities organized by the village, the ice rink has always been your favorite. The feeling of gliding freely, the wind biting at your face, hours of fun with friends, the inevitable falls that make everyone laugh… Yeah. You’ve always loved it.

Apparently, that’s very much not the case for Jungkook.

On Wednesday, your task is to set up the temporary ice rink —as fast as possible— so it can open to the public the very next day. Your small team of volunteers gathers early that morning, and you’re more efficient than ever. Probably because, for once, Jungkook and you don’t argue.

Well. Except that one time when you got into it because he refused to hand you the wrench —after which you hit him with a scaffolding pipe. He barely felt it. Really. Nothing worth mentioning.

By around four in the afternoon, everything is finally set up, and the small tent with the skates opens just for you and the team, before the rink officially opens later that evening. You’re bouncing with excitement as you eagerly look for your shoe size —then even more so when you sit down near the edge to put them on.

Some of your coworkers are already on the ice, laughter cutting through the air above the soft rush of wind. You double-check that your skates are properly tightened, then push off to join them, starting with your skates parallel to the barrier.

It’s only after a few laps —smiling wide— that you notice Jungkook standing near the railing, phone in hand, looking thoroughly miserable. Frowning, you skate over and lean against the barrier to catch his attention.

“What are you doing? Go get some skates, let’s do a few laps!” You say, giving his shoulder a light tap. He steps back like you just insulted his entire bloodline, shooting a dark look at the rink.

“No thanks,” he mutters, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets. You’d bet good money that if he could cross his arms like a sulking child, he absolutely would.

“Oh, come on. You’re not seriously going home already? Just one lap —not long, I promise!”

His expression darkens. “Forget it. I’ve got stuff to do.”

Without meaning to, your mouth twists into a small pout. “That sucks. You sure you don’t want to take this chance to totally impress me?” You joke, eyes pleading.

Jungkook has always been good at everything —a kind of natural talent that lets him excel at literally anything he touches. Completely unbearable, in your opinion. When he wasn’t busy wiping the floor with you, he used that gift to help you with things you were terrible at —though more often than not, he preferred to rub it in.

“I’m sure you’d be amazing…” You add, more as a last-convincing attempt than anything else.

To your surprise, he doesn’t respond. Instead, the tops of his cheeks turn red, and he looks away. “What?” You ask after a few seconds, confused by the lack of smug teasing you’re used to.

He mutters something you can’t quite hear, then clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck nervously. You frown. “Nothing. I’m heading out.” He tosses out a rushed, barely intelligible “see ya” and walks off quickly —almost jogging.

His escape might’ve worked if he didn’t have to walk all the way around the rink to leave.

“Jeon Jungkook,” You sing-song, your tone half-suspicious, half-amused, skating along the edge to follow him. “Don’t tell me you don’t know how to skate?”

He freezes.

His head drops, clearly trying to hide his burning-red face. Internally, you rejoice. “No way.”

“That’s ridiculous,” he grumbles, glaring at you while glancing around to make sure no one heard. You stare at him, mouth hanging open.

Jeon Jungkook. The kid genius who can do everything. Can’t skate.

You burst out laughing so hard you can barely breathe, clutching the railing to keep from slipping, one hand pressed to your stomach. “Shut up,” he snaps after a few seconds, shooting you a dark look —looking embarrassed, and unfairly cute.

“You never learned?” You ask once you manage to calm down, still smiling way too much.

He scowls but answers anyway. “I was scared of falling and losing a finger.” At your confused look, he adds, “If someone skated over it.”

You laugh even harder. He glares at you twice as fiercely —but at least he doesn’t run off, which you count as a win.

“You’re not going to lose a finger,” you reassure him. “People are careful, don’t worry.” “Still—”

“Come on, go get some skates. I don’t have all day,” you press gently, tapping his shoulder again.

This time, he doesn’t brush your hand away. He just stares at you, eyes practically popping out of his head. “Are you insane? Absolutely not.”

“I’ll teach you! It’s easy, you’ll see!”

“No way. I value my life.”

You don’t answer right away, stung. Sure, you like teasing him —but not like that. If he’s going to be mean, he might as well just go home.

He seems to realize it too, because his expression softens, something like regret flickering in his eyes. He pauses, exhales louder than necessary, and you watch his gaze drift toward the other skaters already on the ice. When he looks back at you, that same awkward expression is back.

“If I walk away with even a single bruise…” he starts threateningly.

You wave him off. “Stop being dramatic, Jeon. Do you really think I’d let you fall?”

In the end, you do let him fall. Three times, actually.

The fourth time, the sore loser clings to you and drags you down with him —and if you yell at him at first, you both quickly lose your seriousness and end up laughing like you did during the flour fight.

Jungkook’s ridiculous talent hasn’t faded with the years. He only needs about ten minutes with you before he’s comfortable skating on his own. And just like that, your moment of glory is over. He beats you every time you race, skates with such effortless elegance you’d swear he’s been doing it his whole life, and even catches you several times when you almost fall.

A group of kids takes a liking to him, amazed by his skills, and he plays with them for a while —smiling far more than he’d ever like people to notice.

You watch from a distance, a fond smile appearing every time Jungkook looks up and meets your gaze, like he’s checking that you’re still there. Actually, you keep smiling even when he’s not looking.

It feels like you’re seeing the little boy from your childhood again —the shy one who was also the funniest and sweetest, who just needed an excuse to let it show.

He joins you by the railing as the setting sun paints long streaks of orange and red across the sky. You turn toward him, smiling. His cheeks and nose are red from the cold, but his grumpy scowl is gone, replaced by a small smile.

“So?” You say, proud of myself. “The ice rink?” He blushes even harder, that awkward look returning. “Told you you’d be amazing.”

“You’re just bad,” he shoots back, nudging you with his elbow and making you laugh. He always has to get his little comment in.

“You know, you’re allowed to admit you liked it,” You tease, turning toward him with a smile.

He pretends to weigh the pros and cons, nose lifted into the wind.“Yeah… it wasn’t bad,” he finally admits with a shrug.

Then he looks at you —and the look he gives you warms your chest in the best way. “Really not bad.”

DECEMBER 19.

“Which one looks better? Red or white?” You ask, holding the two ornaments side by side to compare.

“I don’t know the fuck. Hurry up, we don’t have all week,” Jungkook grumbles back without even bothering to look at the glass balls you’re offering him.

You lower your arms, annoyed. God, he’s unbearable this morning.

Okay, he’s never liked decorating Christmas trees —when the deputy assigned you both to it, you honestly thought he might start crying— but still. He could at least appreciate how lucky you are. The only other group made up of “young people,” besides you, got stuck decorating the giant tree in the village square —the three-meter-tall one everyone walks past all day long. They’re going to be there forever. All day, if they’re fast.

You’ve got the modest elementary school tree. You’re doing great. In an hour or two, you’ll be done. At least, you would be, if Jungkook would stop sulking.

“Okay, and if we go with the polite option, what does that get me?”

He looks up at you, completely unimpressed. “Go fuck yourself.” You sigh. You guess you shouldn’t be surprised.

When you were kids, it used to take you forever to convince him to decorate the tree with you —your favorite activity back then— and he always complained. He didn’t dare insult you yet, because he would’ve gotten scolded. But that’s the perk of being an adult: no one tells you off for being rude anymore.

“Whatever, you’ve got terrible taste anyway,” You say cheerfully, deciding to ignore him since he’s clearly chosen to be insufferable today.

“Go fuck yourself,” he repeats, still not pretending to care as you hang the ornament yourself. Probably because he knows you well enough to guess you’ll end up putting both on. You’ve never been able to choose —they’re all so pretty…

“Excuse me, kids,” one of the volunteers suddenly says, stepping in and reaching toward you just as you’re forced to climb down from the step ladder to grab more ornaments —since a certain unbearable child refuses to pass them to you. “I’m going to borrow this for a minute, but I’ll bring it right back, don’t worry!”

You barely have time to react before the man grabs your ladder and disappears without waiting for an answer. You stare after him, dumbfounded, as he vanishes down the street. Jungkook, meanwhile, doesn’t move an inch —still in full rock mode.

For a ridiculous full minute, neither of you moves. You, because you’re stunned. Him, because he’s been emotionally fossilized since this morning. “So… what do we do?” You finally ask quietly, turning to him.

He looks at you, utterly uninterested, clearly wishing he were anywhere else. “What do you mean, ‘what do we do’? We decorate the tree.”

Translation: do whatever you want, just deal with it —and hurry up.

“Uh… Jungkook ?” He frowns at your evasive look and the way you suddenly start wringing your hands. “He’s with the group doing the supermarket. There are like ten trees over there. I don’t think they’re bringing the ladder back.”

He stays still, but you can practically see the gears turning in his head. His brows knit together slowly, his gaze bouncing between you, the door the ladder thief disappeared through, and your tree.

You instantly regret your habit of decorating the bottom first —because now, without the ladder, the top is completely out of reach. “Is this a fucking joke?” he mutters when he reaches the same conclusion.

You just shake your head. He exhales sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “So what do we do?” he asks in turn. You’re very tempted to answer as sarcastically as he did earlier. But you don’t, because you’re nice like that.

“I can’t reach the top without the ladder,” You point out, gesturing to the entire bare upper half of the tree.

The look you give him seems to make the implication sink in —he’s going to have to do it— but he shakes his head before you can even try to convince him. “No way. I’d rather die,” he says firmly, clearly not open to discussion.

You want to snap back that he could at least try, but you know that would just start another argument, so you bite your tongue. After another minute where no one moves —and your ladder is still very much gone— an idea finally comes to you.

An idea he is going to hate. Still, since it’s your only option, you turn to him anyway, choosing your words carefully. “I mean… I do have an idea. But I’ll need your help.”

He gives you a deeply suspicious look, like he’s convinced you’re plotting something awful. You tense up reflexively, ready to back away the moment he figures it out —especially since earlier he shoved you, which he called a “light tap,” even though you almost face-planted.

After a moment, though, he raises an eyebrow in silent question. You swallow nervously. He’s definitely going to hit you if I say this out loud.

“You know… we could…” You gesture vaguely toward the tree, hoping he’ll catch on quickly. “…Like when we were kids?”

His face falls the second he understands, and you could swear his cheeks turn pink before he shakes his head decisively. “Not in a million years.”

You stomp your foot, annoyed. His wannabe rebellious-teen attitude is getting seriously old. “You got a better idea?”

He looks up at the ceiling with a long sigh, silently screaming please just kill me now. “No, but I’m not—”

“The faster it’s done, the faster we can go home!” You snap, at your wit’s end. “It’s twenty minutes. Max.”

That finally hits home. He goes quiet, lower lip sticking out slightly as he thinks —and no, you were not staring at his mouth to notice that. He shoots you another wary look, eyes narrowed. “Five,” he finally says, reluctantly.

You shake your head, eyeing how much of the tree is still undecorated. No way you can finish that in five minutes, even with the best intentions.

“Fifteen,” You counter with a sigh.

“Six,” he shoots back —and at this point you don’t even know if it’s for him or just to annoy you.

“JUNGKOOK.” “Fine. Ten. But after that, you make sure they never ask us to decorate these shitty trees ever again.”

You suppress a smile at his sulky expression. What a child. “Deal.” “Deal.”

Jungkook complains a lot less than you expected when you climb onto his shoulders. Given how grumpy he’s been all day, you were fully prepared for comments like you weigh a ton or hurry your ass up, but he’s strangely quiet as he gently places his hands on your thighs before standing, gripping firmly to keep you from falling.

You get back to work without a word, silence settling in as he hands you ornaments and garlands one by one so you don’t have to lean too far.

Normally, you would’ve filled the quiet with chatter —but you’re way too busy keeping your focus on the tree, and not on his hands on your legs.

When you were kids, you did this every year. He’d complain while you decorated the bottom, then hoist you onto his shoulders so you could do the top. It worked —you always finished fast enough to avoid the teacher catching you. Otherwise, you would’ve been scolded.

Even now, the method is just as effective.

Still, you’re pretty sure little kid you never had to deal with burning cheeks and that fluttery feeling in her stomach every time he shifts.

You’re proud of yourself, though —for now, you’re keeping it together. You haven’t completely embarrassed yourself yet.

Right as you think that, he tightens his grip on your legs, presses his cheek against the inside of your thigh, and squeezes much more firmly. You gasp in surprise, grabbing his hair to keep from letting out the tiniest sound.

You squeeze your eyes shut, lips pressed together. Having Jungkook’s head there is already more than enough, you really don’t need this turning into full-on groping.

Even if… no. Stop.

“Sorry,” he mutters so quietly you barely hear it, shifting back into place and moving his head just enough for you to breathe again.

The building door opens before you can respond, and a tall woman carrying notebooks storms inside.

Your heart nearly stops when you recognize her.

The teacher.

“Lee and Jeon! What a surprise!” she says warmly. “I almost thought I was dreaming when I saw you two. Up to your old tricks again, hmm?”

Jungkook’s eyes go wide as he recognizes Mrs. Song, your former teacher, who’s smiling at you fondly. When you were kids, you always rushed to decorate the tree before she could see you —and she never actually caught you, even though she absolutely knew it was you doing it against the rules.

Years later, she’s caught you red-handed.

Worse —Jungkook’s head is between your legs, and you’re clutching his hair like your life depends on it.

You’re going to die of embarrassment.

“We’re working for the city,” Jungkook says smoothly, sparing you an awkward silence. That’s when you notice your fingers that are still tangled in his hair. You yank your hands back in a panic, wobbling and forcing him to place a hand at the small of your back to steady you.

A shiver runs straight down your spine. You do your best to ignore it and smile at Mrs. Song. “We’re almost done, I promise.”

She bursts out laughing, setting her notebooks down on a table in the hallway. “Oh, you’re not bothering me at all. Quite the opposite. It reminds me of when you were little…”

Jungkook’s hands tighten on you as you lean forward to hang the last garland. You have to stop yourself from squirming.

“Almost twenty years already… I can still see you arguing over which colors were best…”

“We weren’t arguing. She picked on her own,” Jungkook grumbles, handing you another red ornament.

You tap his forehead lightly, but despite your bickering, Mrs. Song clearly notices your shared smirks.

“It amused all my colleagues every year,” she continues cheerfully. “Watching you two plot to decorate the tree right under the city staff’s noses —and sneaking around so you wouldn’t get scolded.”

You smile without realizing it.

You can still see yourself —tiny as anything— dragging Jungkook along by the ear. He always came. He hid it well, but deep down, you’re sure he loved those moments.

“Every time, we debated catching you in the act,” she laughs softly, crow’s feet forming at the corners of her eyes.

You remember Jungkook tugging at your pigtails while you were still on his shoulders, urging you to hurry down, terrified of getting caught.

“The star,” You say quietly, pointing to the large white one.

He bends to grab it and hands it to you. You lean forward and secure the final touch.

“I even remember that every year, you chose the same colors,” she adds fondly. “Your own little tradition.”

You can feel Jungkook holding back a comment —but he stays silent, too focused on keeping you steady.

“Gold and green would look better,” he always used to complain, stomping his foot.

“The tree is already green, it’ll look awful!” You’d argue back.

And in the end, you always went with red and white —your favorite colors.

“All done,” You say, tapping his shoulder gently.

He grabs your waist to help you down.

The way his hands hold you steals your breath, and you blush at the realization that all these years, you’ve always trusted Jungkook not to let you fall —just like he trusted you on the ice rink. It almost makes you feel guilty, because he’s never let you down.

The bruises he probably still has from the other day say otherwise about you.

With the mess at your feet, he hesitates before setting you down, keeping you suspended against him longer than necessary. You cling to his shoulders instinctively, breath shallow.

When he finally looks up after nudging the decorations aside, your eyes meet. Your noses brush—

“The best part was when your father came to get you early and caught you in the act!” Mrs. Song laughs as she walks toward her office. “The looks on your faces! Ah, good old times...”

She disappears down the hallway, smiling warmly.

But at the mention of his father, Jungkook loses all trace of warmth.

The second she’s gone, his body goes rigid. He grips you —harder this time. Too hard. Not the kind of pressure that gives you butterflies.

His eyes harden, his face closes off, and a moment later he sets you down abruptly.

“I’ll clean this up,” he mutters, grabbing the large box of decorations.

What the—

You don’t even have time to say anything. He’s already gone.

“You could’ve waited for me!” You complain, jogging up to him in front of the school. He’s standing there doing nothing, stiff as a lamppost.

He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even turn his head. He just stares into nothing, glassy-eyed, his face completely blank. A small spike of worry pricks at you, but you know Jungkook well enough to understand that if he doesn’t want to talk, he won’t —no matter how much you push.

So instead, you choose to worry about his physical health —because once again, Mister decided to go out wearing nothing but a sweater while it’s minus five degrees outside and night is already falling.

“You got your car?” You ask casually, eyes fixed on his profile.

He snaps out of his daze, startled by the sudden question, and stares at you with those big doe eyes of his. “No,” he answers simply, without looking away. He hesitates, as if weighing his options, then adds, “You?”

You shake your head. You both live ten minutes away on foot —why would you have taken your car?

“Wanna walk home together?”

“Do I even have a choice?”

Neither of you speaks as you head down the street toward your place, walking side by side in silence, your breaths forming little clouds in the cold air. More than once, you see Jungkook shiver, but you stop yourself from doing anything about it —because right now, randomly grabbing his hand would be weird, right?.. I think about it for a second, then decide it’s a terrible idea. So instead, you bury your nose in your scarf and keep your eyes fixed straight ahead.

You leave the main road, turning right onto the small path that leads home, but as you round the corner, you cross paths with a man coming the other way. With the poor lighting, you can’t make out his face —just the vague shape of it, lit by his phone screen.

Reflexively, you move closer to Jungkook, your shoulders bumping as you hurry toward him. Startled, he lifts his head, frowning, and follows your gaze to see what caught your attention.

Before he has time to figure it out, though, the guy ahead of you lifts his head too —and a wide grin splits his face when his eyes land on Jungkook. 

“Fuck, Jeon! What the hell are you doing here —still crying over your daddy?”

Silence.

You can feel Jungkook tense beside you —his entire face shuts down, and a muscle jumps in his cheek as his jaw clenches.

The guy stops under a streetlamp a few steps away, and now that his face is lit, you recognize him —he was in your class in high school, though you can’t remember his name. You probably spoke to him, what, three times? Max.

You stop short, thrown by his words. What the hell is he talking about? You open your mouth to ask Jungkook, confused, but at the same time the guy’s gaze slides over to you, his grin morphing into something more unsettling.

“Who’s that?” he asks, openly checking you out, jerking his chin toward you. “Didn’t know you had a girlfriend, Jeon. You gonna introduce us?”

That does it —you shoot him a death glare. Who the hell does he think he is, this loser?

“Go fuck yourself, Ryan,” Jungkook snaps through clenched teeth, before grabbing your elbow and picking up the pace, pulling you along with him.

You almost have to run to keep up with his long strides —why are his legs long like that?!— and when you try to tell him to slow down, one hand on his arm, it’s like he can’t hear you, charging ahead just to get away from the guy.

Worse than that, he keeps his eyes fixed straight ahead like a charging bull, holding his breath as he puts distance between you and him.

You turn your head, confused, doing your best to keep up while looking back over your shoulder to glare at the guy.

Your expression hardens when, instead of seeing him walk away like a normal person, you catch him already staring at you, a smile on his lips —and judging by the way he subtly lifts his chin when you turn around, it’s not your back he was looking at, but lower.

That alone is enough to make your blood boil.

Jungkook’s grip on you is too firm for you to go punch what’s-his-face —whose name you’ve already forgotten— so instead you turn to him, brows furrowed.

“Do you know him? Who was that?” You vaguely remember seeing that guy in high school, but you’re pretty sure he was never friends with Jungkook. You were even convinced no one from your class still lived here —Jungkook’s friends, like yours, all moved away to study or work elsewhere.

He waits until you’ve turned onto another street to slow down, casting a glance over his shoulder to make sure the other guy didn’t follow us. His hand stays on your elbow —big, warm, grounding.

“An asshole,” he mutters, so quietly you almost don’t hear it. Then, after a brief moment where your eyes meet, “Forget it.”

You tilt your head, even more confused, but this time he avoids your gaze, staring back into the emptiness ahead.

You sigh, annoyed. You’re willing to give him space —partly because you know how stubborn he can be— but this? You feel like you have the right to know. That bastard just checked out your ass, after all.

“What did he want, exactly?” You mutter with a displeased grimace, fully aware there’s little chance he’ll answer —but you never know. “And why did he talk about your dad?”

You look straight at him when you say that, then add, eyes suddenly wide as your grimace disappears, “How is he, by the way?”

For your studies, you left home right after high school —Jungkook did too, as far as you knew— but at first, your parents —especially your mom— kept you updated on everything going on back here. They always got along well with Jungkook’s dad, so you heard about him now and then, even if you didn’t really talk anymore.

A memory you’d completely forgotten slams back into you like a flash —your dad, on the phone the day after Christmas during your third year, telling you Mr. Jeon had been in a car accident. You vaguely remember asking how he was doing, but now that you think about it, you don’t think you ever got an answer.

And just thinking about it twists something in your stomach, a wave of worry washing over you. Because you’ve been back for almost a week now —and you haven’t seen Mr. Jeon even once.

Jungkook remains stoic, not a flicker of emotion crossing his face while you spiral beside him.

You lean closer to try and see his expression, but he doesn’t look at you when he answers.

‘How is he, by the way?’

“He’s dead.”

The three words hit you like a truck. You stop dead, suddenly unable to move.

Jungkook keeps walking for a few steps before stopping too —without turning around.

All you can do is stare at his back, eyes wide.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Your third year was three years ago—three years, damn it.

Don’t tell me you’ve been stupid enough not to know for three fucking years?!

Jungkook’s back stays rigid, unmoving, and your fingers itch with the sudden urge to pull him into your arms.

You bet he closed his eyes. You bet he’s keeping his back turned so nothing shows. And you just asked him how his dad was doing —unbelievable, what a—

“I’m going to kill him.”

“What?!”

You take off running in the opposite direction —you’re sure that asshole Rémi —or whatever his name is—is still on the street, you can catch up to him, right?— but you barely make it ten steps before Jungkook grabs you by the collar and yanks you back hard.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he sighs, but at least his eyes aren’t empty anymore.

“I’m going to kill him,” you repeat, swatting his hand away. “Let go.”

He sighs again, this time a mix of exhaustion and irritation crossing his face.

“Stop it,” he mutters, shoving you a little harder than necessary as he releases your coat.

“Stop what?” You ask suddenly, all your anger draining away at the genuinely hurt look in his eyes.

“Don’t pity me,” he says softly, eyes locked on yours. Your heart tightens at all the pain you see there. “I don’t need that. Least of all from you.”

You should be offended —but instead, it’s the opposite. Maybe because you know pushing people away has always been Jungkook’s way of protecting himself.

Too bad your way of protecting him is forcing him to put up with you all day long.

“Who’s pitying you, exactly?” You shoot back, one eyebrow raised. His face falters slightly, confusion written all over it. You click your tongue, feigning annoyance. “That asshole was staring at my ass. I just want to teach him some manners.”

When he doesn’t react —standing still while processing your words— you roll your eyes and start walking again, arms crossed over your chest —toward home this time, not toward the other asshole. You pass him, and Jungkook falls into step beside you automatically, still silent.

Only after a full minute of complete quiet does his voice break through again.

“Everyone stares at your ass, Twinkle.”

You smile to myself, absurdly pleased —because he never calls you Twinkle when he’s angry.

You glance at him over your shoulder as he catches up to walk beside you. “Well, that shouldn’t be allowed,” you retort, because deep down, he’s not the only stubborn one here.

“What shouldn’t be allowed,” he mutters without looking at you, “is having such a nice ass.”

“Wow, Jeon Jungkook. Was that a compliment?”

“Shut up,” he snaps, cheeks flushing red, pretending to grumble while you burst out laughing —and yet, you can clearly see the small smile he’s trying to hide.

Several minutes later, when the silence has long settled again, you finally gather your courage and, giving in to the tingling in your fingers, slip your hand into his, gently squeezing his fingers with yours.

This time, you’re the one who ignores his look as he turns to you, one eyebrow raised —clearly saying ‘see? you ARE pitying me’.

You scrunch your nose, annoyed —and a little embarrassed too.

“Shut up. It’s so you don’t get cold,” you mumble into your scarf, tucking your joined hands into your coat pocket. “What kind of idiot goes out in just a sweater in this weather…”

He doesn’t answer —but he doesn’t pull his hand away either.

And for the rest of the walk home, that small, quiet smile stays right there on his lips.

DECEMBER 21.

Jungkook spent the entire day shut inside his house.

The day before, the two of you had been assigned to the Christmas market that had just opened, while others —luckier, according to him— were stationed at the ice rink, or simply tasked with checking the latest decoration orders at city hall.

You, on the other hand, had been put in charge of the hot chocolate stand —the most popular stand in the entire market.

Still, he has to admit it wasn’t that bad. In fact, generally speaking, he might even go so far as to say it was nice —though he would never say that out loud— and that he enjoyed spending that time with you.

He’d forgotten how easy it was to get swept up in your good mood.

The one moment he might like to forget —maybe, if he really had to— was when a small boy had come over in tears after scraping his knee, and you’d spent long minutes comforting him as if he were your own child.

He still remembers the warmth that bloomed in his chest as he stood there in silence, watching your profile, your smile, the way your eyes shone. And then he noticed the stupid grin spreading across his own face, and hurried to wipe it away, embarrassed.

What the hell is wrong with him?

He’s letting himself go too much since you came back —he hadn’t felt like this since high school, maybe even before, and it doesn’t bode well. You’re only here for the holidays, after all.

Still… he’d forgotten how radiant you were. How kind. Even if you’re unbearable sometimes.

So pretty.

He shakes his head, running a hand through his hair. He really needs to get a grip.

“Bam!” he calls over his shoulder, bending down to grab his dog’s bowl. “Dinner time!”

With a practiced motion, he grabs the bag of kibble and pours it into the bowl. His mind has been foggy for days now, split between his usual grief and… you, even if he’d rather die than admit that to himself.

When you finally asked about his father —the question he’d been dreading the most, even though he knew it was coming— he’d expected to feel sad. Angry. Desperate, maybe.

He’d expected the usual speech —that you were sorry, that you were there for him, blah blah blah.

Instead, you’d confessed your murderous urges and teased him, perfectly true to yourself.

From anyone else, it would’ve offended him. Outraged him. He probably would’ve punched whoever dared say that.

But coming from you, it made him smile —worse, it warmed his entire body, like a blanket wrapped tightly around him.

The best part was certainly when you took his hand.

He wouldn’t be able to describe what he felt the next day, when you met again to manage the ice rink stand as planned, and you talked to him like usual. Nothing had changed in your tone, in your gaze —and it affected him far more than he would’ve imagined.

But Sundays are a day off for volunteers —city hall staff take over instead.

So he stayed home.

And it turns out that without you there to bother him all day, the dark thoughts come back much faster.

He woke up thinking about his father.

Ate thinking about his father.

Watched a show thinking about his father.

It’s his fault, really —everything in this house reminds him of his dad. He should’ve left a long time ago. He just never found the strength.

“Bam?” he calls again when the doberman still hasn’t appeared.

Silence.

That’s strange. Usually the dog comes running at the slightest noise —often just to play— and even faster when it’s time to eat.

But now? Nothing.

Frowning, Jungkook straightens up and searches the house. Nothing in the living room. Nothing in the bedroom. Not even in his office. Where the hell could Bam have gone?

He considers checking the attic —who knows, maybe he snuck up there— when he suddenly notices that the kitchen door leading outside is wide open.

Shit, Jungkook thinks, just before panic takes over.

Shit shit shit shit shit.

Bam —his hyper, uncontrollable dog— loose in the street? Shit.

Jungkook doesn’t think twice. He runs outside, vaguely remembering to lock the door behind him before bursting into the street, shouting his dog’s name. For what feels like an eternity, that’s all he does —running around, calling out— until after long minutes, resigned to the idea that all he can do is put up flyers, he heads back home.

That’s when he passes your house, glowing with Christmas lights —and stops.

Could it be…?

Yes. It would make sense.

He’s had Bam for several years now —since he started working at the restaurant, actually— and your mom always gave him treats whenever she saw him. Over time, the dog learned that going to your place meant free food.

So maybe…

Jungkook ignores the way his chest pounds as he slips through the little red gate, just like he used to as a kid.

He ignores the flutter in his stomach as he walks up your driveway and knocks on your door.

And he does everything he can to ignore the way his breath catches when you open it and you’re suddenly face to face.

“Jungkook?”

You stare at him, surprised, watching him swallow as the tops of his cheeks redden visibly. Suddenly, you remember the tiny shorts you threw on with your sweater without thinking —and instantly regret not considering it before opening the door.

Though, admittedly, the way Jungkook’s eyes linger on your bare legs is… pretty nice.

“Hey, uh…” he starts, nervously scratching the back of his neck.

You tilt your head, amused. You will never stop finding his shy side adorable.

“By any chance, have you seen—”

“WARF!”

He’s cut off mid-sentence by Bam, who explodes with joy at the sight of him and literally jumps on him. You step aside just in time to avoid being taken out —thankfully, because you would’ve ended up flat on your face— but Jungkook isn’t so lucky.

He stumbles back several steps, struggling not to fall as his dog overwhelms him with affection, licking his face enthusiastically while completely ignoring the “stop, stop, THAT’S ENOUGH” Jungkook yells.

The scene is so adorable you can’t help but laugh, which earns you a glare from Jungkook.

“…Seen your dog? Yeah. I might have.”

“Thanks,” he mutters softly, scratching Bam behind the ears. He finally manages to calm him down, gripping his collar to keep him still before petting him gently, visibly relieved.

“I was going to bring him back to your place, but first I wanted to finish—” You trail off, gesturing vaguely toward the inside of the house.

He looks up, surprised. “You were doing something?” he asks, half-apologetic for interrupting you, and half-curious.

You smile, a small laugh escaping you. “I was decorating my tree.”

His eyebrows shoot so high they disappear into his hair. “You haven’t done your tree yet? Three days before Christmas?”

You pout, fake-offended. “I haven’t really had time, you know. I only pulled all the boxes out of the attic this morning. Those things weigh a ton.”

“You should’ve asked me —I would’ve done it for you,” he blurts out naturally while petting his dog.

You both freeze.

Realizing what he just said, he turns bright red. “I mean—”

“You want to help me?” You ask simply, smiling softly.

He rubs the back of his neck, messing up his hair in the process —and the result is far too sexy to be legal. Mentally, you sigh, resisting the urge to bat your eyelashes.

How can he be so cute and so handsome at the same time?

He looks at you like a deer caught in headlights. “…With the tree?” he asks in a tiny voice, as if he can’t believe his ears.

You nod, doing your best to hide his growing smile.

God, he’s adorable.

“Okay,” he finally says, biting his lower lip.

Your Christmas playlist hums in the background, Mariah Carey hitting that high note while you sway your hips gently, humming along. Jungkook is quiet, but the small smile on his lips hasn’t left since he came in.

On the couch, Bam is happily chewing on an old plush toy he found and that you’d forgotten existed —after Jungkook spent a long time making sure you didn’t mind his dog destroying it.

You assured him you didn’t —result: the doberman is seconds away from ripping the teddy bear’s head off. Five-year-old Y/N might cry if she saw this, but you find it hilarious.

“What color do you want?” Jungkook asks absently, crouched in front of the big boxes you dragged down from the attic this morning —nearly breaking your back in the process.

He’s clearly asking out of politeness, since he’s already grabbed a long red garland and a white glass ornament. When he holds them out to you, though, you don’t take them right away, lost in thought.

He looks up, puzzled when you don’t take the ornament —and downright confused when you reach into the box for another one instead.

“That one,” you say simply, pointing to a shiny green ornament.

He stares at you like you’ve grown a second head. “Uh… Y/N ? You don’t want the red one?”

You shake your head, holding out your hand for the green one. “I feel like changing things up.”

He pulls his arm back, pressing the green ornament to his chest, out of your reach when you try to grab it. “You never want to change things, though…?”

“Give it to me!” You complain —but he lifts his arm over his head, forcing you onto your tiptoes, one hand landing on his shoulder, only barely brushing his wrist with your fingertips.

As you stretch higher, you stumble —and he places a hand on your waist to steady you. Your noses brush when he lowers his head to look at you.

“You’re not doing this just to make me happy, are you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” You laugh —but you can feel your cheeks heat as a smile slowly blooms on his lips.

You expect one of his usual teasing remarks, but instead he just looks at you, smiling, eyes bright, his bunny smile lighting up his whole face.

That’s worse.

Because now all you can do is blush and squirm under his gaze.

“You know what?” You grumble, bright red, finally giving up and dropping back onto your heels. “Forget it. We’ll do white and red like always —it would’ve looked ugly anyway.”

You barely have time to turn your back before your hear him snicker —then he slips an arm around your shoulders, pulling you gently against his chest.

“Perfect. Then it’ll be green and gold!”

And because you’re physically incapable of saying no when he’s this adorable —especially when he’s holding you like this— you give in, grumbling only a little.

For the first time, Jungkook doesn’t complain while helping you decorate the tree. He even laughs at your jokes. Even when you tease him for not having done his own tree, he stays in a good mood —smiling, even, though he’d definitely deny it.

“I didn’t do one last year either. Lost half the boxes when I moved back here. Last time I tried, I couldn’t find the star, so I just took everything down,” he explains, shrugging at your stunned expression. “It’s not really a Christmas tree without a star on top.”

And you smile like an idiot, because you never would’ve guessed that Jungkook —the one who claims to hate Christmas— would care so much about a star.

Why does that make him even cuter?

“I can give you one, if you want,” you say at last.

His eyes widen again. “You would?”

Since your parents divorced —when you were thirteen— your mom has bought you a new star every year, and Jungkook came with you to buy it almost every time.

He knows how much stupid little traditions mean to you.

If only he knew that no star was bought this year.

The thought knots your stomach, so you shove it away. “Yeah. I’ll look through the boxes.”

He nods, cheeks pink, and you smile at the sight, fond.

At some point, the playlist loops back to the beginning and Mariah Carey starts singing again —naturally, Jungkook complains, and you burst out laughing. He complains even more when you start singing at the top of your lungs, grabbing his hands to make him dance with you in the middle of the living room.

Eventually, he joins in, flailing ridiculously while laughing, his bunny smile on full display.

“I’ll never understand why you love this song so much,” he says when it ends, breathless.

“It puts me in such a good mood,” you reply softly, rising onto your tiptoes to place the star —when, without interrupting you, he gently lifts you by the waist, just enough for you to set it at the top. “And in a way, it’s romantic too. You know —like in Love Actually!”

He just raises an eyebrow as he sets you back down, his hands still on your waist —and they’re so warm, so comfortable, you’re not sure you want him to move them.

“Love Actually?! The movie!” You turn to stare at him, aghast. “With Keira Knightley!”

He shakes his head. “This might shock you, Twinkle, but I—”

“…Don’t watch Christmas movies, blah blah blah—but still! Love Actually!”

“You do realize repeating the title won’t magically put the movie into my brain, right?” His sarcasm makes you roll your eyes.

“Sit,” you point at the couch after a second of thought. “I’m fixing your culture.”

He sighs. “Seriously…?”

“SIT.”

You don’t wait for an answer —turn on the TV, then dash to the kitchen for cookies and hot chocolate.

When you come back, Bam has his head on Jungkook’s lap, and you leave a small space between you and them. When the movie starts, you grab a blanket and drape it over the both of you, inching closer without even realizing —your thighs brushing.

“What are you making me watch this time…” he sighs, rubbing his eyes, his elbow resting on the back of the couch behind your head.

You glare at him. He shuts up.

The thing is, Jungkook likes to pretend he’s grumpy —but deep down, he’s just as childlike as you are, and it shows whenever he lets his guard down.

He giggles like a kid during almost every John and Judy scene, pretends to be exasperated by David dancing through the house, but can’t hide his smile.

And at the end, when the kids start playing All I Want for Christmas, he pretends to cover his ears —but he keeps smiling as he watches you sing through tears.

Because yes. No matter how many times you’ve seen it, this movie still makes you cry all the same.

By the time it ends, his arm is around your shoulders, your head resting against his, and neither of you dares move —you’re too comfortable.

It’s warm. It’s safe. And being like this against him feels so good you could stay here for hours.

“We should do this every year,” you murmur, half-asleep, cheek pressed to his chest.

He lifts his head slightly, hair falling into his eyes, and your fingers tingle with the urge to run your hand through it.

“Do what?” he murmurs.

“This,” you repeat softly, gesturing vaguely at the room —the tree, the boxes, the credits rolling on the TV. Bam leans in to sniff your hand, and you pet his muzzle, then behind his ears. “You complaining while I force you to watch my favorite Christmas movies. It’s nice, right?”

He thinks about it for a moment.

When you lift your head to look at him, suddenly panicked that he doesn’t think it’s nice at all, he smiles —amused.

“What?”

“I just thought you were asking me to apply for Christmas prep duty next year. I was trying to figure out how to tell you without offending you that I’d rather die.”

His bunny smile makes your heart stutter.

God, you want to kiss him so badly.

“Okay… maybe we don’t have to redo that,” you admit after a few seconds, making him laugh softly. “But I’m totally voting for another movie-and-hot-chocolate night like this one. I’ve always loved doing this kind of stuff with you anyway —the tree was my favorite part. We should do it again, right? Make it our little tradition.”

Your voice drops to a murmur, suddenly heavy with emotion —because God knows you love traditions, and lately that’s been the problem.

He doesn’t answer —but he doesn’t pull away either.

Instead, he pulls you closer, until you’re almost lying on him.

And you don’t want to move.

Only when Netflix automatically starts another Christmas movie does he finally speak —and too focused on the screen, you miss the blush on his cheeks and the emotion in his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says quietly. “Maybe we should.”

DECEMBER 23

Jungkook is late that morning.

It might be —probably is— because he kept hitting snooze over and over, in a futile attempt to stretch out the time he could spend in the cozy paradise of his bed just a little longer.

The result: he’s nearly twenty minutes late, hasn’t eaten anything, and while he tries to brush his teeth with one hand, he struggles to fasten his jacket with the other.

Bam circles around him, tail wagging lazily, completely oblivious to the rush. Still, all it takes is one glance out the window for Jungkook to feel reassured —there’s a car parked in front of your house. So you must be running late too.

Maybe Jungkook should suggest going together.

At first, it seems like a good idea. It wouldn’t be weird, right? You were the one who suggested spending the evening together just yesterday. There’s no reason you’d find it strange. Right?

Part of jungkook hates how he can feel his cheeks heating up —and hates even more how his heart starts racing at the mere idea of walking to work together.

He’s got it bad. He can feel it. And he doesn’t like it at all.

Even as kids, he’d been drawn to you, unable to refuse you anything —even when you were insufferable. Years later, and he’s still pulled toward you like a magnet. It’s almost insulting.

But as Jungkook gives Bam one last pat, telling him to behave before closing the door behind him and heading down the driveway toward your place, he quickly realizes that something is wrong.

The only time he’s ever seen you use a car in the morning, it was blue. The one parked in front of your house now is completely black.

That’s when he stops dead in his tracks, brows knitting together, as he notices a figure dressed in black standing in front of your door, one hand raised to knock.

“Y/N ! Y/N, open the door —I know you’re in there!”

Jungkook’s frown deepens. He knows that voice —he just can’t place it.

As he approaches from behind the figure —who turns out to be a man slightly shorter than him— he can see without even peeking through the window that the house is dark. You’re clearly already gone.

So why is this man still calling for you?

“Can I help you?” Jungkook blurts out before he has time to think twice, his tone sharper than he intended. His fists clench at the mere idea of a stranger causing you trouble.

But he freezes completely when the man turns around, startled —and Jungkook finds himself face to face with a very familiar face.

“Mr. Lee?!” he exclaims, stunned, as your father’s face lights up.

Jungkook hasn’t seen your dad around this neighborhood —hell, in this city— since your parents divorced, when you were thirteen. What is he doing here…?

“Jungkook! Damn, you’ve grown!” your father exclaims. “You still live here?”

Before Jungkook can answer, he suddenly adds, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand, “Don’t tell me I woke you up with all that noise?!”

Jungkook quickly shakes his head at the man’s apologetic look. Your father sighs, rubbing his scalp, casting an almost desperate glance around.

“If you’re looking for your daughter,” Jungkook says gently after a few seconds, uncertain. Your father looks genuinely troubled —but he also doesn’t want to impose. “She must’ve already left. She works—”

“What? No. Y/N doesn’t work here. That’s the problem.”

“Yes, she does,” Jungkook insists softly, surprised. “We work together on the city hall Christmas preparations.”

Your father’s face falls. He clearly hadn’t known.

“She must’ve forgotten to tell you.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, your father mutters something Jungkook can’t quite hear —but it doesn’t sound very kind. Now that he’s paying attention, your father looks downright furious. He stomps his foot, exhales sharply, and pulls out his phone to text someone.

Suddenly, Jungkook regrets talking to him at all. Whatever this is, it’s personal —and your father has always intimidated him, especially when he’s angry.

“Is it urgent?” Jungkook finally mutters, mostly because the silence is starting to make him uncomfortable. “What you need to tell her —if you want, I could—”

“Urgent?!” Mr. Lee cuts him off, cheeks puffed with irritation. “Of course it is! She needs to move out and empty the house by tomorrow, for God’s sake!”

Jungkook feels his entire body go rigid.

…What?

Your father rubs his scalp again, lost in thought. “The real estate agent won’t stop calling me to close the sale… and Y/N’s boss keeps harassing me, asking when she’ll take up her position in Fernsworth…”

“…In Fernsworth?” Jungkook can only repeat, stunned. Fernsworth —the massive business city on the other side of the country ?

What would you even be doing there—

“Yes, for her damn transfer!” your father snaps, practically talking to himself now. “She’s been asking for it for months, and the day she finally gets it, she decides to fool around here —right when her mother’s away! Of course she picks her timing!”

Suddenly, Jungkook can’t move.

It’s as if his body has shut down completely, frozen by a strange knot forming in his stomach —growing, tightening, twisting until it makes him feel sick.

Mr. Lee keeps ranting, but Jungkook isn’t listening anymore. He can’t —his ears are ringing too loudly.

He doesn’t understand anything.

All he knows is that he really shouldn’t have gotten out of bed this morning.

By the time you get off the bus and walk down my street, it’s already dark.

A light breeze carries tiny snowflakes —not heavy enough to blanket the ground, but more than enough to give the moment a magical feel.

You bite your lip to keep from smiling as you glance at the small package in your hands. It’s stupid, really —even you know that— but you couldn’t help yourself.

Jungkook didn’t come to work today. You bombarded him with messages, but he didn’t reply —didn’t even open them, which makes you think he probably slept all day.

Knowing him, it wouldn’t surprise you if he stayed in bed out of pure spite toward Christmas, which is getting closer by the day. He can be stubborn when he wants to be.

You shiver with excitement when you stop in front of his house. You must look like a middle schooler with her first crush, completely unable to wipe the smile off your face.

It surprises you to admit it —but you missed him today. You spent the whole day waiting for news from him, constantly checking your phone for a notification, irritated by anyone who dared speak to you if they weren’t Jungkook. You looked like a neglected housewife. Seriously.

You try to rein in your impatience as you knock, already smiling at the look he’s going to give you when he sees the package. You remember how much he’s always loved—

The door swings open sharply, and you straighten instinctively, stiff as a board.

Jungkook cracks the door open. His face is hidden by his hair and the hood of his hoodie. He doesn’t say anything —you’re not even sure he’s looking at you— but you don’t hold it against him, too busy trying to ignore the way your poor little heart stutters at the sight of him.

God, what is happening to you?!

“Hey! You weren’t answering my messages, I was getting worried…” you say, unable to hide your smile —or the warmth flooding your cheeks at your own words.

To save face, you hold up the small package proudly. “I bought waffles. Your favorite. I thought we could—”

“Go home, Y/N,” he cuts in, his voice dull and low, like speaking itself takes effort.

You freeze.

When you lift your head, he barely looks at you —his gaze tired. The same look he gives people when he’s clearly uninterested. Not the way he usually looks at you.

“…What?” you manage, your excitement gone. Your voice sounds tiny.

Jungkook sighs —sighs— then shakes his head.

“Go home,” he repeats, irritation creeping into his tone. “And stop texting me. I went to city hall. I quit.”

Something collapses inside you.

“What—but… I—” You stammer, completely lost. “I don’t understand.”

He rolls his eyes, though the motion is hidden by his hair. Fed up, he straightens, hand on the handle, ready to close the door. “Forget it.”

Panic hits full force.

What the hell is this?! He can’t just shut you out like that—

Your brain racing, you put a hand on the door to stop him for a few seconds, frowning. You know Jungkook. He’s not the type to ignore people overnight —that’s more your thing. Something has to be wrong.

“Did I do something wrong…?” You finally ask, your voice pleading. You need him to explain. If he doesn’t, You’ll never sleep again. You might never make it home.

“I don’t know. You tell me,” he replies flatly, and irritation flares. Seriously? He expects you to drag it out of him?

You open your mouth, even take a step toward him with what’s meant to be a threatening look —but he doesn’t give you the chance.

“Oh, and by the way —your dad’s looking for you. Apparently your boss is harassing him, and you need to empty the house.”

You freeze again, feeling your face fall apart.

What?

No —that’s all you can think as it sinks in. That can’t be possible. Dad didn’t—

Shit.

You knew you should’ve answered his messages. The temptation to piss him off had been too strong to resist. He must’ve come to clear things up, run into Jungkook, and told him everything…

Shit. Shit shit shit shit.

What did he tell him? Don’t tell me—

“You know,” Jungkook continues, making you look back up at him, “after all this time, I thought you’d stop taking me for an idiot.”

His eyes aren’t the soft, reassuring ones that usually make your chest tighten. They glare at you now, harsh and cold, sending a shiver through you —and not the good kind.

You hate that you suddenly want to cry.

“But nothing’s changed, has it?” he goes on. “You’re still here with your pretty speeches that make people dream —me included— before disappearing without warning.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t—” You try, but he doesn’t let you finish.

“Save it,” he snaps, fist clenched. “I don’t know why you came back here —or why you came back to me— but I don’t care. Leave me alone. Go start your life over for the second time and forget we ever met, okay?”

You swallow again, painfully. “I don’t understand what you’re—”

“I’m talking about you filling my head with traditions and futures and Christmases together when you know damn well you’re never staying!” he nearly shouts, his face twisted with anger and grief. “Do you think it’s funny? Playing with me? Lying to my face?!”

You try to speak, to form a coherent sentence —but suddenly you can’t. You’re frozen, stomach twisting, tears burning in your eyes as your mind screams at you to apologize, to explain everything, to say something —anything.

You have to explain. Even if it’s only part of the story. Even if it’s a mess. Your life has been a mess lately, you just need to—

“I didn’t—” you murmur, just as he straightens, avoiding your gaze.

“Good night, Y/N.”

“I love you…” you whisper—

Right as he slams the door in your face.

DECEMBER 24

Mom – 10:03 a.m. Sweetie, please stop doing everything your own way. Mom – 10:07 a.m. Can you answer my calls? I’m worried. I just want to talk. Mom – 10:07 a.m. I just don’t want you to be alone for Christmas. Are you sure you don’t want to join me? Dad – 1:40 p.m. If you don’t want to talk to me, at least answer my messages. Dad – 5:12 p.m. The real estate agent is coming to pick up the keys in an hour.

You can’t find the words to describe the feeling that settles in you as you stand in the entryway, suitcases in hand.

Just an immense emptiness, as your eyes sweep over the house you grew up in —now stripped of everything that once made it feel safe.

All the decorations, the lights, the personal items… everything has been taken away, carefully packed into boxes your parents will probably never open, leaving only the furniture you made sure to cover with white sheets.

You feel like throwing up and crying at the same time.

But you guess it’s not the time anymore —you already spent the night crying.

And to think you believed coming back here for Christmas was a good idea. Still just as naïve, even after all these years.

Your Mom spent the night texting you when she found out your Dad had sold the house, trying to convince you to join her and your stepfather in their new seaside home so you wouldn’t spend Christmas alone.

You said no, obviously. The only person you wanted to spend Christmas with told you to go fuck yourself —you’re not about to torture yourself further with your stepfather’s company.

You take one last look around, sniffing to fight back fresh tears. With just one glance, you can see yourself as a child running down this hallway laughing —sometimes alone, often with Jungkook. You see your younger selves, getting into trouble together until you were caught and Jungkook complained that you’d forced him.

And damn it —why does that memory hurt even more?

Your vision blurs as you finally grab your suitcases, clutching the small package tightly to your chest.

You feel too empty to react when your heart tightens as you step outside and lock the door —for the last time. Too empty to stop the tears that slide quietly down your cheeks.

You walk mechanically down the driveway to the sidewalk, proud of yourself for not breaking down into sobs as you slip the key into the mailbox, making it unreachable —at least until the real estate agent arrives.

The keys hit the bottom with a metallic clink, and suddenly it’s just you in the winter cold, your breath dissolving into the wind.

You stay still for maybe ten seconds. Then you wipe your tears.

There’s no way you’re standing here wallowing.

You already left this town once because you were unhappy —you can do it again. You’ll cry later, when you’re rich and happy.

Your flight leaves in two hours. You could call a taxi now, sit down at the airport, and wait.

So why does your heart hurt so much at the thought of leaving like this?

Without meaning to, your eyes drift next door —to Jungkook’s house.

The deep breath you take leaves a cloud of steam in the cold air, but you don’t stop to look at it. You step forward decisively, leaving your suitcases on the sidewalk —you don’t want anything slowing you down while you still have an ounce of courage.

You realize you’re holding your breath as you walk up his driveway, nearly gasping by the time you reach his doorstep.

Normally, you wouldn’t hesitate for a second to knock. Today, you mostly hope he hasn’t seen you through the window.

Slowly, silently, you crouch down and place the small package on his doormat. You grabbed the first box you could find —it isn’t sealed very well.

Through the narrow opening, You can see the golden star softly shining, along with the small letter beside it. With a sad smile, you think of his love for green-and-gold Christmas trees.

He’s going to love it.

A sudden thump against the door from inside makes you jump violently, followed by barking through the wall.

You sigh, steadying yourself —and when you hear scratching at the door, you realize sadly that Bam must’ve smelled you from inside and wants to come see you. That thought alone almost brings another tear —but you manage to hold it back, standing up quickly and stepping away.

Bam’s barking grows louder as you walk away, but despite your tightening chest, you only quicken your pace. You absolutely do not want to be here when Jungkook comes home and sees the package.

Otherwise, you’re really going to cry.

You almost start running when a car turns into the street, panic shooting through you.

You barely have time to grab your suitcases and slip into the small pedestrian street before the car stops in front of Jungkook’s house —and out of the corner of your eye, you see a man with messy black hair step out.

Your suitcase makes a horrible noise rolling over the cobblestones. Actually, it doesn’t roll —it screeches. You should probably buy a new one.

Maybe later.

Maybe you still have time to ask your parents for one for Christmas —they owe you that much after the mess they put you through this year. And if you do, you’ll ask for gloves too, because your fingers are freezing.

You half expect them to fall off your hand at any moment —they’re so cold they could probably chill mulled wine just by dipping them in. But you don’t care.

The pain in your frozen fingers doesn’t stop you from dragging your suitcase along as you walk slowly and unenthusiastically down the sidewalk, heading… nowhere, really.

A phone notification a few minutes ago told you your taxi would arrive soon. You barely remember the address you put in —only the plane ticket your dad sent you, which was enough to make you break down crying. A simple ticket, and yet it shattered your heart.

You truly thought coming back here would fix things.

Looks like, once again, you were too naïve.

Your steps are so automatic that you barely notice you’ve stopped —until festive music drifting from a small temporary ice rink pulls you out of your thoughts. In front of you, perched on their skates, a dozen children laugh and play, sometimes joined by their parents. Their smiles and clumsy spins blend perfectly into the scenery, even more than the little Christmas hats snug on their heads.

Without meaning to, a sad smile spreads across your face.

“Stop being stupid, Jeon. You really think I’d let you down?”

“Yeah… that was pretty good,” you whimper, struggling to stop the single tear sliding down your cheek. “Really good.”

You realize quietly that you would’ve loved to go back to the rink with him, brushing away that stupid tear with your cold fingers.

But now that you’ve started, the tears won’t stop.

Shit.

You really wanted to go back with him. Or do anything —anything at all— as long as it was with him.

You force yourself to sniff and take deep breaths to calm your erratic breathing, wiping your cheeks angrily, almost ashamed. So much for courage. “No one’s going to make me cry on Christmas.” Yeah, right.

You hesitate despite yourself.

Would Jungkook really be that angry if you went to see him —just one last time?

The idea of leaving like this, once again, makes you feel awful.

But just as the temptation hits, too strong, too desperate to see him again, the argument comes rushing back —the cold tone he used. The look he gave you. His closed-off face, tense features.

The complete absence of warmth when he said your name.

Maybe he really is better off without you.

Maybe you were the only one who felt… whatever it was between you.

5:47 p.m. Your driver has arrived!

You stand there staring at your phone for far too long.

You’re not even reading the words anymore —just looking at them, like maybe if you stare long enough they’ll change and bring good news.

You feel empty. Empty and desperately sad at the thought of leaving.

Because part of you knows you’ll never come back.

This is the city where you grew up. Where you spent every Christmas with Jungkook. Where so many memories were made.

Soon, all of that will exist only in your head.

Your phone vibrates again —a text from your dad. You don’t open it. You can easily imagine what it says, asking if you’re at the airport already.

That’s when you remember your taxi is there, just a few meters away —you only have to lift your head to see it parked by the curb— and that you should already be gone.

Part of you can’t move.

But another part refuses to wallow, refuses to be weak —so with a deep breath and one last look at the ice rink that brings tears back to your eyes, you grip your suitcase handle tightly and walk toward the black car waiting with its headlights on—

—you’ve barely taken two steps when a hand grabs your shoulder, making you jump violently.

“Lee Y/N, would you mind opening your fucking ears?! I’ve called you at least ten times!”

You don’t know what shocks you more —the words spat in your face, or the voice saying them.

All you know is that when you turn around, disoriented, you find yourself face to face with a very angry Jungkook, his black hair whipped into a mess by the wind.

You freeze completely.

This is impossible. What is he doing here…?

“What are you—” You manage to say, stunned, but his jaw tightens before you can finish.

“Are you fucking kidding me?!” he snaps, glaring at you from beneath his dark bangs.

“What? What are you—”

“What did you think you were doing with this, huh?” He waves a package under your nose, and you instantly recognize the small box you left the star in. For reasons you can’t explain, you feel yourself blush. “I give you this whole speech about not wanting your pity or your stupid games, and you give me this shit?!”

Your face darkens, redder than ever. Okay, leaving him a gift without saying anything before disappearing wasn’t your brightest idea —but still—

“Hey, it’s a gift—” You protest, but he cuts you off again.

“And then what, you disappear?!” The frustration in his voice knocks the air out of you. “I don’t want your cheap-ass present!”

You stand there frozen, completely unable to believe this as he stares at you, breathless.

“I don’t understand,” you finally manage after a few seconds, your voice hollow.

He hesitates, his frown shifting into confusion.

“Don’t understand what?”

“You’re the one who lectured me, who told me to stop talking to you, to disappear from your life —and when I do, you lose your mind?” Your words are muffled by your scarf as you hide your nose in it, lowering your gaze. You’ve never felt so ashamed in your life.

“Yeah, I want you gone!” he snaps. “I want you to leave me alone, stop messing with me all day, stop lying —I just want to go back to my miserable life in peace, but instead I can’t stop thinking about you, about your stupid jokes and your ridiculous obsession with Christmas —and then you ruin everything by making a fool of me and I—” He stops, running a hand through his hair, stewing in his frustration. “I’m… so fucking angry I could kiss you !”

Silence.

Until slowly —very slowly— both your eyes widen at the exact same time.

“Huh?” “Huh?”

“You... -Wait —did you cry?” he blurts out suddenly, all the anger draining from his face as he steps closer, hand reaching for you. You might have been touched by the sudden concern if his words hadn’t frozen in your mind.

“What did you say?”

He hesitates, then abruptly looks away.

“You lied to me.”

You wipe your damp cheeks with the back of your hand and shake your head. There’s no way you imagined that. “No —after that—”

“You lied,” he repeats quietly, shaking his head too. “After six years, you show up out of nowhere and you do the exact same thing again…” You open your mouth to protest, tears already welling up, but he cuts you off. “You mess with my head, you scatter your stupid good mood everywhere, and you— You drive me insane. I should’ve known it was too good to be true. You’re doing exactly what you did last time.”

“I didn’t lie,” You manage, your voice breaking around a sob.

“Yes, you—”

“There’s a difference between lying and not telling everything.”

Your voice comes out louder than you expect, but he just rolls his eyes. “Psychopath logic.”

“You really think I wanted to dump all that on you?!” You explode, and this time you don’t even try to stop the tears spilling freely down your cheeks. “You think after years of not seeing each other, the first thing I want to say is, ‘Hey, my parents finally decided to completely ruin my life, and you, how’re you doing?’” You have to take a shaky breath, no longer bothering to keep your voice steady. “I can barely talk about it without breaking down. So yeah, I admit it —when my dad transferred me without telling me and my mom decided to sell the house, I lost it. But what was I supposed to do, huh?” A nervous laugh slips out, drowned in silent tears. “I shouldn’t have come back at all…”

“He forced you?…”

It’s his voice —oddly flat, stripped of its earlier anger— that makes you look up at him. Only to find his expression unreadable, his eyes fixed on you in a way that sends a shiver through you.

Slowly, you nod, unable to hold his gaze.

“I know it’s for the best —I’ll have more opportunities there. But I don’t want to go. It feels like they’re trying to change everything about me, and I—”

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this?” he cuts in suddenly. His voice wavers with worry, but his face is twisted with frustration, his jaw clenched so tightly it looks like it might crack.

It takes you several seconds to find an answer —because honestly, you don’t have one. “…I don’t know. Maybe I thought it wasn’t worth it. Or that you wouldn’t believe me.”

He lets out a humorless scoff. “I rank that low, huh?” he mutters sarcastically.

“No!” You rush to say, shaking your head. “No, not at all —it’s just… Remember when you asked me not to pity you about your dad? Well, I guess in a way, I’m the same. My whole life is falling apart, but I still have this stupid pride that forces me to pretend I don’t care…”

He doesn’t respond. Not even when you try to soften the end of your sentence with a small laugh —meant to ease the tension, but coming out pathetic instead. Come to think of it, you probably look pathetic. Crying, suitcase in hand, practically begging him to believe you —you’ve seen better versions of yourself.

“Listen,” you manage after a moment, when his silence becomes too heavy even for you. “I’m sorry if I made you feel like I was… playing with you. Or with your feelings. And I know it’s just my word, but you have to know that was never my intention. Running into you again after all this time was a surprise —but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t hoped, just a little, that it would happen when I came back. And it reminded me how much I love what we have, and how much I wish we could’ve spent all day skating or making gingerbread men because I— I never feel as good as I do when I’m with you, and—and I’m starting to realize that I really like you, and it kind of kills me that we’re parting like this, and I—”

“Hey,” You vaguely hear him say, but your vision is blurred with tears, and now that you’ve started, the words just keep pouring out unchecked.

“I’m just… so sorry, I—” You swear as your words dissolve into sobs. “Forget it, I really need to catch my tax—”

“Don’t you dare run off.”

His words cut through the air. You barely have time to react before he grabs your elbow and pulls you toward him. Your tears soak into his sweater the moment your head hits his chest, and you don’t even try to pull away because his arms wrap tightly around your back, crushing you into one of his rare bear hugs.

You sniffle, saying nothing. His scent fills your lungs. His arms are so warm that suddenly, you’re not cold at all. You think you could stay like this for hours.

Then the tears really come —uncontrollable. “Jungkook… I’m so sorry.”

He doesn’t push you away when you hide your sobs against his chest. Instead, he rubs your back, almost gently. “Don’t beat yourself up. It’s already forgotten.”

“I should’ve told you everything from the start…”

“Shh. Stop crying.”

You lift your head, surprised, eyes swimming. “Why?”

“Because,” he grumbles, his cheeks flushing all the way to his ears as he wipes your tears away with his thumb, “I don’t like it. So stop. Come on —I wanna see a smile.”

You stare at him, torn between amusement and disbelief. Jungkook is the worst person you know when it comes to comforting people. And yet, somehow, his stupid words warm your entire chest. You don’t know what to do with that feeling —except that it’s not unpleasant.

When your expression doesn’t change, he mutters something you don’t catch, then tries again:

“…What if you imagine me dressed as a Christmas elf?”

A small smile tugs at your lips —not so much because of the words (the image is objectively ridiculous), but because of the intention. You think you love the way he comforts you. “There. That’s better,” he says proudly, even if it’s just the tiniest smile.

You burst out laughing, and even when you calm down, your smile lingers —mirroring the discreet one that’s appeared on his lips. “Thank you,” you murmur, wiping your eyes. You bet your mascara is ruined. “I’m still—”

“It’s fine. Really,” he cuts you off with a wave of his hand. “I get it. I probably wouldn’t have said anything either. And I barely gave you time to explain. Let’s say we’re even.”

Hope floods your gaze, warmth swelling in your chest as you nod and extend your pinky. Your heart skips when he doesn’t hesitate for a second before hooking his finger with yours.

Neither of you lets go. Even just his finger is comforting, warm.

So you stay like that —two idiots staring at your joined hands. Mostly you. Why do these little moments of closeness affect you so much?

Until he breaks the silence.

“…Me too.”

You look up, startled. “Hm?”

“Me too —I like you,” he murmurs softly, then immediately drops his head, blushing furiously. You freeze, stunned —and yes, your face is burning too. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but he cuts you off again, his ears now bright red. “Anyway —move it, your driver doesn’t look very hap—”

“Did I hear that right?” You blurt out, a smile tugging at your lips. You try to hide it —you don’t want him to think you’re making fun of him— but the truth is your heart has never pounded this hard. Your whole chest feels tight with hope, and you’re smiling like an idiot. You look like a teenager, seriously.

“Hear what?” he mutters, avoiding your eyes.

“What you said.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he scoffs.

“Yes you did —you said—”

“Go on, get lost!” He grabs your shoulders, turning you and pushing you toward the taxi like a sulking child. “You’re gonna miss your flight!”

You almost tell him you don’t give a damn about this flight —but the words come out before you can choose better ones.

“Jeon Jungkook, you said you liked me!”

He shakes his head furiously, jaw clenched, still pushing you. “Never. Get out of here.”

He groans when you dig your heels into the ground —and even more when you turn back to him, chin lifted, finger poking his chest.

“If I remember correctly, you also said you could kiss me…”

He glares at your finger, though it does nothing to hide the crimson on his cheeks. “Nonsense —you dreamed it. Even if I thought it, I’d never say it out loud, or—” You only realize how wide your smile has grown when his eyes flick up, land on it, and he promptly loses his words, looks away, and blushes even harder. God, how can one be this cute? “I mean—I…” He swallows hard, then seems to make a decision and blurts out, “Hey —are you really just going to leave like that?”

And there it is again —the big, hopeful doe eyes. You smile like an idiot (as usual), your heart squeezing because no matter what you say, one look like that and you melt completely.

Damn it. You like him way too much.

“I mean —I’d understand, but I just thought that… well, you know, I—”

He never finishes the sentence —because before he can, your lips crash into his, cutting him off.

At first, he doesn’t react. You can practically feel his eyes widen as his body goes rigid.

Then he exhales —and leans in, molding his mouth to yours.

Your lips meet, brush, dance together. Suddenly there’s no skating rink, no Christmas market —just the peaceful silence around you, broken only by the soft sighs and sounds that escape you.

When he nips at your lower lip, brushing it with his tongue in a silent request, shivers race through you, your legs trembling on their own.

You have to rise onto your toes to reach him, nearly stumbling, your hands clutching his arm and chest on instinct.

His arms slide around your waist, holding you firmly against him, and you moan into his mouth when his tongue tangles with yours —slow, deep, intoxicating. He tastes like chocolate.

You’re the first to pull back, mostly because you’re out of air —much to your regret.

It’s like he refuses to let you go, tightening his arms as if afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his grip.

You smile, breathless. His lips curve into a faint smile as he rests his forehead against yours, eyes closed.

“For what it’s worth… I don’t really want to leave,” You murmur at last, a small, sad laugh slipping out.

He opens one eye, then the other, his expression unreadable. Gently, he rubs his nose against yours, almost affectionately, searching for words.

Then he murmurs something you never thought you’d hear him say.

“If you want… you could come spend Christmas at my place. We could decorate my tree together.”

The moment he opens the door, you’re hit by a delightful scent of pine, cedar, and… gingerbread?

But you barely have time to think about it before your back is pressed against the door, Jungkook not wasting a second. Sliding between your legs, his pelvis gently hitting yours, he moves close, your lips meeting, your tongues turning, exploring, holding, in a dance of familiar intimacy. A soft gasp escapes you, delighted, and you follow his rhythm, wrapping your arms around his neck, letting your hand slide down his back, under his sweater. 

Shivers run down his shoulder blades at the touch of your fingers, and then it's his that wander, sliding under your clothes, caressing your waist, your ribs, deliciously moving up to the elastic of your bra…

His hands are everywhere. One teases your underwear, the other moves down your lower back, sliding lower to grab an asscheek and massage it between his fingers, drawing another moan from you, more breathless. You’re all over the place.

His name leaves your lips in the kiss, at the exact moment when, without even meaning to —now unable to control your movements— you move your hips a little, just a little. All you want is to feel just a little of the delicious friction that you know will release the unbearable pressure that has built up in your lower abdomen.

And damn it —it works. He's already semi-hard, quivering inside his jeans, and the movement draws a moan of pleasure from both of you. You can already feel your thighs trembling for him.

His lips leave yours —much to your regret— and move away to explore your cheek, your jaw, then lower —all the way down your neck to your collarbones, before stopping at that precise spot where you can feel your heart beating furiously— and he gently sucks on the skin, nibbling here and there, drawing as many little cries from you as ragged breaths, your head falling back against the wood of the door.

The combination of his mouth on your neck and his icy hands on your burning skin sends violent waves of heat through your body, making you shiver, and you can only respond by moving your hips faster, craving the friction that alone is enough to make your head spin.

“Did you buy a Christmas log?” You murmur when your eyes fall on the cake box on the kitchen table, so quietly that even you can barely hear it above your ragged breathing.

His mouth leaves your neck, only to grab your earlobe between his teeth —and his hand massages your butt harder, less delicately, giving it a little slap that makes you arch against his chest. “Mmm. For you, actually,” he mumbles without releasing your lobe from between his teeth, and his voice directly against your skin makes it tremble. His words alone are enough to squeeze something in your chest with the rush of affection. “I wanted to apologize, but you were already gone when I came to your place...”

You can only moan in response, because you can very distinctly feel him harden beneath you, surely at the thought of our argument in front of the ice rink, then your passionate kiss that led to... Well... There. Reflexively, you grind your hips against his, your eyes rolling back as the simple movement sends waves of pleasure through your crotch. He swears before grabbing your hips with both hands, slowing the movement.

“Holy shit, do you want me to come now, or something ?!” he growls more for himself than anything, his hand slapping your thigh again, but the feeling is so good, so perfect, you can't stop.

“Please,” you whisper, drawing his lips back to yours, tugging on his lower lip with your teeth before slowly, so slowly, rolling your hips against his, until you can feel every inch of him rolling against you. His dark eyes lock onto yours, misty, and he swears again.

“Oh, shit.”

You barely have time to respond before his hands slide under your thighs, his arms flexing as he lifts you effortlessly, and you can only cling to his shoulders as he starts walking, kissing you so hard that you lose your breath.

Once in his room, he kicks the door shut behind him, then approaches the bed —only to sit down on it, with you on his lap.

You look at him, puzzled, your eyes slightly higher than his in this position, and he wraps his hands around your waist, gently pulling you toward him before kissing you deeply, his tongue deliciously teasing yours.

Only, when after a few seconds, you start swaying your hips again, placed directly on his, he stops you again, despite the rock-hard bulge you feel directly beneath you.

“Nah-ah. Not like that,” he growls softly, twitching his tongue.

You moan in frustration, but let him have his way when he gently grabs one of your legs and swings it over, spreading his own legs so that you’re straddling just one of his thighs.

You glare at him, outraged, just as he says with a smile, “On my thigh, Twinkle.”

You clench your teeth, ignoring your crotch quivering at the sound of his voice, and that stupid nickname that makes you weak.

“Are you kidding me?” You blurt out, sounding a little too whiny for your liking.

“Take your time,” he says softly, nestling his head in your neck and planting little chaste kisses there. “You're way too eager.”

“But I don't want to take my time!” You grumble, but you still cling desperately to his shoulders, tilting your head to make more room for him.

His mouth moves until it's just below your ear. “On my thigh.”

And, putting his words into action, he flexes the muscle, and you feel yourself shudder with pleasure.

Damn it, this idiot is going to kill you.

It's instinctive —almost animalistic— yet neither of you does anything to stop it when your hips start to undulate on his hard thigh, slowly at first, a curse escaping you without your wanting it to.

The muscle is so hard, you could come right now. His hands on your hips guide the movement, slow, deliciously —painfully— slow, his eyes never leaving yours for a second as little by little, as the pace quickens and your core rubs against him a little more each time, meeting only that rigidity that makes you sigh with pleasure, you feel your thighs tremble, your insides tighten, impatient, and the familiar knot forms in your lower abdomen, tightening a little more with each wave of pleasure that rumbles through you.

Your hands grip his shoulders tighter as he speeds up his movements, and you nails would surely leave little crescent moons on them if his sweater wasn't acting as a barrier. And, this simple fact annoying you greatly, you pull on his collar without ever slowing down the back-and-forth movements of your crotch on his thigh.

You swear his muscles tighten even more as he momentarily lets go of your hips to grab his sweater and pull it over his head, sending it flying randomly across the room.

Your eyes wander over his bare chest, his finely defined abs and firm pecs, but as you pretend to reach out to even touch him, he takes you by surprise by grabbing the edge of your sweater, his gaze suddenly deepening as he meets yours, a silent question in his eyes.

You nod your head, chest pounding —and the next second, he sends your top flying across the room, leaving your chest and black lace bra exposed to his view.

You don't notice how he's watching you, too lost in your own contemplation of his muscular chest, his golden skin covered with a thin layer of sweat that makes it shine even more.

You do look up just in time to see him swallow, though, just before he wraps his arms around you again, pulling you back against him. Your breasts pressed against his chest as he now accompanies your movements with small shiftings of his thigh that only drive you crazier, bringing your attention right back to where he wants it.

A moan of pleasure escapes you, and his only response is to speed up the movement even more, nestling his head in your neck to nibble again on that same sensitive spot just below the hollow of your jaw. You can only cling to him, your eyes rolling back, your fingers caressing, grabbing every bit of him they can reach.

Your nails brush his nipples, scratch his abs, sending a wave of shivers through him before moving lower, down to the ring of his belt...

...only for him to grab your wrists with one hand, lifting his head from your neck to give you a gentle glare.

He opens his mouth to say something, but doesn't —and you, driven too impatient by your increasingly close release, barely think before moving your knee, pressing gently against the already prominent bulge in his pants.

“Why are you holding back?” You almost whine, breathless, as he pushes your knee away and presses you harder against his hard thigh, making you gasp in surprise, clearly intending to make you come before getting down to business.

A hint of a smile plays on his lips. “Let's just say that if it's possible, I'd like to last longer than eight seconds,” he sighs, nibbling your ear and drawing another moan from you as his words fly straight into your crotch, making you shiver inside. “I'd rather not make a fool of myself.”

“There's nothing ridiculous about it,” You whisper, and this time he lets you rub the palm of your hand against the bulge in his pants. “It's cute, even. Sexy.”

He stiffens, a curse escaping him again, but no matter how hard he tries to hold back, you’re not fooled —it only takes a few small presses from you before he starts to rub his hips against your hand, almost unconsciously. His dark eyes plunge into yours, darkened by a glint of pure desire as he seems to make a decision.

"You know what ?" he growls. “Fuck it.”

The next moment, he stands up with you still in his arms and almost throws you onto the bed, a cry of surprise escaping you. While the sudden stop of his ministrations leaves your frustrated core on the verge of orgasm, the darken look he gives you, one knee on the edge of the bed and his hair tousled, is enough to make you come right then and there.

He leans down to join you, your legs opening reflexively to welcome him, and he nestles between your thighs to kiss you, impatient.

His tongue teases yours, just as impatient as you are, and the sensation is so good that you could spend the whole night doing this. But it doesn't take long before you both want more, more, always more, and as your hands leave his shoulders and move towards his belt, his are already busy unzipping your fly.

Hands on your hips, ready to remove your clothes, he gives you that questioning look again. His way of silently asking you if you’re sure. Because there's no going back after this.

You just nod, a slight smile on your lips. Everything has always been less scary with Jungkook by your side —whether it's decorating a Christmas tree in secret or something as intimate as love.

In one fluid motion, he pulls off your pants and panties, tossing them randomly behind him. Then he freezes.

His chest rises and falls silently, the only sign that he's still alive, while his eyes remain fixed on your dripping core, on your thighs spread wide just for him...

...and the next moment, he throws himself at you head first, and your orgasm returns with full force.

You don't know where to look —you’re unable to know where to look. One second, his tongue is on your bud, the next it enters you, cold and burning at the same time, and it makes you shiver all over as he happily licks up all the juice that has escaped.

Your back arched, your eyes closed in pleasure, you try to hold on wherever you can, but he quickly detaches your hands from the sheets and shoves them into his hair —and a groan of pleasure escapes him when you slip your fingers in and pull without hesitation.

“If you only knew how long I've been waiting for this, damn it,” he growls against you lips, the vibration making you moan with pleasure and pull harder on his dark locks. “Ever since Mrs Song found us like this...” He kisses the inside of your thigh delicately until he reaches your knee, which he grabs and gently places on his shoulder, before doing the same with the other. Once again, his eyes lose themselves in contemplation. “Damn, I've dreamed about this way too much.”

Then he traps your bud between his lips to suck, and you scream in pleasure.

He enters two fingers without waiting, his other hand firmly gripping your thigh, and when his fingers curve, you see stars, your heels digging into his back as you arch yours, desperately gripping on his hair like your life depends on it.

You can feel the knot in your lower abdomen tightening, again and again, so tight that you think you’re going to come in a second. His name leaves your lips like a plea, and that only encourages his tongue to work even harder.

Your moans grow higher and higher, more and more breathless, and as you try to hide your face in the pillow, your gaze falls on a small detail —a pretty golden star sitting on his bedside table. The star you gave him before you left.

With your eyes closed, you think back to that day not so long ago when he carried you on his shoulders to hang the star in front of the school. To his head, so innocently buried between your thighs, to his hands that held you so tightly that you had to concentrate not to rub against his skull.

That same head that now so proudly kisses your private parts as if it were his sole reason for being.

And at that sight, that of his tousled hair, your fingers tangled in it, falling in front of his face without hiding the fact that it is disappearing into your pussy, his tongue making you squirm and writhe beneath him, you can't take it anymore.

The knot snaps —and it's his name that leaves your lips.

Everything goes white, your thighs tremble around his head, your fingers grip his hair so tightly you'd think you wanted to pull it out, but he accompanies you all the way, licking slowly, almost affectionately.

It's only when you fall back onto the mattress, your chest rising and falling rapidly as you catch your breath, that he sits up, planting little kisses all along your stomach, your chest, your neck, before reaching your mouth. The kiss is languid, soft, lazy —but gosh, it feels good.

“Damn, you're so beautiful,” he murmurs against your lips, sighing when you grab one of his to nibble on it.

“Jungkook ?”

“Hmm-hmm?” He mumbles without stopping kissing you for a second.

You grab his cheeks so he meets your gaze. “I want you.” You try to ignore how your cheeks are burning at these simple words, but it's difficult given the silly smile he immediately flashes. These are words that neither he nor you ever thought you'd hear. Or maybe you did, but were separated too quickly to be sure.

He smiles, caressing your cheek with the tip of his nose. “Are you sure?” he asks, his voice no louder than a whisper.

You want to complain, to tell him to take you seriously and not make fun of you. But you know it's just his way of making sure you don't do something you'll regret —so without ever taking your eyes off his, you simply reply, “I’ve never been so sure of anything.”

He mutters under his breath. The next moment, your last layers of clothing are gone, his along with your bra.

Jeon Jungkook moves with you as though you’re old lovers reunited after years apart. His hands are gentle, even when eager, when he reaches for a condom on his bedside table —and even more so when he helps you put it on. Tender, as he moves with you, letting you take all the time you need to adjust.

Tender, when he wraps your ankles around his waist and begins to move slowly, his head resting in the crook of your neck, whispering words that send shivers down your spine.

But loving, when he lifts his gaze to yours, dark eyes locked on you as he quickens his pace, hitting all the right spots, filling you completely with each movement.

Loving, as your breaths mingle, your bodies moving together as one, bound and desperate, shivers overtaking you, you holding him tighter as he grows more insistent.

Yes, loving, as you reach the peak together, each other’s name a whispered prayer on your lips, trembling under him, while he uses every ounce of strength to keep from crushing you.

After a few seconds, he collapses beside you, your ragged breaths the only sound in the quiet room. As you slowly come down from the high, his arm wraps around your waist, pulling you close, pressing your chest to his without concern for your sweaty bodies. He buries his head in your neck, sighing with contentment, peppering small kisses across your skin.

The smile on your lips refuses to fade. You play with his hair, stroke his neck. He traces little circles in the hollow of your back, and you remain like that for a long time, simply enjoying the serenity of the moment.

Your eyes drift again to the golden star on his bedside table, and you reach for it. He leans back to watch you, amused. “Thanks for this, by the way.”

You smile, satisfied. “You like it?”

He nods softly, kissing your shoulder. After a moment of silence, he murmurs, “Want to help me decorate my tree tomorrow? You could put it on…”

“Jeon Jungkook, you’re telling me you still haven’t done your tree?!” You exclaim, outraged. He just smiles and shrugs.

“I wanted to do it with you,” he admits softly, and you’re left speechless, your heart warm with a wave of affection that almost brings tears to your eyes.

He kisses your shoulder again, a smile spreading across his lips with a knowing look —as if he understands exactly what’s running through your mind. Then he pulls you close again, nestling your head in his neck this time, resting his cheek on your head like you’re his personal teddy bear.

You let him —partly because his chest is the perfect pillow— but you can’t help murmuring after a few seconds, “I thought you didn’t do Christmas… that you hated it…”

He doesn’t answer —but you can hear him chuckle softly, feeling his smile against your head.

“Hey, Twinkle,” you hear him murmur after a while, and you mumble back to show you’re still awake. He sounds almost solemn as he says, “I think I hate Christmas… except when it’s with you.”

“I told you so,” You whisper with a smile as sleep finally claims you.

His chest vibrates against your cheek as he laughs softly —and that’s the last thing you feel before drifting off.

DECEMBER 25.

Usually, you hate waking up in the morning —often because it also means going to work and resuming that lousy life.

Yet, unsurprisingly, you’ve always loved Christmas mornings.

The tree surrounded by gifts, the smell of cookies filling the air, everyone smiling, laughing…

But above all, that smile that comes to you the moment you wake, even before you open your eyes, as you nuzzle your face into the soft pillow beside you, feeling it shift closer, holding you tighter—

Wait. Who’s shifting?

Like a bolt of lightning, you sit up, coming face to chest with a bare-chested Jungkook, a tray of cookies on his stomach, half a pastry in his mouth, his arm wrapped around you. His big doe eyes meet yours, and you remember.

Your argument from the night before. Your return to his place, then the wildly passionate moments that followed…

You feel your cheeks warm, but you don’t move. Jungkook, for his part, slightly widens his eyes, and that alone makes you smile, even just a little —because you know perfectly well that at this moment, he’s afraid you’ll regret what happened and bolt.

If only he knew you have no intention of leaving —his chest is by far the best pillow you’ve ever had.

Slowly, you reach for a cookie, taking a bite without a word. His eyes follow your hand, but he still doesn’t move, as if afraid to scare you. “Did you make these yourself?” You ask after a moment, because the image of Jungkook getting up to make cookies for you makes your heart skip a beat.

He just nods. “I know you love them.” You smile. He smiles too. And in that moment, you truly feel at home.

“I’ve got something for you,” he says after a while, getting up to fetch something from a cupboard. You slip on his t-shirt while he’s gone, and when he returns, he holds a small package wrapped in red paper, tied with a white bow. He hands it to you silently, and you stay there, speechless.

“You got me a gift?!”

Again, he shrugs, but the tops of his cheeks are flushed. “I know how much Christmas and all those silly traditions mean to you. And you’re not with your family this year, so I thought…”

You smile like an idiot, your heart swelling with affection. That fool is really going to kill you one day.

You study the package for a few seconds before lighting up. Jumping up, you push him gently onto the mattress and run off.

“What are you doing?”

“Don’t move !” You order, laughing at his clearly confused expression.

In the living room, you find your suitcase where you left it and open it without hesitation, rummaging until you find what you’re looking for. When your fingers close around it, you glance around the room, spotting an old piece of newspaper that you wrap around your find before heading back to the bedroom.

Jungkook waits on the bed, the package in his hands, and you sit beside him. You exchange gifts, but he nudges you lightly with his elbow.

He chuckles as, like always, you tear the wrapping paper with zero delicacy —you’ve always done it this way as a kid, while he always made sure to keep it intact. You gasp softly when you discover a lovely beige cardigan embroidered with tiny blue and yellow stars. The wool feels so soft under your fingers, just the way you like it, and you melt when you see the small embroidered message on the wrist.

‘Twinkle, Twinkle, little star.’

“It made me think of you. Not in a weird way, okay, just… you know. We can always swap it if you don’t—”

You cut him off by leaning in to kiss his cheek, instantly shutting him up. “I love it,” you smile, and he smiles too, silently proud. You don’t wait another second before trying it on, and you fall instantly for the cardigan, both beautiful and cozy. Only once the garment is carefully folded on your lap do you turn to Jungkook, this time giving him a little nudge. “Your turn,” you say, smiling.

His eyes widen, and he looks at the small newspaper-wrapped package like he’d completely forgotten it. Silently, still so careful in his movements, he removes the paper and lets it fall to the floor.

He freezes as his fingers close around the small golden frame on his lap. Inside, the photo isn’t very large —barely postcard size— but big enough to recognize the faces.

Jungkook and you, maybe seven years old, in front of the town hall’s huge Christmas tree.

It’s easy to see that you forced Jungkook to pose with you, judging by how you’re holding his hand. Mini-you beams, wrapped in that purple coat you adored. Jungkook stands next to you, barely taller than you were back then. Except he’s turned toward you, not the camera.

He looks at you with those big dark eyes that seemed enormous when he was small, a little pout on his face, as if sulking, yet his eyes sparkle with joy —it’s impossible not to see.

He opens his mouth to say something but stays silent, and you rest your chin on his shoulder, prouder than ever as you notice tears starting to form in his eyes.

“I found this on my mom’s desk,” you explain softly, smiling. “I love this photo. I thought I’d take it with me, but actually, I like that it’s you who has it.”

He turns to you, looking as touched as if you’d just offered him a kidney to save his life. You laugh softly, shrugging. “I can always make another print if I want it at home.” He nods, eyes shining with a light you can’t describe, but immediately adore.

“Thanks,” he says simply, caressing the photo with his thumb. “I love it.”

“I know,” you reply, tossing your hair over your shoulder, making him laugh. Then, straightening up, “So, breakfast? I heard we have a tree to decorate too…”

You barely finish when he gently pulls you back by the wrist.

“Hey, before we get up, I was… I mean, I was wondering… Your transfer to Fernsworth. Are you planning to go?”

You stare at him, surprised by the sudden change in topic. “I guess. I don’t know. Why?”

He avoids your gaze, cheeks red. “Well, let’s just say… it’s stupid, I know, but… I’ve been thinking that I’d like to move. For a while, actually.” He meets your eyes, hesitant, as yours widen. “And I was thinking… Well, you know, I wouldn’t have trouble finding a job in a big city like Fernsworth, so... If that’s what you want?” His big dark eyes almost plead, hesitant but full of hope at the same time.

You can’t find a word, too shocked. And moved too. You can’t believe he’s ready to follow you there.

“Well, I’m just suggesting,” he continues after a moment, stammering a bit, and you realize you haven’t answered. “I’d totally understand if you…”

“And your dad’s house?” You cut in.

He raises his eyebrows, surprised —it clearly wasn’t what he expected. He shrugs. “I’ll keep it. I’ll go back from time to time. We can just come back for Christmas.”

He says it almost casually, as if it’s the most logical thing in the world, and it makes something flutter in you —in the delicious sense.

God, you love him so much.

He adds something you barely hear, too busy watching him lovingly, until your lips cut him off, pressing against his. Though surprised, he doesn’t take long to respond, one hand on your waist.

Your noses brush as we finally pull apart. “Okay,” you say simply, smiling.

He nearly chokes. “Okay? I mean, are you serious? I was pretty sure you were going to tell me to piss off…”

You place a hand over your chest, feigning outrage. “As if I’d refuse a personal chef at home!”

He squints, making you laugh. “So you only love me for my cooking, huh? I knew it.”

You laugh harder as he grumbles. “For your big arms too, don’t worry.”

“That, I had guessed, Twinkle,” he chuckles, then uses those same big arms to pull you onto his lap and kiss you again.

Yes, there’s no denying it —you really love Christmas mornings.

Thanks for reading ! Don't hesitate to reblog, like or comment ! I always love to hear 'bout what you guys thought of the chap :) Also don't hesitate to ask if you wanna be tagged in my next posts !

The classroom buzzed faintly with low chatter and the soft hum of the overhead fan, lazily spinning in the warm air. Pages rustled. A pencil rolled off a desk and clattered to the floor. Somewhere in the back, someone was half-asleep with their head against the window.

And in the middle of it all, Y/N was glaring at Jungkook.

"That’s not even the right metaphor," she muttered under her breath.

Jungkook didn’t look up from his notebook. “It is if you actually understood the poem.”

She scoffed. “I understood it fine. You just love the sound of your own voice.”

“Good thing it’s a nice voice, then.”

Jimin, sitting between them like some long-suffering referee, groaned softly. “You two are like divorced parents. I’m begging you—let me get through one class without a custody battle over Shakespeare.”

Y/N leaned over Jimin to poke Jungkook in the arm with her pen. “You think you’re so smart just because Mr. Kim actually likes your essays.”

“He likes them because they’re good. Unlike your tragic five-paragraph breakdown of 'Romeo + Juliet' where you called Romeo a walking red flag.”

“Am I wrong?”

Jimin stifled a laugh. Jungkook rolled his eyes but the corner of his mouth twitched.

The bell rang before Y/N could get another jab in.

Outside the classroom, muffled voices were already echoing down the hallway.

“Lunchtime!” Hoseok’s voice cut through the noise like a trumpet. “Let’s goooo, I’m starving.”

As students poured out into the corridor, Y/N grabbed her things and slung her denim jacket over one arm. Jimin stuck close by her side, nudging her playfully.

“You’re gonna marry him one day, y’know,” he whispered.

She scoffed. “I’d rather marry my Walkman.”

Jungkook, just ahead, turned slightly like he’d heard—but didn’t say anything. Just that little smirk again.

Outside the classroom, the rest of the crew was already waiting — Hoseok with a candy bar halfway to his mouth, Mina reapplying her lip gloss using the reflection in the vending machine, Jiwoo balancing her textbook on her head like a crown, and Yoongi leaning against the wall with his headphones in, pretending not to care.

“There they are,” Mina sang. “Finally. What took you so long—fighting again?”

“No,” Jimin said. “Just academic foreplay.”

Y/N elbowed him.

They all fell into step down the hallway, laughing, bumping shoulders, voices rising and falling in that chaotic harmony only best friends could make.

-

The cafeteria was full, so the group had claimed their usual spot — a half-shaded corner of the courtyard, where Hoseok’s guitar case was used as a bench and someone had definitely carved “KIM WAS HERE” into the picnic table.

Y/N popped a fry into her mouth while Jiwoo dramatically told the story of how she tripped over her own shoelaces that morning and almost took Mina down with her.

“It was like watching a slow-motion disaster,” Mina said between bites of her sandwich. “I literally felt my life flash before my eyes.”

“Don’t blame me!” Jiwoo whined. “These are the school’s floors, not mine. Slippery as hell.”

“Or maybe your boots are just for fashion, not function,” Yoongi muttered, eyes behind his sunglasses, sipping his iced tea.

Everyone laughed.

Jimin stole a grape off Y/N’s tray; she slapped his hand but offered him another anyway. Jungkook leaned back on his elbows beside her, legs stretched out in front of him, chewing gum and watching the clouds like he couldn’t care less about anything — except he kept glancing her way every now and then.

That was when Mark, Dongyeon, and Chanyeol strolled over, reeking of too much cologne and fake confidence.

Mark leaned against the end of the table. “Ladies.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Gentlemen. Or… whatever you are.”

Jiwoo choked on her drink.

Mina looked amused. “What’s up?”

“There’s a party at mine tonight,” Mark said. “Figured we’d invite the pretty half of this table.”

Chanyeol winked. “You girls should come. Bring that chaotic energy. We like that.”

Dongyeon added, “It’ll be fun. No parents, music, drinks... all the things good girls need to loosen up.”

The air shifted.

Yoongi pushed his sunglasses down, eyes sharp now. “You done?”

Mark blinked. “What?”

Jungkook sat up straighter. His gum hit the ground. “They said no.”

“No one actually said no,” Dongyeon muttered.

“They don’t have to,” Jimin said, voice light but eyes hard. “But since you’re not picking up on social cues, let me translate: no means no. Leave.”

Mark snorted. “Damn, relax. Didn't know they came with bodyguards.”

Hoseok stood. “And you didn’t come with manners.”

The courtyard quieted around them — not enough for teachers to notice, but enough for a few heads to turn.

Mark raised his hands in mock surrender. “Alright, alright. Message received.”

As the trio walked off, Chanyeol threw one last wink at Y/N. “Offer still stands.”

Before Y/N could respond, Jungkook said flatly, “She’s not interested.”

The second they were gone, Jiwoo broke the silence. “Well, that escalated quickly.”

“Ugh,” Mina rolled her eyes. “I wasn’t gonna go anyway. Their parties are just cheap beer and bad flirting.”

Y/N glanced at Jungkook, whose jaw was still tight. “You alright there, hero?”

He shrugged, not looking at her. “They’re just idiots. Doesn’t mean you have to listen to them.”

She smirked. “Aw, was that you caring?”

He gave her a look. “Don’t get used to it.”

“You so totally care,” Jimin said, grinning.

Jungkook kicked his shin under the table.

-

Mina’s place was their go-to hangout spot — big enough to fit the chaos of seven teenagers and loud enough that no one cared if someone accidentally knocked over a lamp during charades.

By the time they got there, shoes were already piled by the door and someone had claimed the remote. Jungkook tossed his backpack in the corner, flopped on the bean bag, and declared he wasn’t moving unless someone bribed him with snacks.

Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re already eating my chips.”

“Exactly. You bribed me without knowing.”

Mina and Jiwoo were arguing over which CD to play next — Backstreet Boys or Nirvana — while Hoseok tried to convince Yoongi to play a stupid card game he swore he wasn’t rigging.

Then the door creaked open.

Mina’s mom peeked in, smiling warmly. “Well, well, the usual suspects.”

“Hi, Mrs. Lee,” the chorus chimed.

She looked around the room like it brought her joy to see her daughter’s life laid out in laughter and tangled limbs.

“You all staying for dinner?” she asked.

“Only if you’re making your kimchi stew,” Jimin said brightly.

“Oh, I might be persuaded,” she teased — then turned to Mina, voice shifting.

“By the way, I ran into Mark’s mom at the store. She said Mark’s throwing a pre-end-of-semester party tonight. Apparently you girls turned down his invite?”

Mina froze halfway through detangling her hair. “Yeah, uh… wasn’t really our scene.”

Mrs. Lee gave her a pointed look. “Well, she seemed really disappointed. Said Mark had been looking forward to you girls coming. Poor thing, probably nervous about throwing a party.”

Jiwoo muttered, “Yeah, nervous is one word for it.”

But Mina’s mom had already decided. “You should go. Be polite. Just for a little while.”

The boys all exchanged looks. Jungkook’s eyebrows raised. “Did she just guilt-trip you into partying?”

“Apparently so,” Mina sighed.

“We’ll go,” Y/N said with a shrug. “We’ll make an appearance, sip some soda, judge his music choices, and dip.”

“You guys should come too,” Mina said, turning to the boys.

Jimin raised a brow. “You just assumed we’d follow you into social hell?”

“Yes,” Mina deadpanned. “Because you’re whipped for us.”

Hoseok clapped his hands together. “Alright, alright. One hour. That’s it. We go, we dance ironically, we leave.”

-

“No, you can’t wear that,” Jiwoo said, snatching a sparkly crop top out of Y/N’s hands.

“Why not?”

“Because I wanted it.”

The girls raided Mina’s closet like they were prepping for a concert instead of a high school party thrown by a boy who once got suspended for graffitiing his own locker.

Meanwhile, in the living room:

Jimin sprawled on the couch. “Should I change or do I already look too good for this party?”

“You wore that to biology,” Jungkook said.

“And still looked better than you,” Jimin replied.

Yoongi didn’t bother changing — he just swapped his hoodie for a leather jacket and called it a day.

By the time the girls came out — Mina in platform heels, Jiwoo in glitter, Y/N in a cropped tee and low-rise jeans — the boys actually stopped talking for a beat.

Hoseok let out a whistle. “Damn. Okay, maybe we do stay longer than an hour.”

Y/N looked at Jungkook. He looked… unreadable for half a second. And then he tossed her his car keys.

“You call shotgun.”

She caught them. “Why me?”

“Because if I have to suffer through Mark’s voice for an hour, at least I should have decent company.”

-

They stood outside Mina’s driveway, debating the car situation.

“Yoongi’s driving me,” Jimin said, already sliding into the passenger seat.

“Obviously,” Yoongi muttered.

Hoseok gestured to his car. “Girls, hop in.”

Mina paused. “Wait — where’s Y/N going?”

“I’ll take her,” Jungkook said before anyone else answered.

Y/N blinked. “You sure?”

He shrugged. “My car’s quieter.”

Mina raised an eyebrow at her but didn’t say anything.

Y/N slipped into Jungkook’s passenger seat, tossing the keys back to him. “You always this generous with rides?”

He smirked. “Only with people who argue about Shakespeare like it’s a sport.”

The others pulled away, leaving just the two of them under the soft pink glow of the sunset.

The car doors shut.

The music turned low.

And for the first time all day — it was just the two of them.

Jungkook had one hand on the wheel, the other resting loose on the gearshift. The windows were cracked, letting in the breeze, and the stereo played something mellow — probably one of Yoongi’s burned CDs. Lo-fi with a bit of a grunge edge.

“You don’t mind giving me a ride?” Y/N asked casually.

He shrugged, eyes on the road. “Wouldn’t have offered if I did.”

“Could’ve made Jiwoo sit on Mina’s lap in Hoseok’s car.”

“I could’ve,” he said, smirking faintly. “But then you’d be stuck in a car with Dongyeon’s house in your future.”

She laughed. “God, imagine.”

“Don’t even joke about it.”

Y/N nudged his arm lightly. “What, jealous?”

Jungkook glanced at her, jaw twitching ever so slightly. “Of Dongyeon?”

“Of anyone,” she teased.

“Why would I be jealous?”

She tilted her head. “I dunno. You were awfully quick to shut them down earlier. Kind of heroic. Hot, even.”

He rolled his eyes, but she didn’t miss the way his grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

“They’re not good guys,” he said, quieter. “Not the kind who look at you the way they should.”

“And what’s the right way to look at me, Jeon?”

This time he glanced at her — really looked. And for a moment, his voice dropped, softer, less guarded.

“Like you’re not just something to win.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

The car settled into silence, but it wasn’t awkward. It was thick with all the things they weren’t saying.

Then she smiled, leaning back again, breaking the tension. “So philosophical all of a sudden. You trying to win me over with depth now?”

He scoffed. “Nah. Just tired of guys who think throwing parties gives them the right to hit on whoever they want.”

“Sounds like someone’s taking this personally.”

He didn’t answer at first. Then:

“Maybe I am.”

That hung in the air.

She looked over at him again, eyes narrowing slightly. “You’re being weird today.”

He glanced at her again, his voice low. “You make me weird.”

Her heart did a little stutter-step.

Before she could say anything, his phone buzzed in the console. He ignored it. Then it buzzed again. And again.

Y/N peeked over. “Someone’s popular.”

He glanced, saw the name, and rolled his eyes before flipping the phone facedown. “Just Hana. From science. She’s been weird lately.”

Y/N raised a brow. “Weird how?”

“She asked if I wanted to go to the party with her,” he said, casually, like it meant nothing. “I said no.”

“Oh?” Her tone was too light.

“Yeah.” A beat. “Didn’t want to go with anyone else.”

She looked out the window, hiding the tiny smile tugging at her lips. “You’re really laying it on thick tonight.”

He shrugged, a little smirk forming. “Maybe I’m finally done pretending I don’t mean it.”

Y/N didn’t respond right away. But when they pulled up to the party house, music thumping faintly in the distance, she turned to him.

“I like this version of you.”

“What version?”

“The one that’s just a little jealous. And not afraid to show it.”

He glanced at her, cocky smirk replaced by something gentler.

“Stick around tonight,” he said, voice low. “You might like what else you find.”

-

The bass was already thumping by the time Jungkook pulled up along the curb, headlights washing over a line of cars crammed into Mark’s street. Multicolored lights leaked out through the living room windows. People milled around on the lawn, red solo cups in hand, yelling over music and laughter.

He killed the engine and looked over at Y/N. “You sure you wanna do this?”

She leaned forward, peering at the scene. “Not even a little.”

“Wanna ditch and hit the convenience store instead? Instant ramen and peach soda?”

She smiled, tempted. “Don’t make this harder than it already is.”

Just then, Yoongi’s car pulled up behind them. Hobi’s headlights followed seconds later.

The gang regrouped on the sidewalk, dressed like a band of misfits forced into a high school teen drama.

“I already regret this,” Jiwoo muttered, tugging her jacket tighter around her.

“You and me both,” Yoongi sighed.

Mina groaned. “Let’s just go in, make a loop, and get out.”

As they approached the porch, the music grew louder—fast-paced 90s hip hop, all bass and no taste. Jungkook lingered close to Y/N, his shoulder brushing hers as they climbed the steps.

One of them knocked.

A beat passed.

Then the door cracked open—and there stood Mark, frozen mid-sip of his drink.

“Oh.” His eyes trailed over the girls first. “Didn’t think you were coming.”

Mina crossed her arms. “Yeah, well, my mom ran into your mom.”

Mark blinked. “Seriously?”

“She made us come,” Jiwoo added flatly. “So say thank you to Mrs. Lee.”

His gaze flicked to the boys. “Didn’t know this was a plus-one situation.”

Y/N raised an eyebrow. “Problem?”

Jungkook stepped forward, calm but unreadable. “We’ll only be here a bit. We won’t get in your way.”

Mark hesitated—clearly annoyed, but too proud to say no. “Yeah. Sure. Whatever.”

He stepped aside, letting them in.

The second the door opened fully, music hit them like a wave. The living room was packed—kids dancing, some standing around the kitchen shouting over each other, the lights dimmed and replaced by neon strips and someone’s terrible strobe setup. A couple was already making out near the coat rack.

“Classy,” Yoongi muttered.

They filed in, awkwardly scanning the room.

“I need a drink,” Jimin said immediately.

“Peach soda doesn’t sound so bad now, huh?” Jungkook said to Y/N under his breath.

She grinned. “We’re committed. Let’s suffer.”

Hoseok motioned toward the kitchen. “We’ll do a lap. Grab snacks. Scout the exits in case we need to make a dramatic escape.”

As they moved deeper into the house, Mark disappeared into the crowd—but not before throwing one last look at Y/N.

Jungkook noticed.

Of course he noticed.

He didn’t say anything, but his hand brushed the small of her back, gently guiding her away from the doorway, his voice low in her ear.

“Stay close, yeah?”

-

The house was packed.

It smelled like cheap cologne, orange soda, and someone’s burned popcorn. The music bounced off the walls, some mixtape of late-90s bangers that had been left on loop. Every conversation was a shout, every hallway a squeeze.

Y/N stuck close to Jungkook’s side as they moved through the crowd, shoulder-to-shoulder in the worst way. Not that she minded. He was warm and familiar, even in the chaos.

He leaned in toward her, voice low in her ear. “You alright?”