Breathe ♡

You laugh anyway, tossing your charger into your tote. “I have to go see my parents. And then clean, grocery shop, return that thing that’s been sitting in my bag for three weeks, try not to spiral into a panic attack—just Saturday things.”

“Wow,” he says, voice flat. “Sexy.”

“Don’t pretend like my crippling to-do list doesn’t turn you on.”

“Oh, it does,” he groans. “You scribbling little notes in that scary planner? That’s peak hot girl behavior.”

You roll your eyes, walking toward the kitchen for coffee. “You know this isn’t a sleepover, right? You don’t actually live here.”

“I’m aware,” he calls after you, voice sing-song. “But you let me stay the night, so by the rules of fuckbuddy law, I get coffee privileges.”

“Who made those rules?”

“Me. I’m the mayor of casual hookups. Respect my office.”

You return with your mug, taking a long sip. “You’re lucky I don’t charge you rent.”

“I’d pay in very creative ways,” he says, stretching his arms above his head in a way that absolutely should not be legal. “Very. Creative. Ways.”

You glance at the time on your phone. “Well, unfortunately for you and your creative payment plans, I’ve got to go.”

He pouts like a child being told recess is over. “So that’s it? I get kicked out into the cruel world with nothing but last night’s memories and a boner?”

“You’ll live.”

“Barely.”

You head to the door with your bag, pausing before you open it. “Lock up behind you.”

Taehyung salutes you from the bed. “Yes, captain. Until next time, my cruel queen.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Don’t eat all my cereal.”

“No promises!”

Taehyung keeps spamming you with messages until you pull into your parents’ driveway, phone lighting up like it’s possessed.

[11:36 AM] Tae: where’s the coffee. be honest.

[11:36 AM] Tae: also why do you have like… seven bags of quinoa??

[11:37 AM] Tae: are you okay

[11:38 AM] Tae: help me

[11:38 AM] Tae: if i die in your apartment, it’s your fault

[11:39 AM] Tae: okay nvm found the coffee i love you

[11:39 AM] Tae: wait no i don’t that was the caffeine talking

[11:40 AM] Tae: also the sugar was in the fridge?? are you a serial killer

You can’t help the little laugh that escapes you as you scroll, thumb tapping a quick reply.

[11:40] You: stop touching my stuff or i will block you.

[11:40] Tae: kinky

You ignore that.

Kim Taehyung makes everything so damn complicated and yet so stupidly easy at the same time. Like, he’s the human equivalent of throwing glitter in the air—chaotic, unnecessary, but admittedly very pretty. He talks too much. Sends too many selfies. Wears your robe like he owns it. But he also listens when you rant, hugs you like you’re breakable, and makes your coffee just how you like it—when he actually finds the ingredients.

He’s also extremely good in bed. Like, top-tier, Olympic-gold-medal-in-thrusting good. You’d give him a solid 11/10 if it didn’t feel like stroking his already inflated ego.

You have thought about it before—what being with him would look like. But every time the fantasy starts to form, it fizzles out just as fast. Because Taehyung? He’s a walking red flag with mood swings and a god complex. He’s emotionally unavailable, possibly allergic to commitment, and once said “monogamy is a social construct” while eating cereal shirtless.

So yeah. He’s hot. He’s fun. He’s probably texting you right now asking if he can borrow a pair of your socks. But he’s not boyfriend material.

Clingy fuck buddy it is.

You put your phone on Do Not Disturb just as you climb out of your car. The second your foot hits the pavement, you hear your mom yelling from the front porch.

“There she is! Finally! You said eleven! It’s basically noon!”

You sigh, slipping into your practiced smile. “Traffic.”

“Sure. Come kiss your father.”

Your dad’s in his usual spot on the porch, coffee in hand, pretending he’s not amused by your mom’s dramatics.

You wave. “Hi, dad.”

“Morning,” he grunts. “You look tired.”

You want to say well I didn’t sleep much because I was too busy getting railed by a man who thinks air fryers are sentient, but instead you just smile and say, “Didn’t get much sleep.”

Your mom tuts and ushers you inside with a fuss. “You young people and your strange schedules.”

You shoot her a grin. “You’d be surprised.”

Vicky gently grabs you by the wrist, pulling you to the side as you enter the house.

“Heard Jungkook played a few days ago,” she says casually, as if even bringing up Jungkook’s name doesn’t flare her up with irritation.

You hum, noncommittal, mostly because you don’t feel like unpacking that whole situation with Vicky before you’ve had any sugar in your system. “Yeah. He did.”

“That’s all?” She raises a brow.

“That’s all,” you say, brushing past her.

You don’t have the energy to explain the layers of tension and warmth and unresolved mess between you and Jungkook—not to Vicky, who has her own (unsolicited) commentary on your friendship with him. Besides, you’re still piecing it together yourself.

You head into the kitchen where Leah is already sitting like a little gremlin, legs folded up on the stool, waiting for you.

“There she is,” she grins, leaning over to press a soft kiss to your cheek. “Girl, I made crème brulée. You gotta give me a taste test.”

“Bring it out,” you say, finally smiling as you drop your bag and lean your hip against the counter. “Let’s see what all the hype is about.”

Leah stands up dramatically, like she’s about to present a Michelin-starred dish on MasterChef. Vicky follows behind, arms still crossed like she’s itching to circle back to the Jungkook thing, but stays quiet—for now.

“You’ve been avoiding us,” Leah says sing-song as she grabs the ramekin from the fridge. “Which makes me think either you’ve been in a depressive spiral… or you’re hooking up with someone you’re not telling us about.”

Vicky snorts. “Honestly, could be both.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ve just been busy. I have a life, you know.”

“Suuure,” Leah says, placing the ramekin in front of you. “But your life doesn’t make crème brulée and ignore group texts for 48 hours straight.”

You grin despite yourself. “Okay, this looks kinda insane, not gonna lie.”

“Tap it,” she says, holding her breath.

You grab a spoon and give it a gentle smack—the sugar top cracks perfectly.

Leah gasps like she just won a medal. “DID YOU HEAR THAT?! I told you I got it right.”

You take a bite. “Leah… this is stupid good.”

“She’s been unbearable all morning,” Vicky mutters, sipping her lukewarm coffee. “She forced me to do a blind taste test at eight a.m.”

“Because I’m a culinary icon,” Leah says, beaming.

“You’re a menace,” Vicky deadpans.

“Soooo,” Leah says, dragging the word until it becomes a warning, “are you hooking up with someone?”

You lean back in your seat, one hand ruffling your hair. “Maybe I am.”

“Knew it,” Vicky mutters, smug like she just cracked a case. “You’ve had that freshly-fucked glow for weeks.”

Leah gasps. “I told you it wasn’t just new moisturizer!”

“Okay, first of all, rude. Second, I’m literally just… chilling. No big deal.”

“Uh huh,” Vicky deadpans. “Just chilling. Meanwhile someone’s breaking your back on the regular.”

You grin. “Someone’s helping me with my stress management, let’s say that.”

Leah squints at you. “Do we know him?”

“No.”

“Do you like him?”

You pause, blink. “I like that he leaves when I tell him to... Sometimes... and brings snacks.”

Vicky claps. “That’s growth.”

“He talks too much after sex though,” you say, grabbing a cookie off the counter. “Thinks I wanna discuss jazz theory while I’m still catching my breath.”

Leah laughs. “Wait. Is this the guy who got lost in your kitchen trying to find coffee the other day?”

You smirk. “The very same.”

“Oh my God,” Vicky says. “He texted you, didn’t he?”

You wordlessly flash your phone screen with six unread texts from Taehyung. One of them just says:

“where’s the fucking sugar i’m begging u i’m eating cereal like a prisoner”

They both burst out laughing.

“This man,” Leah says between wheezes, “is your reward for getting your life together?”

“I never said I was doing great. I said I was managing.”

“Are you gonna keep seeing him?” Vicky asks, still giggling.

You shrug. “Probably. He’s fun. Keeps things light. Doesn’t ask dumb questions like ‘what are we?’ or ‘have you eaten today?’”

Leah grins. “So you’re thriving.”

“Obviously.”

Leah moves around the kitchen with the kind of grace that only comes from familiarity, pouring coffee into mismatched mugs she’s had since high school. The smell is rich, warm — a little stronger than you’d make it yourself, but comforting all the same. The three of you shuffle into the living room like it’s muscle memory, each one naturally taking the spot you’ve claimed a hundred times before. It’s easy, effortless. The kind of comfort only years can bring.

You curl up on the couch, fingers wrapped around the warm ceramic of your cup. The cushions dip just the way you remember them — this couch has survived a lot of heartbreaks and way too many spilled drinks.

“Where’s Nick?” you ask, not really thinking much of it. It’s just something you say when someone’s missing.

Leah leans back into the loveseat, tucking a blanket around her legs. “He’s at the Jeons’,” she says, completely unbothered.

You nod, already knowing she means Jungwoo’s place. Nick’s been best friends with Jungkook’s younger brother since forever — they’ve been inseparable since middle school, and by now he basically lives over there. The Jeon house is his second home, just like it used to be yours.

“I’ll give him a call,” Vicky says, already unlocking her phone with a dramatic sigh. “We barely get time like this anymore. He should come hang out with us.”

You hum in agreement, taking a slow sip of your coffee. “He probably thinks we’re gonna start trauma-dumping the second he walks in,” you joke.

“Honestly, he’s not wrong,” Leah adds, grinning as she pulls her hair up into a messy bun. “But he can survive a little emotional depth.”

Vicky rolls her eyes as she puts the phone to her ear. “If he picks up on the first try, I’m buying a lottery ticket.”

You glance around the room while she waits — the soft ticking of the wall clock, the slight creak of the ceiling fan above, a framed photo of the four of you at Leah’s high school graduation still hanging a little crooked on the wall. You didn’t realize how much you missed this — not the house, not even the coffee, but the quiet sense of belonging that comes with being around people who get you.

“It’s so weird that this used to be, like, every day,” Leah says, eyes scanning the ceiling like she’s watching a memory float by. “Now we need to schedule hangouts like we’re CEOs or something.”

“Yeah,” you say, your voice quieter than you expect. “I miss this.”

Vicky groans, “Ugh, he sent me to voicemail. Whatever, he’ll show up. Eventually.”

You all laugh, because that’s just so Nick. Always the last to arrive, always the one who makes an entrance.

The moment isn’t flashy, or even all that eventful. But it feels like something you’ll remember. A lazy Sunday afternoon and some coffee that’s too strong but made with love. No pressure to talk about anything heavy, no expectations — just a soft space to exist in for a while.

And honestly, that’s enough.

Just as Vicky pulls the phone away from her ear with an annoyed sigh, it starts ringing — his name lighting up the screen like a miracle.

She stares at it, stunned. “Okay, what the hell?”

You and Leah both lean in to look at the screen like it’s a rare artifact.

“No way,” you say, laughing. “Nick’s actually calling you back? Right now?”

Vicky answers dramatically, “This must be a sign of the end times.”

“Hello?” she says into the phone, already sounding skeptical. “Oh now you wanna pick up?”

You can only hear her half of the conversation, but you can imagine Nick on the other end — probably sprawled out on the Jeons’ beanbag, gaming controller in one hand, phone pressed to his cheek.

“No, we’re not dying, idiot,” she continues, exasperated but fond. “But we’re all here — me, Leah, and our lazy-ass sister — and you should be too.”

You sip your coffee as Vicky rolls her eyes dramatically again, clearly being fed some kind of excuse.

“Well put down the controller or say goodbye to your dignity, because I’m putting you on speaker.”

She taps her screen and tosses the phone onto the couch between all of you. “Say hi, loser.”

Nick’s voice comes through, slightly crackly but clear. “Yo! Okay, okay, chill. I’m coming, alright? I just gotta finish this round.”

“Told you,” Leah smirks.

“Finish it fast or I’m eating everything without you,” you snark.

There’s a pause. Then Nick goes, “You guys suck,” before hanging up.

The three of you burst out laughing.

“God, I missed this,” Vicky says, letting her head fall back against the cushions.

You don’t say it out loud, but you did too. It’s rare now — the ease, the messiness, the way you all still slip back into each other like puzzle pieces that still fit, even after years of growing up.

You glance toward the door like you can already hear his footsteps on the porch.

“He’ll probably show up in, what, an hour?” Leah teases.

“Or fifteen minutes,” you say, smiling. “If he thinks I really am eating his food.”

“Yoooo,” Nick yells as he bursts into the house exactly twenty minutes later, arms open like he’s walking into a sitcom set. He immediately goes for everyone’s cheeks, pinching each of you with dramatic enthusiasm like he’s not the literal youngest here. “Missed me?”

“Unfortunately,” Vicky says dryly, slapping his hand away.

“Your energy is so loud,” Leah mutters, even as she’s smiling, trying to avoid his fingers. He gets to you last, practically squishing your face in his palms. “Ugh, you’re all so weird,” he teases before dropping into the armchair like a king returning from war.

Right behind him, like an awkward little shadow, comes Jungwoo. He looks up with a shy smile, offering a timid “Hey,” and you instantly brighten.

“Jungwoo!” you say, pulling him into a warm, quick hug. He lets out a quiet laugh, and you pat the seat next to you, already scooting over to make room.

“Thanks,” he says, settling down carefully, like he doesn’t want to take up too much space. His presence is comforting though — calm and familiar in a way that never demands anything.

But then—

You hear the casual thump of sneakers on the hallway tiles and, a beat later, him.

Jungkook walks into the room like he owns the lease, all lazy posture and understated confidence. His hair’s a little messy, like he didn’t bother checking it before leaving the house — or maybe because he doesn’t have to. His hands are in his pockets, and his eyes scan the room like he’s just checking in on what’s his.

You don’t notice him right away, not until his presence actually reaches you — like the heat of a flame you didn’t realize was too close.

Your eyes flick toward Vicky before anything else, and sure enough, she’s already rolling hers, the irritation practically humming off her. Classic.

Jungkook doesn’t seem fazed. He leans down and presses a casual kiss to your cheek like it’s the most natural thing in the world — and maybe it is, maybe it’s just who he is, but the air still shifts slightly around the room, and you’re hyper-aware of it.

“Hey,” he murmurs, and it’s so brief, so soft, it’s almost a whisper.

You hum back already feeling the subtle undercurrent vibrating beneath what was just a chill hangout moment ago.

Nick, of course, is oblivious, already asking if there’s food in the kitchen. Leah’s staring between you and Jungkook like she’s trying to connect invisible strings. Jungwoo politely sips on some soda, and Vicky... Vicky looks like she’s trying not to throw something.

“Jungkook,” Vicky says with a dry cough, her voice laced in sugar-coated sarcasm as she shoots him a smile that feels more like a threat than a greeting.

Jungkook doesn’t miss a beat. He plasters on a polite grin, the kind that says I see you, but I’m not giving you the satisfaction, and replies, “Hey, Vicky.” His voice is casual, as he lowers himself into the open seat beside you. His knees knock yours lightly as he settles in, spreading his legs like he owns the damn couch.

You can practically hear the smugness in the shift of his body.

He leans back into the cushions like he’s been part of this family hangout every Sunday for the past ten years.

“So glad you two made it,” Leah says, eyes warm as they flick between Jungkook and Jungwoo. She’s the only one in the room who actually seems excited, cradling her mug like it’s a shield against the inevitable chaos.

“What, no love for me?” Nick gasps, placing a hand dramatically over his chest. “I walk in here after being ignored in the chat all week and you’re acting like I’m invisible?”

Leah rolls her eyes without looking at him. “Don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to, little bro.”

“You wound me,” Nick mutters, falling into the armchair like he’s been personally attacked.

You snort into your coffee. “What were you guys even doing before you came here?” you ask, turning your head just slightly toward Jungkook. He’s too close. His cologne smells like cedar and leather and something vaguely sweet, and it’s driving you crazy.

Jungkook stretches his arms over the back of the couch and shrugs. “Just gaming. Got sucked into a ten-round match. Jungwoo was rage quitting every five minutes.”

Jungwoo, still looking slightly nervous to be around this much estrogen, huffs from the corner. “Only because you kept stealing my kills.”

“I call that teamwork,” Jungkook says smugly.

“Amazing,” Vicky cuts in, her voice a touch too bright. She leans forward like she’s part of the conversation, even though she clearly wants to be anywhere else. “A group of full-grown men, spending their precious free time playing make-believe war on a flat screen. So inspiring. Truly peak masculinity.”

There’s a second of silence.

Jungkook just raises a brow. “Hey, don’t knock it till you’ve tried the high of landing a perfect sniper shot.”

“Right,” Vicky deadpans. “Because that’s what’s missing from my life. Digital murder.”

You hide your smirk behind your mug. Nick snorts out loud.

“Don’t take it personally, Kook,” you whisper under your breath, your lips brushing the rim of your cup. “She’s just mad because no one ever carried her to victory in Mario Kart.”

Jungkook chuckles low under his breath, and that stupid little sound warms the side of your neck.

“Please,” Vicky says, crossing her arms. “If I wanted to waste hours of my life, I’d re-download Tinder. At least that has real people.”

“Debatable,” Jungkook mutters, and even Leah lets out a laugh at that.

“Besides,” Vicky sing-songs, stretching her arms over the back of the chair like she owns the entire damn living room, “if I wanted to, just hypothetically speaking, spend my time engaging in murder…” —her gaze drifts pointedly toward Jungkook, slow and deliberate— “it sure as hell wouldn’t be the digital kind.”

A beat.

Jungkook blinks once, then exhales like she’s personally exhausted him. “Damn, Vick. I barely stepped into the house and you’re already out here threatening my life?”

“Who says I’m talking about you?” she snaps, lips curling into a sweet, venom-laced smile. “But I mean… if the shoe fits.”

Leah snorts from the couch, muttering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like, “Size ten in petty.”

Nick, spoon halfway to his mouth, glances between the two of them like he’s watching a tennis match. “You realize he’s a lawyer, right?” he says, around a mouthful of Leah’s crème brûlée. “He could probably put you in jail for, like, intent to commit murder. Or… psychological intimidation. That’s a thing, right?”

“Wow. Thank you, Nicholas,” Jungkook says, lifting his hand to his chest in mock appreciation. “Glad someone here respects the law.”

“Oh, boo hoo,” Vicky sighs, tossing her hand dramatically. “I’m so scared. What are you gonna do? Sue me for having bad vibes?”

Jungkook’s brows shoot up. “Don’t tempt me. I bill by the hour.”

Leah nearly chokes on her tea, covering her mouth to keep from laughing. “God, this feels like a deleted scene from Legally Blonde."

Vicky eyes Jungkook one last time before shifting her focus to her nails like he’s not even worth the continued energy. “Whatever. I’d win in court anyway.”

“You’d win by sheer volume of attitude,” Jungkook mutters.

“You’re damn right.”

“Anyways,” you say, drawing out the word like a life raft tossed into rising tension, “Where’s Nina? How is she?”

“Uhh…” Jungkook scratches the back of his head, a little too slowly. “She’s sick, so she’s resting a bit.”

“Again?” you ask, brows knitting, concern slipping into your voice before you can curb it. “She was feeling off the night you played too. Is she okay?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook shifts in his seat, a bit too quickly. “It’s probably just the weather changing, I'm not sure. But it's nothing serious.”

“Sounds like an excuse to me,” Vicky mutters under her breath, swirling her tea like it wronged her. “What is she, pregnant or something?” She lets out a short laugh, but no one joins in.

In fact, the air shifts—just slightly, but unmistakably.

You feel it first. Jungwoo straightens his shoulders like someone pressed a nerve in his spine. Nick stops mid-bite, his spoon hovering somewhere between the table and his mouth before he quickly lowers it like the dessert is suddenly too rich to swallow. He stares at his plate like it might hold the answer to why this room just dropped ten degrees.

And Jungkook?

Jungkook doesn’t laugh. Not really. He lets out a single, clipped chuckle that dies as quickly as it’s born. His jaw tightens—once, twice—his fingers twitch subtly at his knee. His breath comes shallow. Controlled.

“Of course not,” he says, voice just a tad too light, too quick. “Just a little cold. Happens.”

But his eyes don’t meet yours.

Vicky blinks, her expression faltering as she scans the room, the energy clearly not matching her intent. “I was just joking, guys,” she says slowly, like she’s unsure whether she should be apologizing or doubling down.

You offer her a small, almost sympathetic smile—because truly, you don’t think she meant it. But your stomach twists all the same. Because whatever she said hit something. Something tender. Something no one’s talking about.

And most of all, because Jungkook’s not looking at anyone anymore. Just at the edge of the coffee table. Like he’s suddenly a million miles away.

And for the life of you, you don’t know why.

The conversation trickles back after a few awkward gulps of coffee and half-hearted jokes. Leah tries her best, bless her, chattering about some new café that opened up in town. Nick throws in the occasional sarcastic comment to keep the rhythm from collapsing entirely. Jungwoo nods along like a man on autopilot.

But you can still feel the heaviness clinging to the room like smoke.

Jungkook’s unusually quiet now. He's answering questions when prompted, but his usual warmth is gone—like he packed it away with Nina’s name.

You’re not the only one who notices. Vicky’s arms are crossed tight, and her jaw ticks like she wants to say something but bites it back. Leah’s glance darts between the two of them, the peacemaker instincts activated but unsure where to step in.

Eventually, the opportunity comes when Leah gets up to take more dessert orders and Vicky follows her into the kitchen with a pointed, “We need more whipped cream,” which is clearly just code for let me vent for five minutes before I explode.

Nick and Jungwoo fall into their own small conversation—basketball, you think—something safe.

That’s when you nudge Jungkook’s leg.

He looks at you, slow. You nod toward the hallway.

“Come with me for a second?” you ask quietly.

He follows you without a word.

You stop near the coat rack in the hallway, just out of earshot. It’s dimmer here. Quieter. The hum of a refrigerator from the kitchen and soft chatter from the living room feel miles away.

“You okay?” you ask, voice gentle.

Jungkook shrugs. “Yeah. I told you—she’s just sick.”

You tilt your head, squinting at him. “I didn’t ask about Nina.”

That catches him off guard. His shoulders drop slightly, like you just called him out on holding his breath.

“I’m fine,” he says, this time without the fake lightness. “I just… didn’t expect that.”

You nod, arms crossing, not in defense, but in comfort. “Is there something going on you’re not telling me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. His tongue rolls over the inside of his cheek like he’s chewing on whether or not to speak. And then he exhales through his nose, sharp and quiet.

“There’s just stuff I’m… still figuring out.”

“Okay,” you say simply, not pushing.

His eyes meet yours for a second longer than necessary. There’s so much in them. Fatigue. Frustration. And something else—something you can’t name, but it makes your heart sting a little.

And then, as quickly as it cracked, the mask slides back on.

“We should go back,” he says, already stepping toward the living room.

You watch him walk off. You don’t follow right away.

There’s a weird heaviness in your chest. Not worry. Not sadness. Just this strange, frustrating itch of not knowing.

You don’t know what’s going on with him.

You don’t know what Vicky’s comment touched.

And you really don’t know why all of it is starting to matter more than you want it to.

It's past midnight when you finally get home.

The apartment is dark, your skin smells faintly of creme brulée and laundry detergent, and your phone’s been silent for the past hour.

You lie in bed, staring at the ceiling. And you think about it.

About Vicky’s joke.

About the shift in Jungkook’s posture.

About how he didn’t touch his coffee after that.

About the hallway, and the way he didn’t answer your question, but his eyes did.

So, you do what you shouldn’t do.

You open your texts.

[12:27 AM] You: hey

You stare at it. Delete. Re-type.

[12:28 AM] You: i hope you're okay. you don’t have to explain anything if you’re not ready. i just wanted you to know i’m here. always.

You press send.

And then — because you can’t help yourself — you add one more.

[12:29 AM] You: also. if you ever need someone to fake a kidnapping so you can vanish for a weekend, i have a shovel and a good alibi.

You hit send.

Immediately regret it.

Immediately laugh.

Immediately wonder if he’ll reply.

You put your phone face down on your chest and close your eyes.

The kind of tired you feel isn’t physical.

It’s the kind that settles behind your ribs and waits.

You’re not expecting a reply.

Not tonight, maybe not at all. You know Jungkook — he shuts down when things get too heavy.

But your phone buzzes. Once.

[12:41 AM Kook]: you always know when to text me. it’s scary sometimes.

Then, after a beat, another one.

[12:42 AM] Kook: i’m okay. or trying to be. it doesn't matter. but thank you

Your heart tugs in a way you don’t like. A way that feels too much, too soon, too everything.

He sends one more.

[12:44 AM] Kook: also, pretty sure the shovel thing is illegal. but i’m keeping you in mind. just in case.

You laugh. You smile. You almost cry. All at once.

You set your phone down gently, like it’s carrying something fragile. Because maybe it is. Maybe it always has when it comes to Jungkook.

The room is dark except for the soft glow of the city bleeding in through your curtains, dancing shadows on your wall. You exhale, long and quiet, and sink deeper into your mattress, the weight of the day pressing against your chest.

You don’t reply to him. Not because you don’t want to, but because you don’t trust yourself not to say too much. Because your fingers are twitching to type "I miss you,” and your chest aches with the need to ask "What are you not telling me?” But instead, you let the silence answer for you.

You turn over, blanket pulled up to your chin, eyes open to the ceiling, and you realize something:

This is no longer simple.

It hasn’t been for a while now.

Jungkook's words echo in your head as you finally close your eyes.

“You always know when to text me.”

And yeah—

That’s exactly the problem.