vii

synopsis: Yvez is booked, busy, and lowkey losing her mind. Between being labeled the next global it-girl, going viral every five seconds, and accidentally catching feelings for someone she definitely shouldn’t, her life is anything but normal. Jungkook? Yeah. That Jungkook. What starts as “omg he’s so fine” turns into late-night texts, secret meetups, and a relationship that absolutely cannot exist in public.

tags: Idol Au!, Jungkook x Named! reader, Angst, eventual smut, Slow Burn, age gap, fluff, no happy ending, secret dating au

warnings: Cursing, overworking, skipping meals due to work, exhuastion, toxic fans, smoking/ vaping mentioned, alcohol, 8 year age gap, reader is a virgin, other idols mentioned, taehyung x jennie mentioned, Yunjin x Bangchan mention, toxic industry, fan wars, charts, numbers mentioned

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VISUALIZATION

TEASER

part 1

part2

part 3

part 4

FINISHED

FINAL PART

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The restaurant didn’t feel real.

Low lighting. Crystal glasses. Soft jazz somewhere in the background. The kind of place where everything felt… expensive. Even the air.

And you were sitting there. Across from Jennie.

You still hadn’t fully processed it.

Your phone was practically glued to your hand, notifications still pouring in from the performance. Clips. Mentions. Messages.

“Girl—we’re eating with Jennie right now.”

Solene leaned over, whispering like you might forget.

“…I know.”

“And Jungkook will be there when we’re done.”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched. “Relax.”

You locked your phone anyway. Set it down. Because yeah—you needed to be here.

Jennie watched the whole thing, amused.

Then—

“So that’s true? You and him?”

Straight to it. Of course she would.

You blinked once. Then nodded.

“Yeah… it’s…” You exhaled lightly. “…complicated.”

Her eyes widened—dramatic. Then she laughed.

“Trust me—I know.”

You huffed out a small laugh.

“I’ve been the face of dating scandals.”

You stared at her. Because yeah—she really had.

She leaned forward slightly, more serious now.

“Just stay true to yourself.” Her voice dropped, grounded. “Don’t let it bother you.” A beat. Then— “I mean look at me…”

A small shrug.

“I don’t give a fuck.”

You laughed. Actually laughed. Because finally—something real. Not media-trained. Not careful. Just… honest.

“You’re young,” she continued. “Talented. Beautiful.” You shifted slightly. “Obviously guys are going to be interested in you.” She said it like it was obvious. “It’s weird to act like they wouldn’t be.”

That hit. Because no one ever said it like that.

“You’re a singer. A dancer. A performer.” Her gaze stayed on you, steady. “Not an object they can dictate.”

You swallowed. Because that—that was the part people ignored.

You smiled softly. She wasn’t just famous. She understood. Really understood.

“So how did you deal with it?” Solene asked, leaning forward now. “When it was bad?”

Jennie picked up her glass. Took a slow sip. Then chuckled.

“I didn’t.” She shrugged. “Didn’t care.”

You blinked.

“Why would I be crying because I went out to eat with a guy I thought was cute a few times?” She laughed lightly. “It sounds ridiculous.”

And when she said it like that—it did. All of it did. The outrage. The backlash. The pressure. It sounded… small. Compared to how big it felt when you were inside it.

“I just showed up.” Her tone softened again. “Kept being me.” A pause. “And your real fans?” She tilted her head slightly. “They’re gonna stick by your side.” Your chest tightened. “They’re not gonna care if you’re married, a mother, dating—” She waved her hand lightly. “Those are the people who actually support you.” Another pause. “Everyone else…” She leaned back slightly. “…is just delusional.” A small smirk. “And mad at you for ruining their fantasy.”

Silence. Not awkward. Just… settling. Because she said everything you didn’t know how to say out loud.

You looked down at your glass. Then back up. “…that actually makes me feel better.”

She smiled. Soft this time. “Good.”

Across the table—Noa nodded slowly. Jiha looked thoughtful. Minaru… already processing it deeper than anyone else. Solene looked relieved.

And you—for the first time in a while—you didn’t feel like you were doing something wrong.

You just felt… human.

The table had shifted from polished to messy. Glasses were half-empty, the laughter had grown louder, and chairs were pulled in closer. You were leaning into the table now, your chin resting on your hand, listening. Really listening. Because Jennie wasn’t talking like an idol anymore; she was talking like a girl.

“I’m just saying—with Jungkook—any popular boy group member, you have to be careful,” she said. Her tone wasn’t judgmental, just experienced. “Seriously it’s so—” she waved her hand lightly, searching for the word. “…unsure. All the time.” That word sat heavy: unsure. Because that was exactly what it had felt like lately.

“Let me fill you in,” she said, and you straightened slightly without even realizing it. “So here’s the tea—” Solene leaned in immediately, Noa froze mid-sip, Jiha went still, and Minaru’s eyes sharpened. Jennie exhaled softly. “I started dating Taehyung sometime in 2021—we got set up by a friend.”

Hearing it like this, so casually, was surreal. “He was sweet,” she continued with a small, but not entirely happy, smile. “Always wanted to travel with me. You know? So we wouldn’t get caught.” You felt something twist in your chest because that sounded familiar. The sneaking, the timing, the careful planning.

Her fingers tapped lightly against her glass. “I posted a few photos on my private Instagram,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Which I’m pretty sure a stylist or something sold to a news outlet.” Jiha muttered quietly, “Of course.” Jennie let out a breath. “As soon as it dropped—he sent me a whole paragraph.” Your stomach tightened. “Saying he had to break up with me.”

Silence. The room didn’t move. “Just like that. After about a year together.” That hit harder than anything else she’d said. It wasn’t dramatic or loud; it was just final. Noa blinked, asking if he was serious. Jennie nodded, too calm. “Yeah.”

Solene frowned, starting to say how awful that was, but Jennie cut in gently. “Normal.” That word was worse than any other. “It’s not even about him being a bad person,” she said, her tone softening. “He was just… scared.”

You swallowed because you knew that feeling too—the pressure, the risk, the what if this ruins everything. “He chose his career,” she said simply. Not bitter, not emotional, just the truth. “And honestly? I get it.”

That confused you. “You… get it?” you asked quietly. She nodded. “We’re all in the same position. If things get too public—too complicated—” she looked at you now. “Someone always folds first.”

Your chest tightened because suddenly, this didn’t feel like a story anymore; it felt like a warning. You didn’t shut down, though. You leaned in. “…did you fight it?” you asked. Jennie looked at you for a second, then shook her head. “No. Because the second someone feels like they have to choose—you’ve already lost.”

That stayed with you, heavy and immovable. The table went quiet again, not awkwardly, but with everyone lost in thought. Noa looked down, Solene bit her lip, and Jiha’s jaw tightened slightly. Minaru watched you. And you sat there, your heart beating just a little differently now. Because for the first time, you saw the possibility that one day, someone might actually have to choose.

The table didn’t move for a second. Not a single clink of glass, not a laugh. Jennie wasn’t even looking at you anymore; her eyes were fixed on the white tablecloth like she’d said this before, like she’d thought it a thousand times. “I’ve had to choose my career over people too—it just comes with the job,” she said. Her voice was quieter now, not performative or storytelling, just honest.

Your chest tightened as she continued, “Not even because of public reactions.” Her fingers traced a small, absent circle on the table. “But what happens when they get tired?” You didn’t move. “Tired of waiting up at night…” Your mind flickered—late calls, missed messages, delayed replies. “Tired of missing important days…” Your stomach dropped. Birthdays. “…anniversaries, date nights.” Jeju. The airport. The message you sent instead of being there. “Because you’re so busy—they’re so busy?”

Your throat felt tight now. Jennie finally looked up, not at everyone, but at you. “Sometimes it’s better to just let go.” The words didn’t hit like a slap; they settled, heavy. “To make it easier for everyone else—to focus.”

Silence. The restaurant noise came back slowly—distant conversations, cutlery, music—but your table stayed still. Noa looked down at her drink, Solene didn’t say anything for once, and Jiha stared at the table. Minaru’s gaze flickered to you. And you—you couldn’t look away from Jennie. Because everything she said wasn’t dramatic or exaggerated. It was real. And that made it worse.

You absorbed it, even if it scared you. Your Leo pride kept you from falling apart, but your heart was already mapping out the truth of her words. “…but what if you don’t want to let go?” your voice was softer than you expected. Jennie’s expression didn’t change much. She just looked at you for a second, then gave a small, almost sad smile. “…then you try. You try until you can’t anymore.”

That answer was somehow worse than anything else because it wasn’t hopeful; it was honest. “And when you reach that point…” she leaned back slightly, “…you’ll know.” The table went quiet again. And this time, it didn’t feel like advice. It felt like a timeline.

Minaru cleared her throat. “I’m not gonna lie—this is kinda depressing.” The way she said it—so flat, so blunt—made the table break. Laughter spilled out all at once, that sudden relief laughter you don’t even realize you need until it hits. Noa leaned back with her hand over her mouth, thanking Minaru because she was about to spiral, while Solene groaned dramatically, asking why the night had turned into a breakup seminar. Jiha shook her head, smiling now at the incredible timing of it all.

Jennie laughed too—really laughed this time. “I know, right?” She lifted her glass slightly, suggesting they save the talk about failed relationships for the studio. “PLEASE,” Noa added immediately, and the tension dissolved just like that.

The conversation shifted into something easier. Food was passed around, someone ordered more drinks, and Solene started telling stories about your training days. Jennie leaned into it effortlessly, asking questions, teasing back, and listening. It didn’t feel like sitting with a global icon anymore; it just felt like a group of girls talking, laughing, and existing without being watched.

You leaned back in your chair slightly, glass in hand. The earlier conversation still lingered—you couldn’t pretend it didn’t—but it wasn’t suffocating anymore. It was just there, like something filed away and waiting. You glanced down at your phone for a second and saw nothing new, then looked back up.

Jennie was laughing at something Solene said, Noa was mid-story again, Jiha was busy correcting her, and Minaru was watching everything like usual. And you—you smiled. Because for this moment, you didn’t have to choose anything. Not yet.

The post went up like it was nothing—just another dump, just another moment. But it didn’t stay small; it exploded. Your feed was clean, curated, and effortless. First was a mirror selfie with your outfit hitting exactly how it was supposed to, followed by a close-up of the Chanel detailing, then the dreamy sky from the plane. The fourth was the group photo with Jennie, which already felt historic. But the last slide—you and her, Jennie smiling while you had your tongue out, playful and unbothered—that was the one. It looked like you weren’t sitting in the middle of chaos just days ago. Your caption: icon meets icon 💕🍒.

You locked your phone after posting, not thinking much about it. That was a big mistake. Within minutes, the notifications started—then more, then nonstop. You opened Instagram again to see 4.5 million likes already climbing. You refreshed, and it went higher. Jennie commented two pink hearts, and that alone sent everything into overdrive. “YVEZ X JENNIE???” “THIS IS INSANE” “two it girls in ONE FRAME” “she’s so bold i love her.” Fan accounts were reposting instantly, edits were being made, and TikTok was already gone. The last slide was trending with “yvez tongue out pose tutorial.”

You scrolled, trying not to react too much, but your chest felt different. This wasn’t just popularity; this was positioning. You weren’t just rising anymore; you were being placed right next to her, and the world was accepting it. Across the room, Solene screamed about the 4.5 million likes. Noa ran over in disbelief while Jiha noted it was still going up. Minaru, as usual, just glanced and muttered, “Expected.”

You laughed softly because, somehow, it didn’t feel shocking anymore—just like the next step. The other members’ posts were blowing up too. Solene’s fashion shots were praised for “main character energy,” Noa’s candid clips were loved for her personality, Jiha’s structured photos were admired for her “leader aura,” and Minaru’s minimal posts were being analyzed for her mysterious vibe.

But yours were everywhere because you didn’t just post; you stamped something. Icon meets icon. And people believed you. You leaned back slightly, phone still in your hand, thinking about the scandal, the pressure, and the conversation from the night before. You weren’t being pushed out or ruined. You were becoming something bigger, and the world was watching it happen in real time.

——————————————————————————

The café felt like a fever dream. Soft pastel walls, gold trim, and little glass slippers on shelves made everything look like it belonged in a movie. For once, your life actually felt normal. You sat across from Yunjin, legs tucked slightly under the table and drink in hand, with the sunlight hitting just right through the windows.

“God, I’ve missed you,” you said, and you meant it in a grounding way. “You’ve been too busy being a superstar,” she shot back, flicking your forehead lightly. You swatted her hand away, noting you could say the same for her. You leaned back, smiling, and mentioned how she’d practically been living overseas. “Man… I love us,” she added. You laughed, agreeing. “We’re both young, successful, hot—” “—don’t forget humble,” she added quickly. You both laughed again. It was easy. No cameras, no pressure, just you.

She took another sip of her coffee, her eyes narrowing in that teasing way. “So—what have you been up to? Besides dating a member of BTS.” You rolled your eyes immediately. “Working.” She smiled wider. “What a coincidence!” You both laughed again, but this time there was something under it—an awareness. She watched you for a second, reading you, then you tilted your head. “Whatever happened to you and that guy from Stray Kids?”

Her expression shifted just a little. “Oh—that.” She leaned back, becoming more casual. “Actually really short story.” You raised a brow as she explained he was just too busy. You nodded slowly, understanding that part all too well. “And JYP is actually super psycho strict about everything,” she added. You huffed a quiet laugh. “Sounds about right.” She shrugged, saying it was just too hard.

Hard. Simple, but heavy. “And…” she hesitated slightly, “I don’t think I’m really looking for a relationship.” You blinked. “…really?” She nodded, gesturing loosely. “I like what I have right now. My career. My life. My space. I don’t want to feel like I’m constantly failing someone because I can’t show up.”

Your chest tightened because that sounded familiar too. You listened, internalizing her words as you compared your own situation with Jungkook—the distance, the missed moments, the quiet adjustments. “…do you regret it?” you asked softly. Yunjin tilted her head, thinking, then shook it. “No. I liked him. But I like myself more.”

That landed. You looked down at your drink, suddenly weighing your own reality against hers. You looked back up at her. “…I don’t know if I could do that.” She studied you for a second, then smiled softly. “You don’t have to. But just don’t lose yourself trying to make something work.” That stayed with you. It wasn’t loud, just important.

“Why is everyone saying that?” You laughed when you said it—light and playful—but there was something under it. Because it was everyone. Jennie. Now Yunjin. It was like they were seeing something you weren’t saying out loud. “Because you look like you need to hear it,” Yunjin giggled, completely unfiltered. You blinked. “…do I?” She leaned forward slightly, studying you. “Yeah. Like—you look so confused.”

You laughed again, but it came out softer this time. “…I’m not confused.” She raised a brow immediately. “Mhm.” Called out. You looked down at your drink because maybe you were. Not in a chaotic way, just quietly, thinking about Jennie’s voice from last night telling you to not give a fuck and focus on the people who actually love you. You rolled the straw between your fingers. It sounded easy, but it wasn’t—not when feelings and timing were involved.

You shook your head slightly. “…anyway.” You looked back up at her. “So how’s touring?” Her expression changed instantly as she let out a long sigh. “So tiring. Like—so draining.” You smiled knowingly. She nodded, listing the pain, the tired voice, and the lack of sleep. “But I love the energy,” she added, her eyes lighting up. “The fans make it worth it.”

You nodded slowly because you got that—the stage, the noise, the feeling of being wanted. “…it’s addictive,” you murmured. She pointed at you immediately. “Exactly. Like you’ll be dead backstage—and then the second you step out?” You both spoke at the same time: “Alive.” You laughed because that part didn’t need explaining.

A comfortable silence settled after that. You tapped your fingers lightly against the table before the question slipped out: “…do you ever feel like it’s too much?” Yunjin didn’t answer right away. She actually thought about it. “…sometimes,” she admitted. “But not in a bad way. More like—you just realize your life isn’t normal anymore. And you have to decide what parts of it you’re okay giving up.”

There it was again. Choice. Always coming back to that. You exhaled slowly. “…and what if you don’t want to give anything up?” Your voice was quieter now. Yunjin looked at you, really looking this time. “…then you’re gonna get hurt.” Not harsh, not dramatic, just honest. “But that doesn’t mean you’re wrong for trying. It just means you have to be ready for what comes with it.”

You nodded slowly. That felt real—not like advice or a warning, just the truth. You leaned back slightly. The café was still soft, pretty, and calm, but inside your chest, things were starting to shift.

Your phone buzzed again, and you glanced down, already knowing who it was.

Jungkook: saw the pic with you and Jennie. You looked so cute 😛

You smiled a little; of course he noticed. You typed back: u didn’t tell me she dated Taehyung. The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Jungkook: didn’t think it was important

You huffed quietly and replied: it’s not I just think I would’ve been less shocked to hear that.

A pause followed, then a photo arrived. You opened it to see a screenshot from your own story. You hadn’t even thought that much about that post, but seeing it like this—through his perspective—it felt different. The soft, petal-pink dress hugged your frame, the vintage pizza logo sat right over your chest, and your Chanel bag hung off your shoulder. Your hair looked golden, warm, and soft under the light. You looked far away, as if you weren’t even aware someone was taking the photo. Suddenly, you felt seen in a different way.

Jungkook: holy 🫩😩 no one yearns like i yearn. bet u smell so good.

You laughed out loud, actually laughed. “…he’s insane,” you muttered, shaking your head. Solene glanced over from the other seat, asking what was wrong. “Nothing,” you said, turning toward the window to hide your smile. Your fingers hovered over the screen. You wanted to tease him, keeping that pride intact while acknowledging the warmth blooming in your chest.

you: you’re actually embarrassing. Sent. Then: but thank you. You hesitated, then added: you’d know if i smell good if you were here. You bit your lip slightly after sending it because that one wasn’t just playful; it was honest.

The car slowed slightly as the venue came into view. It was small—nothing like Lollapalooza. It was a tucked-away rooftop lounge in downtown Chicago with warm lighting, string lights overhead, and soft music spilling out into the street. It was an invite-only fashion and music mixer, intimate and filled with editors, designers, and a few artists. It was the kind of place where people actually talked instead of screamed.

“Okay this is cute,” Noa said, peeking out the window. Solene nodded, calling it “very us.” Jiha was already checking the guest list again, while Minaru didn’t look up from her phone. You leaned your head against the window for a second, watching the city lights reflect back at you. Your phone buzzed again. You didn’t even need to look, but you did anyway—because no matter how full your schedule got, you still wanted him there.

Your phone buzzed again just as the car rolled to a stop. You glanced down, already smiling before you even opened it.

Jungkook: I hope u know this photo is my lockscreen now. ur so hot. so fine. so beautiful. marry me.

You let out a soft laugh. “…he’s actually ridiculous,” you murmured, shaking your head. But your chest felt warm because he always did this. In between everything—the distance, the schedules, the missed moments—he still found ways to make it feel close. You stared at the last message a little longer: marry me. It was so unserious, but also not.

You bit the inside of your cheek slightly, thumbs hovering over your screen. You wanted to melt, but you kept it playful.

you: you’ve lost ur mind. Sent. Then: ask me again when you see me. You paused, then added: maybe i’ll say yes. Send.

You locked your phone quickly after, like the message might linger too long if you didn’t. “Okay— let’s go,” Jiha said, already opening the door. The night air hit you instantly, warm and buzzing. Music floated down from above, lights glowing soft against the rooftop. You stepped out, back into it, but this time there was a small, quiet smile sitting on your lips. Because no matter how complicated everything felt, you still had this.

The event felt exactly how it looked—polished, expensive, and completely empty. People stood in little circles, laughing just a second too late and nodding a second too long. Champagne glasses clinked, names were dropped, and brands were mentioned like currency. Every conversation felt like a transaction. You stood there, smiling when you needed to, bowing slightly, and playing your part perfectly. You always did. But inside, you were gone. Your mind wasn’t in that rooftop space; it was back in a meeting room, hearing your life scheduled into quarters.

——————————————————————————

“So we’re wanting the album to be out by January—then we’re thinking tour from February to August… then about a four-month break—one month completely off, and by the second month you’ll start preparing your comeback.” The words had sounded so normal, structured, and efficient, but when it sank in, you realized you wouldn’t just be busy; you’d be gone for almost a year. You remembered sitting there, nodding like you agreed, because technically, this was the dream. But dreams weren’t supposed to feel like this.

The fluorescent lights of the meeting room felt like a spotlight on a crime scene you hadn't committed yet. You looked down at the sleek, laminated itinerary in front of you—a roadmap of your impending superstardom. January. February. August. The months were just squares on a grid, and none of them had a space for him.

You leaned back, the leather chair creaking under your weight, and for a split second, you thought of the hallway. That narrow, shadowed corridor back when the rumors first started bubbling like lye. He had pulled you aside, his hand warm and heavy on your shoulder, his eyes wide with a frantic, protective sort of fear. “It’s getting real, Yvez,” he’d warned, his voice a low vibration. “If we get caught now, there’s no going back. We have to be so careful. Are you sure you're ready for this?”

At the time, you were still the girl who had his posters tucked away in a box under your bed—the girl who would have jumped off a cliff if he’d promised to catch her. You had nodded, breathless and devoted, thinking love was a shield. But standing on the precipice of a world tour, that devotion felt like a lead weight tied to your ankles. You weren't that fangirl anymore; you were a brand, and the brand was finally, finally profitable.

It was a cold, sharp clarity that settled in your chest. You loved him—of course you did—but love didn't pay for the luxury life or the custom stage outfits. Love didn't put your face on the side of a building in Times Square. You thought about the year ahead: the 4:00 AM hair and makeup sessions, the screaming crowds, the adrenaline of a sold-out arena. Then you thought about trying to squeeze a relationship into the fifteen-minute gaps between interviews and soundchecks. It felt exhausting just to imagine.

I’m not losing this, you thought, your fingers tracing the edge of the tour schedule. I didn't work this hard to feel like…a failure all the time.

The guilt flickered, but it was dim, overshadowed by the intoxicating glow of your own ambition. You told yourself it was for the best—for both of you. He was a professional; he would understand the grind. If you stayed, you’d just grow to resent him for every time he missed something, every-time you missed something. You’d turn into a version of yourself that hated the sound of his name because it sounded like a compromise.

You remembered how he’d looked at you in that hallway, so sincere it made your teeth ache. He wanted to protect you. But the thing was, you didn’t need to be protected; you wanted to be seen. You wanted the noise. And he was the only thing standing between you and the silence of a perfect, private life that you no longer had any interest in living.

“It’s just bad timing,” you whispered to yourself, a mantra to drown out the memory of his heartbeat against your palm. It was a lie, but it was a functional one. The truth was simpler, uglier: you were choosing yourself, and you were surprised by how easy it felt. You were trade-in the quiet "us" for the deafening "me," and as you looked at the dates for the world tour, you realized you were already halfway out the door.

He had warned you that things were getting real, but he hadn't realized that "real" meant you were finally realizing your own self obsession. You weren't a satellite orbiting his sun anymore. You were your own star, and stars didn't need anyone else to help them shine. It was selfish, perhaps even cruel, but as you nodded once more to the manager, a small smile played on your lips.

He’d be fine. He was Jungkook. And you? You were going to be a legend. If the price of that was a broken heart, well, you had plenty of paper and a pen to write down exactly how it felt. By the time you reached the four-month break in October, you’d be a different person entirely—someone he wouldn't even recognize, someone who didn't need to be warned about the shadows in a hallway.

You stood up, smoothing out your skirt, the decision hardening into a diamond-tough resolve. The breakup was already happening; the words just hadn't caught up to the reality yet. You were mourning a version of yourself that died the moment you realized you loved the stage more than you loved the phone call waiting backstage. It was a bad idea to stay, and for the first time in your life, you were choosing the path that didn't lead to him.

Later, in the dance room, it was just the two of you. The floor was cold under your legs, and you didn’t even look at him when he walked in. You just knew. “I’ll be touring… eleven months,” he said, his voice quiet and careful. Same news you had. You let out a breath. It wasn’t dramatic or shocking; it just landed like confirmation of everything. He slowly lowered himself down beside you on the floor—close, but not touching. “You don’t even have to explain, Jungkook,” you muttered softly. You both already knew.

He looked at you then—really looked. “What’s wrong?” he asked, before correcting himself. “I get what’s wrong but… you just seem so tired.”

You let out a small, humorless breath. “Maybe I am.”

Silence stretched between you, not awkward, just heavy. Neither of you were angry, and somehow, that made it worse. Staring at the ceiling, you finally spoke.

“I feel like I’m constantly trying to be everywhere at once. I’m trying to be present with you, and my members, and my fans, and my career… and I’m starting to realize I can’t actually do all of that.”

“You don’t have to do everything perfectly,” he said softly.

You shook your head. It wasn’t about perfection. It was about capacity. “I don’t want to keep disappointing you,” you said finally.

He tried to protest, but you cut in gently. “I am. I missed your birthday. I’m going to be gone for months. And even when I’m here… I’m not really here.” You finally turned to look at him. “And you’re doing the same thing. You’re busy, tired, and trying too. I don’t think either of us are wrong.”

There was no villain here. Just two people failing quietly.

You exhaled slowly, admitting you didn’t want to get to the point where you started resenting each other—the missed calls turning into frustration, the love stretched too thin. He ran a hand through his hair, his jaw tightening. “So what are you saying?” he asked carefully.

You looked at him, your chest aching because you still loved him, but you swallowed the pain. “I think we’re trying to hold onto something we don’t actually have time for right now. I don’t want us to break because we ran it into the ground trying to make it work. I’d rather let it go while it still feels like this.”

It hurt to say because “this” still felt like love.

He nodded slowly, like he understood. “…you’re choosing your career,” he said quietly.

You shook your head. “No. I’m choosing myself.”

That landed differently because it wasn’t selfish; it was necessary.

He looked at you for a long second, then gave a small, sad smile. “…you’ve grown up a lot.”

You let out a soft laugh that cracked in the middle. “I think I had to.”

He leaned forward slightly, not to kiss you or stop you, but just to be close. “…I’m really glad it was you,” he said.

Your chest tightened instantly. “…me too,” you whispered.

And that was it. No yelling. No tears in front of each other. Just two people sitting on the floor, choosing, and finally letting go.

And just like that—it was over.

Not with drama or harsh words, but quietly, as if the air had simply left the room.

You went back to your life: the schedules, the endless practice, the meetings where your future was mapped out in spreadsheets. On the surface, nothing had changed, but everything had. You smiled when you needed to and laughed at the right moments, performing even when there was no stage, because that’s what you were good at.

Your members noticed—of course they did—but they were careful now, avoiding any mention of him as if silence could act as a shield.

But it didn’t work. You remembered anyway. When you brushed your hair. When your phone buzzed and it wasn’t him. When you passed a studio you’d once shared. In the bathroom, with the door locked, you’d allow yourself exactly five minutes to fall apart. You’d lean against the sink, tears hot and fast, chest tight like something was being ripped out. Then you’d wipe your face, fix your makeup, and walk back out like nothing had happened. You couldn’t afford to let your heartbreak become a “problem.”

Writing became impossible. Every melody led back to him. Every lyric felt like a secret you weren’t ready to share. You stopped submitting ideas, terrified they would see through your composure and find the weakness underneath.

Meanwhile, Jungkook was on tour. You saw the clips—fancams, stage cuts, the things you told yourself you wouldn’t watch. Then you saw the one you really shouldn’t have: “Hate You.”

Watching him on that screen, noticing the slight crack in his voice and the way he looked out into the crowd without actually seeing them, your chest caved in. He’s not talking about me, you told yourself. But the doubt lingered. What if he is? The song didn’t feel like a performance; it felt like a mirror to how unfinished everything was. You locked your phone, but the melody stayed in your head, bringing back those quiet, helpless tears you couldn’t afford to cry in public.

The fans started noticing, too. You read the comments about how you seemed “out of it” or “quieter than usual.” You wanted to tell them the truth—that you were just heartbroken—but the words stayed trapped. So you kept showing up. A little quieter, a little softer, but still there. Because even though the relationship was over, the world kept turning, and so did you.

You tried to distract yourself the only way you really knew how lately—by disappearing into your fans. Your phone rested against your pillow, screen glowing softly in the dim room as video after video autoplayed.

“SHE FOREIGN LINE VS KOREAN”

You tapped it and immediately, the room was filled with the noise of laughter, chaos, and familiar voices. A clip of you and Solene popped up—mid-argument, both of you way too serious over something that didn’t matter at all. “Green and pink go together!” you yelled, hands flying around dramatically. Solene recoiled like you had personally offended her. “No— it’s ugly…” she whined. “Like watermelon coloring??” you shot back. “A watermelon is red and green— not green and pink— you idiot.”

The room on the screen erupted. You could hear Jiha laughing in the background and Noa yelling over everyone. You in the video? Still arguing. Still committed. You slammed your hand on the big red button in the center of the table and said, “Green and pink go together well like a nosebleed—”

The clip cut right there and the room exploded. Jiha literally dropped to the floor, repeating “Like a nosebleed??” while Solene just stared. You paused the video and started laughing—actually laughing. You remembered that moment, and how confident you were saying it, like it made perfect sense. You scrolled through the comments: “WHY DID SHE SAY NOSEBLEED 😭😭,” “she meant coffee i’m crying,” “foreign line is actually insane.” You smiled; to them, it wasn’t embarrassing. It was endearing.

Another video autoplayed: “Minaru HATES flirting.” You leaned closer, watching a compilation of you, Solene, and Noa trying to get a reaction out of her. You’d lean in too close and she’d just push your face away with two fingers. Solene would drop a pick-up line and Minaru would just walk away. Noa would scream her devotion and Minaru would act like she didn't exist. It ended with all of you chasing her down a hallway.

You laughed again, quieter this time, because that felt like home.

Then came the "Liability" compilations—clips of you speaking too honestly in interviews, Noa accidentally spoiling things, and Solene saying wild things that made the staff freeze. You were right in the middle of it all: too real, too honest, and too much sometimes.

You let the video play to the end and then stared at your screen. Through all the mess and the noise, they loved you. Not despite your flaws, but because of them. Your chest softened slightly. This was real. Not headlines, not scandals, not expectations. Just people who saw you and stayed anyway.

You locked your phone slowly. The room went quiet again, but for the first time that night, you didn’t feel like you needed to cry.

The set for SPICY didn’t look like a typical idol interview. There were no pastel couches, no cue cards, and no sugary questions. It was darker, with mood lighting and a round table that made it feel more like a real conversation than a broadcast. You liked that—it’s why you’d fought to be here.

Sitting between Solene and Minaru, you felt controlled but relaxed. At first, it was easy. Noa talked about the confusion of their rising fame, Jiha added structure, and Minaru kept it analytical. You chimed in exactly when needed. Until the host asked the question that made the room feel like it shifted on its axis: “Be honest… how do you feel about the dating rumors between you and Jungkook?”

Your heart dropped—not dramatically, but heavy. Hearing his name out loud after everything felt like a physical weight in your chest. Your members turned slightly, not pressuring you, but waiting. They didn’t even fully know the truth, and now you had to answer on camera.

You didn’t let them see you crack. You laughed—light, natural, practiced. “It’s literally impossible,” you said, the words coming out far too easily. “Like seriously—think about it.” You leaned back, gesturing casually. “Do you see how busy I am? How busy he is?”

The host laughed, and you leaned into it. “He’s in, what, another country right now… and I’m here working. How would we even have time to date?” You gave a small shrug. “I just think that rumor is a little… stupid.”

The room erupted in laughter, and the conversation moved on like it was nothing. But inside, it stung. You weren't just denying a rumor; you were erasing something real. Something you’d had and lost. You kept smiling anyway because that’s what you were supposed to do.

Solene leaned forward to back you up, agreeing that it was almost impossible to even see family or friends. Everyone nodded because that part, at least, wasn't a lie—it was just incomplete. The mood lightened as Solene talked about rejections and Noa giggled about not knowing her "ideal type."

The conversation eventually shifted to your creative process and how you managed being so busy. Minaru’s blunt “We don’t” made the host blink, and you added softly, “…we just are.” It was the most honest thing said all night.

The cameras kept rolling and the dialogue continued, but a quiet echo remained in your chest. It’s impossible. Stupid. And the worst part was that you had made it sound so believable.

Across the world, in a dim hotel suite that smelled faintly of alcohol and cologne, Jungkook sat with his phone still in his hand. The room was loud—members scattered around, music playing low, laughter coming and going in waves—but it didn’t reach him. Because he was watching you.

The SPICY interview.

Your face on his screen. Your voice—steady, composed, familiar.

“It’s literally impossible.”

He didn’t react at first. Just stared.

“Do you see how busy I am? How busy he is?”

His jaw tightened slightly. You were smiling. Laughing.

“And I’m here working… how would we even have time to date?”

A pause.

“I just think that rumor is a little… stupid.”

The room around him blurred. Not because you said anything wrong, but because you said it so well. So convincingly. Like it had never been real. Like he had never been real.

“Kookie— have a drink.”

Taehyung’s voice pulled him out of it. Jungkook blinked, lowering his phone slowly. Taehyung stood there, holding out a cup, watching him carefully. Jungkook took it. Forced a small smile.

“Thanks.”

He set his phone down on the table. Screen still glowing faintly with your paused face. Taehyung didn’t sit right away. He just stood there for a second—like he was deciding something. Then he sat down across from him.

“I know you don’t wanna hear it…” He trailed off, trying to find the right words.

Jungkook looked up. “I do. Please.” His voice was quiet, but sincere. Because right now—he didn’t want distractions. He didn’t want noise. He wanted something real.

Taehyung nodded slowly. “I get it.” He leaned back slightly. “I get how it feels. I get why it happened.” His arms crossed loosely. “I’ve been in your shoes, Kookie.”

Jungkook nodded once. Of course he had. He knew that story.

“I can’t even be mad at her.” The words came out before he really thought about them. Quiet. Honest. Taehyung didn’t interrupt.

“She said she was choosing herself.” Jungkook nodded slowly as he said it—like he was trying to convince himself it made sense. “She’s so…” He hesitated. “…smart.” A small, breathy laugh. “She’s strong. She knows what she wants. She understands her feelings.”

His grip tightened slightly around the cup. “I think I envy that.” His voice dropped. “I hate that.” Because he didn’t. Not like she did.

“Because she knew so quick…” His eyes burned now. “She knew exactly what to do.” His voice cracked. And he stopped trying to hold it together. “Like she didn’t even have to think… like it was just… obvious.”

That word broke something. Obvious.

He brought his hands up, pressing them against his face, covering his eyes as everything finally hit. The distance. The silence. The way you said it was “impossible.” The way you let him go.

And just like that—he cried. Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… real.

Taehyung didn’t move to stop him. Didn’t interrupt. He just sat there. Listening. Nodding. Being there. Because sometimes—that’s all you could do.

After a moment, Taehyung leaned forward slightly. “Jungkook…” His voice was calm. Grounded. “If you love her…” A pause. “…and if she loved you… you will find your way back to each other.”

The room felt quieter after that. Not because the noise stopped, but because something in Jungkook did. He didn’t nod right away. Didn’t respond. He just sat there. Breathing.

Because part of him wanted to believe that. And another part—knew how hard that would be.

A month later, things were supposed to feel settled. Routine had returned—schedules, recording, practice—and on the surface, you were fine. But on the other side of the world, Jungkook wasn't. He told himself he didn't check your Instagram obsessively, but he checked it enough to know the second you posted.

That night, he saw it: back to black 😎.

He tapped it, and there you were. The caramel blonde he’d teased you about was gone, replaced by long, shiny black hair that made you look sharper, cooler, and entirely untouchable. You were wearing a white crop top and an oversized letterman jacket, looking like everything.

“…fuck,” he muttered. He hated how much it affected him—how easily a single photo brought back your laugh and the way you’d roll your eyes at him. He locked his phone, telling himself he should be over you, but he wasn't.

Yoongi’s voice cut through the quiet of the room. “You’ve never been like this before. You’re usually quick to move on.” There was no judgment, just an observation. Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, leaning back. “…I know. She’s just different.”

Across the world, you were in the studio booth, headphones on. A heavy, sharp EDM beat pulsed through the speakers. The title of the track was HEADACHE, and it made you smirk. It wasn't soft or sad; it was confident. It was a song about being the problem and knowing it—about being too much and still being wanted.

“Again,” you said into the mic. You ran the take back with more attitude, more bite. This wasn't a song about missing someone; it was about being unforgettable. It was about control.

Minaru’s voice crackled through the speakers: “…that one.” Jiha nodded from the corner, agreeing. You pulled your headphones off slowly, your chest rising and falling. This track felt like a shift, not just in the music, but in you.

Outside the booth, your phone lit up with millions of likes and comments calling this your "best look yet." You glanced at the notifications briefly and then looked away. You didn't need the validation. You weren't the same girl you were a month ago, and you knew it.

——————————————————————————

“MY SHAYLAAA—”

Yunjin practically lunged across the table, grabbing your cheeks like you were about to disappear right there. “You’re gonna leave me?!” Her voice cracked with fake devastation, eyes wide and completely committed to the performance. You laughed immediately, trying to pry her hands off your face. “Yeah… sorry,” you said. “No— don’t say it like that— say it like you’re heartbroken—” “I’m so heartbroken,” you deadpanned. Minaru didn’t even look up from her drink. “…unconvincing.”

The café was small—warm lighting, soft chatter, and the smell of coffee and something sweet lingering in the air. It was a quiet moment in the middle of everything, because everything was moving fast again. Your tour was officially announced. A full album, 13 tracks, was finished. It still felt surreal when you thought about it too long. Pre-orders were already insane, with fans scrambling for limited photocards and handwritten thank-you messages before they closed.

And now—it was real. You were leaving. Soon.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Yunjin sighed dramatically, finally letting go of your face and slumping back in her chair, “I pre-ordered *Short n Sweet*.” You smiled instantly; of course she did. “You better have.” Minaru glanced between you both, then very seriously asked, “And whose lightstick are you bringing to the concert?”

Yunjin didn’t even hesitate. “Both.” You laughed. “Both??” She nodded like it was the most obvious answer in the world. “I’m not choosing. That’s toxic.” Minaru raised a brow. “…statistically chaotic.” Yunjin pointed at her immediately. “You’re just jealous because no one fights over your lightstick.” Minaru blinked once. “…I prefer peace.”

You leaned back slightly, watching them go back and forth. For a second, everything felt light—no pressure, no expectations, just this. “You’re really going though,” Yunjin said again, quieter this time. Not dramatic now; just real. You nodded. “Yeah.”

“Six months?” she asked. “Give or take.” She exhaled slowly. “That’s crazy.” You shrugged lightly. “It’s what we’ve been working for.” And that was true, but it didn't make leaving any easier. Yunjin looked at you for a second, then gave a soft smile. “You’re gonna kill it.” You smiled back. “I know.” Minaru hummed quietly at that. “…confidence level acceptable.”

You nudged her lightly with your foot under the table, but inside, there was a shift again. It wasn't heavy or painful, just another step forward. Everything was happening—the album, the tour, the growth. Even if parts of you still felt a little tender, you weren’t stuck anymore.

You were moving.

Short n Sweet didn’t just perform well—it shifted things. At first, it felt like numbers: 1.35 million first day, 2.85 million first week, 3.4 million in a month. You’d seen numbers before, but this felt different because people didn’t just report them; they stopped and looked. They compared, recalculated, and realized you weren't being compared to your peers anymore—you were being placed next to the untouchable names you grew up hearing.

The charts followed like it was inevitable. 352 PAKs—a number people studied rather than just celebrated. A full month at #1, with the entire album charting at once. It wasn't just one hit; it was every track, every concept, and every version of you. Streaming didn't slow down either, with 145 million streams in two weeks and #1 on Spotify Global. You weren't competing in your lane anymore; you were in everyone's.

The MV hit 210 million in two weeks, its replay value insane as clips and frame-by-frame edits took over the internet. Then came the wins: 18 music show trophies, Billboard Hot 100 Top 20, and Billboard 200 Top 5. It wasn't just success—it was consistency. While most groups were either sales, chart, or streaming monsters, you were all three at the same time.

That’s when the language changed. No more "rookie monsters" or "rising group." Now it was "Generation leaders," "Global power group," and "Top-tier act." People stopped asking if you’d make it and started asking, "How far can they go?" That question followed you into meetings, brand deals, and the quiet conversations of industry insiders: "Top 3 for sure," "Maybe top 2," "Give them one more era..."

You sat in the practice room one night, scrolling through the articles and fan reactions, and paused on one comment: "They’re not competing anymore… they’re leading." You stared at it because it didn't feel fake; it felt true.

Across the room, life looked normal—Noa was dancing to your own song, Solene was taking mirror pics, Jiha was reviewing schedules, and Minaru was already plotting the next sound. But nothing about your situation was normal anymore. You locked your phone and exhaled slowly. This was everything you had worked for, but it wasn't the end. It was just the moment people realized you weren't going anywhere.

Your phone buzzed, and you almost didn’t check it. You were used to the constant stream of notifications—fans, staff, schedules—but something in your chest shifted anyway. You looked down and froze.

Jungkook: I just wanted to say I’m proud of you that album was insane 😵‍💫😵‍💫

For a second, you just stared. It had been months. No calls, no texts, no "I miss you." Just silence. And now—this. Your heart didn’t drop like before; it tightened in a quieter, more profound way. You read it again. I’m proud of you.

That was the part that got you. Out of everything he could have said, he chose pride. Not a comment on your looks, not a confession of longing. It felt respectful, careful—like he finally knew exactly where the line was and refused to cross it.

You sat there, your thumb hovering over the screen. This wasn't like before; this wasn't easy. You needed to match his energy without overgiving, keeping it clean and safe while acknowledging the weight of his words.

You typed, deleted, and typed again. Finally:

You: thank you

You paused. That felt too small. So you added:

I’m really proud of you too. I’ve been seeing your tour clips

Another pause. Then:

you’re doing really well

Send.

You stared at the screen for a second longer. Your chest felt lighter. Not because everything was fixed or because you were falling back into him, but because this didn't hurt the way you thought it would. It didn't pull you back into the chaos. It simply acknowledged something that was real, something that once was.

You locked your phone slowly. Across the room, Noa was yelling, Solene was posing, Jiha was calling for rehearsal, and Minaru was already in motion. Life kept going, and this time, you didn't feel stuck between two worlds.

You just kept moving forward.

Your phone buzzed again. You weren’t expecting it this fast, but you opened it anyway.

Jungkook: it would be wrong to say I miss you. so I’m implying it

You stared at the message, and for a second, everything went quiet. It was so him—careful, playful, and honest, but not too honest. He was respecting the line you both drew while still reaching for you. Your chest tightened, not with pain, but with a soft, familiar warmth because you knew exactly what he meant and exactly why he chose those words.

You leaned back in your chair, phone still in hand. You could have answered a hundred different ways—ignored it, deflected it, or pretended it didn't move you. But pretending wasn't who you were anymore. You needed to say something real, yet avoid being reckless. You had to acknowledge the feeling without reopening the door you’d worked so hard to close.

You typed slowly this time. No deleting, no overthinking.

You: then I’ll say it properly for both of us

A pause.

I miss you too

You stared at it for a second, then added:

but I think we made the right decision

Send.

Your heart beat a little faster after that. Both sentences were the absolute truth, and maybe that was the hardest part of growing up: realizing you can miss someone with your whole heart and still know that letting them go was the only way to save yourself.

You locked the screen and looked up at your members. You were still Yunjin’s Shayla. You were still Yvez. And for the first time, the silence from your phone didn't feel like a void—it felt like peace.

Your phone buzzed again. You already knew it was him. You opened it, but the words on the screen made your stomach drop—not because they were loud, but because they were true.

Jungkook: you made the decision.

Before you could even process the weight of that, another message flashed.

Jungkook: you feel like it was right. I can’t take that from you.

And suddenly, that lightness you’d felt from earlier was gone. Underneath his words, there it was: not anger, but something close. Hurt. The kind of hurt that doesn’t yell, the kind that just sits there, heavy and unmoving.

You exhaled slowly, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees, phone still in your hand. This was exactly what you had been trying to avoid—not the breakup itself, but this part. The part where it wasn’t clean anymore, where the feelings started to leak through the cracks of your composure.

He wasn’t wrong. You did make the decision. You were the one who said it first, the one who drew the line in the sand. And he… he had respected it. Even now. Which somehow made the ache in your chest even worse.

You needed to be direct, clear, and utterly honest, without turning the conversation into a battle of blame.

You typed slowly.

You: yeah… I did

You paused, the cursor blinking like a heartbeat. Then you kept going.

but not because I didn’t want you

Your chest tightened as you saw the words on the screen.

I just didn’t know how to keep you without losing everything else too

You stared at the message. It felt honest—maybe dangerously so—but you sent it anyway. This wasn’t about winning or being the one who "stayed strong." It was about telling the truth, even if that truth left a mark.

You locked your phone and closed your eyes. You had chosen yourself, but choosing yourself didn't mean you hadn't broken your own heart in the process.

Your phone buzzed again. You already felt it before you even opened it.

Jungkook: we don’t need to talk about it. we don’t have to talk about anything.

You stared at the screen. And this time—it didn’t feel soft. It felt… closed. Not harsh. Not cruel. Just… final. Like a door gently pushed shut instead of slammed. Your chest tightened slightly because you knew what he meant. He wasn’t saying he didn’t care. He was saying—he couldn’t do this halfway. Couldn’t sit in between what you were and what you are now. Couldn’t keep picking at something that already hurt.

You leaned back slowly, phone still in your hand. For a second—you almost typed something. we can talk. I didn’t mean— I still— But you stopped. Because that wasn’t what he needed. And if you were being honest—it wasn’t what you needed either.

You needed to respect the boundary, letting it end with dignity rather than chasing a closure that would only leave things messy. You typed. Simple this time.

You: okay

You paused. Then added—

take care of yourself, okay?

Send.

You looked at the message for a second longer. Then locked your phone. Across the room—life kept moving. Voices. Music. Your members calling for you. And you stood up. Because this time—you weren’t going to sit in it.

You were going to keep going.

Touring didn’t feel real at first. It felt like something you watched—not something you were actually inside of. The rehearsals had been intense, everything calculated and perfect, but nothing could’ve prepared you for the moment the lights actually went down in Korea.

Home.

You stood backstage in the dark, your heart pounding so loud you were convinced it was bleeding into the mic. “Are you ready?” Jiha asked. You just nodded; you didn't trust your voice yet. Then the intro started, and the sound hit you. It was a deafening roar. You stepped onto the stage and froze for half a second because the arena wasn’t just full—it was alive. A sea of thousands of lightsticks pulsed in waves of color, breathing with you. Your name and your group’s name echoed back like thunder, the fan chants perfect for every single track.

This wasn’t like Lollapalooza. That was viral, but this? This was yours. These were your fans, and they weren't just watching you—they were with you.

The performance flowed through adrenaline and muscle memory. During your solo stage, the lights hit you just right, and you could finally see the faces in the front: phones shaking, people crying. Crying for you. Your chest tightened, but you didn't break. You performed. And when the song ended, the roar that came back was overwhelming in the best way.

Backstage after the set, you were breathless and sweaty, laughing with your members. "We just did that," Noa said, eyes wide. Minaru leaned against the wall, murmuring that it was "efficient," which made you laugh. Then the staff started moving. "Guests are here."

You walked out and froze. It wasn't just guests—it was everyone.

Jennie was there with her arms open, looking proud, with Lisa clapping beside her. Sana, Momo, and Jihyo were cheering like fans themselves. Yunjin practically ran toward you, yelling, “YOU WERE INSANE—” while Kazuha laughed behind her and Keeho shouted something you couldn't even process. Members of Seventeen, aespa, ITZY, Red Velvet—faces you recognized instantly—were all looking at you like you belonged there. Like you had earned it.

Yunjin grabbed your shoulders. “I told you.” You laughed, still catching your breath. “Told me what?”

“That you’d kill it.”

You smiled because, for once, you actually believed it. You glanced back toward the stage, at the lights and the crowd still buzzing, and your chest filled with something new. It wasn't nerves or pressure anymore.

It was power. You were right in the center of the impact.

Forty more times.

That’s what it turned into. At first, you said it like a flex—something exciting to announce to the world. "Forty stops. Global tour. Sold out." But by month three, it didn’t feel like a flex anymore; it felt like survival. You were exhausted in the way sleep doesn’t fix, the kind that settles deep into your bones and stays there.

Planes became your primary reality. Red-eyes, early departures, and delayed flights. You stopped looking out the window because clouds all looked the same after a while. Airports blurred together into a cycle of security lines, private terminals, and staff rushing you through different countries that all followed the same routine.

And the hotel rooms. They were nice—too nice—with big beds and perfect views that felt like nothing. You’d walk in, drop your bag, and forget where you even were. Paris? Berlin? You stopped checking because it didn't matter. Your body never adjusted, and jet lag followed you like a shadow, making you sleep at 3 PM and stay wide awake at 4 AM.

Your reflection changed, too. You were still beautiful and polished, but your eyes were tired. Makeup covered it and lighting hid it, but you saw it every time you looked in the mirror. Backstage became your real home: quick changes, water bottles, and the constant overlap of staff voices. "Five minutes. Mic check. Where’s Yvez?"

But every night, you stepped on stage, and the fog disappeared. The exhaustion was replaced by noise and energy, by thousands of people screaming like you were the only thing that mattered. For those two hours, you believed it. You gave them 150%, even when your legs ached and your throat burned. Because they deserved it, and because you demanded it of yourself.

Then the show would end, and the drop would hit.

In the dressing room, the silence was heavy as the adrenaline faded. Sometimes no one spoke; there was just the sound of heavy breathing and water bottles opening. Minaru against the wall, Jiha checking the schedule, Solene flat on the couch, Noa trying to keep the spark alive. And you, just staring ahead, your body too far gone to even know what to feel.

One night, in a city you didn't even register, you sat alone in your hotel room with your shoes still on and your makeup half-removed. You were scrolling through your phone without seeing anything when it hit you again.

Not the breakup. Not the drama. Just him.

It wasn't painful anymore. It was just familiar. Comforting. You realized quietly that you didn't miss him in that aching, overwhelming way anymore. It was a small, steady, human feeling—like remembering a place you used to live.

You leaned your head back against the wall and exhaled slowly. Life didn't stop; it just changed. You were in the middle of something huge, something exhausting and unforgettable. And even though it was the hardest thing you'd ever done, you were still standing. Still performing.

Still becoming.

He was still out there, too. Different cities, different crowds, but the same life. Five months into his tour, you saw clips of him sometimes—not obsessively like before, but just in passing. He looked like he had it under control, smiling for the cameras, and you couldn't help but wonder: *How?* How did he do it without losing his mind?

Because you felt like you were getting close. Not in a dramatic way, but slowly. Everything was blurring together—cities you didn't register, days you couldn't track, memories that felt like they belonged to someone else. After shows, the staff would suggest exploring cute cafés or landmarks, and you’d go, smile, and take the pictures you were supposed to. But it didn't feel new. You grew up like this—suitcases, airports, and different homes that weren't really homes. Your parents called it opportunity, but to you, it always just felt like *leaving*.

Paris had been different, though. For once, someone came to you. Your parents and your sibling were there in the crowd, and for a moment, you weren't just Yvez—you were a daughter and a sister. Backstage, your mom hugged you tight, your dad gave you that quiet, proud smile, and your sibling wouldn't stop talking about how "insane" you looked on stage. Solene’s father was there, too, warm and supportive of all of you.

It was nice. Too nice. Because it ended as fast as it started.

"Okay—we have to go. Next schedule. Next city."

Hugs were cut short, and goodbyes were rushed. You were back in the car, driving away again, with that same familiar ache in your chest—the feeling that you were constantly leaving something behind.

That night, sitting in your hotel room with your phone in your hand, you looked at his name. The thread was still open. The thought came so easily: Ask him. Ask him how he handles the loneliness, the constant movement, the feeling of never having enough time. He would understand better than anyone else in the world.

Your thumb hovered over the screen. You even typed it out: How do you not go insane doing this?

You stared at the words, knowing it wasn't just about the tour. It was about everything. You exhaled slowly and then deleted it. Because even though he understood, he wasn't yours to go to anymore.

That realization didn't break you, but it lingered. You set your phone down and laid back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. For the first time in a long time, you didn't want the stage or the lights. You just wanted time—time that didn't run out, time that didn't feel borrowed.

But that wasn't the life you chose. So instead, you closed your eyes and got ready to do it all again tomorrow.

Jungkook kept up with you the way people keep up with something they’re not supposed to touch anymore: quietly and consistently. It wasn’t obsessive in the way people would assume; it was simply routine. Like muscle memory, he’d wake up, check clips, and scroll just a little too long.

He knew every stop on your tour. Not because you told him, but because he looked. Fancams, edits, full stage uploads—anything he could find. And you were everywhere, louder and sharper than the last time he saw you. There was something different about you now—a presence that suggested you knew exactly where you stood and weren't asking for permission anymore.

But the thing that caught him first was your hair. It was longer—past your waist now—falling in soft, heavy waves that moved with you on stage like it had its own rhythm. He blinked the first time he noticed, wondering when it had gotten that long. He didn't have an answer; time had passed in ways he hadn't fully registered, and suddenly, you looked further away.

Your hair went viral almost instantly. Clips zoomed in mid-performance, slow-motion edits captured every flip, and comments flooded in: "how much to get my hair like that 😭," "Yvez’s hair is the 6th member of she," "it girl idc." He scrolled through them without reacting, just reading, because they weren't wrong. You were that girl now—the standard everyone tried to replicate.

He felt a quiet mix of things he couldn't quite name. Pride, because he had seen you before this version and watched you become it. But there was something heavier, too, because he wasn't part of it anymore.

He paused on a clip of you mid-performance, lights hitting you just right, your hair flowing behind you as you moved effortlessly while the crowd screamed your name. You didn't hesitate; you didn't look unsure. You looked untouchable.

He exhaled slowly. Somewhere along the way, you had stopped feeling close—not emotionally, but physically. There was a distance now that couldn't be crossed with a simple message.

And still, he watched. Because even if you weren't his anymore, you were still someone he couldn't look away from.

He told himself he’d just watch one clip. Just one. That was always how it started.

The video loaded—grainy at first, then sharpening into focus. You were center stage, lights low, beat heavy, the crowd already screaming before you even moved. Then the song started: OBSESSED.

The energy was different from your other stages. It was darker, closer, more intentional. You stepped forward slowly, eyes scanning the crowd like you already knew the effect you had. And then—that line.

“I want you to be obsessed with me.”

The way you delivered it wasn't playful or teasing. It was certain. Like you weren’t asking—like you knew.

The crowd lost it. Phones shook, and voices cracked trying to sing along, but Jungkook didn’t move. He didn’t scroll or blink; he just watched. The choreography was sharp and controlled, and your expressions were different from how he remembered—more aware of yourself, of the audience, and of the power you held in that moment.

With your hair falling over your shoulders and catching the light every time you turned, you looked unreal. Like something built specifically for that stage. And then the chorus hit again.

“I want you to be obsessed with me.”

Jungkook let out a quiet breath. “…trust me, I am.”

It slipped out before he could stop it. The words hung there for a second, and suddenly, he felt stupid. He huffed a quiet laugh, running a hand over his face. “…what am I doing?”

Because it was ridiculous. You were halfway across the world. You weren’t his. And here he was—watching you like this still meant something.

He turned his phone off quickly, the screen going dark. But it didn’t really help. The image stayed: you on stage, that line, that look.

And the worst part? He knew you didn’t mean it for him. But it still felt like you did.

Six months.

Six months of noise, lights, and movement—and then suddenly… nothing. No call time, no van waiting downstairs, no staff knocking on your door. Just silence.

You woke up at 12 PM. Not because you were well-rested, but because your body didn’t know what time it was anymore. The dorm felt different—too clean, too quiet. Noa wasn’t blasting music, Solene wasn’t talking to herself in the mirror, Jiha wasn’t on the phone with management, and Minaru wasn’t sitting in the corner pretending she wasn’t listening to everything.

They were all gone. Home. With families and people who actually knew them outside of this. Even Minaru left, which somehow made it worse. Because if she left, the dorm was truly empty.

You walked around aimlessly—kitchen, living room, back to your room. Phone in your hand. Always your phone. You thought about texting Yunjin or Keeho, but you hovered over their names and stopped. You didn’t want to feel like you were interrupting their lives.

So you sat down on your bed. Quiet. Too quiet.

And that’s when it crept in again. Not the heartbreak, just habit. You opened TikTok and typed his name without thinking. Scrolled. Jungkook fancams—of course. You let one play, then another, then another. Different cities, different outfits, same energy. He looked good. Happy. Focused. Like he belonged on stage just as much as you did.

You pulled your knees up slightly, resting your chin against them. Watching him like this felt weird now. Not painful, just distant. Like watching someone you used to know really well. There was a clip of him laughing mid-performance—that same laugh. You paused it and stared for a second longer than you meant to because you remembered that sound up close, not through a screen.

You exhaled slowly. “…this is so stupid,” you muttered to yourself.

But you didn’t close the app. Because even if it was stupid, it filled the silence. And right now, the silence was the hardest part. You fell back onto your bed, phone still in your hand, another video playing automatically.

The ceiling above you felt unfamiliar because for the first time in months, you weren’t moving. And somehow, that felt harder than everything you just did.

The dorm stayed quiet. Not peaceful—just… still.

Your phone slipped from your hand onto the bed, the video still playing softly somewhere near your shoulder, but you didn’t reach for it. Your mind had finally caught up to you. Everything you’d been avoiding—pushing down, distracting yourself from with loud stages and bright lights—came back at once.

The relationship.

The beginning, how unexpected it was. How easy it felt at first, like something that wasn't supposed to happen but did anyway. The way he made you laugh and looked at you like you were something soft and real, not just "Yvez." The way you felt safe. That part hurt the most because none of it was fake.

You squeezed your eyes shut, and your mind jumped to the end. That quiet conversation on the floor. Neither of you raising your voice. It ending without a villain. And somehow, that made it worse.

“…sometimes love isn’t enough,” you whispered.

The second the words left your mouth, your chest cracked open. You hated that something so real—something you both fought for—still wasn't enough to make it work. Tears slipped out fast and quiet. You turned onto your side, curling into yourself, trying to hold the ache in.

You had tried. You tried to make time, to understand, to be okay with the distance. And he did, too. He didn’t give up on you; you both just ran out of space to exist together.

“I really tried…” your voice broke. You weren’t even talking to him anymore, just to the feeling itself.

You thought you were over it because you were busy, successful, and surrounded. But healing wasn't linear. It didn't disappear just because time passed; it sat there, waiting for moments like this—when everything slowed down enough for you to actually feel the weight of it.

You wiped your face roughly, but more tears came. You missed him in a real way, the kind that stayed in the details: his voice, his laugh, the way he’d touch your hair. You remembered how happy it felt when it worked, how natural it was.

And now, he was just someone you used to love.

PART 3

——————————————————————————

You leaned your head back against the seat and exhaled slowly. “…this is insane.”

Noa immediately turned. “I know, right? We’re literally famous.”

Solene laughed. “Now?”

Minaru didn’t even look up. “You’ve been famous.”

Jiha finally spoke, calm as ever: “This is just the beginning.”

That made you sit up slightly. Because she wasn’t joking. She wasn’t celebrating. She was planning.

You looked back at your phone. At the numbers. At the headlines. At your face. At your group. Then at your messages. You scrolled to his name. Paused.

Because in the middle of all this—all the success, all the noise, all the attention—there was still something quietly complicated sitting in your chest. Something that didn’t trend. Didn’t chart. Didn’t win awards.

You typed:

you: we went #1

You stared at it. Then hit send. Because no matter how big everything got—there were still certain people you wanted to tell first.

He replied a day later.

him: great job

That was it. No emojis. No extra line. No “I watched it.” No “I’m proud of you.” Just—great job.

You stared at it longer than you should’ve. Because logically? It was fine. Normal. Even supportive. But emotionally? It felt… small. Compared to everything that just happened. Compared to how big this era was. Compared to how much you’d wanted to tell him.

You didn’t confront it. You just… felt it. And moved on. Because you had to.

Because today—you were filming something big. “IDOLS IN THE ROOM.” A brand new variety show. HYBE-produced, of course.

Which meant: high budget, high exposure, high expectations. And for their first episode? They went all out. SHE and BTS.

Backstage was chaos. Stylists rushing. Hair being fixed. Mics getting clipped. Managers pacing. And your members? Absolutely insufferable.

“You’re about to see your man,” Noa whispered loudly.

“Shut up,” you hissed immediately.

Solene gasped dramatically. “Oh my god she’s nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“You fixed your hair three times,” Minaru added calmly without even looking up from her phone.

“That’s normal.”

“It’s not.” Jiha just glanced at you once. Not teasing. Just observing. Which somehow made it worse.

Then the staff called—“Standby!”

You all lined up. Deep breath. Smile on. Idol mode.

The set was bright. Warm lighting. Two long couches facing each other. A low table in the middle with drinks already set. Casual. Inviting. Dangerous. Because this wasn’t a performance. This was conversation.

You walked in together. Introductions. Applause. Energy already high. Then BTS walked in. And the room shifted instantly. Not intimidating—just… heavy. Experienced. Comfortable. Like they’d done this a hundred times and didn’t need to think about it anymore.

You bowed deeply with your members. “Hello!” They greeted back just as warmly.

You took your seats. And immediately—the dynamic showed. They were relaxed. Leaning back. Joking already. You guys? Trying to look relaxed. Trying not to look like rookies sitting across from literal legends.

The host started easy. “First—congratulations on LUV4U. The numbers are insane.”

You all reacted humbly. “Thank you so much.” “We’re really grateful.” Jiha handled most of the structured answers. Of course.

Then the host turned to BTS. “You’ve seen groups rise for years—what do you think of SHE?”

They exchanged looks. Smiles. Then Jin leaned forward first. “They’re scary.” Everyone laughed immediately. “Scary?”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “Because they don’t feel like rookies.” That hit. You smiled, but your chest tightened slightly. Because coming from him? That meant something.

Then Jimin spoke. “I saw their performances… they’re very stable.” He glanced at you all. “And confident.” Solene smiled. “That means a lot coming from you.”

Then the conversation loosened. Less formal. More playful.

And of course—Jungkook spoke. “I actually met Yvez before,” he said casually.

Your head snapped slightly toward him. Why would he bring that up—

“Oh?” the host leaned in immediately. “When?”

“On their web series,” he said. “She danced to DNA.”

The room exploded. Immediate laughter. Jimin leaned back laughing. “Yeah I saw that clip!”

“No—” you groaned instantly, covering your face. “I’m not doing that again.”

“Do it now!” Noa said immediately.

“No!”

“Come on!”

“Absolutely not.” Jin laughed loudly. “This is the content we need.”

“You guys are evil,” you muttered. Jungkook just sat there smiling. Not helping. At all.

The conversation shifted again, becoming more casual and personal. “I also noticed,” someone added, “you guys all speak English really well.”

Minaru explained that they were told they wouldn’t be able to debut if they weren’t fluent. Everyone in your group nodded. You and Solene exchanged a look, then laughed. “Yeah, i wasn’t worried at all,” Solene shrugged. You nodded beside her. “Same.” Noa leaned forward, resting her chin in her hand. “I went to an international school in Japan, so English was already my second language. The hard part for me was learning Korean.”

That got a few laughs.

Then Jungkook spoke, casual but direct. “Don’t you speak French as well?” He looked at you, and your heart did that thing again. You nodded. “Yes— me and Solene.”

Solene perked up immediately. “Yes— my father owns a Korean BBQ franchise in France.” The room reacted with interest. She smiled, enjoying the attention. “I was actually born in Busan. I lived here for the first ten years of my life, but my parents got divorced when my mom was still pregnant with me—”

Noa turned to her slowly. “…you’re telling your whole life story.”

Jiha giggled quietly, covering her mouth. Solene rolled her eyes. “I’m giving context.”

“No one asked for that much context,” Noa shot back. The room laughed again as Solene waved her off. “Anyway— I went back and forth a lot.”

Jiha adjusted slightly in her seat. “I’m from Daegu,” she added. That immediately caught Suga’s attention. “Daegu?” he nodded. “Same.” They shared a small, mutual moment there.

“Noa?” someone asked. “Osaka,” she answered quickly. “Minaru?” “Seoul.” Short. Clean. Done.

Then all eyes landed on you. You blinked and shrugged slightly. “I’m just from Hawaii…” The room laughed, of course, because of how boring you made it sound. “I don’t think I relate to anyone,” you added sheepishly.

“But you’re so interesting—” Jiha cut in immediately. You looked at her, a little surprised, then nodded slowly. “I guess so… My parents are professors, so they travel all the time.” There was a small shift of curiosity in the room. When asked about their field, you replied, “Philosophy… sociology… things like that. They move around a lot.”

And for a second, the room felt quieter and more focused. It wasn’t just idols talking to idols anymore; it was people from different backgrounds and paths all ending up in the same place. And across from you, Jungkook watched you. Not laughing, not talking—just listening, like he always did when you said something real.

Jungkook looked at you for a little longer than necessary—not obvious enough for anyone else to clock it, but you felt it. That extra second, that quiet pause, like he was still thinking about what you said or just… looking at you. You looked away first, because you always did.

Then V spoke, leaning back slightly with that calm, low tone. “Seriously— I enjoy your guys’ music.” The room softened because his voice carried differently: less playful, more sincere. You straightened slightly without meaning to. “Thank you,” Jiha said first, bowing her head a little. “We really appreciate that.” Solene smiled, leaning forward, while Noa nodded quickly in agreement. Minaru didn’t speak, but she dipped her head once in acknowledgment—her version of gratitude.

You hesitated for a second before speaking too. “Thank you… really.” Your voice came out softer than you expected, less like an idol and more like yourself. V nodded slightly. “There’s a feeling in your songs,” he added. “It doesn’t feel manufactured.” That hit differently because it was the one thing you all cared about most—not sounding empty or like you were just performing something you were handed. Minaru glanced at him and said simply, “That’s intentional. We don’t release things we don’t connect to.” Direct, no fluff. RM nodded again. “That’s why it works.” There was a small pause after that—not awkward, just full.

The host clapped lightly, breaking the moment. “Okay, this is getting too wholesome. We need something more fun. Let’s talk about first impressions. When you first saw each other, what did you think?”

Your body tensed instantly as the BTS members looked at each other, smirks already forming. Jimin leaned forward first. “I thought they were very bright—like, energy-wise.” Solene nodded, “That’s accurate.”

Then someone nudged Jungkook. Of course, it was always him. “What about you?” the host asked. He scratched the back of his neck, thinking—or pretending to. “I thought…” he started, glancing at you for half a second, barely noticeable. “I thought they were confident.” A safe answer. Very safe. “Just confident?” the host pressed. The room leaned in. He shrugged. “And loud.”

That broke the tension immediately, and everyone laughed. “HEY—” Noa pointed at him, while Minaru calmly added, “That’s true.” You laughed too because it was true, but something about his answer felt filtered—like he chose it carefully, leaving other things unsaid. You didn’t call him out, but you didn’t let it slide either. You leaned forward slightly, tilting your head. “Just loud?”

The room caught it instantly. “Ooooh—” Noa leaned back. “Here we go.” Jungkook looked at you now—really looked—a small smile forming because he knew exactly what you were doing. “You danced to DNA,” he said instead, deflecting but not really. The room exploded again. “OH MY GOD—” “She’s never escaping that!”

You dropped your head into your hands. “I hate all of you.” And through the laughter and the noise, there it was again—that strange balance between what you were publicly and what you were privately. Somehow, that felt harder to manage than anything else.

“Out of curiosity—do you guys fight a lot?” Jin asked, leaning forward like he already knew the answer would be interesting. You laughed immediately, covering your mouth; of course that question would come up. Noa didn’t even hesitate. She stood up halfway from her seat, pointing across the couch like she was in court. “Just this morning—Solene stole my moisturizer.”

The room burst out laughing instantly. “HEY—” Solene turned to her, “You used mine first!” “That was two weeks ago!” “That’s not the point!” “You didn’t even ask!” “You don’t ask either!” “Because you don’t let me!” “You don’t let me either!” The host was already losing it. “This is happening in real time—”

You shook your head, laughing, but you could feel that familiar urge to just say it. Honest first, think later. You swallowed slightly, then leaned forward. “We fight all the time. Like—all the time, actually.” There it was. No filter, no PR, just truth. A few of the BTS members widened their eyes slightly—not shocked, just surprised you said it like that. V smiled softly. “Wow… you’re really honest.” You shrugged a little. “I don’t think there’s a point in pretending we don’t.”

Solene leaned forward, picking it up smoothly. “We’re like sisters, and we fight over anything. Literally anything.” Noa nodded, still slightly defensive but already over it. “We bicker a lot—but it’s because we love each other.” That landed. Jiha adjusted slightly in her seat, naturally taking over the explanation. “We’re all extroverted, and we’re very… expressive when something bothers us.” She glanced at you briefly. “Which means we don’t really let things build up. We just… say it.”

“That’s true,” you nodded. “We don’t bottle things up—we just fight and then it’s over.” Minaru, who had been quiet the whole time, finally spoke with a delivery so dry it made the room laugh again: “I’m the only introverted one between all of them.” “That must be exhausting for you,” Jimin said, smiling. Minaru shrugged. “I observe.” “That’s scary,” Noa muttered. “She knows everything and says nothing.” Minaru tilted her head slightly. “I say enough.”

That got a few “ooohs” from the room. You laughed, shaking your head. “It’s true—when she speaks, it’s usually something we don’t want to hear.” RM nodded thoughtfully, looking between all of you. “That’s actually a good balance. If everyone is expressive, things get resolved quickly. And having someone who observes helps keep perspective.” Jiha nodded. “We need that.”

The host leaned in again. “So your conflicts don’t last long?” You shook your head. “No—like… 10 minutes max.” “Sometimes 30,” Solene corrected. “That was ONE time,” you shot back. “It was an hour,” Noa added. “Okay, that was different—” The room laughed again.

Then, someone asked from across the couch, “And what about more serious arguments?” The tone shifted slightly—still light, but more real. You paused for a second because suddenly, your brain didn’t go to your members. It went somewhere else. Jungkook. You felt it before you looked—that awareness, that pull. When you did glance up, he was already looking at you, not smiling or joking this time, just watching.

You smiled lightly, shifting your weight. “I think… we try to understand each other more than we try to win.” That was true, just not the full truth. There was a small pause, then nods around the room. “That’s important,” RM said. Jungkook leaned back slightly after that, his expression unreadable, but his eyes stayed on you for just a second longer—like he knew exactly what you left out.

The episode wrapped like it always does—bright smiles, closing comments, and a final group bow. “Thank you for watching!” then applause, and then the cut. The second the cameras went off, everything shifted. Staff flooded in, mics were unclipped, and managers began calling out schedules as the energy loosened instantly. The last 15 minutes had been chaos: charades where Noa screamed the answers and a whisper challenge so loud that V actually ripped his headphones off mid-round, yelling, “HOW ARE YOU SO LOUD?!” The room had lost it—you dropped to the floor laughing while Solene clapped and Jiha failed to maintain her composure. It was all clip-worthy content that fans would replay a hundred times, but now it was over, and the real world slipped back in.

You were standing off to the side, staff adjusting your outfit, when you felt that presence. You didn’t even need to turn; Jungkook walked straight up to you with no buffer, acting as if this part was the only real part of the day. “Oh, now you wanna talk to me?” It came out sharper than you meant, but you realized you meant it. He blinked, caught off guard for half a second. “I just talked to you for an hour.” You turned fully to him, face straight—no smile, no performance. He knew immediately that this wasn't about the show.

He exhaled quietly. “…you mean off camera.” “Yeah,” you said flatly. There was a small pause as the noise of the room filled the space around you, yet right there, it felt like the world dropped out. “I’ve been busy,” he said. You scoffed lightly, “So have I.” He nodded, "I know." You crossed your arms, not defensive, just holding yourself together. “You had time to go on a variety show,” you added, “And take shots.” His eyes flickered; you saw it, of course you did. “That’s work,” he said. “So is texting.”

That landed clean. He looked at you, deciding how to respond without making it worse. “I didn’t think it was that big of a deal,” he admitted. Wrong answer. You let out a short breath. “Of course you didn’t.” Now he frowned, feeling the shift. “I said congratulations,” he added. “Two words,” your voice didn't rise or shake, which only made it worse. “You watched me sit there and act like I don’t know you, and then came up to me like everything’s fine.”

He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated but trying to understand. “I didn’t want to make it obvious. I was being careful.” You nodded slowly. “I know. But it feels like you’re being distant.” That one landed softer, but deeper. He went quiet because that wasn't something he could logic his way out of. “I’m not trying to be,” he said finally. “I just… I don’t know how to do this perfectly.”

That slowed you down just a little. “Neither do I,” you admitted. Another pause followed, less sharp this time and more tired. Around you, staff were calling names and schedules were moving again. “I’m trying,” he added quietly. “I know,” you said, looking at him for a second before softening just slightly. Not fully, not yet. “But try better.” He blinked, then a small, almost surprised laugh escaped him. “Okay.” And just like that, you were both standing there—not fixed, not broken, just still in it.

Jungkook had to go—just like that. No long goodbye, no “I’ll call you later,” and no pause to fix what had just happened. He simply reached out and lightly patted your head like it was nothing, like you were fine, and then he turned and walked away. You didn’t move, didn't call after him or grab his sleeve, but your chest tightened anyway. You knew you could’ve—should’ve—said more. You let him go, but the regret set in immediately.

Exhaling slowly, you forced your face back into something neutral. Staff were still everywhere, and cameras could still be rolling; you couldn't afford to look like anything but professional. “Yves?” Noa called from across the room. “Coming,” you answered, your voice sounding too normal even to your own ears. But as you moved, your mind stayed with him, watching him walk away.

Meanwhile, in a different hallway, the energy shifted. Away from the cameras and the audience, the members of BTS finally loosened up. “Ahh—they’re so fun,” J-Hope smiled, stretching as he rode the high of the show. V agreed, noting that they still had their "soul," his way of saying they weren't worn down or performative yet. Suga smiled faintly, impressed by how fast the group had gotten comfortable. "They remind me of us," someone added quietly, leading to a brief, reflective silence. RM eventually cleared his throat, offering a genuine wish for your success.

Then, he glanced at Jungkook—that leader instinct kicking in. “You’re still fighting with Yves?” Jungkook didn’t answer or look up; he just kept walking, which was answer enough. Jin broke the tension with an amused look. “Jungkook, I’m not gonna lie—I wouldn’t even be able to tell you guys knew each other at all. You played it off really well.” Jimin laughed immediately, "That’s because they’re fighting."

As the laughter continued, Jungkook finally exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, a habit that always gave away his frustration. “It’s not like that,” he muttered. “It’s exactly like that,” Jimin shot back. When Hoseok asked what happened this time, Jungkook hesitated. How do you explain a problem that isn't one specific thing? “Nothing big,” he said finally, which really meant everything. RM tilted his head, "That’s usually when it’s the worst."

Jungkook nodded faintly; he knew. “She thinks I’m being distant.” “And are you?” Yoongi asked calmly. After another pause, Jungkook admitted, “…I’m trying not to mess things up.” Jin snorted lightly, "That usually *is* messing things up." Jungkook didn't laugh this time. “I don’t want to make it harder for her,” he added, more serious. RM nodded slowly, "Then you have to decide if protecting her means distancing yourself… or being present."

That landed hard because they weren't the same thing, and Jungkook knew it. Jimin leaned against the wall, adding, “She doesn’t look like someone who wants distance.” Jungkook looked down, quiet again, because he knew that too. Somewhere else, in another hallway, you were standing with your members—laughing, talking, and moving on—but your mind was still stuck on that small moment and that unfinished feeling. And the worst part? He felt it too.

_______________________________________________

The next day, your body was already sore before practice even started. Three run-throughs, one full-out, corrections, again and again. Sweat stuck to your neck and your hairline was damp, the music still echoing in your head even after it cut off. “Break!” your choreographer finally called. You exhaled, hands on your knees, for a thirty-minute break—not enough, but you’d take it.

You barely had time to grab your water before the door opened. No knock, just presence: Jungkook. Your head snapped up immediately. The room shifted subtly as your members noticed instantly. Minaru clocked everything and said nothing; Noa’s eyebrows shot up; Solene leaned back like she had front-row seats to a drama; and Jiha straightened slightly. “I cleared an hour out of my schedule,” he said, casual, as if that were a normal thing to say. Minaru spoke before you could even process it. “You can do that?” Flat, curious, slightly judgmental. He rolled his eyes. “Sometimes.”

You turned away, grabbing your water bottle like it had suddenly become very important. “Well—now you’re distracting me.” Your tone was light but not soft. “I’m pursuing you,” he corrected immediately. That made you pause. Pursuing. You didn’t melt; you challenged him, turning back slowly and raising a brow. “Pursuing?” He nodded once, serious and not joking. Solene made a quiet "oh my god" noise behind you while Noa literally grabbed her arm. Minaru just watched, silent and analyzing. “Fine,” you said finally, acting as if it didn't affect you even though your chest did something weird.

He didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, took your wrist—firm but not rough—and pulled you toward the door. “HEY—” Noa called, “Bring her back!” Jiha reminded him of the thirty-minute limit, but Jungkook corrected, “An hour,” without looking back. The door closed on Jiha’s protest, leaving the room in silence until Noa turned slowly and muttered, “…oh they’re bad.” Minaru simply nodded. “Yes.”

Out in the hallway, you pulled your hand back, not aggressively but to reset your space. “An hour? You’re bold.” “I told you,” he said, “I cleared it.” “For me?” He looked at you like the answer was obvious. “Yes.” You exhaled quietly because that hit, but you weren't letting him off that easily. “You could’ve texted me more instead,” you said. He nodded immediately. “I know.” The lack of defense threw you off. “I’m not good at this part,” he added, now walking beside you. “Texting. Timing. All of it.” You glanced at him. “…but you’re good at showing up?” He looked at you. “Yeah.”

That answer sat differently. You softened but kept him accountable, crossing your arms lightly. “That doesn’t fix everything.” “I know.” Another pause followed. “But I’m trying,” he said again, quieter this time. You studied him for a second, knowing he didn’t say things he didn’t mean. “You always say that,” you muttered. “And you still don’t believe me?” You hesitated because the answer wasn't simple. “I believe you’re trying,” you said slowly. “I just don’t know if we’re trying the same way.”

That made him stop walking. You took another step before realizing he wasn't next to you and turned back. He was looking at you differently now—focused, thinking. “What way do you want?” he asked. The question hit deeper than anything else because you hadn't said it out loud yet. You blinked. “…I don’t know. I just—” You exhaled. “I don’t want to feel like I’m chasing you.”

He frowned slightly. “You’re not.” “It feels like it sometimes.” After another pause, he stepped closer again—intentional, not forceful. “You’re not chasing me,” he said. “I’m just… bad at showing things the way you expect.” You looked up at him, too close to ignore. “And what way is that?” He tilted his head, thinking. “Consistent,” he said finally. You let out a small breath. “…yeah.” There it was: the actual issue. Not arguments or distance, just a mismatch. And for the first time in a while, you both actually understood it.

He started fidgeting with his jacket—not subtle, fingers tugging at the hem and the zipper, letting go only to do it again. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, unable to stay still. This wasn’t casual or light anymore; it felt like he was about to lose something, and he knew it. It was ironic; at the beginning, he was the one trying to push you away to "protect" you, trying to make you leave before things got complicated. Now, he was standing in front of you, uneasy and scared, trying to find words that seemed to be slipping through his hands.

“Yves… I’m here—” his voice came out lower, not polished or performative, but real. “I’m here… I know I can’t be all the time, but I am.” You sighed softly because while that sentence was true, it also wasn't enough. You opened your mouth to respond, but he cut you off. “I keep coming back to you,” he said quickly, as if he had to say it now or never. “Even when you get mad at me so easily.” Your brows furrowed at the sting of that, but he added quickly, “I ignore it. I try and make it right… I am trying to give my all to you… 100%.” He looked at you directly, no more deflecting. “But I can’t just drop literally everything—and I know you know that…”

You didn't argue; you just listened. He ran a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. “I don’t know how to do this perfectly,” he admitted again, quieter. Then came a real pause. He looked away for a second, then back at you, like he had to commit to the moment. “I guess… I guess it’s my weird way of saying that—I love you.”

Everything went still. It wasn't dramatic or loud; it was quiet, heavy, and real. That was the first time. There was no buildup, no perfect moment, no music—just a hallway, the sweat still on your skin, time running out, and him standing there saying it like it cost him something. Your heart didn't explode; it dropped in a grounding way. This wasn't fantasy anymore; it was effort, conflict, and misunderstanding, yet still choosing each other.

You really looked at him—the way his hands wouldn't stay still and how his eyes locked onto yours, needing an answer but not forcing one. You stepped closer, just enough to close the space. “You’re really bad at this,” you said softly. He blinked, caught off guard. “But…” you exhaled a small, shaky breath, “I love you too.”

It was simple, unrehearsed, and entirely yours. His shoulders dropped instantly, like a weight he'd been holding finally released. For the first time in a while, it didn't feel like you were pulling in opposite directions; it felt like you were finally standing in the same place.

He leaned down and kissed you—slow, steady, and not rushed like before. It was as if he actually had time this time. His hand rested on your back, warm and grounding, before sliding up gently to brush through your hair as if by instinct. “I’ve missed this,” he murmured. You blinked, pulling back slightly. “This?” “Your hair,” he said simply, his fingers still tangled lightly in it. “Touching it… smelling it…” He leaned down, pressing a soft kiss to the top of your head.

You froze for half a second before laughing. “Okay… you’re weird.” But you didn’t move away; instead, you leaned in, burying your face into his shoulder. Because weird or not, it felt familiar, comforting, and safe in a way that didn’t need to be explained. His arms wrapped around you again, a little tighter this time—not possessive, just holding you. “I mean it,” he added quietly. “I missed you.”

You didn’t answer right away, just staying there to listen to his voice and feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. Finally, you mumbled against his shoulder, “…me too.” He smiled—you could feel it more than see it. And for once, nothing felt rushed. There was no schedule, no cameras, and no pretending. It was just a quiet moment that you both knew wouldn't last long, but you still chose to stay in it anyway.

“Six months…” he muttered against your temple. You nodded softly, agreeing that the time had flown by, but he huffed a quiet laugh. “Yeah but… compared to the time we’ve actually spent together? I’d say like… two weeks.” That landed—not as an accusation, but as a simple truth. Late texts, missed calls, and stolen moments instead of shared ones. He noticed your expression shift and brushed his thumb against your arm. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that.” “I know,” you nodded quickly, “but it’s true.”

A small, real pause settled between you before he spoke again, his voice quieter. “Your birthday is next month.” You blinked, a small smile forming. “Oh—yeah.” You added that his birthday was only a month after yours, but he shook his head. “Well—this is about you. What do you want? Literally anything.” You stared at him for a second because the question sounded simple, but it wasn't.

You looked down, really thinking about what mattered, then looked back up at him. “…time.” He blinked, clearly expecting a different answer. “I just want time with you,” you shrugged. “No schedules. No rushing. No disappearing after an hour.” Your voice softened, honest rather than demanding. “Like… a full day. Even if we’re doing nothing.”

He went quiet because he knew that wasn't something he could just buy; it required effort, planning, and sacrifice. His jaw tightened slightly as he calculated the possibility, then he gave a slow, serious nod. “…okay.” It wasn't playful or teasing—it was a promise. You studied him, asking if he was sure, and he looked at you as if the question didn't even make sense. “I asked you what you wanted,” he said after a pause. “I’ll figure it out.” Something about the way he said it felt more valuable than anything else he could have offered.

The hour wasn’t enough—it never was—and just like that, schedules pulled you apart again into different countries, time zones, and lives moving at full speed. But something shifted after that conversation. He tried more. He actually tried. The messages became more than just “eat?” or “busy?”; they became actual thoughts and rambling, groggy voice notes at all hours. You’d listen to him talk about a random dog that reminded him of you while sitting in a hotel room at 3:00 AM, smiling like an idiot.

Then came your showcase tour. It was sold out everywhere, across multiple countries, with crowds screaming your name and lightsticks glowing like oceans. Your music echoed in places you’d never even imagined standing. Clips surfaced instantly, and that was what Jungkook lived off of. He sat alone, phone in hand, scrolling and watching your performances over and over. “Ugh… she’s so pretty,” he’d mutter, his thumb hovering over the screen as if he didn't want to move past your face. He saw the clip of your mic malfunctioning and how you adjusted seamlessly without a hint of panic. “And so professional…” he groaned softly, shaking his head. God, he missed you.

Then he saw your solo stage. He paused the video, his eyes glued to the screen. The lighting, the music, the way you moved—slower, controlled, and more intentional. It was more you. His jaw tightened as he leaned back against the couch, a hand running through his hair. He noticed everything: the outfit, the way your body moved, the sheer confidence in your eyes.

And then, something unfamiliar crept in—jealousy. It wasn't ugly or possessive, but it was real. Thousands of people were seeing you like this, and he wasn't there. His mind wandered, naturally; he wasn't going to pretend it didn't. He liked you, loved you, and wanted you—all of it existing at the same time. But he never pushed it. He never even hinted at it because every time he thought about crossing that line, he stopped himself out of respect. You were still figuring each other out, learning how to exist in this relationship without breaking it, and he wasn't going to risk that for a moment of impatience.

He locked his phone and exhaled slowly. “…get it together,” he muttered to himself. Because yeah, he missed you—in every way that mattered and in ways he wasn't going to say out loud yet. But more than anything, he just wanted you there. Not on a screen, not in a clip, and not in a ten-second fancam. Just with him.

The tour ended just like that. No more screaming crowds or rehearsals until your body gave out; just silence. When your manager announced a week off—seven full days with no alarms or cameras—it felt unreal. You texted him immediately, and of course, he was already at the HYBE building. You barely made it through the doors before he was in front of you, picking you up and spinning you around. It wasn't playful or calculated this time; it was pure instinct.

You laughed, gripping onto him as the world tilted. “Jungkook—” He didn't let you finish, setting you down only to pull you right back in, kissing you again and again. It was messy, uncoordinated, and unfiltered. “I missed you so much,” he breathed against your lips. You laughed breathlessly, “I can tell—” He pulled back just enough to really look at you, making sure you were actually there and not just a clip on a screen. “Let’s get away,” he said suddenly. “Let’s go to Jeju Island.”

You froze, then laughed in disbelief. “What??” “I’m serious,” he said, already planning. When you started to say it wasn't that simple, he cut in, soft but firm. “Let’s just go. It’s not all the time we have time like this… and we won’t have to worry as much.” That part hit you. He was right. No schedules, no pressure—just the time you had asked for. “…you’re crazy,” you muttered. He just smiled. “I know.”

Next thing you knew, you were at the airport—hidden, hoods up, masks on, escorted through private routes and quiet hallways that normal people never see. It felt surreal, like you were doing something forbidden even though you were allowed. On the plane, there was no chaos or cameras, just space. And him.

He didn’t let go of you, his arm always around you, fingers brushing yours as he leaned into you like he needed the contact. “You’re clingy,” you mumbled. “I know,” he said easily, not even trying to deny it. He pressed a soft kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then your jaw—slow and unhurried, like he finally had the time to do it properly. “No one’s watching,” he murmured.

That changed everything. For once, you didn't have to think about angles, cameras, or how any of it looked. You just leaned into him, resting your head on his shoulder and letting your fingers intertwine with his. It was quiet, warm, and real. Somewhere between takeoff and landing, it finally felt like you weren't stealing moments anymore; you were finally living one.

The resort was unreal. The moment you stepped out of the car, it didn’t even feel like Korea anymore. Quiet stone pathways, the soft ocean wind brushing against your skin, and the faint sound of waves in the distance—everything felt slowed down. “This is insane,” you muttered. Jungkook just smiled slightly, shrugging. “Hyung told me about it. Said it’s one of the only places you can actually relax.” Relax—you almost laughed at the word because you hadn't done that in months.

The lobby was calm; people were existing without staring, whispering, or pulling out phones. It was the most normal you’d felt in a long time. Your suite was even more impressive, with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking an endless ocean and warm, neutral tones that made everything feel expensive and quiet. You walked in slowly, taking it all in as if moving too fast would make it disappear. “This is…” you started, but couldn't finish. “Nice?” he offered. You turned to him, "Nice?? Jungkook, this is insane." He laughed softly, watching you instead of the room.

You dropped your bag and walked straight to the window, pressing your hands against the glass. The ocean was open and endless. You let out a long, deep exhale, and for the first time in a while, your shoulders actually dropped. No tension, no performance, no pressure—just quiet.

Behind you, you felt him. His arms wrapped around you slowly, careful not to break the moment, as his chin rested lightly against your shoulder. “You look different when you’re not stressed,” he murmured. You smiled faintly, “Is that a good thing?” “Yeah. You look like yourself.” That hit softer than you expected. You leaned back into him, letting your weight rest there. “This place is…” “Peaceful,” he finished.

You nodded because that’s exactly what it was. It felt unfamiliar, almost uncomfortable at first, because you weren't used to not being busy or watched. You turned in his arms slowly to face him, closer than before. “No one’s here,” you said quietly. He nodded, "Yeah." “No cameras.” “No cameras.” “No one watching.” He smiled slightly, “Just us.” And that felt bigger than the room or the trip itself—because for once, you weren't stealing time. You actually had it.

That night felt different. It wasn’t rushed, stolen, or squeezed between schedules; it was an actual date. The restaurant was quiet, with low lighting and soft music, and the ocean was just visible through the glass. Everything felt warm and calm. You sat across from him with no hood or mask, just you.

He noticed immediately, leaning back in his chair and looking at you without trying to hide it. “What?” you smiled, already knowing. “You’re really pretty,” he said casually. You rolled your eyes, looking down at the menu. “You’ve said that like five times already.” “Okay,” he shrugged, “I’ll say it again if I want.” You laughed softly, shaking your head. “You look different here,” he added. You glanced up. “How?” “Relaxed,” he said, then after a second, “Happier.”

That made you pause because he was right. You set the menu down slowly. “…I feel lighter.” He nodded like he understood, because he did. There was a small silence—not awkward, just open. Then you leaned forward slightly. “Okay—I have a question.” He smirked, “Should I be scared?” “Maybe.” He nodded, “Go ahead.”

You tilted your head. “Were you always like this? Like… calm? Grounded? You don’t panic like I do.” He let out a quiet breath and shook his head. “No.” The answer came fast and honest. “I used to be worse.” “Worse?” you smiled. “I can’t imagine you panicking.” He laughed under his breath. “I didn’t panic outwardly. I just… kept everything inside. Overthought everything. Tried to be perfect all the time.”

You blinked. “…you still do that.” He smiled slightly. “Yeah. But I’m better at hiding it now.” You studied him for a second, realizing it made sense. “Is that why you get quiet?” He nodded. You leaned back in your chair slowly. “…I thought you were just ignoring me sometimes.” He shook his head immediately. “No.” Then softer, “I’m usually thinking too much.” That sat between you, settling. You nodded slowly. “…okay.”

Then he tilted his head. “My turn. Why do you get upset so fast?” You froze, then laughed in disbelief. “Wow.” “I’m serious,” he said, smiling. You leaned back, crossing your arms. “…I don’t think I get upset fast.” He raised a brow. “Okay—I do,” you admitted. He smiled like he knew you would. “I just… I feel things immediately. And I don’t like sitting in it. I want to fix it right away. Talk about it right away.”

“That’s the difference,” he said quietly. You looked up at him. “You want to fix things immediately,” he continued, “and I need time to understand them first.” You blinked because that was exactly it. “…that’s why we keep clashing,” you murmured. He nodded once. “Yeah.” Progress. You smiled faintly. “So what do we do about that?” He leaned forward, mirroring you. “You give me a little time.” “And you don’t disappear,” you countered immediately. He smiled. “Deal.”

The food came at some point, but you barely noticed as the conversation flowed into childhood stories. “How were you as a kid?” you asked. “Quiet,” he said instantly. You laughed, “No you weren’t.” “I was,” he insisted, “I just… liked learning things.” “That tracks,” you nodded, “you still do that. What about you?” You smiled, “I talked too much.” “I can tell.” “Hey—” He laughed.

“But I also…” you paused, “…I wanted people to like me.” He didn’t interrupt. “I think I still do,” you added quietly. He shook his head slightly, “They do.” “That’s not the point,” you said. He tilted his head, “Then what is?” “…I want it to be real.” He nodded, slow and understanding. “It is,” he said. You looked at him, and he held your gaze, not looking away. He meant it.

The night stretched longer than you expected, the conversation moving deeper and lighter all at once. By the time you stood up to leave, something had shifted again—not dramatic, but definitely closer.

Jungkook spoke up, almost like it just slipped out— “My members actually like you a lot.” You blinked, surprised. “…really?” He nodded, reaching for his drink but not breaking eye contact. “Yeah.” After a small pause, he added, “They say you balance me out.”

You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head. “Balance you out? That sounds like I’m fixing you or something.” He shook his head immediately. “No. Not fixing.” You watched him, waiting for more. “Just… you’re more open than me,” he thought for a second. You tilted your head. “…and that’s a good thing?” He nodded, “Yeah.” Another pause followed before he added, “You say things I don’t.” That made you go quiet because it was true. “And you feel things faster,” he continued, “which I think… helps me not ignore stuff.” You smiled a little. “…so I stress you out.” He laughed, “Yeah. But in a good way.”

You rolled your eyes. “Sure.” He leaned forward slightly now, becoming more serious. “They like that you’re honest. You don’t act differently around us.” That made you pause; you hadn't even thought about that. “I don’t know how to do that,” you admitted. He smiled softly. “I know.” You looked down at your hands for a second, fidgeting slightly with your ring. “…I was kinda nervous,” you admitted. He raised a brow. “You didn’t look like it.” “I was!” you laughed. “I just… didn’t want to come off as fake.” He nodded. “That’s why they like you.”

A small silence settled before you looked back up at him. “…what did they say exactly?” He smirked slightly, debating how much to reveal. “Jimin said you’re bright.” You smiled. “Taehyung said you still have your ‘soul.’” That made you laugh softly; it was so him. “And Namjoon…” he paused. You leaned forward. “What did he say?” Jungkook smiled faintly. “He said you’re dangerous.”

You blinked. “Dangerous??” He laughed. “Not like that.” “Then what??” “He said…” Jungkook rested his chin lightly against his hand, watching you. “You’re someone who could either make me better… or completely mess me up.”

The words hung in the air. You didn’t laugh this time or brush it off because it didn’t feel like a joke. “…that’s kind of intense,” you said quietly. Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.” You looked at him, really looking at him. “Do you think that?” He didn’t answer right away, of course. Then, finally, “…I think you affect me more than I expected.”

That was the most honest answer he could give. You leaned back slowly, processing that and feeling it settle somewhere deep. “…you affect me too,” you admitted. A small smile pulled at his lips. “Good.” You rolled your eyes, but smiled anyway. For a second, the world felt very small—just the two of you sitting there, understanding each other a little more than before.

You pointed at his arm, eyes narrowing slightly. “Be honest—did those hurt?” He followed your gaze to his tattoos and laughed softly. “No.” You stared at him, unconvinced. “…you’re lying.” “I’m not,” he shrugged, but when you said his name with that tone, he finally relented. “Okay—some of them did.”

You leaned forward immediately. “Which ones?” He turned his arm slightly, tapping near his inner arm. “This part,” he said. “Wasn’t fun.” You winced, agreeing that it looked painful, but he just chuckled, saying you get used to it. You tilted your head. “…why’d you get them?”

He paused, wanting to answer correctly. “I like them,” he said simply at first, but when you gave him a look, he leaned back. “It’s like… something that’s mine. Like I chose it. No one told me to. No one planned it for me.” You nodded slowly, understanding the sentiment. “…control,” you said. He looked up at you. “Yeah.”

A small silence followed. You reached out without thinking, your fingers brushing lightly over his arm—careful, as if it might still hurt. “It’s pretty,” you said softly. He watched you instead of his arm, noticing the way your fingers traced the lines and how you didn't hesitate. “…you think so?” You nodded and looked up at him with a small smile. “It suits you.” He smiled back, quieter this time, because it wasn't really about the tattoos anymore—it was about how you saw him.

“I want them,” you admitted, tracing the edge of his wrist again. “But I’m too… indecisive.” He didn’t even hesitate. “Easy,” he said. “Just get a tattoo that says ‘INDECISIVE.’” You stared at him for a second—then laughed. “Absolutely not.” He grinned, looking incredibly proud of himself.

You leaned back in your chair, thinking out loud now. “Maybe something like… ‘Divine’?” You made a face. “That’s kinda boring though.” He shook his head immediately. “Nah.” You looked at him, and he shrugged slightly. “If it’s what you want, then it’s you.” Then he added—softer, more direct—“And I think you’re definitely divine.”

You blinked, completely caught off guard. “…that was smooth,” you said slowly. He smirked a little. “I wasn’t trying to be.” You tilted your head, studying him. “…you’re lying again.” He laughed quietly, but your expression softened. That word—*divine*—felt like more than just an aesthetic; it felt like identity.

“I think…” you started slowly, “I’d want it to mean something more than just… a word. Like something that reminds me who I am. Especially when I forget.” He tilted his head slightly. “…you forget?” You laughed softly. “Sometimes. When everything gets loud… and people expect things from you… it’s easy to lose track.”

He watched you carefully, then leaned forward just slightly. “Then don’t get something for how you feel at your best. Get something for when you’re at your worst.”

That hit you hard. You blinked, impressed. “…that’s actually really smart.” He smiled faintly. “So what would that be?” he asked. You thought for a second. Really thought. “…something about staying grounded. Or something about not needing to prove anything.”

He leaned back slightly. “That sounds more like you than ‘divine.’” You smiled a little. “Yeah… but ‘divine’ sounds prettier.” He laughed. “You can have both. Pretty meaning.” You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. Because somehow, this wasn’t just about a tattoo anymore. It was about how you saw yourself, and how he saw you—and for once, those two things didn't feel that far apart.

“I think I want a tiger,” you said finally, settling into the idea like it clicked all at once. “Like Benni.” You pointed at your bag, where the little turquoise tiger charm swung slightly. Jungkook followed your gesture, his eyes lingering on it for a second before shifting back to you. “Why a tiger? What’s your thing with them?”

You leaned back, answering without rushing or overexplaining. “They’re fierce. Fiery… powerful… strength, courage… independence.” Your voice softened a little. “…protection.” You looked down for a second, then back at him. “They represent overcoming things. Resilience. I feel like it fits me,” you shrugged slightly. “…no?”

He didn’t answer immediately; he just looked at you, really looking. Then he nodded slowly. “Yeah. That’s perfect.” You raised a brow. “Perfect?” He leaned forward, resting his arm on the table. “You’re all of that. And…” he paused, deciding to say it anyway, “you’re way stronger than you think you are.”

That hit differently. You laughed softly to deflect. “Okay… now you’re just—” “I’m serious,” he cut in, firm but not sharp. You went quiet because you knew he didn't say things like that lightly. “And yeah,” he added, a hint of a grin returning, “you’re 100% feisty.” You scoffed, “I am not.” “Yves.” “Okay—maybe a little,” you admitted. “A lot,” he corrected.

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling as you looked back at Benni. “…I think I’d want it small though.” He nodded. “Where?” You hesitated, thinking it through. “Somewhere… private.” He raised a brow. “Private?” You shrugged, “Yeah. Like—not for everyone to see.” He nodded slowly, understanding immediately. “Just for you.”

You glanced at him. “…and maybe a few people.” He smiled faintly at that, not pushing or teasing, just accepting it. Because that was you—bold and bright, seen by everyone, but still keeping pieces of yourself just yours.

He smiled at you—softer now—as the conversation settled into something comfortable. Then, like a switch had been flipped, he asked, “Have I shown you Bam recently?” You blinked. “…recently?” But he was already pulling out his phone, scrolling through his gallery with the speed of someone who had a curated collection ready for this exact moment.

“Jungkook—” you laughed, but he didn't stop. “No, wait—look at this one.” He turned the screen toward you to reveal a video of Bam sprawled across the floor. He looked massive, with glossy black fur and big paws—intimidating and ridiculously cute all at once. “Oh my god—” You leaned closer instantly. “He’s so big??” “I know,” he smiled, looking genuinely proud. “He grew a lot.”

You watched the video again, amused by how he was lying. “And he just… lays there like that?” “He thinks he’s small,” Jungkook said. “He’s not.” You laughed softly because, clearly, he wasn't. He swiped to another video of Bam running, then sliding across the floor and nearly crashing into something. You covered your mouth. “Stop—he’s so cute.” Jungkook didn’t even try to hide his smile. “He’s really gentle though. He just looks scary.”

You nodded, still watching. “I wanna meet him,” you said without thinking. He paused for just a second before nodding. “…you will.” You looked up, surprised. “Really?” “Yeah,” he said, followed by a small pause. “When things slow down more.” That word again—*when*. You nodded anyway, understanding the weight of it. “I feel bad,” you admitted. “I haven’t even met him yet.” He shook his head immediately. “No—don’t. He’s always at boarding when I’m busy too.” That made you frown slightly. “…that’s kinda sad.” He shrugged. “It is.”

A small silence fell between you before he spoke again, his voice softer. “He’d like you.” You blinked. “…how do you know?” He smiled a little. “Because I do.” You rolled your eyes immediately, muttering an “Oh my god,” but your cheeks warmed anyway. You leaned back, still smiling. “Would he listen to me?” Jungkook laughed. “…no.” “Wow.” “He barely listens to me.”

That made you laugh harder. “I feel like he’d be protective though,” you added. He nodded slowly. “Yeah.” Then he looked at you. “He would.” There it was again—that quiet certainty. You glanced back at the videos, watching Bam run around without a worry in the world. “…he looks happy.” Jungkook nodded. “Yeah.” Then, even softer, “I want him to stay like that.” You looked at him, sensing that it wasn't just about the dog. For a second, it felt like he was talking about more than one thing.

He reached across the table, his fingers brushing yours first as if checking if you’d pull away. You didn't, so he held your hand properly—warm, steady, and grounding. “I’ve never been this happy with anyone, Yvessirae.”

You blinked at the use of your full name. A small smile pulled at your lips. “Why do you randomly call me by my government name?” you mumbled. He shrugged slightly, his thumb tracing slow circles over your hand. “I like saying it.” You tilted your head. “…it’s long.” “I know.” “You don’t get tired?” He smiled a little. “No. It feels… important.”

That made you look at him differently. “Important?” He nodded, his grip tightening just enough to mean something. “It’s you.” You swallowed because the way he said it didn't feel like just a name anymore; it felt like recognition.

You looked down at your joined hands for a second, then back up at him, meeting the moment with sincerity. “…no one really calls me that.” He raised a brow slightly. “No?” You shook your head. “Only my parents… when they’re serious.” He smiled faintly. “I’m not serious.” “You sound serious.” He laughed quietly. “Okay—maybe a little.”

You smiled. “…I don’t mind it.” It was your way of saying more than the words allowed, and he caught it immediately. His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, slow and absent-minded. “Yvessirae,” he said again, testing it as if he just liked how the syllables felt. You shook your head, smiling. “You’re so—” “Weird?” “Yeah.”

He grinned. “But you like me.” You rolled your eyes. “…unfortunately.” He laughed, but he didn't let go of your hand—and neither did you.

How does it feel to have someone see the "real" you behind the stage name and the spotlight?

The night shifted from the open expanse of the ocean to the intimate quiet of the suite. Stepping inside felt different this time—permanent, even if only for a week. When you saw the bed, the reality of the situation hit you both at once: this wasn't a stolen hour anymore. You were staying together.

Trying to keep your cool, you mumbled a distracted "Okay," but Jungkook caught the flicker of nerves. Ever the gentleman, he offered the couch immediately, as if his six-foot frame would even fit on it. "That's stupid," you countered, realizing that sharing the space was the only thing that made sense. He just nodded, his lack of teasing actually helping the tension dissipate.

As the hours ticked by, the initial caution melted into something more natural. You changed into comfortable clothes, moving around each other until you eventually settled on the edge of the bed. Side by side. Not touching, until the air between you seemed to pull you together.

"You okay?" he asked, his voice a low vibration in the quiet room. You nodded, and he leaned in with a deliberate slowness, giving you every second to decide. When his lips finally met yours, it was soft—a question asked in silence.

The kiss deepened, but the energy didn't turn frantic. It stayed grounded. His hand rested on your back, firm and protective, but never pushing for more than what was offered. That was the beauty of it: the tension was there, undeniable and electric, but it was eclipsed by a profound lack of pressure.

When you finally pulled back, foreheads resting against each other, he didn't chase the contact. He just searched your eyes one more time. "You're okay?"

"Yeah," you breathed, a small smile finally breaking through.

"Good."

In that moment, the "Idol" versions of yourselves were miles away. There were no cameras, no managers, and no expectations. He wasn't looking for a performance or a milestone; he just wanted to be in the same space as you. For the first time in six months, you weren't just two people trying to make it work—you were just two people, finally together.

His fingers traced slow, gentle patterns along your thigh, never rushing. Jungkook had always been like this with you — thoughtful, observant, moving at his own quiet pace. While you felt everything all at once, he seemed to take it in, process it, and then decide exactly how he wanted to give himself to you.

When you guided his hand between your legs, he didn’t immediately push further. Instead, he watched your face carefully, reading every small reaction. His palm pressed warmly against you over the thin fabric, rubbing in slow, soothing circles until your breathing changed.

You let out a shaky exhale, and he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your temple.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and steady, the way he always checked in — not because he was unsure, but because he wanted to be certain.

You nodded, then whispered, “I want to feel you… closer.”

Jungkook’s eyes softened. He slipped his hand beneath your shorts and panties, his fingers gliding gently through your folds. The moment he felt how wet you were, a quiet breath left him. He explored you with such care — one finger slowly circling your clit, light and patient, like he was learning every part of you by heart.

When he finally eased one finger inside you, your body tensed at the unfamiliar pressure. He immediately stilled, eyes lifting to meet yours.

“Yvez…” His voice was gentle, almost reverent. “Baby… you’ve never done this before?”

Your cheeks burned with sudden vulnerability. You nodded, biting your lip as you tried to find your voice. “Yeah… I’m a virgin.”

For a moment, Jungkook just looked at you. Not with surprise or pressure, but with something deeper — a quiet intensity mixed with tenderness. He slowly pulled his finger back, only to slide it in again even more carefully, giving you time to adjust.

“I didn’t know,” he said softly, almost to himself. Then his lips curved into the smallest, warmest smile. “My girl… trusting me with this.”

He shifted closer, his free arm wrapping around your waist, pulling you gently against his chest. While you tended to feel everything quickly and openly, Jungkook’s care showed in the way he slowed everything down for you. His finger moved in unhurried, shallow strokes, curling softly every time he found a spot that made your breath hitch.

“I want to be gentle with you,” he whispered against your hair, his tone sincere and a little husky. “Really gentle. We don’t have to rush anything tonight. Just let me make you feel good.”

You let out a soft whimper as his thumb found your clit again, rubbing in slow, steady circles while his finger continued its careful rhythm inside you. The pleasure was building gradually, warm and fluttering, nothing overwhelming — just a sweet, spreading heat.

The part of you that always wanted to give and connect, felt the urge to reach for him, to make sure he was feeling good too. Your hand slid down his chest, but he caught it gently, intertwining your fingers instead.

“Not yet,” he said quietly, pressing a kiss to your knuckles. “Tonight is about you. Let me take care of you first.”

His words made your heart flutter. He wasn’t just being careful with your body — he was being careful with your heart, the way only Jungkook could: quietly protective, fully present even when he didn’t say much.

He added a second finger, stretching you slowly, patiently, always watching your face to make sure the pleasure outweighed any discomfort. Every movement was deliberate, full of quiet intention.

“Does that feel good?” he asked, voice low and warm.

You nodded, a soft moan escaping as the tension coiled sweetly in your belly. “Jungkook… it feels really good.”

He smiled against your shoulder, pressing another tender kiss there.

“Good. I’ve got you, baby.”

He kept the pace slow and consistent, his fingers moving with the kind of focused care that showed how much attention he paid to every little sound you made, every shift of your hips. Protected and cherished — that’s how he made you feel.

“We’ll use a condom when we go further,” he added softly, almost like a promise. “I want you to feel completely safe with me.”

His fingers kept their gentle rhythm inside you — slow, careful strokes that never rushed. Every time your breath hitched or your thighs tensed, Jungkook would pause just slightly, giving you time to adjust before continuing. He was so attentive, so precise in the way he touched you, like he was memorizing how your body responded to him.

You, on the other hand, couldn’t stop the soft sounds spilling from your lips. Your emotions always sat right at the surface, and right now they were flooding you — warmth, nervousness, affection, and building pleasure all mixing together. You turned your face into his neck, hiding a little as another quiet moan escaped.

Jungkook noticed immediately. He pressed a kiss to your temple, his voice low and steady against your ear.

“Hey… don’t hide from me,” he murmured. “I want to see you. I want to hear you.”

His thumb continued its lazy, perfect circles on your clit while his two fingers moved deeper, still gentle but a little more confident now that he knew how tight you were. The stretch was new, slightly uncomfortable for a second, but the way he curled his fingers against that sensitive spot inside you quickly turned everything into liquid warmth.

“I’ve never… felt like this,” you whispered honestly, your voice trembling with vulnerability. Your heart was beating so fast — typical you, feeling everything all at once and wanting to share it with him immediately. “It feels really good, Jungkook… but I’m a little nervous.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes soft and serious. That was one of the things you loved about him — even when he was quiet, he never made you feel like your feelings were too much. He simply took them in, processed them, and responded with the kind of care that made you feel safe.

“I know,” he said gently, brushing a strand of hair away from your face with his free hand. “Thank you for telling me. We can stop anytime you want. This is only for you right now.”

His words wrapped around you like a warm blanket. While he stayed composed on the outside, you could feel the way his breathing had deepened, the subtle tension in his body as he held himself back. He was protecting you — even from himself.

You reached up and cupped his cheek, your thumb stroking his skin. “I don’t want to stop… I want this with you. Just… keep being gentle like this.”

A small, tender smile touched his lips. Jungkook leaned in and kissed you slowly, deeply, while his fingers never stopped their soothing movements. The kiss wasn’t hungry — it was full of quiet emotion, the kind of kiss that said he was fully here with you, not just physically but in every way that mattered.

When he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours.

“My sweet girl,” he whispered, voice husky but soft. “I didn’t expect this tonight, but knowing I’m the first one to touch you like this… it makes me want to take even more time with you. I want every second to feel good.”

He shifted slightly so he could hold you closer, your head resting against his chest while his hand stayed between your thighs. His fingers kept moving in that same unhurried rhythm — sliding in and out, curling gently, thumb stroking your clit with perfect, patient pressure. The pleasure built slowly, like warm waves lapping higher and higher.

You let out a shaky moan, your fingers clutching at his shirt as the feeling intensified.

“That’s it,” he encouraged quietly, lips brushing your forehead. “Just let it build, baby. I’ve got you. I’m right here.”

Your hips started moving on their own, rocking gently against his hand. Jungkook didn’t speed up. He stayed steady, consistent, focused completely on you — the way only he could. While you felt everything loudly and openly, he expressed his care through this quiet, deliberate devotion.

“Jungkook…” you breathed, voice breaking a little as the pressure coiled tighter. “I think I’m close…”

“Good,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to your hair. “Come for me whenever you’re ready. I want to feel you.”

He kept the same gentle pace, never pushing, just guiding you higher with every careful stroke. His free hand rubbed slow circles on your back, grounding you even as your body trembled.

When the orgasm finally washed over you, it was soft and deep — not explosive, but overwhelming in its sweetness. Your walls clenched around his fingers as waves of warm pleasure rolled through you. A soft, broken moan left your lips, and Jungkook held you tighter through it, whispering quiet praises against your skin.

“That’s my girl… so beautiful… I’ve got you.”

He didn’t pull his fingers out right away. He kept them inside you, letting you ride out the aftershocks with slow, soothing movements until your breathing gradually slowed.

Only then did he gently withdraw, bringing his hand up to rest on your waist. He pressed a long, tender kiss to your forehead, then your lips.

“Are you wanting to go further?” he asked softly, “Only when you’re ready. There’s no rush.”

You looked up at him, heart full, still catching your breath. In that moment, the difference between you felt so clear — your open, expressive heart and his quiet, protective steadiness — and somehow, they fit perfectly together.

You nodded. Jungkook’s eyes darkened with quiet desire, but his expression stayed tender. He brushed his thumb across your bottom lip. “You sure, baby?”

You nodded, biting your lip. “Yeah… I want to feel your mouth on me first.”

A small, warm smile tugged at his lips. Without another word, he shifted down the bed with that deliberate, controlled grace of his. He peeled your shorts and panties down slowly, kissing every inch of skin he revealed — your hip, your inner thigh, the sensitive spot just below your belly button. He was taking his time, as always, making sure you felt worshipped rather than rushed.

When he finally settled between your legs, he looked up at you, eyes steady and full of quiet intensity. “Tell me if it’s too much.”

Then his mouth was on you.

His tongue was warm and gentle, licking slow, broad stripes through your folds before circling your clit with patient, precise movements. Jungkook didn’t devour you — he savored you. Every lick was thoughtful, every gentle suck careful, like he was learning exactly what made your hips twitch and your breath catch. He hummed softly against you, the vibration sending sweet sparks up your spine.

You moaned openly, your hand sliding into his hair, fingers tightening as pleasure bloomed again. Your emotions spilled out easily, like they always did. “Jungkook… oh my god, that feels so good…”

He responded by sliding two fingers back inside you, curling them gently while his tongue focused on your clit with steady, unhurried strokes. The combination was overwhelming in the softest way — warm, wet, and perfectly controlled. He stayed completely focused on you, reading every tremble of your thighs and every sound you made.

Your second orgasm built slower this time, deep and fluttering. When it finally washed over you, your back arched and a soft, broken whimper left your lips. Jungkook stayed with you through it, licking you gently until the tremors eased.

He kissed your inner thigh before crawling back up your body, his lips glistening. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and then kissed you deeply, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. It was slow and intimate, full of quiet affection.

“You taste so good,” he whispered against your lips, voice husky but soft. “My beautiful girl.”

You were still catching your breath, heart wide open, when you reached down and palmed him through his pants. “I want you inside me now… please.”

Jungkook stilled for a moment, then nodded. He reached over to the nightstand, grabbing a condom. He tore the packet open and rolled it on with steady hands, always careful, always responsible. Once it was on, he settled between your thighs, the blunt head of his cock pressing gently against your entrance.

He looked down at you, eyes serious and full of emotion. “We’ll go slow. If anything hurts, you tell me immediately, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathed, reaching up to cup his face. Your voice was soft but honest. “I trust you.”

Jungkook leaned down and kissed you as he began to push in — slow, gentle pressure. The stretch was intense. You gasped against his mouth, fingers digging into his shoulders. He immediately paused, forehead resting against yours.

“Breathe, baby,” he murmured. “Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

He stayed perfectly still, letting you adjust while dropping soft kisses on your lips, your cheeks, your jaw. Only when you nodded and whispered “more” did he push in a little deeper, inch by careful inch, until he was fully seated inside you.

The feeling was overwhelming — a mix of fullness, slight burn, and deep, aching pleasure. Jungkook’s breathing was ragged, but he kept himself under tight control, staying motionless so you could get used to him.

“Fuck… you’re so tight,” he whispered, voice strained with restraint. “So perfect. Tell me how you feel.”

“It hurts a little… but it also feels good,” you admitted openly, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes from the intensity of it all. “Don’t stop. I want this with you.”

He kissed you again, slow and deep, then started moving — tiny, shallow thrusts at first, gradually growing into slow, smooth rolls of his hips. Every movement was gentle, protective, and full of quiet devotion. He kept one hand on your hip, the other cradling the back of your head, grounding you as he made love to you for the first time.

“I’m right here,” he whispered against your ear. “I’ve got you, Yvez. Just feel me.”

Jungkook moved inside you with slow, careful rolls of his hips, never thrusting hard. Each stroke was deep but gentle, giving your body time to adjust to the stretch and fullness of him. He kept his forehead pressed against yours, eyes half-lidded but focused, watching every flicker of expression on your face.

You clung to his shoulders, breathing shakily as the initial discomfort slowly melted into something warmer, deeper. The slight burn was still there, but underneath it was a sweet, aching pleasure that made your toes curl.

“Jungkook…” you whispered, voice trembling with honesty, the way it always did when your feelings overflowed. “It feels… so full. I can feel every part of you.”

He let out a quiet groan, the sound low and restrained. “You’re doing so well, baby. Taking me so perfectly.” His hand stroked your hair gently, thumb brushing your cheek. “Tell me if it’s too much. I’ll stop the second you say.”

You shook your head, pulling him closer. “Don’t stop… I want all of you. It’s starting to feel really good.”

Encouraged by your words, Jungkook kept the same slow, steady rhythm, grinding gently against you instead of pounding. Every roll of his hips pressed his pelvis against your clit, sending soft sparks of pleasure through your body. He was so controlled, so focused on making this good for you — typical Jungkook, expressing everything through careful action rather than rushed words.

Your moans grew a little louder, more open, as the pleasure built again. You couldn’t hold back how you felt. “Feels so good… you feel so good inside me,” you breathed, eyes glassy as you looked up at him. “I love how careful you’re being with me.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. He kissed you deeply, swallowing your soft sounds as his hips continued their unhurried pace. “I’ve wanted this with you for so long,” he murmured against your lips. “Wanted to be this close… to take care of you like this.”

The emotion in his voice made your heart squeeze. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper. The new angle made you gasp, a rush of pleasure cutting through the lingering discomfort.

He groaned softly, forehead dropping to your shoulder as he fought to keep his control. Still, he didn’t speed up. He kept every thrust slow and deep, grinding against that perfect spot inside you with every roll.

Your second orgasm started building again — slower this time, heavier, rooted deep in your belly. Your walls fluttered around him, and Jungkook felt it immediately.

“Are you getting close again?” he asked, voice husky but tender.

You nodded frantically, fingers digging into his back. “Yes… I think so. Don’t stop— please…”

“I won’t,” he promised, pressing a kiss to your neck. One of his hands slid between your bodies, his thumb finding your clit and rubbing slow, gentle circles in time with his thrusts. “Come for me, Yvez. Let me feel you come around me while I’m inside you.”

The combination — his thick cock moving steadily inside you, the gentle pressure on your clit, and the quiet, protective way he held you — pushed you over the edge.

Your orgasm hit you like a warm, rolling wave. You cried out softly, body trembling beneath him as your walls clenched tightly around his cock. Pleasure flooded through you in long, sweet pulses. Tears slipped from the corners of your eyes from how intense and intimate it felt.

Jungkook groaned deeply, his rhythm faltering for the first time as he felt you pulsing around him. “That’s it… good girl. So good for me…”

He kept moving through your orgasm, slow and steady, drawing it out until your trembling started to ease. Only then did his own control begin to slip.

His hips pressed deeper, movements becoming just a little less measured as pleasure overtook him. He buried his face in your neck, breathing hard against your skin.

“Yvez…” he whispered, voice strained. “I’m close.”

You held him tighter, whispering against his ear, “Come for me… I want to feel you cum while you’re inside me.”

With a few more deep, careful thrusts, Jungkook came with a low, broken groan. His body tensed above you, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom. He stayed buried deep inside you through every pulse, holding you close like you were something precious.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your mingled breathing.

He finally lifted his head, eyes soft and a little dazed as he looked down at you. Still catching his breath, he pressed gentle kisses to your lips, your cheeks, your forehead — quiet affection pouring out of him in the way he knew best.

“You okay?” he asked softly, voice hoarse but full of care. “Did I hurt you?”

You shook your head, a tired but happy smile spreading across your face. “No… it was perfect. I’m so glad it was with you.”

Jungkook smiled gently and kissed you once more, slow and lingering, before carefully pulling out. He disposed of the condom, then came right back to pull you into his arms, holding you against his chest.

After everything—the room felt… quieter. Not empty. Not awkward. Just… still. The ocean outside kept moving like nothing changed. But inside—everything had. Jungkook didn’t move right away. He stayed exactly where he was, one arm still around you, the other brushing slowly up and down your arm. Grounding. Like he was making sure you were still there.

You didn’t say anything at first either. Your body felt unfamiliar. Your thoughts… slow. Like you were catching up to what just happened. You shifted slightly, resting your head against his chest. Listening. His heartbeat was still a little fast. “…you okay?” he asked quietly. His voice softer than you’d ever heard it. You nodded against him. “Yeah.” A small pause. “…I think so.”

He exhaled—like he’d been holding that question in. “Tell me if anything hurts,” he added quickly. “And— like— if you need anything.” You looked up at him. There was something different in his expression. Less confident. More… careful. “I’m okay,” you said again, softer this time. He nodded, but his hand didn’t stop moving along your arm. Still grounding. Still checking. “I should’ve asked more,” he muttered. Almost to himself. Your brows knit slightly. “What?” “Like— I just…” He shook his head a little. “I wanted to make sure you were really okay with everything.”

That made your chest tighten— but not in a bad way. You shifted closer. “You did,” you said. He looked at you. “You didn’t rush me,” you added. “You kept asking.” A small pause. “…you were careful.” He studied your face like he was trying to confirm that. Then nodded slowly. “Okay.” You reached up, brushing a piece of his hair back absentmindedly. “I trust you,” you said quietly.

That hit him. You could see it. The way his expression changed—like that mattered more than anything else. His hand moved up, resting gently at the back of your head. Pulling you in just slightly. “Yvessirae…” He said your full name again. Soft. You smiled faintly. “…you always say that after something serious.” He let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah?” “Yeah.”

A small pause. Then— “…I love you,” he said again. Not rushed. Not intense. Just… reaffirming. Your eyes softened. “I know.” You didn’t say it back right away this time. Not because you didn’t feel it—but because you were still… sitting in everything. Processing. Feeling. And he didn’t push it. Didn’t need you to say it again.

Instead, he just pulled the blanket up around you both. Adjusting it carefully. Making sure you were warm. Comfortable. Small things. But intentional. “You should rest,” he murmured. You nodded slightly. But didn’t move away. “Stay like this for a bit,” you mumbled. “I’m not going anywhere,” he said. And you believed him. Because right now—he wasn’t distant. He wasn’t overthinking. He was just… there. Exactly the way you needed him to be.

The next morning felt… softer. Not awkward, not a "what now?" moment, just—closer. It showed in the little things: the way you didn't hesitate to sit next to him, closer than before; the way his hand naturally found yours without thinking; the way silence didn't feel like something that needed to be filled. You were brushing your hair in the mirror when he spoke—"I wanna go out." You glanced at him through the reflection. "…okay?" "Somewhere random." You turned fully now, suspicious. "…what are you planning?" He grinned. "Something spontaneous." You narrowed your eyes. "That sounds dangerous." "It’s not," he laughed. "Come on."

You should’ve questioned it more—you would’ve—but something about being here, being with him like this, made you loosen up. "Fine," you sighed. And that’s how you ended up standing in front of a small tattoo shop. You stopped walking. "…Jungkook." He turned back to you. "What?" You pointed at the sign. "You’re insane." He laughed. "You literally said you wanted one." "That was a hypothetical conversation—" "And now it’s real." You stared at him, trying not to smile. "…if it’s ugly, I’m blaming you," you muttered. He grinned. "Deal."

Inside, the shop was quiet, clean, and minimal. The artist greeted you calmly—no shock, no recognition, just professionalism. You explained your idea: a tiger, something small and meaningful. The artist nodded, already sketching fast and confident. You watched as the design came together, line by line. A tiger cub, curled slightly and resting. Not aggressive, not loud, but strong. It was surrounded by poppies—soft and delicate—your birth flower. You blinked. "…oh." Jungkook leaned over your shoulder, looking at it, then at you. "That’s you," he said quietly. You swallowed, because yeah—it was. Strength and softness, resilience and warmth. "…I love it," you admitted.

The artist smiled slightly. "Where would you like it?" You hesitated, thinking, then glanced at Jungkook just briefly. "…somewhere private." He didn’t react, didn’t tease, just nodded slightly in understanding. You pointed to the side of your thigh, slightly on your hip, and explained. The artist prepared everything, and suddenly, it was real. You sat down, heart beating just a little faster. Jungkook moved beside you immediately, close but not overwhelming. "You okay?" You nodded. "…yeah." He reached for your hand—didn't ask, just offered. You took it.

The machine buzzed to life. You flinched slightly at the first touch. "Okay—yeah that hurts," you laughed nervously. He smiled softly. "Told you." But his grip tightened slightly, grounding you. "You’re doing good," he murmured. And you were. Because it wasn’t just about the tattoo; it was about choosing something for yourself, something permanent, something that reminded you who you were—and maybe, who you were becoming. When it was done, the artist wiped it clean and showed you. You stared at it. "…it’s perfect." Jungkook looked too, quiet for a second, then smiled. "Yeah," he said. "It is." And the way he looked at you—it didn’t feel like he was just talking about the tattoo.

You were still staring at your tattoo, turning your hand slightly to watch how the ink moved with your skin, when Jungkook suddenly spoke up. “I’m getting one too.” You looked up immediately. “…what?” He was already talking to the artist, acting as if he’d decided only five seconds ago. “Just something small,” he said casually. You blinked, telling him he was incredibly impulsive, but he just smirked. “You came into a tattoo shop with me.” “…that doesn’t count.” “It does.” You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling as you leaned forward. “What are you getting?” He glanced at you, then back at the artist. “A copyright symbol. With 1997.”

You froze for a second before laughing. “That’s so… you.” He raised a brow, asking how. “I don’t know,” you shrugged. “It’s simple… but it means something.” He nodded, agreeing. “Exactly.” You watched as the artist sketched it quickly—clean and minimal. “…where are you putting it?” He reached back, tapping the nape of his neck. You blinked. “…that’s kinda iconic.” He smiled a little. “I know.” You laughed again, shaking your head, but then something clicked. That same impulsive, why-not energy from earlier took over.

“…wait.” Both of them looked at you. “I wanna do that too.” Jungkook blinked. “…what?” You pointed. “Copyright symbol. But 2005.” He stared at you for a second before breaking into a wide smile. “Are you serious?” You nodded. The artist looked between you both and asked if they were matching. You shook your head quickly. “Not matching—just… same idea.” Jungkook laughed quietly and asked where. You thought for half a second before holding up your hand and pointing to the side of your pointer finger. “Here.” His brows lifted. “That’s visible.” You shrugged. “So?” He smiled. “Okay.”

The artist prepped again for a session that was quicker, smaller, and sharper. You flinched at the first line and laughed nervously. “Okay, this one hurts more—” Jungkook watched you, amused. “You wanted it.” “I know—shut up.” He laughed as the needle worked. When it was finished, you held your hand up, turning it to admire the fresh ink: © 2005. You smiled, feeling a rush of satisfaction. Jungkook touched the back of his neck lightly after his was finished, feeling the spot where his said © 1997.

You looked at each other and both laughed at the absurdity and the rightness of it. “This is kinda—” “—cool?” he finished. “Yeah.” There was a small pause as you held your hand up again, comparing the vibes. “Wait… this is actually really cute.” He nodded. “It is.” And it wasn't about matching, not really. It was about that specific moment, that spontaneity, and that shared choice. It was something permanent from a day that felt like it truly mattered.

You had just posted it. Your finger held up in the soft lighting, displaying the clean, minimal © 2005. It was very you. You already knew what was about to happen—the comments, the edits, the frantic fan theories—but for now, you were just in the moment. Jungkook watched you with a small, knowing smile. “It’s really easy to get an ink addiction,” he mumbled. You looked at him, then slowly at his heavily tattooed arm. “You don’t say?” He laughed immediately. “I’m speaking from experience.”

You shook your head, smiling, and moved on to the next mission: ice cream. You found a small shop tucked away with pastel colors and quiet chatter. It felt normal—almost too normal. You sat across from him, spoon in hand, talking about nothing and leaning closer without thinking. Then, a voice broke the bubble. “Excuse me—are you Yvez?” You froze just slightly and looked up to see a young girl, maybe thirteen. Your eyes widened because this was always the moment of truth, but she wasn’t filming or calling attention. She just looked nervous and incredibly excited.

Her eyes flicked between you and Jungkook for a split second before she smiled a small, careful smile. “Can I just have an autograph?” she asked quickly, as if afraid to take up too much space. “I’m not like gonna say anything about you guys being together.” You blinked, caught off guard by her bluntness. She scratched the back of her neck awkwardly. “I just really love SHE.” Something in your chest softened immediately. You smiled. “Of course.”

Jungkook stayed quiet beside you, observing as you took the paper and signed it carefully. “You’re so pretty in real life,” she mumbled. Your hand paused. That always hit harder than online compliments because it was real, happening right in front of you. You looked up, smiling softer. “Thank you.” She lit up and quickly showed you a shaky, loud video from your Busan showcase. “Wait, this was day two, right?” you asked. Her eyes widened. “Yeah!!” You laughed softly, “I remember that crowd.”

Jungkook watched the interaction, his expression shifting as he saw the version of you that fans truly loved—the person, not just the performer. “You’re my bias,” she added suddenly, turning shy immediately. You smiled. “…really?” She nodded quickly, and your heart squeezed. “Thank you for supporting us,” you said, genuine and warm. She gripped her phone, glanced at Jungkook one more time, and gave a small, knowing smile. “Don’t worry,” she said quietly. “I won’t tell anyone.”

You laughed softly. “…thank you.” She waved and left, trying—and failing—not to look back. Silence settled for a second as you looked at your ice cream and then at Jungkook. “…she was sweet.” He nodded. “Yeah. She likes you a lot.” You smiled faintly. “…I like her too.” Then, quieter, you added, “I hope more of them are like that.” Jungkook leaned back, watching you intently. “They are. You just don’t always see it.” You nodded slowly. That was the part you needed to hold onto—not the noise or the fear, but a girl with a shaky video and genuine love. For a moment, everything felt worth it.

The rest of the week blurred into something soft, not rushed or scheduled, but simply lived. There were mornings where you woke up later than you ever allowed yourself to, hair messy and sunlight spilling through the curtains, with the ocean still there as if it hadn’t moved all night. Jungkook was always awake before you, but he wouldn't move; he’d just stay there, watching you and tracing small patterns against your arm, hesitant to wake you too fast. The days were filled with nothing important—walks along the water, stopping at random places just because they looked interesting, sharing food, and arguing over stupid things like ice cream flavors or directions.

And then there were the conversations—long ones that didn’t feel like interviews or rehearsed answers. You talked about fears, about what success actually felt like, and the surreal feeling of being loved by millions who didn't know you versus the weight of being understood by just one person who did. There were moments where things got quiet again—closer and more intimate—but it was never rushed or forced. It felt natural, like something you both grew into. Afterward, it was always the same: soft voices, checking in, and staying close. It wasn't just physical; it was emotional.

You learned his habits—how he got quiet when he was thinking too hard and how he needed a second before responding to something serious. He learned yours—how your emotions came fast and how you needed reassurance in the moment, not later. You adjusted. Not perfectly, but intentionally. For once, it felt like you weren't working against each other.

Then, just like that, it ended. Suitcases appeared, phones started buzzing again, and managers were calling. Schedules filled back up before you even left the island. The quiet disappeared first, then the time. You stood in the airport again, hood up and mask on, back to being careful. You looked at him and murmured, “…that went by too fast.” He nodded. “Yeah.” There was a small pause, but this time, it didn't feel unfinished.

Something had changed. Not in a dramatic way, but in a grounded way. You understood each other more and knew how to meet in the middle a little better. He reached for your hand—briefly, hidden and careful. “I’ll text you,” he said. You smiled. “You better.” He smirked slightly. “I will.” And you believed him this time, because it wasn't just words anymore; it was effort.

——————————————————————————

Then, it was back to work. Stages, lights, and cameras again. SHE were no longer just rookies or rising stars; you were dominating. Headlines, charts, and sold-out everything followed you everywhere. "Monster rookie" and "Global superstars" became the standard labels. You stepped back into it all like you’d never left—confident, composed, and untouchable. But now, there was something different underneath it all. Something quieter, steadier, and something that wasn't for the world. Just for you, and him.

The comeback hit like a wave, but it wasn't just about the numbers anymore; it was about presence. *REPE4T* was sharp, addictive, and a little dangerous—the kind of song people played on a loop. Fans were already arguing online over which track was superior, while *Butterfly*—Solene’s haunting, full-English contribution—had people dissecting every lyric about being looked at but not truly seen. Then there was *Again and Again*, a track so painfully relatable it felt like a collective sigh. With 1.3 million pre-orders, the success wasn't surprising; it was expected.

You, however, barely had time to process any of it. Your 21st birthday came and went under the harsh glare of studio lights, surrounded by makeup chairs and wardrobe racks. A chorus of "Happy Birthday!" followed by your polite "Thank you!" and then it was over. But he didn’t forget. Even though your schedule ran late into the night, a driver was waiting for you. You didn't question it; you just got in. The ride was quiet, your body heavy with exhaustion and your mind drifting until the car finally came to a stop. You knew exactly where you were.

When the door opened, Jungkook was there. “Hi,” he smiled. “Hi…” you replied, your own smile surfacing immediately. He stepped aside then, as if waiting for a reaction, and that’s when you saw him. Big, black, with curious eyes and a tail that started wagging the second he saw you. “Bam!” Your voice lit up instantly. You crouched down without thinking, hands outstretched. “Hi baby—” Bam approached slowly at first, then faster, leaning his massive weight right into you.

You laughed, wrapping your arms around him instinctively. “Oh my god, you’re so big—” Jungkook watched the interaction in silence, a steady smile on his face. “I told you,” he said. “He’s gentle.” You buried your face in Bam’s fur for a second, noting how good he smelled. “That’s because I just washed him,” Jungkook muttered, making you laugh as you pulled back to scratch behind Bam's ears. He was so cute, leaning into you as if he’d already decided you were one of his people.

Jungkook shook his head, a soft note in his voice. “…yeah, he likes you.” You looked up at him, beaming. “I like him too.” Then, softer, the words slipped out with no hesitation: “…I missed you.” Jungkook’s expression shifted immediately, growing more intense. “I know,” he said, stepping closer. Bam sat down between the two of you, a perfect bridge, as Jungkook reached down to pet him absentmindedly before catching your gaze. “Happy birthday.” You smiled softly, feeling the weight of the words. This didn't feel like a rushed greeting squeezed between schedules. This time, it actually landed.

Jungkook had already ordered by the time you sat down. Of course he had. There was no "what do you want?" or lingering indecision; it was just done. “You always do that,” you muttered, kicking your shoes off and curling into the couch. He glanced over, seemingly oblivious. “Do what?” “Order before I even ask.” He shrugged, his tone casual but his eyes steady. “I don’t wanna waste time cooking. Not when you’re here.”

That shut you up immediately. It wasn't an attempt to be a "smooth" romantic; it was just how his brain worked. He was efficient and intentional with the limited time you actually had together. “Did you get a cake?” he asked after a second. You shook your head, leaning back with a sigh. “No. They scheduled my birthday live for tomorrow since today was so busy.” You dragged the word *busy* out like it was a personal insult.

He nodded, already understanding the exhaustion of the idol cycle. “But—” you held your arm out dramatically, “my members have been pinching me all day.” He looked down at the slight redness and the little marks on your skin, then tilted his head back and laughed. “Twenty-one times?” You nodded, pouting slightly. “It hurt.”

He smirked. “You’re dramatic.” “I’m not—” But before you could finish, he reached out, his fingers wrapping gently around your wrist and pulling your arm closer. You paused as he inspected the marks as if they actually mattered, his thumb brushing lightly over the skin. “…they did it hard,” he muttered. You blinked, surprised that he wasn't laughing it off. “See? I told you.”

Then, without a word, he pressed a soft kiss to one of the marks. You froze, then let out a startled laugh. “Okay—what are you doing?” He pulled back slightly. “What?” “That doesn’t fix it.” He shrugged. “It might.” You rolled your eyes, but you didn't pull your arm away. “…you’re so weird.” “I know.”

A small silence followed before he spoke again. “You should’ve told me earlier it was your birthday.” You blinked, confused. “…you knew.” “I mean like—earlier earlier,” he said, leaning back. “I would’ve planned something.” You shook your head. “You literally flew me to Jeju recently.” He countered immediately, “…that doesn’t count.” You stared at him, genuinely baffled. “How does that not count?” “That was just… us,” he said. You tilted your head. “…this isn’t?”

He paused, then a slight smile touched his lips. “…this is too.” There it was again—that quiet, certain way he had of saying things that made your heart skip. Before you could respond, the doorbell rang. “Food’s here,” he said. Of course it was. Perfect timing.

You watched him get up and move toward the door with an ease that felt like home. You just sat there for a second, looking around his space and letting the feeling of it settle over you. This version of your life didn’t exist anywhere else—not on stage, not in front of the cameras, and certainly not in the headlines. It was just here. With him.

You were half asleep at that point—not fully, just heavy and warm. You were curled into him like it was the most natural place to be, your head resting against his chest while one of his arms wrapped around you and the other lazily traced small, absent-minded patterns against your side. The TV was still playing some random movie in the background that neither of you were actually watching anymore. Empty takeout containers sat forgotten on the table, along with a half-melted drink and crumpled napkins—the kind of mess that only happened when you didn’t care about anything except staying right where you were.

Jungkook looked down at you, really looked, with a focus that wasn't quick or distracted. “You’re so pretty,” he muttered. You hummed softly in response, eyes still half-closed. You’d heard it all week, but it still landed. Then, after a small pause, he added, “But you need to touch up your roots.” Your eyes snapped open and you sat up instantly, your hand flying to your hair by instinct. “What??” He laughed immediately. “Why are you so obsessed with hair?” you muttered, inspecting yourself in a way that suggested you were personally offended.

He didn’t answer right away, just watched you with that same quiet focus. “Because it’s yours,” he said finally. You stilled, your hand stopping mid-motion as you turned your head slowly. “…what?” He shrugged slightly, like it was obvious. “I like it.” His hand came up again, gently catching a strand between his fingers. “I like it when it’s curly,” he said, twisting it slightly with careful lightness. “I like it when it’s straight… when it’s brown… when it’s black…” His eyes softened. “Especially when it’s whatever this color is…”

“Caramel blonde,” you corrected automatically. He smiled. “Yeah.” His hand moved again, brushing the hair away from your face. “This is your color.” You tilted your head slightly. “…is it?” He nodded, slow and certain. “Genuinely. It looks like it was made for you.” That one sat differently; it wasn't teasing or casual, it was intentional. You felt it in your chest before you even reacted. “…you’re so—” you started, then stopped. He leaned forward slightly. “What?” You shook your head. “…I don’t even know.”

He smiled, and then, without breaking eye contact, he leaned in for a soft kiss on your nose. You scrunched your face slightly. “…stop.” He didn’t. Another kiss followed, this time on your lips—slower and more deliberate. Your hand came up instinctively, resting lightly against his chest, not pushing, just there. The kiss lingered and deepened just slightly, still unhurried. Then his lips moved down to the side of your mouth, your jaw, and then your neck. You inhaled softly, your fingers gripping his shirt a little tighter. He paused there for a second, close enough that you could feel his breath. “You know I’ve missed you, right?”

His voice was lower now, quieter. You nodded slightly. “…I know.” But your voice came out softer than you expected. Meeting him equally, your hand slid up from his chest to the back of his neck. “…I missed you more,” you murmured. He let out a quiet breath against your skin, almost a laugh. “Yeah?” You nodded. “…yeah.” His hand moved to your waist, pulling you just a little closer—not urgent or demanding, just wanting you there. And this time, you didn't hesitate. You leaned into him fully, letting yourself settle. It didn't feel uncertain anymore; it just felt like him.

The kiss grew heavier, slower, until the air between you felt thick and warm. Jungkook’s hand stayed firm on your waist, guiding you closer until you were straddling his lap on the couch. Your knees sank into the cushions on either side of his thighs as you settled over him, chest to chest.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. His eyes were darker now, but still so patient, watching you with that quiet intensity he always had.

“I want you,” you whispered honestly, your fingers playing with the hair at the nape of his neck. Your heart was beating fast, feelings right on the surface like always. “Right here.”

Jungkook’s hands slid up your thighs, squeezing gently. “Yeah?” His voice had dropped lower, a little rougher. “You wanna ride me on the couch?”

You nodded, biting your lip as heat rushed through you. “Mhm… I want to be on top. I want to feel you.”

He didn’t rush. He helped you both wiggle out of your clothes just enough — your shorts and panties pushed down and kicked aside, his sweats and boxers tugged low enough to free his cock. He was already hard, thick and heavy in his hand as he stroked himself once, twice, eyes never leaving your face.

“Condom?” he asked quietly, always careful.

You shook your head quickly. “I’m on the pill… and I want to feel you raw tonight. Just us.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly, nodding. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs brushing your skin in soothing circles. “Go slow, baby. Take your time.”

You reached down between your bodies, wrapping your fingers around him. He was hot and solid in your hand. You rubbed the head of his cock through your folds, coating him with how wet you already were, before lining him up with your entrance.

Both of you breathed in sharply as you began to sink down.

The stretch was intense. You let out a soft, shaky moan, your hands gripping his shoulders for balance as you took him inch by inch. Jungkook’s head tipped back slightly against the couch, jaw tight, but he kept his hands steady on your hips, supporting you without pushing.

“Fuck… you feel so good,” he murmured, voice low and strained. His eyes flicked up to yours, watching every reaction. “So tight… just like that. Nice and slow.”

You whimpered softly when you finally sat fully in his lap, him buried completely inside you. The fullness made your thighs tremble. You stayed still for a moment, forehead pressed to his, breathing together.

“You okay?” he asked gently, one hand moving up to cup your cheek.

“Yeah…” you breathed, a small smile breaking through. “It feels really good. You’re so deep like this.”

You started moving then — slow rolls of your hips at first, grinding down on him in lazy circles. Every time you sank back down, a soft moan left your lips. Jungkook groaned quietly, his hands sliding under your shirt to grip your waist, helping guide your rhythm without taking control.

“That’s it,” he whispered, eyes heavy-lidded as he watched you ride him. “Use me, baby. Take what you need.”

Your pace gradually picked up. You braced your hands on his chest and started bouncing on his cock with more confidence, the wet sound of skin meeting skin mixing with your shared moans. Your caramel blonde hair fell around your face as you moved, and Jungkook couldn’t stop staring — at your face, at your body, at the way you looked on top of him.

You were expressive as always, letting everything spill out. “Jungkook… you feel so fucking good,” you gasped, rolling your hips harder. “I love riding you like this.”

He let out a deep, quiet groan, fingers digging into your hips. “Keep talking. I love hearing you.”

The pleasure built fast now. Every time you sank down, his cock hit that perfect spot inside you. Your moans grew louder, more desperate, as you chased the feeling. Jungkook’s breathing was getting ragged too, but he stayed focused on you — one hand moving between your bodies to rub slow circles on your clit with his thumb.

“Come on, baby,” he murmured, voice husky. “Ride me until you cum. I want to feel you falling apart on my cock.”

That pushed you right to the edge. Your movements became messier, hips stuttering as the pressure coiled tighter and tighter. You cried out his name, thighs shaking as your orgasm crashed over you. Your walls clenched hard around him, pulsing rhythmically while pleasure flooded your whole body.

Jungkook groaned loudly, hands gripping your hips tighter as he thrust up into you a few times, chasing his own release. “Fuck— Yvez—”

With a deep, strained moan, he came hard, spilling inside you in hot pulses while you kept riding him through both your orgasms, slower and softer now until you both stilled.

You collapsed forward against his chest, both of you breathing hard, sweaty and satisfied. Jungkook wrapped his arms around you immediately, holding you close as he pressed lazy kisses to your shoulder and neck.

“Shit… that was perfect,” he murmured against your skin, voice hoarse but warm. His hand stroked your back gently. “You’re perfect.”

You smiled tiredly, nuzzling into his neck, heart still racing from how good it felt to be this close to him.

Midnight came too fast—it always did with him. You were still wrapped up in him when you checked the time: 12:03 AM. Your body went still. “…I have to leave,” you whispered, your voice soft, whiny, and heavy with reluctance. Jungkook didn’t argue or try to convince you to stay; he just nodded. “…I know.” That almost made it worse. You sat up slowly, already missing his warmth, the space between you feeling louder than the silence. “Five more minutes,” you mumbled. He let out a breath that sounded like a laugh. “You always say that.” “And you always let me,” you shot back. He smiled, and you leaned in again, resting your head against his shoulder.

Eventually, you stood up, adjusted your clothes, and checked your reflection. Back to normal. Back to being an idol. He walked you to the door, his hand brushing yours briefly—not holding, just there. “Text me when you get back,” he said. You nodded. “I will.” Then, a quick, soft kiss. “Goodnight,” you whispered. “Goodnight.” And just like that, you left. Back to your dorm, back to your schedule, back to being careful. You didn't know that everything was about to change.

Morning came violently. Your phone was buzzing nonstop, notifications stacking faster than you could read them—group chats, managers, members. Your stomach dropped before you even opened anything. You clicked the first link you saw: a YouTube video titled *“Can Jungkook and Yvez be any more obvious?”* It already had 1.3 million views. Your chest tightened instantly. At first, it looked like any other shipping video, but then it kept going.

The bracelet. The Tiffany store sighting. The timelines. Jungkook leaving a live early just thirty minutes before you posted from a dance room. Your live with Noa—the way you covered the screen, the way you laughed. Then came the zoomed images: a reflection, a corner of a couch, even a glimpse of Benni’s ear. Your breath caught. They had everything: you singing *Fake Love*, you mentioning Dobermans, the way he looked at you on that variety show, knowing you spoke French. And then—the tattoos. Zoomed screenshots of your finger and his neck.

Everything was connected. Your hands were shaking now. It didn't feel like a coincidence; it felt like evidence. You scrolled to the comments and felt the world splitting in two.

‘Mind u jungkook is pushing 30 I would hope he has a gf by now 😭😭’

‘I don’t blame him Yvez is bad af 😩.’

‘can we normalize privacy?’

Then:

‘Why her???’

‘Jungkook pls say ur joking..’

‘Yvez is literally a rookie this is so weird of her.’

‘She’s just using him we’ve BEEN saying that’

There it was. The shift. Your stomach dropped again because this wasn't just a rumor anymore—it was spreading. Fast. Suddenly, everything Jungkook had warned you about echoed back: They will throw you out like trash.

Your grip tightened around your phone. It didn't feel hypothetical anymore. It felt real.

Your phone buzzed again. His name appeared on the screen, a small anchor in the middle of a rising tide.

Jungkook: hey. calm down first

You stared at the screen, trying to force your lungs to cooperate. Telling yourself to breathe was one thing; actually doing it was another. Another message popped up immediately.

Jungkook:

it’s all hearsay right now

speculation

theories

Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly. Then, the four words that defined his entire survival strategy appeared:

Jungkook: deny, gaslight, move on

You let out a shaky breath. It was so him—practical, strategic, and detached enough to see the board clearly while you were still reeling from the impact. But your chest still felt like it was being squeezed by a vice. You grounded yourself as best you could, but the reality was simple: you needed him.

You typed back: it’s not just theories anymore.

A pause, then: they’re connecting everything.

The typing bubble was immediate.

Jungkook: they always do that it looks convincing but it’s still nothing concrete

You swallowed hard, your throat feeling tight.

You: people are already mad.

A longer pause followed. Then:

Jungkook:

people are always mad

look at the bigger picture

no confirmation = nothing

Before you could reply, your phone rang. It was your manager. You picked up on the first ring. "Have you seen it?" they asked. "Yes," you replied shortly. A heavy sigh came from the other end. "Okay—don’t panic." You wanted to tell them it was far too late for that. "We’ve already issued a statement."

Your heart dropped again. "What did they say?"

"It’s standard," they said, then began to read: "HELLO, THIS IS HYBE ENTERTAINMENT. OWNER OF FRONTLINE ENT. IT HAS COME TO OUR ATTENTION THAT RUMORS REGARDING OUR ARTISTS ARE BEING SPREAD ONLINE. WHILE WE DO NOT MEDDLE IN THE PERSONAL LIVES OF OUR ARTISTS, FALSE INFORMATION INTENDED TO DEFAME OR HARM THEIR CAREERS WILL BE MET WITH STRONG LEGAL ACTION."

Silence followed. Your stomach twisted into knots. "That’s it," your manager said. "We’re not confirming anything. We’re monitoring everything. Do not respond to anything personally. Lay low today."

"Okay," you whispered.

The call ended, leaving you in a vacuum of silence. Then, your phone buzzed.

Jungkook: see? told you . deny gaslight move on

You let out a small breath and typed: what if it gets worse?

Jungkook: then we deal with it when it does

Of course. Always one step at a time. You looked at your reflection across the room—the hair he loved, the face the world recognized. Everything looked the same, but it felt entirely different. Your secret wasn't just yours anymore; it was public property, picked apart and speculated upon. And now, you had to go out there and pretend like none of it was real.

You didn’t overthink it. For once, you didn't sit there analyzing every possible outcome. You just opened Instagram, typed, and posted: “how do people even come up with this stuff 😂” Simple. Light. Dismissive. Very you. You stared at it for a second after it went up, thinking, okay, that’s done.

And then, it spread—fast. Screenshots, reposts, and fan accounts dissecting the tone. “YVEZ RESPONDED,” “SHE ADDRESSED IT,” “LOL SHE DOESN’T CARE 😭.” Within hours, your name was everywhere again. You made the mistake of opening Twitter, refreshing and scrolling like you were watching a storm from inside it. Some were defending you, noting you were both adults and that you’d basically denied it yourself. That grounded you—until it didn't.

“I think she should just leave SHE if she only became an idol to get close to her bias, it’s not fair to the other girls.” Your brows furrowed. “…what?” That one sat wrong—heavy. It wasn't just hate; it was a total rewrite of your identity. Then came the debates: “she’s going to ruin jungkook’s career” versus “jungkook is going to ruin HER career.” They were picking sides, deciding who you were without ever knowing you. Threads popped up about the double standards for female idols, and you stared at them because you knew they weren't wrong.

You locked your phone finally, sitting in the silence. The truth was that the passionate defenders and the loud detractors existed at the same time, occupying the same space. Your phone buzzed. Jungkook.

Jungkook: you okay?

You stared at the message, then typed: yeah

A pause, then: just reading everything

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

Jungkook: don’t do that too much

You smiled faintly.

You: too late.

He didn't respond right away. Then:

Jungkook: they don’t know you

You swallowed hard. That mattered more than everything you had just read. You leaned back, staring at the ceiling. “They don’t know me…” you murmured quietly to yourself. In a world of loud opinions and manufactured narratives, that was the only thing keeping you steady.

The room felt colder than it actually was—not physically, but with the chilling reality of being reduced to numbers. Your manager didn't even sit; she stood across from you, tablet in hand, scrolling through sentiment analysis and engagement rates like your life was a graph she could recalibrate. “Yvez, we need you to pour your blood, your sweat, your tears… into the REPE4T era.” You blinked, confused. “…I already am.” She shook her head immediately. “No.” That one word was flat and final. “You’re in a dating controversy. Whether it’s your fault or not, you are the most unstable member right now.”

The word unstable made your stomach drop. You let out a small breath through your nose. “…that’s not fair.” But she didn't flinch. “This isn’t about fair. This is about perception.” She turned the screen toward you briefly—mentions, graphs, and a sentiment split down the middle. “Right now, you are a risk variable.” A risk. Your jaw tightened, the sting of her words hitting your Leo pride, but you steadied yourself. You chose to listen, even if it felt like being dissected under a microscope.

“We need you to be stronger,” she continued. “Better. Iconic.” You let out a quiet, almost humorless laugh. “…iconic?” She nodded as if it were as simple as flipping a switch. “We’re looking at numbers. We’re looking at reactions. Not your feelings.” Silence sat heavy in the room. You looked down at your hand, at the © 2005 on your finger. It was permanent. But so was this: your career, your image, your name. You looked back up, your eyes clearer and more focused. “…what do you want me to do?”

That made her pause. You weren't pushing back anymore; you were adapting. “I want you to lean in,” she said. “Perform like nothing is affecting you. Be brighter on camera. More engaging. More present. More… untouchable.” There it was. Untouchable. You inhaled slowly, then exhaled. “…okay.” She studied you for a second, ensuring the message landed. “This era will define you. Not just as an idol—but as an individual brand.” You didn't let the tightening in your chest show. “I get it.” She nodded once, satisfied, and left.

The door closed, leaving you in the quiet. You sat there, still, then slowly leaned forward with your hands covering your face for a second. You weren't falling apart; you were just feeling the sheer weight of it all. Then you dropped your hands and sat up straighter. She wasn't wrong. This was about perception. And if the world wanted you to be iconic? Fine. You’d be iconic.

Iconic was exactly what you gave them. Not 100%, not even 120%, but a full, blinding, exhausting 150%. On music shows, you weren’t just performing; you were commanding. Every move was sharper, every expression intentional, and every ending fairy was lethal. The camera didn’t just love you—it couldn't look away. Fancams went viral, dominating the algorithm as people wondered, "Who is this girl???" and noted that you were performing like you had something to prove. You did.

On variety shows, you were louder—not a fake loud, but a version of yourself that was turned up to the max. You interrupted at the right moments, threw out witty one-liners, and made the hosts laugh with you. Clips of your timing and expressions started circulating, with fans crowning you the "Variety Queen." You leaned into it hard. Your two-hour livestreams were unfiltered; you argued back playfully with comments, rolling your eyes and asking if they really thought you had time for the rumors. They loved it because it wasn't polished or perfect—it was real.

During interviews, you were sharp. When they tried to bait you with questions about your personal life, you simply smiled, answered around it, and regained control. "We just focus on our music and our fans," you’d say. It was clippable, safe, but still inherently you. Then came the U.S. tour. Jet lag didn't matter; you stepped into every room like you owned it—loud, funny, and charming. Your English flowed easily, and your French slipped in alongside Solene. Hosts and crowds were enamored, agreeing that you were made for global stages.

And yes—you touched up your roots. The caramel blonde was perfect again, shiny and full. Jungkook would’ve noticed, but you didn’t let yourself dwell on that. You were exhausted; your body, voice, and mind were screaming for a break, but you never showed it. Not once. Every time you stepped onto that stage, you remembered the mandate: *Be stronger. Be better. Be iconic.* So you were.

Your fans noticed the shift. The comments changed from questioning to defending. "Yvez proving that even if she’s dating (or not) she can still serve," one read. Another added, "And nobody better say ANYTHING about her."

That hit deep. They weren't doubting you anymore; they were protecting you. The narrative was shifting from scandal to respect, from a rumor to a powerhouse.

Backstage one day, with your makeup half-done and your outfit already styled, you scrolled through the reactions again. You weren't spiraling or panicking this time—you were just observing. You had done exactly what was asked of you. You turned pressure into performance and doubt into dominance. Now, the world was watching you for a different reason. Not because of who you might be dating, but because of exactly who you were.

“Congrats! You guys are going to headline Lollapalooza this September.”

The silence that followed was heavy, the kind of stillness that precedes a lightning strike. Then, it hit. Screams, jumping, hands grabbing shoulders—the bright, uncontrollable laughter of realization. This wasn’t just a win; this was global. "Headlining??" Solene repeated, needing the word to be real. Your manager nodded, a rare smile breaking her professional mask. "Yes. Headlining."

The word echoed in your mind as you looked at your members. In that second, every ounce of exhaustion, every hour under the scrutiny of the public eye, felt justified. But just as quickly as the high hit, you were back in the sprinter van. The silence turned different—quiet, reflective, the way things feel before they’ve fully settled.

Jiha broke it first, her eyes direct and steady. “Yvez… I just wanted to say I’m proud of you… for keeping your calm. Keeping your head on.” Your expression softened instantly. “Thanks, Jiji.” Solene added a smile from across the van, calling you magnetic. Compliments from them always landed differently; they were the only ones who knew exactly what the "calm" actually cost you.

Then, Minaru threw a grenade into the quiet. “What are we gonna do when Noa gets caught?”

The energy in the van shifted instantly. Noa froze. Minaru, with a knowing smile, continued, “Noa is dating… I think his name’s Maki?”

The explosion was immediate. Solene practically jumped out of her seat, and Jiha let out a long, pained groan. “Oh my god—not another one.” You stared at Noa, wide-eyed. “…you??” Noa looked caught, stammering about how she was going to tell you eventually. “When?? After Dispatch posts it??” Solene snapped. Minaru, ever the observer, pointed out they’d been seeing each other for a month.

You laughed despite the chaos. It was insane. “Wait—wait—wait,” you leaned forward. “You’re actually dating him??” Noa covered her face and admitted it. The van erupted again with warnings of death and destruction. Jiha rubbed her temples, pointing out the existing controversy, but Noa peeked through her fingers and whispered, “…you survived.”

You froze for a second. “…barely.”

The laughter died down into a pause. You leaned back and asked the only question that truly mattered: “…do you like him?”

The van went quiet. Noa looked at you and nodded. “…yeah.” Simple. Honest. You glanced at the others, seeing Jiha’s weary exhale and Solene’s begrudging acceptance. You knew what you had to do—support her, lead the energy, but keep it grounded in reality.

“…okay,” you said finally. Everyone looked to you, the one who had just walked through the fire. “Then just be careful.” Noa nodded quickly, promising she was. You raised a brow. “…be *more* careful.”

“I’m getting a headache,” Jiha sighed, while Solene joked about being a walking scandal. Minaru just noted that statistically, it was bound to happen. You laughed. Somehow, in the middle of the global headlines and the mounting pressure, this felt normal. Messy, complicated, and real. For a moment, the weight of being "iconic" faded, replaced by the simple reality of five girls in a van, sharing secrets and trying to survive it all together.

You didn’t realize it at first. Not until you were staring at your schedule—dates stacked on top of each other, flights, rehearsals, press—and then it clicked. The week of Lollapalooza. Your eyes moved down slowly to the date of his birthday. Your chest tightened instantly. “…no.” You checked again, hoping the dates would shift if you stared long enough, but they didn’t. It hit you all at once: you weren’t going to be there. Different country, different time zone, different world entirely. Your heart didn't just drop; it ached in that quiet, heavy way you couldn’t even explain. Because it wasn’t just a birthday—it was the chance to be there, to show up, to be something normal. And you couldn’t do it.

So you told him. You found him late in one of the HYBE studios, headphones around his neck and lyrics still glowing on the screen. He turned when you walked in, his expression softening immediately. “Hey,” he smiled. You didn’t smile back right away. “…can I tell you something?” He nodded. You hesitated for a second before the words came out: “…I won’t be here for your birthday.”

Silence followed. Not long, but long enough. His expression didn’t fall or crack; he just nodded once. “…it’s fine. I understand more than anybody.” He smiled, and that smile was soft and gentle, but you could see it—the slight shift in his eyes, the way his shoulders dropped just a little. He was upset; he just wasn't going to say it. “I have my members to celebrate with,” he added casually, filling the space to make it easier for you.

He stepped closer, his fingers finding your hair and twisting a strand absentmindedly. “You—” He paused, then smiled again. “Go be a superstar.” Your chest tightened because that wasn’t a joke. That was him letting you go, even if it was just for a week. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your forehead—always your forehead. Safe, gentle, familiar. You closed your eyes for a second, feeling the weight of the moment.

He pulled back slightly, still close. “You fixed your roots…” he grinned, his fingers smoothing your hair down like he always did. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “…I did.” He nodded as if that mattered, as if it were something he could hold onto. For a second, you both just stood there with too many things unsaid. Neither of you was going to say "I wish you were here" or "This sucks" or "I don't want this to become normal."

Instead, you whispered, “…I’ll call you.” He nodded. “Yeah.” A pause. “Don’t stay up too late,” he added. You almost laughed. “I’ll try.” But you both knew you wouldn’t. You’d be on stage, under the lights, in front of thousands, while he’d be somewhere else, celebrating without you. And that was the part that hurt. Not loudly, not dramatically, but quietly—like something small starting to slip.

The meeting room felt airless, a vacuum where the only oxygen was the cold, blue light of data. It wasn't the size of the room or the number of people; it was the sheer weight of the graphs projected on the wall. Everything was a metric. Everything was a target.

“—it’s time for you guys to start working on your first full album.”

Your manager’s voice was bright, vibrating with the kind of corporate excitement that only comes from seeing a guaranteed return on investment. "You have great momentum right now," she said. Momentum. You stared at the screen as the analysis department predicted 1.7 million preorders—putting you right behind Aespa, crowning you the definitive leaders of the 5th generation.

You didn't react. You had heard the symphony of numbers before, just in different keys. Your eyes tracked the climb: 650K... 1.3M... 2.1M... 2.4M. A total of nearly seven million units moved since you debuted. The room hummed with pride, but you felt a strange, hollow stillness.

Streaming slides followed: 118 million Spotify streams, #3 Global peaks, fastest 200M. You read the stats as if they belonged to someone else. They weren't you. They were what you produced. And as the manager flipped to the comparison slide—showing your bars just beneath Blackpink and Aespa—the subtext was clear.

“Of course,” she smiled, “the goal is to surpass that.”

Because it’s never just enough. It’s always more. As she spoke about "maximizing global profit potential," you leaned back, your fingers tapping a rhythmic, restless beat against the table. The word profit felt like a stone in your shoe. In this room, there was no talk of the art, the message, or the soul of the album. There was only the machine.

You thought of Jeju. The quiet. Jungkook’s voice saying, "Go be a superstar."

Your chest tightened. Because here, in the heart of the engine, that’s all you were. You weren't Yvessirae. You weren't even Yvez. You were a projection. A result.

“Any questions?”

The silence was absolute. What could you possibly ask? How do I stop feeling like a line on a spreadsheet? You glanced at your members—Jiha’s focus, Solene’s contemplation, Noa’s nerves, Minaru’s analysis. You were all being processed.

You nodded once, a sharp, professional gesture.

“Got it.”

Because that’s the job. You get it, you deliver, and you perform. You would give them the 1.7 million. You would give them the global #1. Even if, with every milestone, you felt yourself becoming something slightly less human.

The airport felt like a blur at 2 AM. It was too early and too late all at once. Everything was quiet in that unnatural way—fluorescent lights, rolling suitcases, and staff moving like ghosts through empty space. You were exhausted, physically, of course, but more than that, you were emotionally stretched thin. You kept checking your phone even though you knew he wasn’t going to answer. He was probably asleep, or just finished working, or somewhere in between. There wasn’t time to go see him; no last-minute visit, no “just five minutes.” Nothing. And that sat heavier than you expected.

So instead, you sat down at the gate, pulled your phone out, and typed. It wasn’t a short message or something easy; it was a long one. If you couldn’t be there, you needed him to feel like you were. Your thumbs hovered for a second, then moved: hi… you’re probably asleep right now but i just wanted to say happy birthday in advance. i’m really sorry i won’t be there this year. i hate that i won’t be there actually. i wanted to do something for you… like properly. not just send something or call for a few minutes. but i know you understand… you always do. i hope you still have a really good day though, with your members, with people who care about you. and i hope you know i care too… a lot. i love you. and i’ll call you as soon as i can. please eat something good and don’t stay up too late (even though you probably will). happy birthday kookie ♡

You stared at it after you sent it. The message bubble sat there, delivered, but with no response. Of course not. You locked your phone slowly. Boarding was called, and you stood up, picked up your bag, and walked forward with your members like everything was normal. But something about this felt different. For the first time, you didn’t just miss him; you missed a moment. And somehow, that hurt more.

The hotel didn’t feel like a place anymore; it felt like a station. In, out, change, move. You were running on coffee and muscle memory at this point, caught in the endless cycle of hair chair to makeup, styling to fitting, and back again. “Do you like this one? Or this one?” your stylist asked, holding up two belts—one black, one gold. You barely blinked before answering, “Probably the gold one?” She smiled immediately, telling you that you were right. Of course you were; you always were in these moments. You didn’t even look up when she clipped it around your waist, merely adjusting your stance to let it happen. “Yvez, turn—arm—” You followed the commands on autopilot until a sudden burst of energy entered the room.

“I LOVE these outfits!” Solene practically floated in, wearing a black, military-inspired look that had been elevated to high fashion. Her halter crop top hugged her perfectly, structured with polished gold buttons that caught the light every time she moved. Low-rise shorts sat sharp on her hips, lined with brass hardware that made every step feel intentional. Her cap was tilted just enough, the white stripes flashing under the lights, while her boots were heavy, clunky, and dripping in rhinestones. She spun once, her hair catching the light. You smiled faintly, telling her she looked insane. When she asked if that was in a good way, you gave her a look—when did she ever look bad? She just grinned.

Across the room, Jiha stood composed and still. Her Prada look leaned cleaner and more structured: a sharply tailored cropped jacket in matte black over a fitted bralette with subtle geometric stitching. Her skirt was high-waisted, crafted from Saffiano-textured leather with structured panels that moved like armor. Her knee-high boots were sleek, devoid of sparkle or excess—just pure power. She adjusted her sleeve slightly, watching everything. “Try not to wrinkle that,” she muttered toward Solene, who only scoffed in response.

Minaru remained seated, observing herself in the mirror like she was analyzing data. Her look was a quieter, sharper, deconstructed Prada set. She wore an asymmetrical blazer with one structured shoulder and one dropped, layered over a silk corset top with barely-there straps. Her low-rise, wide-leg pants were tailored just enough to keep the look intentional. With her glasses resting low on her nose and her hair pulled back, she looked controlled. “…we look expensive,” she noted briefly. Meanwhile, Noa was a blur of movement in a Louis Vuitton silhouette that looked effortless. She wore a cropped, oversized monogram jacket over a fitted tank and a layered mini skirt of leather, canvas, and gold hardware. Her chunky, mid-calf boots had a worn-in aesthetic that still screamed luxury. She bounced on her heels, breathless at the sight of everyone together.

You finally looked down at yourself. You were wearing a tactical mesh bodysuit that hugged every line, appearing sharp and intentional. Distressed micro-shorts sat low on your hips, their raw edges providing a worn contrast to the heavy, chained gold belt now locked into place. A utility garter was wrapped firmly around your thigh. It was survivalist-glam—dangerous and luxury all at once. For a second, you saw yourself: not the girl in the airport or the one sending long messages at 2 AM, but this—sharp and untouchable. “Okay—final checks!” your stylist called out. Everyone moved, the energy shifting again. You picked up your phone for a second, but the screen was still empty. No reply yet. You locked it and slipped it into your bag. You had a stage to step onto.

The bass hit first, a deep vibration that thrummed through your chest before you even stepped out from the wings. “Are you nervous? That crowd is huge!” Solene whispered, leaning close with eyes that were wide and sparkling. “No—not at all,” you replied, saying it like it was nothing, even though your heart was already racing. It wasn't fear, though; it was pure adrenaline. Beside you, Noa was already bouncing, her voice barely audible over the dull roar from the other side of the curtain. “I CAN HEAR THEM—” she shouted. You could too. The crowd was a massive, endless sea of people stretching farther than the eye could see, their voices rising in a rhythmic, deafening chant: “SHE! SHE! SHE! SHE!” Your own name, YVEZ, was woven into the noise, and the sound hit differently than it ever had before.

Then, the intro started, and everything snapped into place. Your body straightened and your expression shifted as the autopilot kicked in—but this time, it wasn't empty. It was power. As you stepped out, the crowd exploded. The lights hit and the band kicked in, the live instruments sounding louder, richer, and heavier than any recording. You didn’t ease into the opening of Hotline; you owned it. Every step was sharper, every lyric thrown straight into the crowd, and they screamed them back, singing word for word. Through your in-ears, their voices were a tidal wave, louder even than the music itself.

The transition was seamless as ATTENTION hit next. The choreography snapped in, your body moving before you even had to think. Glancing out at the thousands of phones held high—lights flickering like stars—you felt it again. It wasn't the pressure or the online noise; it was just this—the reason you had started. When the energy spiked for LUV4U, the crowd began jumping in unison with the group. Noa was screaming into her mic, Solene was owning the center, Jiha remained precise as ever, and Minaru was a vision of controlled sharpness. You were everywhere, running across the stage and pulling the audience in. “LOLLAPALOOZA MAKE SOME NOISE!” you yelled, and God, they did.

Then came the shift. The lights dropped into a heavy, visceral red as the intro for REPE4T began. The crowd roared; they knew what was coming. You stepped forward into the center as the beat dropped, and everything hit harder. Your movements were more aggressive, your expression sharp and untouchable. The lyrics felt heavier now, as if you were saying much more than what was written on the page. In that moment, you weren't tired or overwhelmed. You weren't thinking about schedules, headlines, or the empty screen of your phone. You were fully, vibrantly alive. Standing at the edge of the stage with your name echoing back at you, everything finally made sense. This was what all of it was for.

It didn’t stop when you walked off stage. That was the scary part. Usually, a performance ends, the adrenaline drops, and the moment fades. This one didn’t. It followed you.

Backstage, your phone was already blowing up. Staff were rushing around and managers were talking over each other. “Yvez—your fancam—” “Wait no—the whole set—” “TikTok is going insane right now—” You barely had time to sit before someone shoved a phone in your face. Millions had seen it already. There were clips of you at that exact moment at the edge of the stage, your hair whipping with the lights and your expression sharp, locked in, and unreachable. The comments were flooding in faster than you could read: “WHO IS SHE???” “THIS IS INSANE” “THE CROWD?????” “they’re not performing they’re POSSESSED” “They just became global stars in one night.”

You blinked because it didn’t feel like one night. It felt like everything was finally landing at once. By the time you got back to the hotel, it was worse—or better, you couldn’t tell anymore. There were actual news articles: “Rising K-pop group SHE stuns Lollapalooza crowd,” “SHE dominates global stage with viral performance,” “From rookie to phenomenon: SHE’s explosive live presence.” Your name was everywhere.

On TikTok, the algorithm had decided. Your clips were inescapable: the REPE4T chorus, the hair flip, the stare into the camera. People were already recreating it and the sound was trending with hashtags like #SHEEFFECT and #LollaTakeover. You scrolled slower this time, not panicking or spiraling, just watching. This wasn’t controversy; this was admiration. Addiction. They couldn’t get enough of you.

For a second, you understood why people got lost in this and why they chased it. Because the crowd, that reaction, and that feeling stayed in your chest like it didn’t want to leave. Even now, sitting alone in a hotel room, you could still hear them. Your name was echoing, and it was addictive—dangerously addictive. Your phone buzzed again. You didn’t even have to look to know it was him, but you picked it up anyway. No matter how loud the world got, there was still one person you wanted to hear from the most.

“HELLO— we did AMAZING out there!” Noa practically yelled, still riding the high, pacing the room like she couldn’t sit still. Solene laughed, breathless, noting that people were going insane on everything from TikTok to Twitter. Jiha was already on her phone, scrolling fast, realizing you were trending in five countries—though Minaru quietly corrected her, stating it was actually seven.

You barely processed any of it because your phone buzzed, and something in your chest already knew. You opened Instagram to find Jungkook’s story: a simple black screen with the text “SHE!!!! 🔥🔥🔥”. Your breath caught, and for a second, you just stared as the air literally left your lungs. “…oh my god,” you whispered, not meaning to say it out loud.

Noa turned immediately, asking what was wrong, but you didn’t answer. Your brain was moving too fast. You wondered if he had really just done that, right now, with everything going on—the rumors, the speculation, the scrutiny. Your stomach twisted slightly because it was reckless. It could connect dots, fuel the fire, and make things worse.

That annoyed you, just a little. It bothered you that he could be so calm and unaffected, as if none of it scared him, and as if he didn't have to think ten steps ahead the way you did now. Your jaw tightened slightly, and you muttered, “…he’s crazy,” under your breath.

But then, something else crept in. He had still posted it—not subtle, not hidden, but loud, public, and proud. There was no hesitation. That feeling spread through your chest slowly, warm and steady. Because out of all the noise, the opinions, and the pressure, he saw you. He didn't see the controversy or the headlines; he just saw you on that stage, and he couldn't help but say something.

You swallowed, eyes still on the screen, your lips pressed together as you tried not to smile too hard. It was reckless, but it was also him. And for a second, that quiet ache from earlier softened, just a little. “Yvez— what happened?” Solene leaned closer, and you turned your phone slightly so they could see.

The reaction was immediate. “…oh,” Noa blinked, followed by a louder, “…OH.” Jiha sighed, muttering "Oh my god," while Minaru just smiled faintly and called it "Bold." You locked your phone, your heart still beating a little faster. Things were complicated, messy, and risky—but they were also real.

“—you guys were so good out there.”

The voice cut through everything. Not loud, not dramatic, but hauntingly familiar. You turned and froze. Jennie. Like—Jennie. Red rhinestones caught the light with every tiny movement of her frame. Her hair was sleek and her makeup was flawless in that effortless way that wasn't effortless at all. And yeah, she smelled like Chanel No. 5.

You blinked once, then twice. “I’ve been wanting to meet you guys for so long—we just never had a chance to,” she said so casually, like this wasn’t completely insane. “JENNIE?!” Solene yelled at full volume. “Yes?!” Jennie shot back instantly, matching her energy perfectly, and then they both burst out laughing.

The room shifted immediately. Solene ran to her like she’d known her forever, and Jennie didn't hesitate, pulling her into a hug like it was the most natural thing in the world. You could hear Noa whisper behind you that this was crazy, while Minaru quietly noted it was statistically expected. Jiha was already moving. “We have to take a picture.” Of course she was. She pulled out her phone, stepping forward like a professional.

Jennie smiled instantly—not forced or staged, just warm. They gathered: Solene still buzzing, Noa trying to act normal and failing, Jiha positioning everyone perfectly, and Minaru stepping in just slightly off-center. You stepped in too. For a second, it felt surreal. Flash. Captured. That moment was already iconic.

You hadn’t even noticed someone recording until Solene gasped that someone was filming. Jennie laughed softly. “Let them.” Of course she said that. Because she knew this would go everywhere. Then she turned back to you all, still smiling. “I need your guys’ numbers! We need to hang out,” she added, like it was obvious. Solene nearly lost it again, screaming yes, while Jiha was already typing, professional and efficient. Noa leaned closer to you and whispered that you had just made it.

You huffed out a small laugh because it kind of felt like that. Not because of the charts or the numbers, but because of this. Being seen. Jennie glanced at you specifically this time. “You were insane out there,” she said, her voice direct and aimed only at you, not the group. Your breath hitched slightly. “…thank you,” you said, and for once, you meant it without overthinking. She tilted her head slightly, smiling. “I’m serious. You have something.”

That sat in your chest, different from everything else you’d heard today. Because she knew. She’d been there—still was—and she saw it in you. You nodded slowly. “…I’ll text you,” Jiha said, already finishing up the contact exchange. Jennie laughed lightly. “I’ll actually respond, I promise.” “Better,” Minaru added quietly, making Jennie smirk.

Then, she stepped back. “Seriously—congrats. You guys are killing it.” And just like that, she was gone. The room stayed quiet for a second before Solene screamed, “HELLO???? I JUST HUGGED JENNIE???” Noa screamed too, while Jiha laughed and Minaru shook her head. You stood there, still processing, because everything was moving so fast now. Stages, virality, recognition, and now peers—the kind that meant something.

synopsis: Yvez is booked, busy, and lowkey losing her mind. Between being labeled the next global it-girl, going viral every five seconds, and accidentally catching feelings for someone she definitely shouldn’t, her life is anything but normal. Jungkook? Yeah. That Jungkook. What starts as “omg he’s so fine” turns into late-night texts, secret meetups, and a relationship that absolutely cannot exist in public.

tags: Idol Au!, Jungkook x Named! reader, Angst, eventual smut, Slow Burn, age gap, fluff, no happy ending, secret dating au

warnings: Cursing, overworking, skipping meals due to work, exhuastion, toxic fans, smoking/ vaping mentioned, alcohol, 8 year age gap, reader is a virgin, other idols mentioned, taehyung x jennie mentioned, Yunjin x Bangchan mention, toxic industry, fan wars, charts, numbers mentioned

full word count: 74k , part 2

——————————————————————————

The Vogue Korea studio was bright, clean, and engineered to make everyone look richer than they already were.

Today’s segment: What’s In My Bag?

All five members of SHE. Iconic branding. You and Solene were global Chanel ambassadors. Jiha and Minaru repped Prada. Noa had just landed a Louis Vuitton partnership. Luxury. Youth. Untouchable but fun. Your company’s PR team deserved awards for psychological warfare—they’d convinced multiple fashion houses that five sleep-deprived girls in platform boots embodied timeless elegance.

You sat in a row with your bags displayed on pedestals like museum artifacts.

What you wanted to say was: Welcome to what’s in my $8,000 bag that was basically handed to me for free.

What you actually said was, “Hi Vogue, we’re SHE!” with bright smiles and perfect polite bows. Media training excellence.

The host started with Jiha.

She held up her peach Prada Galleria Saffiano leather bag like she was unveiling state secrets.

Inside: a color-coded schedule planner, two lip tints, vitamins in labeled cases, wired earphones (“because Bluetooth dies when you need it most”), an emergency stain remover pen, a tiny perfume atomizer, and a printed weekly checklist.

Everyone groaned. Jiha smiled serenely. “Preparation is attractive.” Correct. Unfortunately.

Next was Minaru. Her Prada Jardinière mini looked too elegant to hold anything practical.

Inside: one slim wallet, AirPods, iPad, protein bar, hand cream, a tiny notebook full of unreadable scribbles, and a perfectly wrapped charger.

The host blinked. “This is so organized.”

Minaru shrugged. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Noa whispered, “She scares me.”

Then it was your turn.

Your black-and-white Chanel Evening Bag sat beside you like it had better manners than most people. You smiled nervously.

Inside: phone with a cracked screen protector, lip gloss, mini mirror, gum, two random bobby pins, one single earring you’d been missing for weeks, travel perfume, a folded lyric sheet, and snacks melted beyond recognition.

The members burst out laughing.

“You’re messy!” Solene yelled.

“I’m creative,” you corrected.

Your hand brushed something small and velvet-blue. Your soul left your body. The Tiffany box. Still there. Still dangerous.

You grabbed it too quickly. “Oh!” Your voice jumped an octave. “My mother gifted this to me.”

Every member turned. Minaru’s eyes narrowed. Solene bit her lip to keep from smiling. Jiha calculated damages in real time. Noa looked delighted.

The host gasped. “So sweet! Can we see?”

You opened it just enough to show the bracelet. “Very classic,” the host said.

“Yes,” you replied. “My mother has… taste.”

Minaru coughed so hard it sounded like liar.

Solene went next, lifting her black Chanel bucket bag with full confidence.

Inside: three perfumes, sunglasses, two chargers, a disposable camera, mints, a luxury compact mirror, unexplained receipts, and an anti-oil stick. Very on-brand.

Finally, Noa. Her LV Onthego MM looked sharp and mysterious, just like her.

Inside: Nintendo Switch, passport (“just in case”), wallet, hot sauce packets, headphones, a mystery key, face mist, and a tiny plush charm.

The host laughed. “Why hot sauce?”

Noa looked genuinely confused. “Why not?”

Rapid-fire questions followed. Weirdest items? Noa. Borrows the most? You. (“Because they have everything!”) Cleanest bag? Minaru, obviously. Loses things the most? Also you. Unanimous. Immediate. Hurtful.

As filming wrapped and the cameras lowered, you exhaled in relief.

Minaru leaned in quietly. “Your mother?”

“Shut up.”

Solene joined from the other side. “Lisette Hwang bought Tiffany recently?”

“Die.”

Jiha pinched the bridge of her nose. “Please tell me you removed all evidence.”

You glanced down at the bracelet now on your wrist. Silence.

Noa screamed.

“Who cares?” you said, shrugging hard. “It’s just a bracelet.”

Noa nodded. “Exactly.”

Jiha turned slowly. “Yeah, you’re right,” she said in that terrifyingly calm voice. “But people will dig up receipts from God knows where.” She started counting on her fingers. “They’ll track release dates, compare paparazzi photos, zoom into reflections, match airport outfits, find out which store had that exact item in stock…”

Solene chimed in. “They’ll identify the sales associate by her manicure.”

Minaru nodded. “Then locate her LinkedIn.”

You stared at them. “What kind of criminals are fans?”

“Dedicated ones,” Jiha replied.

You looked down at the sparkling bracelet. It suddenly felt louder.

Noa grabbed your hand and examined it dramatically. “I still think it’s cute.”

“It is cute,” Solene agreed. “That’s not the issue.”

“The issue,” Jiha said, “is narrative.”

“God, you talk like HR.”

“I’m protecting our livelihoods.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled anyway. “Then we let them speculate… and call each other delusional.”

There was a beat of silence. Then Minaru burst out laughing first. Solene folded over. Noa clapped. Even Jiha cracked despite herself.

“That,” Minaru said, wiping her eyes, “was your smartest sentence this month.”

“Thank you.”

Jiha pointed at your wrist. “Still take it off for public schedules.”

“No.”

“Yvez.”

“It’s sentimental now.”

“You got it two weeks ago.”

“Exactly.”

Solene leaned against the vanity, smiling. “She’s gone.”

Noa nodded solemnly. “Love illness.”

“It is not love.”

Minaru tilted her head. “Then why are you defending jewelry like it has feelings?”

You opened your mouth. Nothing came out. Horrible sign.

Jiha sighed and stood. “Whatever this is, keep it private, keep it sane, and keep Dispatch unemployed.” Reasonable queen.

You looked at the tiny blue heart on your wrist one more time. Small object. Massive problem.

In the Sprinter on the way back from the shoot, you wanted to text Jungkook. Something cute. Something casual. Something that said I miss talking to you without sounding insane.

Instead, your feed betrayed you first.

BTS NEW INTERVIEW! TALKS ABOUT A NEW ALBUM, NEW SOLO MUSIC, AND MORE.

You clicked instantly.

The video loaded. They all looked clean, polished, and suspiciously well-rested. Then the camera cut to Jungkook and your heart did something stupid.

His hair was longer now—dark brown, wavy, falling around his face in that effortlessly expensive way. Dangerously cute.

You bit your lip so you wouldn’t audibly react in the van.

The interview continued. When Jungkook said, “I’ve been practicing English,” with a small smile, you knew exactly what he meant. Or at least chose to believe you did.

You typed before you could overthink it.

you: you’ve been working on english?

You expected silence. Time zones. Schedules. Reality.

Instead:

Jungkook: u saw that?

Immediate reply.

you: why are u up???? it’s like 2am there???

Jungkook: i couldn’t sleep :(

Jungkook: wyd? can u facetime?

Your stomach flipped. The Sprinter had just pulled into the HYBE parking area. Practice time. Terrible timing.

you: yeah only for a bit though

The second the doors opened, you were first out. You speed-walked through the lobby, took the elevator to a meeting room floor, slipped into an empty conference room, and locked the door.

Glass walls. Long table. City skyline. Too professional for what was about to happen.

Your hands shook as you pressed the FaceTime button.

He was shirtless. Of course he was.

Hair messy against the pillow, dim warm lights in his luxury hotel room making everything look accidentally intimate. His voice came out groggy and low.

“Hi,” you said, forgetting every prepared line.

The moment he saw you, he smiled—immediate and real. “Hey, Yvez.”

Your name sounded slower in that voice.

“How’s the U.S. so far?” you asked.

He stretched one arm behind his head. “Hmm. I’ve been enjoying the food.”

You laughed. “Of course.”

“What?”

“That is the most you answer possible.”

He grinned. “It’s important.”

The conversation flowed easily—your comeback dropping tomorrow, hectic schedules, him casually admitting he’d been watching your fancams.

“I didn’t realize you were a pretty good dancer,” he said. “Like… actually good.”

You stared. “Nah, that’s Noa. She’s the best.”

“Yeah,” he said easily. “But you’re pretty good too.” Then softer, “Plus this one stage… you looked so cute.”

You covered your face. “No.”

“Yes. You had pigtails. And you did this little wink at the camera.”

“I hate you.”

He laughed into the pillow. “No you don’t.”

Then he sat up suddenly, excited. “Wait—look what I got!”

He held up the turquoise SHE lightstick and the pastel tiger plushie keychain—Benni, your official character.

You gasped. “Why would you buy a lightstick?”

“There was a K-pop store nearby. The line was down the street.” He said it casually, like it was nothing. “I’m a fan now.”

He turned on the lightstick. The bright turquoise glow lit up his bare chest and face in your color.

Your throat tightened. “That’s insane.”

He dangled Benni. “This one’s my favorite.”

“Because it’s mine?”

“Obviously.”

A loud knock hit the door. “YVEZ? WHERE ARE YOU?”

You jumped. Jungkook burst out laughing.

“Oh my god go.”

“I hate you.”

“No you don’t.”

You fixed your hair quickly. “Sleep, please.”

“You too.”

“And don’t forget my heart.”

You rolled your eyes, smiling too hard. “Bye, Jungkook.”

His expression softened. “Bye, Yvez.”

You ended the call with your heart racing like you’d committed a crime.

Which, technically, maybe you had.

——————————————————————————

Dance practice was long. Not the fun kind. Not the omg we’re artists perfecting our craft kind. The punishing kind.

This was the final touch-up before filming the official dance practice video, which meant every tiny flaw suddenly mattered like national security. Three straight hours of cleaning. Again. Again. Again.

“Yvez, sharper arms.”

“Solene, half-beat earlier.”

“Noa, spacing.”

“Everyone’s energy dropped after the second chorus.”

Sweat dried and reappeared. Your shirt clung to your back. The mirrored walls became enemies. Every time you thought you were done, someone found another angle to fix.

Jiha stayed in full leader mode, counting under her breath and adjusting formations like she’d personally invented synchronization. Minaru barely spoke—just conserved energy between runs like an athlete preparing for war. Noa somehow looked prettier the more exhausted she got, which felt unfair and suspicious. Solene kept dramatically throwing herself on the floor between takes.

“I can’t feel my spine anymore.”

“You were never using it,” Noa replied. Even staff laughed.

By hour three, you were running on muscle memory and caffeine residue. The choreographer finally clapped. “Good. Thirty-minute break, then we film the official practice.”

The room collectively exhaled. Bodies dropped everywhere—floor, chairs, against walls. You lay flat on the hardwood like roadkill.

“This industry is evil,” you mumbled.

Minaru collapsed beside you. After ten seconds she said, “Correct.”

Jiha sat cross-legged nearby, eating banana slices like a wellness influencer in wartime. “Don’t lie there too long. Your body will stiffen.”

“I welcome death.”

Solene was already touching up lip balm despite no cameras rolling. “Do I look dead-pretty or dead-ugly?”

“Dead-annoying,” Noa answered.

You checked your phone. One new message.

Jungkook: did they find u

You smiled immediately.

you: yes unfortunately

Jungkook: make the heart cute

You groaned out loud. Minaru turned her head slowly from the floor. “Him?”

“Yes.”

“Still alive then.”

You typed back.

you: shut up and sleep old man

He hearted it instantly. Solene made a face. “Ugh. She’s glowing again.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Same thing.”

Thirty minutes passed in five. Staff called everyone back. Hair adjusted. Mics checked. Water bottles removed from frame. Camera ready. Music cued.

And just before hitting your mark, you remembered: Make a really cute heart for me.

Ridiculous request. Absolutely unserious.

Which meant you were definitely going to do it.

——————————————————————————

Content hell followed.

That was your affectionate internal term for the endless pre-comeback recordings: reactions, promos, challenges, behind-the-scenes clips, confessionals, greetings, countdown messages, alternate greetings, and messages for countries you’d never visited.

You changed outfits three times in one afternoon for no clear reason—schoolgirl preppy, futuristic streetwear, then “casual” (clothes worth more than rent).

They sat all five of you on a couch like coordinated hostages for the music video reaction.

“Oh my god!” Solene yelled, Oscar-worthy.

Noa pointed at herself on screen. “That’s crazy, who is she?”

Jiha nodded professionally. “The editing looks strong.”

Minaru stayed silent for forty seconds, then quietly said, “I look expensive.” The room lost it.

Your close-up came on. You did the dramatic gasp they wanted. “Wait… I’m kinda cute there.”

“Cut. Again, but more energy.”

You blinked. “How much more energy can discovering my own face require?”

No one laughed except Noa.

The individual messages, challenge teasers, and fake candid laughing shots blurred together. By hour six you were no longer a person. You were reusable content.

In the makeup room between setups, your phone buzzed.

Jungkook: did u film it

you: film what

Jungkook: my heart

you: you are so embarrassing

Jungkook: did u tho

You remembered the ending pose in dance practice—your tiny heart to camera two. Fast enough no one questioned it. Slow enough he’d notice.

you: maybe

Jungkook: i knew u loved me

You nearly threw the phone. Minaru walked by, saw your face, and sighed. “He texted something stupid?”

“Yes.”

“Good,” she said. “Keeps you humble.”

The next day, your comeback dropped. Sleep became a myth.

You stayed up refreshing charts like a gambler on a hot streak. The music video hit 8.4 million views in the first four hours. Twitter exploded.

FIRST DAY SALES: 367K

BILLBOARD 200: expected to debut at #1

FIRST DAY STREAMS: 4 MILLION

REAL TIME ALL KILL

PAK WATCH

MONSTER ROOKIES

The dorm turned into chaos. Solene ran out screaming in silk pajamas. Noa filmed herself crying fake tears for content. Minaru calmly tracked market reactions like a hedge fund manager. “Our international conversion rate is stronger than debut.”

Your phone buzzed.

Jungkook: proud of u

Jungkook: the heart is gonna do wonders

You laughed so suddenly you almost cried.

you: shut up

you: did u really watch

Jungkook: yeah the mv was amazing

He’d watched—from another country, exhausted, busy—and it hit harder than every chart number combined.

By the twelve-hour mark, the MV was at 35 million views. The dorm became a war room of screaming, chart-watching, and pure disbelief.

Then came the actual comeback stage.

For once, instead of dread, you felt genuinely excited. Makeup went smoothly. Hair cooperated. Wardrobe didn’t betray you. The stage lights hit. The crowd was louder than anything you’d heard in rehearsal. Fan chants sharp and full, your name woven into them.

You danced harder. The members glowed beside you—Jiha precise, Noa cool, Minaru sharp, Solene magnetic. In the final chorus, during the ending fairy pose, the camera zoomed in on your face. You smiled, breathing hard, then lifted your hands and made the heart.

Small. Cute. Clean. For the fans. For THEM. And yeah… for him too.

Backstage, your phone was already blowing up.

An hour later the stage video dropped. Jungkook texted immediately.

Jungkook: wow that was crazy

Jungkook: she definitely did that for me guys

The internet lost its mind. Fancams. Dance covers. Reaction videos. The point choreography was everywhere—even people who couldn’t dance were trying.

Your ending fairy clip did numbers on its own. Comments split between heart emojis and conspiracy theories about who the heart was for.

You scrolled past those quickly.

Back at the dorm, everyone was half-dead on the couches. Noa read comments dramatically. Solene translated French praise. Jiha thanked fanbases with terrifying efficiency. Minaru reported, “We gained 182k followers in six hours.”

Your phone buzzed again.

Jungkook: told u people would love it

Jungkook: also jealous of whoever got that heart on camera

you: ur actually embarrassing

Jungkook: but was i wrong

You looked around at the beautiful chaos of your members, then down at the bracelet on your wrist, and typed back.

you: maybe a little right

_______________________________________________

Then came the merch numbers. Which somehow felt even crazier than the charts. Streams could be passive. Views could be casual. But merch? People had to want that. They had to open their wallets. They had to choose you physically. And apparently… they really did.

Lightsticks were sold out almost everywhere. Not low stock. Not “limited quantities remaining.” Gone. Pre-orders had sold out weeks ago, but restocks were vanishing too. Stores in Seoul. Online shops. International resellers already acting evil. Everything was moving.

The individual member plushie sets? Gone. The premium full package—lightstick plus all five plushie keychains for $145 USD? Also gone. You kept refreshing pages just to watch the words SOLD OUT multiply.

“No way,” you whispered for the tenth time. Noa snatched your phone. “There is way.” Then handed it back smugly.

The five-member package had already become a collector obsession. And honestly… it was cute. Each member had her own character, and each one was weirdly accurate.

You — Benni

The blue tiger. A little fierce. A little adorable. Slightly chaotic energy. You loved him immediately. “Why is mine kind of the cutest?” you’d asked during the character meeting. “Because you’re biased,” Jiha replied. False accusation. True statement.

Noa — Rachel

The purple shark. Sharp smile. Tiny menace. Perfect. Noa once held hers up and declared, “She understands me.” Concerning.

Minaru — Cozy

The white cat with yellow devil horns. Quiet face. Hidden evil. Everyone agreed it was terrifyingly on-brand. Minaru just smiled and said, “Accurate.” Even worse.

Solene — Sunny

The red fox. Pretty. Playful. Slightly suspicious. She claimed it looked innocent enough to match her vibe. No one agreed.

Jiha — Lumi

The white bunny with a pink bow. Sweet-looking. Organized aura somehow. The type of plushie that would remind you to hydrate. Jiha called it emotional support and clipped it to her bag the same day.

Fans were already customizing them like unemployed fashion designers: Benni in tiny Chanel jackets, Rachel holding fake knives, Cozy with spreadsheets, Sunny on dates, Lumi carrying planners. Your fandom was talented and had way too much time.

Your phone buzzed.

Jungkook: benni is so proud btw

Then a photo: his lightstick on the hotel bed with Benni attached. You stared for five full seconds.

you: why do u have stickers of me on there

Jungkook: because i know who my bias is

You dropped the phone on your face.

No time for Jungkook and his nonsense. You had priorities. Like refreshing Twitter every eleven seconds and reading strangers praise you until it repaired childhood wounds.

You were halfway through a thread titled SHE just changed the standard for rookie groups when your phone started ringing.

Mom.

You sat up immediately. “Guys, shh—it’s my mom.” No one got quieter. You answered anyway. “Maman?”

Her voice came through warm and bright, wind noise and distant chatter behind her. “Hi, mon coeur!” Instant serotonin. “We’re currently on a tour in Africa, but we wanted to call and tell you we are so proud of you.”

Your chest softened. “Really?”

“Of course really,” she said. “Your father has shown everyone the comeback stage today in class.” You burst out laughing. In the background, your father’s voice rang out, muffled but passionate: “They needed cultural context!”

Your mother added, “He projected it. Twice.”

“That’s insane.”

“It was educational,” your father called defensively. Noa dove across the couch trying to eavesdrop. You shoved her away.

Your mother continued like none of this was chaotic. “You looked beautiful. Strong. Very expensive.”

“Thank you.”

“The blonde one is still very dramatic.”

“Which one?” You glanced between Noa and Minaru. “All of them, honestly.” Fair.

Then came the parent pivot. “But listen.” You already knew the tone. “Make sure you eat. Drink lots of water. And get vitamin C.”

You blinked. “What?”

“We are seeing a lot of scurvy.”

The room went silent. Then erupted. Minaru choked on her tea. Solene fell sideways screaming. Jiha, from across the room, calmly said, “That’s valid actually.”

You covered your face. “Mom, who is we?”

“The researchers, the local clinics, the sensible people.”

“Who has scurvy in 2026?”

“Tired people who don’t eat fruit,” she replied sharply. “Idols maybe.” Devastating point.

Your father added, “I also think you need iron.”

“Can everyone stop diagnosing me?”

“No,” your mother said. “Also call your brother. He says you forgot his birthday.”

“I texted him!”

“A thumbs up emoji is not a birthday message.”

You groaned. The room was still laughing about scurvy. Your mother softened. “We miss you. We know you’re busy. But don’t forget to be happy too.”

That one landed deeper than any chart. “I miss you too.”

Your father shouted one last thing: “Tell Jiha her posture is excellent!” Jiha looked up, startled, then strangely pleased.

You hung up smiling so hard it hurt. Noa wiped tears from laughing. “Your family is insane.”

You looked down at your phone, then at the chart numbers, then around the dorm full of beautiful chaos. “Yeah,” you said softly. “They’re perfect.”

_______________________________________________

What you weren’t banking on this week—on top of the comeback, the charts, the stages, the sleep deprivation, and the emotional warfare—was the What’s In My Bag? interview finally dropping.

Of course it did. Right when your name was trending. Right when one tiny blue box existed on camera forever.

You opened the clip with dread in your bones. There you all were: pretty, polished, expensive. Five girls casually unpacking the GDP of a small nation. Jiha with her emergency preparedness planner-core. Minaru looking like she stored state secrets in Prada. Noa carrying hot sauce. Solene flirting with the camera. And you—smiling nervously while committing fraud.

The comments rolled in instantly:

they’re so iconic wtf

IT GIRL ACTIVITIES

why does their casual bag cost more than my tuition

minaru is terrifyingly organized

noa having hot sauce in louis vuitton is so real

i wish my mom bought me tiffany

You froze. The lie was becoming lore. People were quoting it. Making memes. Adding dramatic violin music over your face saying “my mother gifted this to me.” Oscar-worthy performance. Unfortunately.

Solene was crying laughing beside you on the couch. “You created a universe.”

“I panicked!”

Jiha rubbed her temples. “This is why media training exists.”

Minaru, scrolling calmly, said, “Honestly it was quick thinking.”

“Thank you.”

“It was still stupid.”

Never mind.

Your phone buzzed.

Jungkook: your mom bought it? 😂

You stared in horror, then threw the phone face-down on the couch. Noa lunged for it. “WHO TEXTED?”

“No one.”

“That was a man reaction,” Solene said instantly.

Minaru already knew. “Him?”

You groaned into a pillow. “Yes.”

The room erupted. Another message came in.

Jungkook: should i thank her personally

You actually screamed.

you: shut UPPP i panicked

Jungkook: crazy that ur mom knows my taste so well.

You kicked your feet in pure rage. “Why are you smiling?” Jiha asked sharply.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m furious.”

“Same face,” Minaru said.

You typed back with trembling thumbs.

you: ur so annoying

Jungkook: but u kept it on camera

You looked down at the bracelet still on your wrist. Tiny blue heart. Huge problem.

_______________________________________________

By the time you were knee-deep in the final stretch of promotions, you barely knew what day it was. Everything had become one endless loop of stages, vans, makeup chairs, interviews, fake energy, real exhaustion, and someone handing you water right when you needed both hands.

You were surviving on adrenaline and dry shampoo.

Then Jungkook finally came back. The second his plane touched down, your phone buzzed. No hello. No easing in. No decorum.

him: what’s ur schedule i wanna see u

You stared at it mid-hair touch-up. “He’s back,” you whispered.

Solene perked up instantly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

You typed quickly.

you: i’m at the hybe building 🌝

him: omw

You nearly dropped the phone. Minaru looked up once. “That face means poor decision-making.”

“He said he’s coming here.” Solene gasped. “TO HYBE?”

Jiha, reading cue cards nearby, didn’t even look up. “Act normal.” Impossible request.

To fans, it looked different. Airport photos flooded in: Jungkook in an oversized black hoodie, sunglasses, cap low, duffel bag over one shoulder.

he just landed and went straight to work omg

his work ethic is insane

never resting king

Meanwhile the truth was: he had landed and gone straight to you. Which felt far more dangerous than romantic.

The next fifteen minutes stretched like an hour. Every elevator ding made your heart jump. Every staff member walking by made you sit up straighter. Then the practice room door slid open.

And there he was.

Fresh off an international flight. Hair a little messy from travel. Oversized hoodie. Mask hanging loose under his chin. His eyes scanned the room once before landing directly on you—like nothing else needed checking, like jet lag didn’t exist, like everyone else had disappeared.

He smiled. Small. Real.

You forgot the choreography instantly.

What you hadn’t banked on—at all—was how awkward it would feel. You’d talked constantly for weeks: texts, FaceTimes, voice notes, random updates at impossible hours. You knew his sleepy voice. He knew your tired face. You’d built something real in pixels.

But in person? Different. Weirdly different.

Like a middle school couple who never spoke at school but texted for six hours straight once they got home. That, apparently, was idol dating: pretending to be casual acquaintances in public while privately knowing what the other looked like half-asleep.

Humiliating concept.

You stood in the rehearsal studio pretending to stretch. Your hair was in a perfect wavy blowout—shiny, thick, expensive-looking. Your makeup was flawless, the kind that created the illusion of naturally perfect skin. Cameras were already around. Staff everywhere. Members warming up.

Jungkook leaned against the mirrored wall like he somehow belonged there more than anyone else.

Solene clocked everything in under three seconds. “Oh my god,” she whispered beside you. “He’s looking at you like he’s in a period drama.”

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously. That is yearning.”

Minaru, stretching nearby, glanced once. “He’s just waiting for her to stop malfunctioning.”

Jiha clapped sharply. “Places.”

You moved into formation. Music queued. Your heart was still acting unemployed. As you passed Jungkook on the way to center, he leaned in just enough for only you to hear:

“You look prettier in person.”

You missed your mark completely.

You tried to ignore him. Best decision available. Just finish the damn rehearsal. Focus on counts. Angles. Breath. Timing. Not the internationally famous man leaning against the mirror like he’d crossed oceans personally offended by distance.

You locked in. And you did finish it—sharp, clean, no mistakes after that near-death moment. Music cut. Everyone exhaled.

Then Jungkook spoke.

“Why don’t you guys take a break?”

The room went still. Staff looked at management. Management looked at him. Everyone chose survival. They filed out, bowing on instinct.

“Thank you, sunbaenim.”

“Good to see you.”

“Welcome back.”

Your manager suddenly became compliant. “Alright! Forty-five minute break, then filming!” Then left like this had always been the plan. Cowards.

The girls exchanged glances. Solene grinned like pure evil. Noa mouthed good luck. Jiha gave you one warning look that somehow communicated be smart, don’t get caught, posture. Then they all left.

Except Minaru, of course.

She walked straight toward Jungkook with the calm of someone entering battle. “Did you read any of those self-help books I recommended?”

Jungkook scoffed. “Not doing this with you today.”

She sighed dramatically, then her eyes lit up. “Wait— LE SSERAFIM is here recording, right?” You nodded warily.

“I’m gonna go tell Yunjin about you.” And she sprinted out like a child entering Disneyland. Traitor.

Now you were alone. Genuinely alone. The practice room suddenly felt huge and too quiet. You two stood six feet apart. Embarrassing distance.

He broke first. “You looked amazing doing that choreography.” That bunny smile appeared—the one that made him look sweeter than he probably was. His hands fidgeted in his hoodie pocket.

“Thanks…” you said, suddenly hyper-aware of your breathing. “We just learned it for the award show.”

Silence. Real silence. Spiritual crickets.

Then you both started talking at once. Apologized at once. Laughed awkwardly. Middle-school coded.

“You first,” he said.

“How was your flight?”

“Fine.” Short-answer king.

You had never done this before—the whole dating thing. Having a boyfriend (or whatever this was) felt brand new. Fantasy was easy. Reality involved eye contact and nowhere to hide your hands.

“We actually have a schedule in the U.S. too,” you said. “For The Tonight Show and stuff.” You gave a small, sad smile. Because now that he was back… you’d be leaving soon.

“You’ll love it,” he said softly.

Then he started walking closer. One step. Another. Until he was standing right in front of you. Close enough to feel warm. Close enough to smell clean laundry and airport cologne.

His hand lifted slowly, sliding through the ends of your hair. Gentle. Curious.

“I like this,” he murmured. “Your hair. It looks so… pretty.”

Your heart betrayed you. “I could say the same.” His hair was longer, softer, slightly messy from travel.

He sighed like he was deciding something. Then suddenly bent down, wrapped both arms around your waist—

And picked you up.

You screamed from pure surprise. He spun you once. The room blurred. Then he set you back down carefully.

You stared at him, shocked and laughing. “Sorry,” he said, grinning. “I’ve just been thinking about doing that since the flight.”

“What?!”

“You know…” He scratched the back of his neck. “Like those couples do in movies when they see each other.”

You nodded slowly. Right. Because you were both at that stage where affection still had to be consciously invented. Like you liked each other naturally—but what exactly did couples do? No one gave training for this.

He looked at you hopefully. “Was that cringe?”

You smiled. “A little.”

He groaned.

“But cute,” you added quickly.

He relaxed instantly. Then quieter: “Good. I missed you.”

“Me too…” you said softly. And you meant it. Not in a dramatic movie way. Just honestly. You missed the easy messages. Missed having someone to tell dumb things to. Missed feeling thought about from far away.

His face changed—small, real smile. Like he believed you.

The next twenty minutes became strangely easy. The awkwardness melted little by little. You both sat on the practice room floor against the mirrored wall, legs stretched out, water bottles between you. Talking about life, promotions, jet lag, disgusting airplane eggs, how weird it felt being recognized in countries that shouldn’t care about you.

You learned little things. He hated sleeping in hotels that were too quiet. He liked driving at night. He reread messages before sending them.

He learned things too. You talked in your sleep. You stress-cleaned. You had a fear of disappointing people that wore the mask of perfectionism.

It was nice. Weirdly nice.

The kind of nice that made people ruin it.

And naturally—you did.

Because after a pause, while picking at the label on your water bottle, you casually asked: “So… who are all your exes by the way?”

The room temperature changed instantly. Jungkook slowly turned his head toward you. “Excuse me?”

You kept your tone light. Too light. “You know. Your exes.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“Why would I list them like credits?” You shrugged. “I’m just curious.”

“No, you’re jealous.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m gathering data.” He laughed once through his nose. “Data for what?”

“Risk assessment.”

“That sounds insane.”

“It’s practical.” He studied your face for a second, amused, then leaned his head back against the mirror. “You first.”

Your eyes widened. “What?”

“Who are all your exes?” You blinked. “…None.”

Now it was his turn to stare. “None?”

“None. Unless you count James Thomas from third grade.”

“Like… zero?”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never dated anyone?” You crossed your arms. “Why are you saying it like I’m a medical anomaly?”

He started laughing. “I’m not laughing at you—”

“You are literally laughing.” He covered his mouth, still smiling. “You asked me about exes with no personal experience?”

“That has nothing to do with anything.”

“It has everything to do with everything.” You stood up immediately. “I regret speaking.”

He caught your wrist gently before you could storm two feet away. Still smiling. “No, come back.”

“I’m embarrassed.”

“That’s cute too.”

“Stop saying things are cute when I’m suffering.” He tugged you lightly back down beside him. Then looked at you with open amusement and something softer underneath. “So let me get this straight,” he said. “You have no exes…”

You glared. “And you’re interrogating me about mine?”

“Yes.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. You like me bad.” You shoved his shoulder. He barely moved. Annoying man.

“That’s not the point,” you said, folding your arms. “You’re trying to beat around the bush instead of just telling me.”

He laughed quietly. “Why does it matter?”

“I wanna know your type.”

“You are my type.”

“I doubt that.” Sharp. Quick. Immediate. He could tell the playful mood was thinning.

“Okay… let’s see.” He sat up straighter like he was preparing testimony. “I dated this girl from high school for a bit. Wasn’t really serious.”

“Why’d you break up?”

“Well, for one, we were fourteen.” You stared. He smiled. “Broke up after like two months.”

“Okay…” You accepted that one. Barely. “Then I dated this actress for a bit…” He glanced at you sideways, gauging the damage. “Her name is Minsi—”

“Go Minsi?” His eyes widened slightly. “Yeah.”

“Why’d you break up?”

“Scheduling differences.” You nodded too calmly. “Who else.”

“It’s really not important, Yvez…” He was getting serious now. “I don’t want you getting jealous and acting all grumpy.”

“I’m not either of those things,” you snapped. “I’m just curious.” Then you scooted an inch away. Which proved everything. He rubbed his face. “Okay—fine.”

“Chungha. We broke up because we just didn’t work out.” You swallowed. He kept going. “I dated a model most recently named Dahyun. We broke up because of my schedule and she wanted to get married and have kids.”

“Okay…” You nodded slowly. Too slowly. He could see the calculations happening in real time—the comparisons, the self-sabotage spreadsheet opening in your brain. Your eyes narrowed. “Why are they all older than me?”

The question came out almost innocent. Almost. He sighed and shrugged. “There it is.”

“See? I told you I’m not your type.”

“Yvez.”

“I’m like almost a decade younger than you…”

“I don’t care about that—”

“Well obviously all your exes are older than you,” you pointed out. You stood now, pacing two irritated steps away. “Be honest—are you only dating me because you felt bad for rejecting me?”

There it was. The real wound underneath the stupid questions.

He looked genuinely stunned. “What? No.” Then he laughed once—not cruelly, just in disbelief. Which only made it worse. “What is funny?”

“You’re genuinely mad because I had exes, Yvessirae.” Your full government name snapped your head toward him. He shook his head, smiling in that maddeningly calm way. “You’re immature.”

You took full offense. “Excuse me?”

He stood up too. “You asked a question just to hurt your own feelings.”

“That is not what happened.”

“That is exactly what happened.”

“I’m trying to understand you.”

“No,” he said, walking closer. “You’re trying to find proof you’re not enough before I can say otherwise.”

The room went quiet. That one landed hard. You looked away first. He was older. More settled. More familiar with how life moved and how people carried history. You, meanwhile, were spiraling in real time—retroactive jealousy, insecurity, fear dressed up as attitude.

He softened. Voice lower now. “Do you think I’d be here if I didn’t want to be?” You didn’t answer. He stepped closer.

“Do you think I flew back, came straight here, asked for your schedule, and spent my first free hour arguing with you because I pity you?”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “Maybe you’re weird.”

“I am weird.” He nodded. “But not that weird.” You tried not to smile. Failed slightly. He noticed immediately. Then gentler— “You keep measuring yourself against women who have nothing to do with us.” Us. That word. “You don’t need to compete with people who are gone.”

Your throat tightened. “I know,” you said quietly. “I just…”

“Spiral?”

“Yes.”

“Overthink?”

“Yes.”

“Start fights when you feel vulnerable?” You frowned. “Okay relax.” He laughed softly. Then held a hand out. “Come here.”

You grabbed it without thinking, without pride, without one dramatic speech. He pulled you in close. Easy. Certain. Like he already knew you would.

Your forehead brushed his chest before he settled you there fully—one arm around your shoulders, the other warm at your waist. You could hear his heartbeat under the hoodie. Steady. Unbothered. Rude, honestly. Yours was doing far too much.

“There’s no use in worrying about that stuff,” he murmured above you. His chin rested lightly on the top of your head. You exhaled into him. The practice room felt quieter. The mirrors, lights, and abandoned water bottles all faded a little.

“You say that because you’re not insane,” you muttered into his chest.

He laughed softly, the sound vibrating through you. “Debatable.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

His hand moved in slow circles against your back. Absentminded. Comforting. Dangerously effective. “I just…” you started, voice muffled. “Sometimes I feel behind.”

“Behind what?”

“Everything.” The word slipped out before you could pretty it up. “You’ve done all this before. Relationships. Life. Fame. Knowing how to act.” You tightened your hold. “I feel like I’m learning everything late.”

He was quiet for a second. Then his fingers slid under your chin, gently tipping your face up so he could look at you.

“That’s not behind.” His voice was calm and firm. “That’s just different timing.” He brushed a strand of hair from your cheek. “You think experience automatically means better.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No.” He smiled faintly. “Sometimes it just means baggage.” That made you laugh. “Look at me,” he said. You already were. “I like that you’re new to things.”

Your eyes widened. “That sounded bad.”

“It did.” He winced. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t, actually.”

“I mean…” He sighed, smiling. “You’re sincere. You don’t play weird games. You care loudly. You ask honest questions instead of pretending not to feel things.”

“I asked stupid questions.”

“You asked jealous questions.”

“Worse.” He laughed again. Then softer— “You’re honest.” The room felt warm all over again. “And I trust honest more than polished.”

That one hit somewhere deep. You looked down at the bracelet on your wrist, then back at him. “I was kind of horrible just now.”

“You were kind of cute just now.”

“Stop rewarding bad behavior.”

“Can’t help it.” You groaned and buried your face back in his chest. He hugged you tighter instantly.

Possessive in that subtle way he did things—never asking if he could, just holding you like the answer was obvious. Outside, footsteps passed. Staff voices echoed faintly. Inside, he stayed wrapped around you like time had paused just for this.

Then quietly, near your hairline— “I’m not with you because I felt bad.” You swallowed. “I know.”

“I’m with you because I wanted to be.” Your fingers curled into the front of his hoodie. “I know,” you said again. But this time… you actually believed it.

He looked down at you for a second. Like he was deciding something. Like even now, with all his usual confidence, this part still made him careful.

Then he leaned down—hesitantly. Not smooth. Not cocky. Almost shy, which felt impossible on him. And placed a kiss on your forehead. Soft. Quick.

The kind of kiss that didn’t ask for more. It just existed there, warm and gentle. You went completely still. Somehow that hit harder than anything dramatic could have. Not your lips. Not rushed. Not hungry. Just your forehead. Tender in a way that made your chest ache.

He pulled back slightly, checking your face. You stared up at him. “What?” he asked quietly.

“That was…” You blinked. “Very husband coded.”

He laughed instantly, ducking his head. “Relax.”

“No, seriously.”

“You’re insane.”

“You kissed my forehead after emotionally regulating me.”

“That sentence means nothing.”

“It means everything.” He smiled, a little embarrassed now. Cute for him. Then he tucked your hair behind your ear. “You overreact to small things.”

“You do small things too well.” That shut him up for a second. Victory.

Then he looked at you again, softer. “I just wanted to kiss you.” Your stomach flipped.

“Then why’d you hesitate?” He shrugged one shoulder. “Didn’t know if you wanted that.” The honesty of it melted you more than the kiss itself. You reached up and grabbed the front of his hoodie lightly.

“I do.” His eyes dropped to your mouth for half a beat, then back to yours. “Oh,” he said quietly. And somehow that sounded more dangerous than anything else.

“How long ago did you date that Dahyun girl though?”

He groaned immediately. “Yvez.”

“Just answer.” You were laughing now, fully aware you were being annoying. He looked up at the ceiling like patience was stored there.

“Like… three or four years ago.”

You smiled instantly. Satisfied for no good reason. Then buried your face back in his chest like you hadn’t just interrogated him mid-tender moment.

He looked down at the top of your head in disbelief. “You’re so weird,” he said.

Muffled against his hoodie, you replied: “Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“It sounded affectionate.” He laughed softly and tightened his arms around you anyway. “See? Mixed signals.”

“I am literally hugging you.”

“After emotional damage.”

“You damaged yourself.”

“That’s victim blaming.” He shook his head, smiling into your hair. “You ask questions like a detective and react like a toddler.”

“That is a powerful combination.”

“It’s exhausting.”

“Yet you’re still here.” He went quiet for a second. Then quieter— “Yeah.”

That simple answer made you hold him tighter. Joking was easy. But every now and then he’d say something small and honest that slipped right past your defenses.

You peeked up at him. “So you haven’t dated anyone in like… years?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You are not starting part two.”

“I’m just saying.”

“No.”

“Was there talking stages?”

“Yvez.”

“Celebrity crushes?”

He actually laughed now. “You need hobbies.”

“I have hobbies.”

“Name three that aren’t me.” You opened your mouth. Closed it. He burst out laughing. “Exactly.”

You smacked his chest lightly. He caught your wrist, kissed your forehead again—this time less hesitant, more certain. Then murmured against your skin: “Five minutes left on your break.”

You whined into his chest. “I don’t wanna go back.” It came out exactly like a child begging not to go to school. No dignity left.

He laughed, chest shaking under your cheek. “You sound five.”

“I feel five.”

“You’re dramatic.”

“I’m overworked.”

“Both can be true.” Rude. He tilted your chin up gently so he could look at you. “What else do you have today?”

“Mmh…” you thought for a second. “I dunno. I think a photoshoot for a skincare company?”

“That’s it?”

“For today?” you said defensively. “Yeah…”

He stared at you for a beat. Then nodded once like he’d made a decision. “Okay.”

You blinked. “Okay what?”

“We’ll have dinner at my place tonight.” Just like that. No question mark. No nervousness. No if you want. A statement.

You pulled back enough to stare at him. “We will?”

“Yes.”

“I have no say?”

“You can say no.”

“…Can I?”

He smiled slowly. “No.”

You laughed despite yourself. “That’s insane.”

“It’s efficient.”

“I might be tired.”

“I’ll feed you.”

“I might have schedules run late.”

“I’ll wait.”

“I might look ugly after work.”

He frowned immediately. “You never look ugly.” Your stomach did something embarrassing. “That was smooth.”

“That was true.” Worse.

You crossed your arms, pretending to think hard. “What are you making?”

“Ordering.”

“Honest king.”

“I know my limits.” You bit back a smile.

Then suspiciously— “Why your place?”

He shrugged. “Privacy.” Fair. Then after a beat, eyes dropping to your mouth before returning to your face— “And I missed you.”

You had to physically look away. Too much. Far too much for a fluorescent practice room at 3 p.m. He noticed your fluster instantly. “Seven?” he asked.

“I don’t know if I’m free at seven.”

“Eight.”

“I might still be busy.”

“Nine.”

“You’re very confident.”

“I know you’re coming.” You hated that he probably did.

A knock sounded at the practice room door. “Break over in five!” staff yelled.

You both froze as the bubble burst. He sighed dramatically. “See?” you said. “Oppression.”

He grinned, then leaned down close enough to make your pulse stumble. “Nine,” he repeated softly. “Wear something comfortable.”

Your brain short-circuited immediately. “Why?”

He stepped back already smiling. “Because I said so.”

You stood there stunned while he headed for the door. Halfway there, he turned. “And bring the bracelet.” Then left you alone to combust.

The rest of your day felt like a blur. The skincare shoot happened, technically. You remembered standing in front of a camera holding a glass bottle and smiling like hydration personally changed your life. Someone powdered your nose three separate times. Someone said, “Yvez, softer eyes.” Which meant nothing to you. Because mentally you were elsewhere—at nine, at his house, with him saying wear something comfortable like that wasn’t enough to derail a woman’s nervous system.

By the time you got back to the dorm, changed, redid your hair twice, hated every outfit, then chose something simple anyway—you were already late.

Good. Never let a man think you’re too available. Even if you absolutely were.

His house was quiet when he opened the door. Warm lighting. Barefoot. Grey sweats. Black t-shirt. Hair soft and slightly messy now, like he’d showered and then run his hands through it instead of styling it. You forgot every manipulative late-arrival strategy instantly.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You’re lucky I came.”

He stepped aside smiling. “You were always coming.” Annoying. Correct.

Inside, the place felt different at night. Less museum. More him. Music low somewhere in the background. Candles lit in the kitchen in a way that made you suspicious he’d googled “ambiance.” Food containers lined the counter—Korean, Japanese, dessert already waiting too.

“You ordered all this?”

“I didn’t know what you’d want.” That was… weirdly sweet. “I eat food, Jungkook.”

“Helpful answer.”

You laughed and slipped your shoes off. He noticed immediately. “What?” you asked.

“Nothing.”

“You’re smiling.”

“You’re cute when you get comfortable fast.” You stared at him. “Do you rehearse these lines?”

“No.”

“Should start. Tighten them up.” He laughed under his breath.

Dinner was easy. Sitting cross-legged on the couch with plates balanced badly, sharing bites, stealing each other’s drinks, talking about everything and nothing. He told you stories from tour. You told him how Noa almost fought a staff printer because it jammed three times. He laughed so hard he choked.

At one point he wiped sauce from the corner of your mouth with his thumb without thinking. Then both of you froze. The air changed instantly. You looked down at your plate. He looked at his hand like it had betrayed him. Neither spoke for a second. Then he cleared his throat. “Movie?”

Coward. “Sure.”

He put something on. Neither of you watched it. You sat close now. Not touching at first. Then your knees brushed. Then stayed there. Then his arm stretched behind you on the couch. Then you leaned back without discussing it. Then somehow your head was on his shoulder. Then silence settled—soft and warm around both of you. The kind that only happens when being quiet together feels good.

You looked up at him during some random scene. He was already looking down at you. Caught. Again.

“You do that a lot,” you whispered.

“What?”

“Stare at me.” He didn’t even deny it. “I know.” Your heart stumbled. “Why?”

His eyes moved over your face slowly, thoughtful. “Because I can now.” That one nearly killed you.

You sat up a little, suddenly too aware of everything. He mirrored you. Close now. Very close.

“You’re doing the face again,” you whispered.

He smiled. “What face?”

“The one before you kiss someone.”

“This face?” he asked, leaning closer. “Yes.”

“Should I stop?”

“No.”

Honest before fear could intervene. His expression softened immediately. Then he lifted one hand, touched your cheek lightly like he still couldn’t believe he was allowed to.

And kissed you. Slow. Gentle at first. Warm lips, careful pressure, a pause like he was giving you time to pull away. You didn’t. Instead your hand grabbed his shirt instinctively and you kissed him back.

That changed everything. He made a low sound in his throat and moved closer, one hand sliding to your waist, the other cradling your jaw as the kiss deepened. Still sweet. Still soft. But certain now. Weeks of tension melting into something real. You forgot how to breathe properly.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours. Both of you smiling a little. Both of you breathless.

“Well,” you whispered.

“Well what?”

“You definitely made the face.” He laughed, then kissed you again before you could keep talking.

And don’t be weird about it. Because that was as far as it went. He kissed you. That was the whole headline. No dramatic ripping clothes off. No hands roaming like he’d lost home training. No sudden switch into something crude. Just kissing. Real kissing.

The kind that somehow felt more intimate because nothing else was trying to happen. By the end of the night, he’d gotten confident enough to slip in his tongue. And even that felt almost shy at first—like he was testing if you’d let him. You did. Obviously.

Then he smiled against your mouth when you kissed him back harder, like he was pleased with himself. Cocky for no reason. His hands stayed respectful the entire time. One at your waist. One brushing your cheek. Sometimes holding your hand. Sometimes resting warm over your knee. Nothing suggestive. Nothing pushy. Nothing that made you feel like the kissing was leading somewhere else.

It was just… kissing because he wanted to kiss you.

Which weirdly made it hotter than if he’d tried too much. At one point you were both on the couch, facing each other, knees tucked together, trading slow kisses between laughing and talking. Then another kiss. Then another. Then you’d pull back to say something stupid. Then he’d kiss you again to shut you up.

“Rude,” you murmured once.

“Nah,” he replied, mouth still close enough to distract you.

Later, when you had to leave, he walked you to the door with that same calm softness he only seemed to have in private. You were fixing your shoes when he tilted your chin up and kissed you one more time. Short. Sweet. Like a bookmark. Then another, because apparently one wasn’t enough.

When he pulled back, he looked a little smug. “What?” you asked.

“You talk less now.”

You gasped. “That’s because you keep interrupting me.” He smiled. “Come over again tomorrow.”

“You’re assuming a lot.”

“You’ll come.” You rolled your eyes. Then kissed him first this time. Just once. Quick. Enough to wipe the smug look right off his face. And that alone made the whole night worth it.

_______________________________________________

Then your life got hectic again. Violently hectic.

The kind of hectic that eats weeks whole and leaves you wondering where your socks are and what month it is.

Unfortunately, there was no tomorrow for you and Jungkook. Not the sweet domestic sequel he’d spoken into existence at the door. Just texting again. Back to bubbles on screens. Back to stolen replies between schedules. Back to trying to feel close through bad Wi-Fi and time stamps.

Award show season arrived. Hair extensions. Custom gowns. Three-hour makeup calls. Backstage chaos dressed up as elegance. You smiled until your cheeks hurt and performed like your body wasn’t made of stress and caffeine.

Then your category came. Rookie of the Year. The envelope opened.

Your group name echoed through the venue. Everything blurred. The girls screamed. You hugged whoever was nearest first. Jiha cried immediately but tried to hide it. Noa shouted something unbroadcastable. Solene fixed her hair mid-tears. Minaru looked calm for exactly three seconds before tearing up too.

You walked to the stage shaking. Jiha accepted the trophy with both hands, bowed, and thanked everyone—fans, staff, families, members—while trying not to cry and somehow looking prettier because of it.

The second you got backstage, your phone buzzed.

Jungkook: proud of u

Jungkook: rookie of the year already crazy

Jungkook: looked pretty nervous tho 😂

You laughed through tears.

you: shut up i was trying not to faint

Then it was straight to the U.S. No decompression. No meaningful sleep. Just airport → van → hotel → glam → camera.

The Tonight Show. Which sounded unreal until you were physically there under bright studio lights pretending this was normal. The interview was fun. The host was charming. The questions weren’t painfully lazy. They asked about your rise, group dynamic, the pressure of success, what “Attention” meant to you. Noa made everyone laugh twice. Jiha spoke beautifully. Minaru was accidentally iconic by saying something dry with a straight face. You answered in fluent English and watched the audience react in real time. It felt less like performance, more like being welcomed somewhere strange.

Jungkook texted later.

him: saw u carrying the whole interview btw

You smiled in the hotel bed.

you: finally some respect around here

Then a quick stop in Paris. Because why rest when you could also be glamorous and exhausted internationally? Chanel had events. You and Solene attended together—structured black looks, pearls, heels made by demons. Flashbulbs nonstop. You conducted interviews in French while journalists looked pleasantly surprised. You both ate exactly three grapes between schedules.

Jungkook reacted to one photo with just:

wow

You stared at that single word for ten minutes.

Then more work. Always more work. Music show leftovers. Brand shoots. Dance practices. Meetings. Endless fittings. And slowly, naturally, Jungkook faded into the background again. Not gone. Just… quieter. Both of you focusing on your own lanes. Sometimes he’d send a gym selfie. Sometimes you’d send a studio pic. Sometimes neither of you said anything for two days and then picked back up like it hadn’t happened.

There was no breakup. No fight. No dramatic shift. Just two ambitious people being consumed by the exact lives that made them interesting to each other.

By the time you had a real break again, you were already preparing for the next comeback. Recording songs. Writing sessions. Demo cuts. Harmony stacks. Concept meetings that lasted too long. Listening to the same chorus fifty times until language lost meaning.

And somewhere between all that, you’d sometimes think of his house. The couch. The forehead kiss. The way he’d said come tomorrow like time belonged to him. Cute thought. Impossible thought. Because tomorrow, for both of you, was always already booked.

Your hair was bleached.

Not aggressively. Not cry-for-help platinum. Just enough. A beige caramel blonde that caught light softly and made your features look warmer, sharper, somehow more expensive. The kind of blonde that said effort was involved but taste was too.

You were obsessed with it by day two. So was everyone else. Fans called it legendary within hours of teaser photos dropping. Solene said it made you look “like you didn’t try so hard but moisturized.” Noa said you looked like someone who would ruin guys’ lives. Jiha just nodded once and said, “Good choice.” Highest praise available.

Jungkook was worse.

Because now whenever he was in the HYBE building, he’d find reasons to “accidentally” be near your floor. Dropping by studios he had no business in. Walking past rehearsal rooms suspiciously often. Showing up in hallways with a coffee like corporate fate arranged it.

And every single time he got a second alone with you, he’d sneak you off somewhere private. Storage rooms. Unused conference rooms. Empty stairwells. Once, a vocal booth. Which felt illegal.

Today it was a quiet editing suite no one was using. The door had barely clicked shut before he was walking toward you. No small talk. No preamble. Just one hand sliding to your waist as he leaned down and kissed you immediately. Warm. Familiar now. The kind of kiss that assumed it belonged there.

You kissed him back just as fast. “Hi to you too,” you murmured when he pulled away.

“Hi.” Then he looked at you properly. His hands moved to the ends of your hair, lifting a strand between his fingers. “I like this color.” He smiled.

You tried to stay casual. Failed internally. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He brushed the blonde pieces behind your shoulder slowly. “Makes you look…” He paused.

“What?”

“Like… hot.”

You laughed. “That’s vague.”

“It’s accurate.”

“You say that because you’re biased.”

“I am biased.” No hesitation. Toward you. Your stomach did the usual humiliating thing.

He leaned down again, kissing the side of your mouth, then your cheek, then once under your jaw like he’d missed too many chances lately. “You smell expensive,” he said into your skin.

“I’m literally wearing Chanel. No.5 to be exact.”

“Still.”

You smiled, fingers curling in the front of his hoodie. “When did you become so clingy?”

“When you got busy.” That answer hit harder than it should have. You softened immediately. “I’ve been busy,” you admitted.

“I know.” Another kiss. “I have too.” Another. “I still wanted to see you.”

You looked up at him. For all his teasing and smugness, there it was again—something simple and sincere underneath everything else. You touched his cheek lightly. “You could’ve texted that.”

He shrugged. “Wanted to tell you in person.” Then glanced back at your hair once more. “Seriously though.”

“What?”

“Don’t change it back yet.”

You smirked. “Why? You like blonde girls now?”

He laughed. “No.” Then kissed you one more time, slower this round. “I like you now.”

A month passed in a blink. Which meant—new music. New pressure. New expectations stacked on top of the last ones you hadn’t even finished processing yet.

Your EP was done. LUV4U.

Three syllables, dangerously catchy. The title track hit immediately—Jersey club influence, fast, addictive, a little cocky, a little hurt. About loving someone who didn’t value it enough. About giving too much and realizing it too late. It felt fun but mean underneath. The kind of song people danced to before realizing it applied to their life.

Then BAD. Slower. Lofi. Quieter. The apology after the damage. The “I know I messed up” track that somehow felt sadder than the original problem. You already knew fans were going to eat that one alive. It was your favorite too.

And then—the solos. Your version. Luxury. The YVEZ version. Which was absolutely a sales tactic. Everyone knew it. Multiple versions = multiple purchases. Your company was shameless and effective.

And honestly? You didn’t care. Because the music was good.

A month later—the comeback was officially announced. Teasers dropped. Concept photos everywhere. Your phone became unusable again. Everything had already been done weeks ago—photoshoots, MV filming, pre-recorded interviews. Now you just had to sit and watch the world react. Which was somehow more nerve-wracking than doing the work.

You were scrolling through Instagram when you saw it. Jungkook’s story. You followed him—obviously. Easy to explain. You followed almost all HYBE artists anyway. And a bunch of idols you grew up liking. He didn’t follow you back. Also obvious. Also safer. Also annoying.

But his story—he reposted your group’s comeback announcement. With just fire emojis. Simple. Loud enough.

Your heart skipped before you could stop it.

Then you noticed—RM had posted too. Encouraging message. Supportive. Thoughtful. And Jimin had reposted it as well. More hype. More visibility. More attention.

Your stomach flipped in that weird mix of pride and pressure. Because now expectations weren’t just from fans. They were from people you respected too.

Then you went live with Noa. Bad idea. Great idea. Chaotic idea.

“Yvez, what have you been up to?” Noa leaned closer to the phone, reading comments.

You pretended to think. You absolutely knew what you’d been up to. Sneaking around. Kissing Jungkook in random rooms. Losing your mind quietly. But that wasn’t public information.

“Hmm…” You tilted your head. “Preparing for this comeback.”

Noa laughed immediately. “Boring.”

“I’m being professional.”

“No you’re being suspicious.”

You leaned closer to the screen, scrolling through comments. Big mistake. You saw it. Of course you saw it. Questions about Jungkook. About your “bias.” About him.

You and Noa locked eyes instantly. Shared telepathy. Immediate understanding. You both burst out laughing.

“We’re definitely not reading that—” you mumbled.

The chat exploded.

“What?? what did it say??”

“What are you hiding??”

“No nothing,” Noa said quickly, trying not to smile. “Next question.”

Deflection queens.

More comments flooded in. “YVES CURLY HAIR WHEN??”

You sighed dramatically. “When the company decides it’s cute.”

Fans screamed. Relatable oppression.

Noa read another. “The lighting in the dorm is so good.”

You both paused. Looked at each other. Then in perfect sync— “Thanks to HYBE.”

The chat LOST it. Spammed laughing emojis instantly. Inside joke energy. Your brand.

You laughed, leaning back. A few minutes passed of just reading comments. Then—

“Yvez you’re so chronically online.”

You squinted at the screen. “Guys…” You sighed. “I literally have a phone and social media. It takes like 20 minutes of screen time to catch up on trends and memes.”

Noa laughed beside you. “They think you’re like living in the comments.”

“I’m not,” you said defensively. “I just know things.”

“You know everything.”

“That’s not a crime.”

The chat adored it. Because you didn’t filter yourself the way idols usually did. You answered honestly. Even when it sounded like mild scolding. Even when it made you look too real. And that’s exactly why they loved you.

Even if they exaggerated everything you did. Even if they turned every little thing into a moment.

You leaned closer to the camera again. Smiling now. “Anyway—stream LUV4U when it drops.”

Noa nodded dramatically. “Or we will find you.”

You both laughed.

Your phone buzzed mid-live. You already knew who it was. You tried to ignore it. You didn’t. You glanced down.

Jungkook: you’re so mean to ur fans 😭

You physically had to stop yourself from smiling too hard. So instead you covered the screen with your hand like that would hide the situation from the internet. Then tilted the phone just enough for Noa to see. She read it. Paused. Then rolled her eyes so dramatically it deserved an award.

“Yeah, okay,” she said under her breath, dripping sarcasm.

You sighed like you were being burdened. Then turned back to the live, composure back on. “I’m being scolded for being mean to you guys,” you said, sighing again.

The chat exploded instantly.

WHO??

WHAT DID U DO 😭

NOT YVEZ GETTING IN TROUBLE AGAIN

JIHA???

MANAGER???

FREE HER

Noa leaned into frame, nodding seriously. “It’s getting serious.”

“Guys I’m not mean,” you defended. “You literally just told them you wouldn’t do curly hair unless the company approves.”

“That’s honesty.”

“That’s oppression.”

The chat SPAMMED.

FREE CURLY YVEZ

LET HER BE CURLY

HYBE ANSWER US

You laughed, shaking your head. “This is exactly why I don’t say things—you guys start movements.”

Your phone buzzed again. You didn’t check it this time. Self-control. Growth. Maturity.

Noa glanced at your hand. “Check it,” she whispered.

“I’m not checking it.”

“You want to.”

“I don’t.”

“You do.”

You checked it.

Jungkook: stop exposing me indirectly

Your lips twitched. Noa saw.

“Oh my god,” she muttered.

You quickly locked your phone and tossed it beside you like it betrayed you. “Anyway!” you clapped lightly. “Next question.”

The chat was still spiraling.

SOMEONE IS TEXTING HER

WHO IS SCOLDING HER

IS IT A MANAGER??

IS IT JIHA AGAIN??

Noa leaned back, enjoying this way too much. “They’re really trying to figure it out.”

“Maybe they’re wrong, maybe they’re right,” you said quickly. Technically true. Career-ending. You leaned closer to the camera again, regaining control. “Guys focus,” you said. “Comeback soon.”

“LUV4U,” Noa added.

“Stream it,” you pointed. “Or else,” Noa finished.

You both laughed.

Your phone buzzed one more time. You didn’t check it. You already knew he was smiling on the other end.

The live ended. The dorm got quieter. Lights dimmed. Makeup half-removed. Everyone melted back into exhaustion.

And like clockwork, you ended the night on FaceTime with Jungkook. It was easy. It always was. No pressure. No big declarations. Just talking—about nothing, about everything. What you ate. What he didn’t eat. How your practice went. How his studio session dragged. Him teasing you about the live. You defending yourself like your life depended on it. Him smiling at the screen like you were the only thing worth looking at.

It ended the same way it always did. A quiet “I’ll text you tomorrow.” A small smile. Then the call ended.

And like always—you didn’t sleep right away. You lay there, phone in hand, brain loud. Curiosity crept in like a bad habit. So you did the one thing you knew you shouldn’t do.

You started searching.

Ships. Your name. His name. Together. Separate. Everything.

And of course—they existed. Not the biggest pairing. Not the loudest. But enough. Because it was public knowledge you were a BTS fan and Jungkook was your bias. That alone was enough for people to build entire storylines.

You scrolled. Photoshopped pictures of you two at events you’d never attended together. Edits of your smiles timed like you were in the same room. “Proof threads” that were just vibes and delusion. You almost laughed.

Almost.

Then you saw one. A thread titled: “jk bought the Tiffany bracelet that Yvez is always wearing.”

Your stomach dropped. You clicked. Most of your fans shut it down immediately.

“What?? She said her mom bought it.”

“y’all are actually insane 😭”

“how would you even know that??”

You exhaled. Okay. Safe.

Then the original poster doubled down—claiming they’d seen him shopping for women’s jewelry, that it “matched the timeline.” No proof. No receipts. Just coincidence stitched together with imagination.

Still, your heart didn’t calm all the way. Because they weren’t right… but they weren’t completely off either.

And that was worse.

You locked your phone for a second, then unlocked it again. Because you hated yourself a little. More ships. More names. More combinations. Some were funny. Some made no sense. Some… made a little too much sense.

Minaru x Suga. You paused. “…okay wait.” You kind of saw it. Which was annoying.

Minaru x Namjoon? You laughed out loud. “Yeah, the intellectual power couple.” High IQ. Calm. Quiet. Minaru barely wanted friends, let alone a relationship. Still—fans built entire worlds out of it.

Then you saw the other ships with Jungkook. More popular ones. Older ones. Established ones. Edits. Moments. Clips. People saying things like:

“they look so good together”

“endgame idc”

“he suits her so well”

Your chest tightened. Annoying. So annoying.

Because logically—you knew this meant nothing. Fans shipped everyone with everyone. It was entertainment. It wasn’t real.

But emotionally? Your brain didn’t care about logic right now. It just went: Oh. So we’re not the best option? We’re not the cutest? They don’t see it? Why?

You stared at one edit too long. Then locked your phone again. Tossed it beside you—harder this time. You turned onto your side, staring at nothing, trying to shake the feeling.

It sat there anyway. Quiet. Ugly. Jealousy. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just a small voice going—hey… what if you’re not the one people would pick for him?

You frowned into your pillow. Now you were irritated. At them. At yourself. At the fact that something so dumb got under your skin this easily. After everything. After you knew what this actually was.

You reached for your phone again. Opened your messages. Scrolled to his name. Paused. Typed. Deleted it. Typed again. Deleted it again.

Because what were you even supposed to say?

hey people think you look better with other girls and it’s bothering me?

Embarrassing.

You sighed. Locked your phone. Pulled the blanket over your head. And whispered to yourself—“Get a grip.”

But even as you said it… you knew you’d still be thinking about it tomorrow.

The next day felt normal—until it didn’t.

Your manager didn’t even try to make it casual. “Come with me.” No smile. No explanation. Just a hallway that suddenly felt too long, too quiet, too serious.

The meeting room already felt wrong before you stepped inside. Cold lighting. Water bottles no one was touching. Chairs pulled out like this wasn’t optional.

Then you saw him. Jungkook. Already there. His manager beside him. And another man—older, composed. The kind of presence that didn’t need an introduction for you to understand he mattered.

Your stomach dropped instantly. Not good. Not even a little.

You sat down. Didn’t look at Jungkook for more than a second. Didn’t trust your face to stay neutral if you did.

The man spoke first. “Not to waste any of your time—since you’re both extremely busy…” Corporate voice. Practiced. Controlled. “We just want to be upfront. Here at HYBE, we don’t believe in getting into your personal lives as much…” Pause. “…but we have to know—are you two dating?”

Silence. Real silence. The kind that makes your ears ring.

You went completely still. Because suddenly—this wasn’t private anymore. This wasn’t yours anymore. You were a rookie. You didn’t have the luxury of being “understood.” Not really. Not without consequences.

The only reason this even sounded calm was because Jungkook was sitting right next to you. You felt it. The difference in power. In safety. In how this conversation was being handled.

You and him looked at each other for a split second. Then his manager spoke first. “Why?” Sharp. Measured. Protective.

The man nodded slightly. “Well, it’s come to our attention that some independent paparazzi has taken photos of Yvez leaving Jungkook’s house…”

Your throat went dry instantly. There it was. Out loud. Real. Not rumors. Not fan theories. Proof.

You swallowed hard. Your hands stayed in your lap so no one could see them tense.

And before you could even think—Jungkook spoke.

“Yes. We’re together.” Just like that. No hesitation. No softening. No looking around the room for approval. He shrugged slightly. “And no, we won’t be coming forward publicly.”

Your head snapped slightly toward him. Because he said we. Like it was already decided. Like you were included. Like he wasn’t leaving you alone in this.

You didn’t speak. Couldn’t. Not yet.

The man sighed. Professional. Controlled. “We’ve already threatened legal action. I just thought you should know in case he posts them anyway.”

So that’s what this was. Damage control. Containment. Not permission. Not approval. Just management.

Your manager finally spoke up. “Can’t you just say they’re AI?”

There was a pause. Then—a few quiet laughs. Even Jungkook let out a small one. The tension cracked just slightly.

The man shook his head. “Legally, no.” Then added, “But we can imply it.”

Of course. Control the narrative. Don’t confirm. Don’t deny. Let the internet argue itself to death.

You finally found your voice. Quiet, but steady. “…What happens to us?”

The room shifted again. Because that question wasn’t corporate. That was real.

The man looked at you directly now. Careful. Measured. “That depends on how careful you are moving forward.”

Translation: Don’t get caught again.

Jungkook leaned back slightly in his chair. Calm. Too calm. “We’ll be careful.” He said it like a promise. Not to them. To you.

You nodded slowly. Even though your chest still felt tight. Because suddenly—this wasn’t just something exciting. Or cute. Or private. It was something that could be taken. Exposed. Used.

And you were just starting your career.

The meeting wrapped faster than it started. Just like that. “Be mindful.” “Keep things discreet.” “Focus on your schedules.” Same words. Different tone.

When you stood to leave, Jungkook’s hand brushed yours for half a second. Quick. Subtle. Hidden. But grounding. Like—I’m still here.

And somehow… that mattered more than everything they just said.

You stepped into the hallway together. The door shut behind you with a quiet click that somehow felt louder than anything that had just happened inside.

“Give us a second,” Jungkook said. Both managers didn’t even question it. They just nodded and walked off. Of course they did. Now it was just you and him. No buffer. No structure. Just reality.

He ran a hand through his hair, pacing once like he needed movement to think.

“Yvez…” His voice was different now. Not soft. Not teasing. Grounded. Serious. “This is where things get real.”

You swallowed. “This is when they get hard.”

“I know, but—”

“I’m giving you an out right now.” There it was. Clean. Direct. Logical. Of course that’s how he approached it. You saw it immediately. This wasn’t emotional for him first—it was calculation. Risk assessment. Variables. Outcomes.

You shook your head instantly. “No, Jungkook. No.” Firm. No hesitation.

He exhaled, frustrated, dragging his hand down his face. “Yvez, your career just started. I don’t wanna do this to you—I—” He pointed at himself. “I’ll be fine.” Then pointed at you. “You… you’re just now taking off. You’re getting traction.” Then between both of you. “This—” His jaw tightened. “This will kill that in a heartbeat.”

You felt it land. Hard.

“They will throw you out like trash, Yvessirae.” Your shoulders dropped slightly. Your brows pulled together. “That’s…” You looked down for a second. “…that’s so fucking stupid.” Your voice was quieter, but sharper. Anger building under it. Because it was stupid. It was unfair. It was real.

He nodded. Like he knew. Like he’d lived inside that exact contradiction for years. “I don’t care what I’ll have to do,” you continued, voice picking up again. “If we can only see each other here… or text—”

“Yvez, that’ll be miserable for both of us—”

“Let it!” You shrugged, almost desperate now. Your eyes burned. Because it didn’t feel like a conversation anymore. It felt like he was trying to end it without saying the words. Trying to make you choose it. And you hated that. Hated how composed he still looked. Hated how right he sounded. Hated how much smarter he felt in this moment.

“Jungkook, you’re not going to scare me off.” Your voice steadied. “I want to be with you. If you don’t want that, you need to speak up right now.”

That stopped him. Completely. He stilled. Like you’d pulled him out of his own head. Then he sighed. Quieter. “Of course I wanna be with you—”

“Then why are you trying to convince me to leave?” You cut in fast. Sharp. Accusing.

His lips pressed together. He didn’t answer immediately. Classic him. Thinking. Organizing. Choosing words instead of reacting. “I’m not trying to convince you to leave,” he said finally. “I’m trying to make sure you understand what you’re choosing.”

You crossed your arms. “I do.”

“No, you feel like you do.” That hit a nerve. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re deciding emotionally right now.”

“And you’re not?”

“I am,” he said calmly. “That’s why I’m slowing it down.” You blinked. That… was irritatingly rational. “I’m not saying I don’t want this,” he continued. “I’m saying if we do this, we do it knowing exactly what it costs.”

“You keep talking like it’s already ruined my life.”

“I’m talking like I’ve seen how this goes.” You scoffed. “So what, I’m just supposed to be scared and walk away?”

“No.” He stepped closer. “I want you to choose it anyway.” You frowned. “What?”

“I want you to choose it knowing it could blow up.” His voice was steady now. Not pushing you away. Not pulling you in. Just… laying it out. Because that’s how he functioned. Clarity over comfort. Truth over ease. “I don’t want you coming back to me later saying you didn’t know what this could do to you,” he added.

“I won’t,” you shot back.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You don’t.”

“You don’t know me like that.”

“I’m trying to,” he said, a little sharper now. That made you pause. Because that wasn’t dismissive. That was effort. Frustrated effort.

He exhaled slowly. Then softer— “You’re not stupid.” You rolled your eyes. “Thank you?”

“I’m serious.” He looked at you directly now. “I know you’re not. That’s why I’m talking to you like this.” You didn’t respond. Because part of you got it. Even if you didn’t like it. “I don’t want to be another thing that complicates your life,” he said. “You’re not ‘another thing.’”

“I am,” he said simply.

Silence. Then you stepped closer too. Matching him. “You’re also something I want.” That shifted it again. Because now you weren’t arguing from defense. You were choosing.

“I know what I might lose,” you said. Then quieter— “But I know what I’ll gain too.” His eyes flickered slightly at that. You saw it. That small crack in his composure. “I thought you just said we’ll be careful?” you added. He nodded slowly. “We will be.”

“Then why are we acting like it’s doomed?” He didn’t answer right away. Then finally— “Because I don’t get to be careless with you.” That landed differently. Not fear. Not avoidance. Responsibility.

You took a breath. “…we’re really arguing.” He let out a quiet breath, almost amused despite everything. “Yeah.” You shook your head slightly. “Over something we both want.”

“That’s usually when people argue the most.” You huffed. Annoyed. But calmer now. Because underneath all of it— He wasn’t trying to leave. He was trying to prepare. And you weren’t trying to fight. You were trying to stay. Two different instincts. Same direction.

His shoulders dropped. “I’m sorry,” he admitted. “I’m sorry for making it seem like I wanted you to leave first.” You shook your head immediately.

“No, it’s— I get it.” Your voice softened, steadier now. “You’re being smart. Thinking ahead.” You nodded to yourself more than anything. “You’re thinking of me.” A small smile followed. Because he was.

Not just you— Your members. Your fans. Everything tied to you. That was the difference. He didn’t love recklessly. He loved carefully. And somehow that felt heavier. More real.

He looked at you for a second—really looked at you. Like he was checking if you meant it. If you understood him now. Then he leaned down and kissed you.

Slower than before. Not rushed. Not heated. Just… grounding. His hand came up to the side of your face, thumb brushing lightly against your cheek like he was anchoring you there. You melted into it without thinking. Because this time it didn’t feel like tension or uncertainty.

It felt like a decision. Mutual. Quiet.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours for a moment. “We just have to be careful,” he murmured. You nodded. “I know.” And for once— You actually meant it the same way he did.

The next two weeks were… not cute. Not cinematic. Not soft. Just frustrating. Schedules that never lined up. Texts that came too late. Replies that came too slow. Conversations that felt half-finished. And now— Everything had weight. Every word. Every pause. Every “seen” with no reply.

You started overthinking everything. He did too—just differently. Less emotional. More internal. More quiet. Which somehow made it worse. Days would pass. No calls. Just the occasional:

“eat?”

“sleep well”

“busy today”

It felt… distant. And that scared you more than anything. Because this wasn’t explosive. It was quiet. And quiet things end without warning.

Six months. That’s how long you’d been together. Which in idol terms? Basically a lifetime. Also—the exact point where things get real.

You were in a waiting room, makeup half-done, staff buzzing around you, when someone pulled up the clip. “Jungkook was on a variety show yesterday.”

Your heart did that annoying little flip again. You leaned over, pretending to be casual. Watched.

The show was light, funny, unserious. Drinks. Laughter. Easy energy. He looked relaxed—too relaxed. Which meant he’d had at least one drink already. Dangerous territory.

Then the question came: “What do you like most in a partner?”

Your stomach tightened. You watched his reaction closely. He laughed, looked around, avoiding eye contact for a second—classic. Then glanced at RM, who smiled like he already knew something.

“I don’t know?” Jungkook shrugged. “If I had someone… maybe I’d like their hair most.”

The room exploded. “Hair?” the host repeated. He nodded, smiling. And you felt it immediately—that stupid, warm, unmistakable rush. Because you knew. You just knew.

RM spoke over the laughter, calm as ever. “But hair can say a lot about a person…” Everyone quieted a bit. “It can tell their style, confidence, creativity. Even physical health.”

You nodded unconsciously. Of course he’d say something like that.

Then Jungkook added, “Yeah, but sometimes hair is just pretty.” The room laughed again. “Like Rapunzel.”

You smiled before you could stop yourself. Actually smiled. Because it was so him. Simple. Not poetic. But… intentional. And yeah—he’d been obsessed with your hair lately. Always touching it, fixing it, noticing it.

You looked away from the screen, biting your lip, trying to act normal in a room full of staff.

Then the next question hit. Different tone. Heavier. “Now there are a lot of couples out there who say they’re going through arguments and disagreements… how would you navigate that?”

You froze. Because that was… too on the nose.

Jungkook reached for a shot immediately. You blinked. The host caught it instantly. “You took a shot as soon as I mentioned couples arguing?” Everyone laughed. Jungkook shook his head, already a little flushed. “No—no. It was a coincidence.”

Liar. You knew it. He knew it. The room moved on. But you didn’t.

RM answered first—calm, thoughtful, talking about communication, perspective, understanding each other. Then somehow tied it to world peace. Of course he did. You smiled faintly.

Then Jungkook spoke again. Cleared his throat. More serious now. “Honestly… I have non-idol friends who are already married and things like that…” He leaned back slightly. “They complain to me a lot.” A few chuckles.

Then— “I just think… don’t you love her?” The room quieted for a split second. “You chose her. You don’t get to complain now.”

Laughter again. But softer this time. Because that one sat differently. You laughed too—reflexively. But your chest felt tight. Because that didn’t feel like a joke. Not really.

It felt like him. It felt like something he believed. Something simple. Something firm. Something a little… serious.

You stared at the screen a second longer. Then locked your phone.

Because now your brain was louder again.

He’s talking about me… right?

Okay but why can’t you say it to me directly?

Does he actually believe that? About love? About us?

I want to text him RIGHT NOW… but I’ll probably say something small instead.

You picked your phone back up. Opened your messages. Stared at his name. Then typed:

you: rapunzel? really?

You hit send before you could rethink it. Because yeah—you were smiling. But also—you wanted to know if he meant it the way you hoped he did.

———————-———————-———————————

Anyways—LUV4U did amazing. No—not amazing. It did something else. Something you couldn’t even process in real time. The kind of success that doesn’t feel real while it’s happening because everything is moving too fast for your brain to catch up.

You started hearing your group’s name in the same breath as TWICE, BLACKPINK, even Girls’ Generation. Which didn’t even make sense to you. You grew up watching them. Studying them. Trying to copy their stages in your room. And now—you were in the conversation. Not “next to.” Not “after.” In it.

And the craziest part? It wasn’t just one thing. It wasn’t just a viral moment. It wasn’t just fandom power. It was everything.

874,000 first day. You remembered refreshing the numbers. Refreshing again. Refreshing again like the screen would glitch and tell you it was fake. 1.62 million first week. Officially million sellers. Three versions sold out globally in 24 hours.

You sat in the dorm that night, phone in your hand, staring at the numbers. Minaru just glanced over once and said, “Expected.” You threw a pillow at her. Noa screamed like you’d just won the lottery. Solene filmed everything. Jiha didn’t react at first—just nodded slowly, already thinking ahead.

412 PAKs. 2nd highest girl group of all time.

That number didn’t even feel like a number anymore. It felt like domination. #1 on Melon for 28 days straight. Not rising. Not dropping. Just sitting there like no one else could move you. You blocked your own top 3. Yourself.

LUV4U

BAD

PINK (Jiha solo)

Even your solos never left the top 15. That’s when you realized—people weren’t just listening to the title track. They were listening to you.

102 million streams in two weeks. Top 10 global. #1 viral for over a week. 5 million daily streams. Apple Music #1 in 32 countries.

That’s when it hit you—this wasn’t just Korea anymore. Not just Asia. Not just K-pop fans. Everyone.

42 million views in 24 hours. 156 million in two weeks. Trending #1 worldwide for 7 days.

Everywhere you went—phones, screens, clips, edits. Your face. Your choreography. Your expressions. Repeated. Analyzed. Copied. Loved.

17 wins. Quadruple crown. Winning without even attending. That’s when it got scary. Because it meant—you didn’t even need to show up anymore. And you’d still win.

#1 Billboard Global 200. Hot 100 entry. Billboard 200 debut. Oricon domination. Sold-out showcase tour across multiple countries. Instantly. No hesitation. No slow build. Just—sold out.

It wasn’t just music anymore. It was culture.

People weren’t just consuming your content. They were living inside it.

Media stopped calling you “rookies.” They called you:

“Global ambassadors”

“Top 3 girl group”

“The leaders of the generation”

Brands didn’t approach you cautiously anymore. They chased you. Every member got deals. Every member had a moment. Every member mattered. You saw the headlines everywhere:

“SHE didn’t just come back — they took over.”

“From rising to ruling.”

“LUV4U proves SHE isn’t competing… they’re leading.”

synopsis: Yvez is booked, busy, and lowkey losing her mind. Between being labeled the next global it-girl, going viral every five seconds, and accidentally catching feelings for someone she definitely shouldn’t, her life is anything but normal. Jungkook? Yeah. That Jungkook. What starts as “omg he’s so fine” turns into late-night texts, secret meetups, and a relationship that absolutely cannot exist in public.

tags: Idol Au!, Jungkook x Named! reader, Angst, eventual smut, Slow Burn, age gap, fluff, no happy ending, secret dating au

warnings: Cursing, overworking, skipping meals due to work, exhuastion, toxic fans, smoking/ vaping mentioned, alcohol, 8 year age gap, reader is a virgin, other idols mentioned, taehyung x jennie mentioned, Yunjin x Bangchan mention, toxic industry, fan wars, charts, numbers mentioned

full word count: 74k , part 1

_______________________________________________

The lights were cooking your back alive. Soundcheck feedback shrieked through the speakers every few minutes, flipping your stomach in hateful little waves. The same eight seconds of your debut song looped so many times it no longer sounded like music—just psychological warfare with bass. Hands kept touching you from every direction: fixing your mic pack, tugging your top straighter, re-clipping wires, adjusting your hair. Someone yanked at your boot zipper like they were starting a lawnmower. Your outfit was cute in the way torture devices sometimes were—tight in weird places, scratchy everywhere else, the boots heavy enough to count as emotional baggage. You could probably fall asleep standing up right now. Like a horse.

“Okay! Let’s run Hotline again,” one of the stage supervisors called.

The set was massive. Neon everywhere. Pink lighting. Fake nightclub props. Chrome poles. Glitter floors. Whoever funded your debut clearly believed in women suffering aesthetically. You barely noticed yourself walking into position. Your body moved on autopilot now. Training had burned the choreography deeper than instinct.

“Hey—for the first chorus, can we turn like ninety degrees more this way?” Jiha asked, pointing toward one of the cameras. “It’ll look cleaner.”

Of course it would. Jiha always had ideas that made sense, which felt unfair. Being talented and useful should have limits.

The staff nodded. “Sure, let’s try it.”

Music on. Smile. Hit the angle. Count the beats. Don’t think. Don’t miss. Don’t die. Muscle memory carried you until one of the harder transitions, when Minaru nearly ate shit over a cord. She caught herself instantly—because of course she did. You all could probably perform full choreography on baby oil and survive. Still, the staff gasped like Victorian gentlemen seeing an ankle.

“Okay, can we shift everyone a little right to avoid the wire?”

Reset. Again. Music on. Dance again. Then Solene’s mic cut out on her line. Fix it. Again. Dance again. Sing again. Pretend joy again. If you followed your heart, you’d scream, sprint out of the venue, and sleep face-down in a parking lot.

Unfortunately, fans were inside—watching rehearsal, recording on phones when they absolutely weren’t supposed to. You still smiled at them once. Trauma response.

Forty-five minutes later, stage rehearsal finally ended. Everyone dragged themselves back to the Sprinter van in silence. The second you sat down, your head dropped onto Minaru’s shoulder. Lights out. Around you, Jiha, Solene, Noa, and Minaru all passed out within minutes—mouths open, necks bent at weird angles, limbs tangled in seatbelts.

Real glamour.

You’d all been running on four to five hours of sleep for weeks. Sometimes less. Meals had become theoretical. The next week somehow got worse: more promos, more shows, more radio, more interviews asking about your skincare while you actively deteriorated. It was complicated. You loved being an artist. You loved the fans who supported you, who thought you were funny and talented and wanted to see you perform. What you hated was the behind-the-scenes: the exhaustion, the cameras, the unrealistic expectations—all while neglecting basic human needs like sleep and food.

“I’m losing my fucking mind,” you groaned, collapsing onto a backstage couch at Music Bank. It was Friday, end-of-week award show day. Soon you’d all have to stand prettily onstage and pretend trophies weren’t decided by math, fandom warfare, and borderline divine intervention.

“I don’t know how you guys do this,” you said, head knocking back against the wall.

Yunjin laughed. “Honestly? Coffee.”

Keeho glanced over. “You’re being dramatic.”

You turned slowly, betrayed. “This is our job,” he added. “We’re supposed to love it.” The sarcasm landed a second late. “Oh.”

“Keep up,” he said.

Keeho, our current conditions could result in death,” Minaru mumbled from the floor. “I woke up at four. Slept at one. Haven’t eaten a full meal since Wednesday.”

“Ugh,” Yunjin said. “I definitely don’t miss our debut era.”

“The schedules are a hot mess,” Keeho replied.

You and Minaru looked at each other, then started doing tiny choreo hand movements from Hot Mess, your debut album, in perfect sync. A sacred inside joke. Keeho playfully glared. “You guys are actually dumb,” he laughed.

Soon staff herded everyone to the stage. Idols moved in clusters like exhausted gazelles in tailored denim. Your group was placed in front, slightly behind LE SSERAFIM—which meant Yunjin would act like a distracted kid in class. She kept turning around to whisper commentary like a sports announcer with amazing hair and lip gloss.

Then came the nominee announcement. Your group versus a boy group, a group with a massive fanbase, and a currently popular song. You braced politely, not assuming anything but their win. You were even thankful to be competing against them.

And then—you won. For your debut song.

For a second, none of you moved. Exhaustion delayed processing. Then Jiha stepped forward for the speech like the competent queen she was, everyone else trying not to cry on live television.

“Everyone—” she started, smile wide despite the exhaustion in her eyes. “It’s not every day a group gets to stand here and win with their debut song. We’ve been working really hard, so this means everything to us. Thank you.”

Yunjin practically screamed like she was part of your group. She hugged you from behind, whispering congratulations. Noa was hugging Kazuha just as excitedly. It was funny. Honest.

Encore stage. Smiles. Tears from Solene. Minaru summoned energy from hell and acted unbothered by the cameras in her face. Vocals stable as always—trainee years weren’t for nothing. Fans would obsess over it on Twitter for the rest of your careers.

After that, it was straight to the dorm. Nineteen minutes of sleep before someone asked you to be inspiring again tomorrow.

______________________________________________

TikTok kept you awake before coffee could. You searched up Jungkook’s private Instagram. Still no posts. Still around 140 followers—pretty much everyone in HYBE. You were pretty sure he only accepted you because Yunjin followed you. You weren’t admitting that. Delusional queen behavior.

You were crammed in the back of a black Sprinter van with your members and three staff managers, everyone half-dead and pretending otherwise. This technically counted as free time, which in idol language meant ten minutes of silence before the next scheduled activity. You were a certified self-destructive queen.

The first video on your feed: ‘BTS ARE BACK IN SOUTH KOREA AFTER PREPARING FOR NEW ALBUM IN THE US’.

Airport clips. Flashing cameras. Fans screaming. Seven men walking like they floated above the chaos—they honestly did. You stared for a second, wondering if they ever got rest. If they were tired too. Then you answered yourself: obviously. Their schedule was probably yours multiplied by fame, pressure, and national symbolism. Terrible math.

Next swipe.

‘SHE member Yvez x LE SSERAFIM Yunjin interaction’

Oh brother.

It was a zoomed-in fancam of you and Yunjin whispering during the Music Bank results. She leaned back to say something, you laughed, then whispered back while trying not to smile. Thirty seconds of nothing turned into content. Most comments were cute:

need this friendship NOW

can those lip reader ppl pls tell us what they were saying??

two hot girls discussing world peace

their energy >>>

Yvez collecting introverts again

SheSserafim !!

Then the other side. Naturally:

why are they talking and not paying attention?? rude

new groups need manners first

they only care about clout

so disrespectful while the host is talking.

You blinked at the screen. Paying attention to what, exactly? Half the idols on that stage were dissociating anyway. The other half were calculating camera angles. Yunjin had literally been whispering her winner predictions like a tiny Vegas gambler in extensions.

“Why do they care so much?” you muttered.

Minaru, eyes closed beside you, answered without waking up. “Because they’re jobless.” Profound. She didn’t even need context—she just assumed people were the problem.

You liked three edits of yourself by accident, panicked, and unliked them fast enough to sprain a thumb. Next video.

‘YVEZ LOOKED EXHAUSTED TODAY :( IS HYBE OVERWORKING SHE??’

The clip was just you blinking slowly onstage. Accurate journalism, honestly.

Frontline was your company—technically. It had been bought out by HYBE. Who hadn’t been at this point? HYBE collected labels the way rich men collected watches: expensive, excessive, and mostly to remind everyone they could. Frontline used to be one of those “promising” small companies right before bankruptcy. Then HYBE stepped in with money, infrastructure, and terrifyingly efficient staff. Suddenly everyone was talking about global strategy and multi-market scalability—which really just meant better lighting and more pressure.

Now Frontline still acted independent on paper. Cute logo. Distinct creative identity. “Boutique label energy.” Meanwhile, every hallway had HYBE staff in neutral-toned outfits carrying tablets like they were born stressed.

You’d learned quickly: Frontline decisions were Frontline decisions… until they actually mattered. Then a HYBE person would appear in the conference room, smiling politely with spreadsheets. Magic trick.

Still, you couldn’t complain too much. HYBE money had bought your giant debut set, expensive styling, the black Sprinter van currently smelling like hairspray and fatigue, and enough promo budget to force your face onto half the internet. It had also bought your brutal schedule, sleep debt, and three remaining brain cells. Trade-offs.

Another swipe. You nearly dropped your phone.

The BTS official account had posted a video: Jimin and Jungkook dancing to your group’s debut song. Actually dancing. Hitting the point choreography. Smiling. Clean footwork—annoyingly clean. Your whole body sat up on instinct.

“Oh my god.”

That was huge. Huge enough for your brain to short-circuit: Wait… he knows who we are?

Common sense returned, wearing glasses. Of course they knew. You were technically label mates in the weird corporate stepfamily sense. Your debut was doing well. The song was everywhere. BTS didn’t live under rocks. Still, Jungkook knowing your choreo felt extremely significant. You replayed it twice, then four more times. For research. You glanced around—no one was awake enough to catch you spiraling.

The van pulled up to your next schedule. Variety show time. It was less “show” and more podcast set designed by people who weaponized the word algorithm. Neon signs, low couches, trendy microphones, scripted casual energy. Very Gen Z. Very fifth-gen coded.

They touched you up with powder, sat you under hot lights, and immediately started with invasive questions in a teasing tone.

“Who’s Yvez’s best friend in the group?”

Simple question. Perfect for fan edits for years to come. You answered honestly—something rare in this industry, because raw honesty wasn’t exactly marketable.

“Minaru,” you said without thinking.

She looked smug instantly. Deserved.

Minaru was your best friend—genuinely. It surprised a lot of people because on paper you made no sense. She was older, the fandom’s designated “middle child” because she carried herself like someone permanently managing chaos she didn’t create. The only introvert in SHE. While the rest of you yelled, overshared, and emotionally combusted, Minaru sat in the corner observing like a quiet psychiatrist.

She was quiet, but not empty. Busy quiet. Seventeen tabs open in her brain, all smarter than most of your thoughts. She thought before speaking and usually delivered the most accurate line in the room. She learned fast—irritatingly fast. Choreo, camera angles, languages, people. Especially people. She could read motives in under ten minutes and file them away until useful. Scary.

Underneath the composed genius exterior was chaotic wiring. She could shift from silent reading to a three-hour debate about whether aliens had ideologies so advanced that world hunger and climate change would be child’s play. Hobbies changed like weather: film photography one week, astronomy the next, then building tiny furniture with terrifying precision. She got bored easily and needed constant mental stimulation or she’d start antagonizing people for fun. She also disappeared—literally. You’d turn around and she’d be gone, drinking iced coffee alone on a staircase, thinking what you assumed were extremely complex thoughts.

During trainee days, you barely spoke. Survival mode left no bandwidth for bonding. Then debut prep hit and you got drawn to her anyway. She made decisions while everyone else spiraled. She hated fake small talk. Her questions were never boring—they were invasive and strangely codependent in the best way:

“If you could erase one memory, would you?”

“Do you think talent matters more than consistency?”

“Why do you act confident when you’re nervous?”

She preferred bonding through shared hobbies, competence, and 1 a.m. conversations. She’d sit beside you editing photos, hand you one earbud, and suddenly you knew her better than people who’d known her for years.

The fandom joke was that INTJs didn’t make friends—they got adopted by extroverts who found them interesting and refused to leave. That was your dynamic. You decided she was yours. She never said it outright, but she started saving you seats, handing you snacks, and texting “where are you” when you disappeared.

In Minaru language, that meant: I’d kill for you if needed.

The next question made most rookies pause. “Who fights the most?”

Most groups would give the PR answer: “We never fight! We love each other so much.” Then go back to acting like estranged coworkers. Noa didn’t hesitate.

“Honestly? Solene and Jiha did not get along at first.”

The room erupted. Solene and Jiha turned to each other with identical awkward expressions, proving the point perfectly. It was true. Early debut prep, they had the chemistry of wet socks and an open flame.

One morning Solene forgot to greet Jiha properly—no bow, no cheerful good morning, just walked past half-asleep. Jiha took it personally. Solene took Jiha taking it personally even more personally. They passive-aggressively beefed all day while the rest of you suffered through vocal lessons, dance practice, filming, and stress.

By hour six, Noa—sweet, usually apologetic Noa—snapped. She stood up mid-practice and pointed at both of them.

“Like it or not, you’re going to be in a group together. And the rest of us do not want to hear this all day.”

Even the choreographer froze. Historic.

They made up. Sort of. Now they orbited each other like cautious diplomats from rival nations.

You leaned toward the mic. “Seriously, put Jiha and Solene in a room alone and it would take three hours for one of them to say hi.”

The set laughed. Even Jiha eventually.

Your fandom loved the awkward tension and side glances. They’d already named the ship JOLENE.

Jiha sat up straighter in full leader mode. “It’s true. But we’ve grown a lot. We’re the oldest, so we have to set a better example.”

Solene nodded. “Yeah.” Then, after a beat: “We worked it out on the remix.”

The room lost it again.

The MC smelled blood. “Can you guys hug?”

Minaru actually choked. Noa folded in half laughing. Jiha and Solene turned with matching betrayed faces but eventually stood. The hug was stiff, arms hovering, bodies angled to protect outfits. Pure corporate trust exercise.

You leaned into your mic. “This is huge for diplomacy.”

Solene let go first. “Never again.”

“JOLENE NATION IS HEALING!” the MC yelled. Great television.

Then, inevitably: “Any crushes?”

Noa went first. “Sana from TWICE.” Safe. Media-trained. Room oohed.

Solene turned to you with a look that promised violence for entertainment.

“While I don’t have any crushes… I have a funny story about Yvez.”

Your stomach dropped.

Solene turned slowly toward you with the expression of someone about to commit workplace violence for fun.

“While I don’t have any crushes—I have a funny story about Yvez.”

Your stomach dropped. No.

“When I first met her, I was shocked because she was so young…” Solene said dramatically, “and she still carried photocards of her biases everywhere.”

The cast laughed. Cute setup. You already hated where this was going.

“I thought it was adorable,” she continued. “But then I realized every single one was BTS’s Jungkook.”

The room got louder.

“She had his photocard.” You covered your face instantly. “Her phone lockscreen was Jungkook.”

“Please—”

“Profile picture? Jungkook.” Minaru was trying (and failing) to contain her silent laughter beside you. Traitor. You took everything back about her being your best friend. “Hoodie with Jungkook on it.”

“That was one time! And my grandma bought that hoodie!”

Solene wasn’t done. Of course not. “Even in the van today she showed me his TikTok and went—” She pitched her voice higher to imitate you. “‘He knows our music!! He’s dancing to our song!!’”

The entire set lost it. Jiha laughed into her hand. Noa slid off the couch. The MC looked exceptionally pleased. Your face felt hot enough to power Seoul.

You nodded reluctantly. “I’m a fan…” Then, smaller: “Isn’t that normal?”

“It’s cute for sure,” Jiha said kindly, patting your knee like you were entering hospice.

“Not cute,” Minaru said through laughter. “Obsessive.”

“I am not obsessive.” Everyone laughed at your defense.

“Listen—” Solene leaned toward the mic again. “She also once said if Jungkook looked at her for three seconds she’d explode.”

You gasped. “I said maybe two.”

The room exploded. Clips were already being edited. Career-threatening honesty.

“But in my defense—” you said quickly, sitting up straighter as if posture could save your reputation, “I never thought I’d be an idol. I just… kind of became one on a whim.” The room laughed. Fair. It did sound insane.

“And being a fan doesn’t just disappear because you debut,” you continued. “Sorry I didn’t wake up one day mysteriously cured. I really support BTS. They’re inspiring, and the fact they give our group any attention is a huge shock for me.”

That was the truth. The safest version of it. You definitely couldn’t tell them why Noa had you saved in her phone as ‘JK GOONER.’

The MC clapped. “That is so real.”

Jiha nodded proudly like you’d recovered the family name. Great save.

Then Minaru leaned into her mic. “She honestly freaks out when any of our seniors walk by.”

The audience and camera crew howled. You turned to her slowly. “Why are you like this?”

Noa jumped in. “Yesterday TXT said hi and she bowed so hard I thought she’d snap in half.”

“Okay, that was respect!”

“It was you hiding your fangirling,” Solene corrected. Even the staff laughed. You buried your face in your hands. “This was supposed to be my redemption arc.”

Jiha rubbed your shoulder. “You were brave for thirty seconds.”

“Thank you.”

The MC grinned. “So if Jungkook walked in right now?”

You looked up instantly. “Don’t manifest things.” Wrong answer. The room screamed.

You sighed. “I’d be professional.”

Dead silence. Then Minaru: “Liar.”

Complete collapse of trust. Your members loved throwing you under the bus because you were so reactive. (Solene and Noa would’ve said worse and gotten it cut from the episode.)

______________________________________________

The next week brought your own variety show. No rest for the pretty and exploited.

‘WHO’S SHE?’ — your group’s chaotic web series filled with vlogs, games, forced bonding exercises, and staff pretending not to instigate drama. This week: treasure hunt edition.

Artifacts had been hidden across several HYBE floors. Solve the clues, race around the building, collect them. The previous variety show had already been clipped to hell. Your “I’d be professional” line was now a meme. Perfect. This was officially your redemption arc as a professional idol, not a crazed fangirl.

You were currently crouched on the floor in a conference room, staring at a clue card like it had personally insulted you.

The riddle read: I am the square of a lucky number. Double me is nearly a century. Split me evenly and you’ll find the same number twice. Find my door, and treasure waits inside.

“You have got to be kidding me.” Weaponized math.

You ran to the smartest person you knew. “Rue!”

Minaru stood by a window reading her own clue with suspicious calm. You shoved yours in her face. She read it once. Twice. Then looked at you.

“Why would I help you? I want to beat you.”

Fair.

“If you tell me the answer,” you said urgently, “I’ll steal Noa’s next clue card for you.”

Her eyes narrowed. Noa had won the last three games. This was becoming a dictatorship. “Deal.”

She tapped the card once. “Lucky number is seven. Square is forty-nine. Double is ninety-eight. Half is twenty-four point five—dramatic wording to distract idiots like you. Forty-nine.”

You gasped. “Wow.” Mostly at how she made it sound like common sense.

“Go.”

“Also rude.”

“Go.”

You sprinted down the hallway yelling, “OFFICE FORTY-NINE!” while staff chased you with cameras and mild concern you’d eat the floor. You threw open the door dramatically—

And froze.

Seated casually at the table with the artifact in front of him was BTS Jungkook.

Of course. Of course it was him.

You turned to the nearest producer. “What?” They were already laughing. “Are you kidding me?!”

One staff member, clearly enjoying your suffering, whispered, “We asked him to make it difficult before giving it to any member.”

Betrayal at every level.

Jungkook looked up, expression unreadable for a second before the faintest smile appeared.

“Yvez.” Oh no. He knew your name.

How you really wanted to react would destroy your image. You stood in the doorway clutching the clue card like a shield. “H-hi, sunbaenim.” Your voice cracked. Historic low.

Staff behind the cameras shook with silent laughter. This would be clipped into oblivion.

Jungkook leaned back, one hand resting beside the artifact. Calm. Handsome. Clearly entertained. “If you want it,” he said mildly, “you’ll have to earn it.”

You hated everyone here.

You turned to staff again. “I completed my challenge fair and square—I shouldn’t have to do another one!” You whined. They laughed—because Minaru had completed it, not you.

Your new mission: have a conversation with Jungkook. Simple to everyone except your nervous system, which had already left the building.

You stood stiff as drywall while cameras circled like vultures. Jungkook looked far too relaxed for someone ruining your life.

“I heard you were a fan of BTS?” he said, amused.

You nodded too fast. Too honest. Traitor body.

He tapped the artifact. “It’s yours… if you do choreography to your favorite BTS song.”

The room exploded. Public humiliation, HYBE-sponsored.

You covered your face for one second, then dropped your hands because cameras loved weakness.

“Music,” a producer called.

“You guys planned this or something?” you yelled at them.

Your panicked brain picked DNA. Of course it did. Muscle memory from trainee evaluations took over. You hit the chorus moves, trying to look casual and not like you’d practiced this in your bedroom at fourteen. (You had.)

Staff screamed. Your members watching on monitors were definitely laughing. When the song ended, you froze, breathing hard, face burning.

Jungkook smiled. Not the polite senior smile—a real one. Soft around the eyes. “That was good.” Then, almost to himself: “Adorable.”

His iconic bunny smile appeared. He hadn’t meant it flirtatiously—just genuine happiness that he’d impacted your life.

You nearly blacked out.

Next challenge. “Oh,” a writer said gleefully. “Now aegyo.”

You recoiled like they’d pulled a knife. “No way! Absolutely not.”

Everyone burst out laughing. This was known lore: you, the maknae who refused aegyo, once ran from production to escape it on livestream.

“I can’t,” you said dramatically, clutching your chest. “I physically can’t.”

“Just once!” the MC begged.

“I’d rather do another dance.”

More laughter. Jungkook leaned back, arms crossed, clearly enjoying this. “You hate aegyo that much?”

“Yes.” Immediate. Passionate.

He tilted his head. “Then maybe two aegyos.”

You stared in betrayal. “Oh wow. You’re evil in real life.”

The camera zoomed in. Staff howled. He laughed—low and easy—then slid the artifact toward you with two fingers. “I’ll spare you. This time.”

You grabbed it like stolen treasure and bowed so hard your ancestors felt it.

Somewhere online, clips were already titled: ‘YVEZ CAUGHT FLIRTING WITH JUNGKOOK?!’

The comments were the part you hadn’t prepared for.

Not the clip going viral—that was expected. Not the edits with pink sparkles and slow zooms. Predictable. Not even the flood of reposts titled ‘YVEZ LIVING THE FAN DREAM?!’

What hit hardest was the immediate, aggressive shipping.

You and Jungkook had one awkward filmed interaction and suddenly half the internet was convinced you were in a secret relationship. A secret relationship with a man you’d spoken to for maybe six minutes total. You weren’t even friends. Barely acquaintances. Corporate label-mates at best. Yet the comments rolled in like national policy:

they’re definitely dating look at his smile

that man does NOT smile like that for everyone

‘Adorable’ ??? Obviously they’re together

HYBE trying to soft launch this couple lol

how does it feel to live MY dream

she wanted a scandal so bad omg

they’ve been together for months I can tell

the tension?????

Tension? That was social anxiety and public humiliation. Different things entirely.

You lay face-down on your bed reading them, one eye twitching. Minaru sat beside you eating fruit and reading a book.

“They think I’m secretly dating Jungkook,” you said into the mattress.

She didn’t even look up. “You’d tell me if you were.”

“I literally met him that day, on camera! I didn’t even have a genuine conversation with him.”

She nodded. “Then they’re stupid.” Comforting queen.

Another comment popped up: she’s so lucky i’d never wash my hand again if he touched me

You sat up abruptly. “He didn’t even touch me!” (You wished he had. Then the comment would’ve applied.)

Minaru popped a grape into her mouth. “Yet.”

You threw a pillow at her. She caught it one-handed with insane reflexes.

Another edit autoplayed—dramatic music, slowed clips of Jungkook smiling at your dance, your red face, captions screaming ‘WHEN A FAN BECOMES THE GIRLFRIEND’.

You screamed into the pillow. Because the worst part? A tiny, evil fragment of your soul whispered: well… what if?

Disgusting. You opened the comments again. Digital self-harm.

Then your own fans got worse. Now they were convinced Jungkook wanted you. Against all logic, media training, and self-respect, you started buying into it mentally. Just a little. As a joke. As satire. As full delusion.

The edits escalated:

He was ready to risk it ALL

Yvez is Y/n

That smile?? Man was down bad instantly

“You’ll have to earn it” HELLO???

He was flirting in 4K

Yvez was like take me 😭

If I was her I would’ve folded on the spot

IM JUST A HOLE SIR

You should’ve closed the app. Instead you stared at the ceiling that night, replaying every second: the way he smiled, the way he said your name, that low voice, the teasing “You’ll have to earn it.”

Why phrase it like that? Why make it sound like the start of an old adult movie? Why look directly into the camera and your bloodstream?

You rolled over and buried your face in the pillow.

This was embarrassing. Because if you didn’t have dignity, responsibilities, coworkers, a career, a public image, family expectations, common sense, or the fear of God… you wanted to. Badly.

If life were different? If consequences were fake? If HR didn’t exist?

You would’ve been like: Sir, I can learn. Quickly.

You groaned into the mattress.

Across the room, Minaru didn’t look up from her book. “You’re thinking about him again.”

“No I’m not.”

“You said ‘hello’ out loud three times.”

You suddenly hated your room. No privacy anywhere.

Get a grip. He was almost ten years older than you. A whole decade of life experience, tax brackets, emotional damage, and moisturizer knowledge ahead. Be serious.

You sat up, offended with yourself. “He is almost ten years older than me.”

Exactly. Mature. Established. Veteran. Meanwhile you still lost chargers weekly and cried when schedules changed too suddenly.

This was unrealistic. Inappropriate, even.

You nodded firmly. Good. Logic.

Then another voice in your head, deeply unhelpful, whispered: Mhm… that’s when the fruit is ripe, they say.

You froze. What the fuck was that? Schizophrenic era?

Minaru glanced up. “Why do you look so… unsettled?”

“No reason.” Because now your own brain had turned predatory.

You flopped back dramatically. “This is getting weird.”

Minaru returned to her laptop. “It got weird like ten minutes ago.” Fair.

You stared at the ceiling. Ten years older. Successful. Calm. Handsome. Deep voice. Broad shoulders. Social power. Probably smelled expensive.

Stop it. You smacked your own forehead lightly. “This is exactly how women lose their minds.”

Minaru sighed. “Please journal instead of narrating.” She gave you the familiar Nurse… she got out again look.

Worst of all? The age gap should’ve killed the crush. Instead it made him feel more impossible. And impossible things were annoyingly attractive.

You pulled the blanket over your face. “Need to be sedated.”

Minaru was aggressively typing on her laptop. “I’m writing an email to HYBE about your gooning.”

The next week looked… suspiciously calm. No predawn call times. No twelve-hour music show loops. No emergency fittings where someone screamed about hemlines like national security was at stake. Actual time off. Rare enough to feel fake.

Noa flew home to Japan for a solo schedule with a small makeup brand and to see her family. She acted cool, but everyone knew she’d be happiest eating home-cooked food and being babied for forty-eight hours. Jiha and Solene had a duo variety schedule together—management called it “showcasing chemistry.” Bold. Minaru had solo livestreams because thousands of people apparently loved watching her sit calmly and judge comments with her eyes.

You had interviews and photoshoots because you were the face of the group. No one said it directly. They said things like public interest metrics and brand resonance. Same disease.

Other than that? Chill.

Chill enough that you remembered you had friends outside the group. Allegedly.

Yunjin invited you to a private dinner at one of those exclusive restaurants celebrities loved—dim lighting, impossible reservations, water that felt expensive to look at.

You showed up cute but casual. Yunjin was already there… with Bang Chan. They sat too close, shared one menu, and laughed in that suspiciously private way. Not a date, they’d say. Anyone with eyes would disagree.

Bang Chan had brought his friend Eunwoo. And Eunwoo had brought his friend—Jungkook.

You stopped walking for half a second. No one noticed externally. Internally, alarms blared. You didn’t know he’d be here. Why would you? Why was he? Why did the universe keep dropping your dignity into impossible situations?

He looked up when you entered. Casual black shirt. Soft, slightly messy hair. A watch that probably cost someone’s tuition. Then he smiled—small, knowing.

There were other faces too: Jihyo from TWICE, warm and instantly welcoming, and Keeho, who materialized everywhere you and Yunjin went like glitter that never fully went away.

At this point, your outside friend group was basically Yunjin, Keeho, and Minaru whenever she could be bribed out of the dorm.

You tried to act normal while Jungkook casually pulled out the chair beside him. For you. Your soul left your body politely.

The table eventually fractured the way dinner parties do. Some guys went out back to smoke. Someone announced a bathroom run like it was a group activity. Jihyo left with a friend. Keeho vanished mid-conversation, as usual.

Suddenly, without warning or consent, you were alone with Jungkook at a candlelit table in a restaurant too expensive for panic.

You glanced toward the door. “Aren’t you going with them?”

He looked up from his phone. “Huh?” Then followed your gaze. “Oh. No.” He locked his screen and set it down. “I’m actually in the process of quitting.”

You blinked. He smiled softly. “Four months without one.”

Your expression warmed before you could stop it. “That’s amazing. That’s one of the hardest things someone can do.”

He laughed quietly, like he hadn’t expected sincerity. “You know, anytime I tell people that, they usually say I should’ve never started.”

You rolled your eyes. “Or ask how you even get addicted to something like that.”

The irritation in his voice was light but present. You shook your head. “That’s stupid. Nicotine is literally designed to be addictive. People act weirdly superior about things they don’t understand.”

He stared for half a second, then smiled—real this time. “Exactly.”

The waiter refilled your waters and left. You watched condensation slide down your glass, trying not to notice how good he looked agreeing with you.

“You’ve never smoked?” he asked.

You made a face. “No. I’m pretty much straight edge.” Rue from Euphoria had scared you straight.

He laughed—low and easy. The sound did unfortunate things to your nervous system. He rested an elbow on the table and looked at you more directly.

“You always talk like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’re reliving something traumatic.”

You gasped. “That is so rude.”

“But accurate?”

You narrowed your eyes. He grinned. He was fun in private. Dangerous.

“I’m just… really expressive,” you said with dignity.

He nodded slowly, humoring you. “Right.”

You sat up straighter. “I’m passionate. Warm. Vibrant.”

“You’re defending yourself a lot…”

“You do that thing!” You pointed at him. “Where you act innocent but you’re actually kinda judgmental.”

He laughed again—that low, easy laugh that made you want to win every conversation forever. “Maybe I just like seeing what you’ll say next.”

Your brain short-circuited. Rude. Flirtatious. Highly illegal tone.

The conversation shifted effortlessly to you. Jungkook had that quiet way of asking questions that didn’t feel like interrogation until ten minutes later when you realized you’d spilled childhood lore.

You told him about your background—mom from France, dad between Japan and Korea, born in Hawaii, raised by philosopher professors who moved around a lot. The secret audition. The academic family pressure. Your multilingual skills.

He looked genuinely impressed. “Your brain must be huge.”

You choked on your water. “Excuse me?”

He grinned, pleased with himself. “I mean intelligent.”

“That is not what you said.” You laughed. “You just told me I have a large skull.”

“I’m complimenting you.”

“This is why quitting nicotine wasn’t enough. You need social rehabilitation.”

He laughed so hard he had to look away. And annoyingly, you liked making him laugh more than you should have.

“Seriously,” he said, shaking his head once. “I’ve been studying English for what feels like forever and still don’t think I could hold a real conversation.” You frowned immediately. That was ridiculous. From every clip you’d seen, he was already good. Better than good. Better than some men born speaking it, honestly. You shook your head. “Just be confident.” He looked amused already. Dangerous start. “I mean, you’re actually pretty good from the clips I’ve seen.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Clips you’ve seen?” Oh no. Right. You had just casually exposed yourself as someone who consumed Jungkook content recreationally. Publicly. Voluntarily. You straightened in your seat. “Well— like…” Think fast. “What pops up on my feed and stuff.” Weak. Terrible save. He laughed under his breath, clearly not buying it for a second. “Of course.” You wanted the floor to open. “Seriously though,” you said quickly, trying to recover. “It’s not hard. I could teach you.” You meant it jokingly. Lightly. Playfully. As one says impossible things to celebrities across candlelight. He didn’t laugh this time. Instead he tilted his head, looked at you for one long second, then said— “Yeah.” Pause. “You should take my number.” Everything in your body stopped functioning at once. The restaurant noise blurred into static. Yunjin somewhere in the distance laughed at something Bang Chan said, but it sounded a thousand miles away. You blinked at him.

“Wait.” Very articulate. “What?” He reached for your phone where it sat near your plate and held out his hand. Calm. Casual. Like this happened to him daily. Maybe it did. You stared at the hand. Then his face. Then the hand again. This was either the best moment of your year or an elaborate prank. “You’re joking,” you said carefully. “I’m not.” Still calm. Still holding out his hand. Your soul left your body and filed taxes elsewhere. Across the table, Keeho suddenly reappeared like a demon sensing drama.

“No way,” he said loudly. “No way did I walk back in on this exact moment.” You wanted to die instantly. Jungkook didn’t even look at him. “Phone,” he repeated, eyes still on you. You handed it over with the obedience of someone under a spell.

______________________________________________

The night ended the way important nights always seemed to now—with you pacing your room barefoot on FaceTime with Minaru like you’d survived a near-death experience.

“Then he asked for my phone—no. Not asked. Demanded it.” You stopped dramatically. “Phone.”

Minaru smiled at the screen from the back of her Sprinter van, seatbelt on, hair tied up. “Demanded?”

“Yes.” You deepened your voice. “Phone.”

She laughed. “Oh wow.”

“And then he put his number in himself. Like something out of a webtoon.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “It does sound like something out of a webtoon.” Main character suffering at its finest.

Her expression shifted to the analytical one you hated most. “But… there are rumors about him.”

You flopped onto your bed. “No.”

“They say he’s the player type.”

“No.”

“That he collects women like hobbies.”

“Rue.”

“He’s currently assimilating you into his harem.”

You groaned so loudly the neighbor’s dog probably heard it. “Oh my god, stop.”

She shrugged. “I’m just relaying folklore.”

“I genuinely do not get that vibe from him.”

Minaru lifted one eyebrow. “Of course you don’t.”

“Excuse me?”

“You don’t want that vibe from him.” Accurate, but rude. You rolled over and buried your face in a pillow for a second.

There were rumors. Plenty of them. About everyone famous, especially men. Some versions painted him shy, others wild, others secretly married with twins in Switzerland. None of those people actually knew him. You preferred making your own judgments—even if your judgment was heavily compromised by his face.

“I’m just saying, Yvessirae,” Minaru continued, “they market him like this shy innocent bunny man. But then he’s smooth enough to demand your phone and give you his number? That comes from experience.”

“Or confidence.”

“Experience breeds confidence.”

“Or maybe he just liked me.”

Silence. Then Minaru grinned slowly. “Oh wow.”

“What?”

“You said that with your whole chest.”

You froze. Because you had. You grabbed a pillow and screamed into it. Minaru cackled so hard the camera shook. “Bad news. You’re already too delusional for this conversation.”

______________________________________________

“Absolutely not.” Jiha’s voice cut through the practice room like a gavel.

She stood with her arms crossed in full oldest-member-leader mode—part manager, part big sister, part woman who had already cleaned up everyone else’s messes in a past life.

You looked up from stretching on the floor. “What?”

“Do not get dating rumors, Yvez. It is way too early in our careers for that.”

She had seen the notification. Your phone screen was still lit beside your water bottle.

Jungkook: What are you up to?

Impeccable timing.

You flipped the phone face-down immediately. “Well no—of course not. I don’t want that.” The lie was detected by everyone in the room.

Jiha’s eyes narrowed. “And especially with him? That would look so bad publicly.”

The room stayed quiet. Even Solene pretended not to listen while absorbing every word with her whole body.

You hated that the worst part was… Jiha was right. You knew she was right. If a female rookie dated one of the most famous men alive, it would be a national emergency.

“I don’t get why people care so much,” you muttered.

Jiha crouched in front of you, softer now. “They care because they’re invested in the fantasy. And right now, you’re still becoming who the public thinks you are. They don’t know you yet, so they’ll make up stories instead.”

Solene finally spoke. “Also… he’s Jungkook.”

Very helpful.

Minaru, seated by the mirror with iced coffee, didn’t look up. “Text him back though.”

“Rue!” Jiha whipped around.

“What?” Minaru shrugged. “I support yin and yang equally. It keeps the balance.”

You laughed despite yourself and looked back down at your phone.

What are you up to?

Your heart did something stupid.

Jiha pointed at you. “Do not smile at that screen.”

Too late.

“It’s not like that,” you said quickly. “He’s just… like a friend.”

Jiha stared at you like a teacher about to hand back a failed exam. Minaru slowly sank to the floor to witness the lie properly.

“A friend?” Jiha repeated. “Keeho is your friend. Yunjin is your friend. Minaru is your friend.”

Minaru raised a hand. “Debatable.”

Jiha ignored her. “This? This is something else.”

Your face heated. “It is not.”

“It is. When Keeho texts you, you roll your eyes. When Yunjin texts, you laugh. When he texts you, you get all giddy.”

The room collapsed into laughter. Even Noa, who had just walked in with zero context, started laughing on instinct.

You clutched your chest. “That is so dramatic.”

Minaru tilted her head. “You literally watch thirst trap edits of him.”

Traitor.

Jiha softened, kneeling beside you. “Yvez, I’m not saying you can’t like him. I’m saying be honest with yourself about what this is.”

You sighed dramatically. “I hate when you’re emotionally literate.”

Jiha smiled. “I know.”

______________________________________________

You spent a dangerous chunk of the day doing something no idol should ever do for mental health: stalking your own fandom on Twitter. Self-sabotage in 4K.

Your group had settled on the fandom name THEM. Clever typed. Spoken aloud? Less so. Fans had already started calling you the “pronoun people.” Progressive queens.

You scrolled deeper. Clips of you and Noa being chaotic maknaes. Threads calling you the IT girl of your generation (with war in the quotes). Chart posts with numbers that still shocked you. Then the algorithm smelled blood and served exactly what you didn’t need: endless clips of you with Jungkook.

Your shy greeting. Your cracked “sunbaenim.” The DNA dance. Your red face. The interview where your members exposed your longtime bias. Edited. Slowed. Zoomed. Forensically analyzed.

At first the comments were sweet. Relatable. Then they curdled, as they always did:

why does she want his attention so bad…

girl we get it you like jungkook

she wants a dating scandal with him so bad

rookies need boundaries

pick me behavior

Your stomach dropped. You weren’t trying to flirt. You weren’t trying to go viral. You were just young, nervous, and painfully human on camera.

You locked your phone and threw it across the bed, then immediately checked if the screen had cracked.

Minaru walked in, took one look at your face, and sighed. “You read the comments again.”

You rolled onto your stomach. “People think I’m an evil flirt who wants clout through Jungkook.”

She sat beside you and handed you her drink. “People also think the earth is flat. Just stop overthinking it.”

______________________________________________

Then came the fansign.

A beautiful tradition where love, commerce, and public overstimulation met at folding tables. You were generally fine with strangers. Minaru was the one who struggled, but fans adored her mysterious, reserved energy.

Today’s discomfort arrived in the form of a grown man who looked around forty and far too comfortable. He sat in front of Minaru and leaned over the table.

“I just wanna hold your hand, Minaru…”

Minaru gave the smile you all recognized instantly: what the fuck, remove me from this earth. She gently shook her head. He laughed like she was playing hard to get.

When he reached your seat, you didn’t want a scene. You took his hand briefly. Clammy. Too-tight grip. That look in his eyes that made your stomach turn. You smiled professionally and moved him along.

Later that night the clips were everywhere. And for once, the internet got it right:

bye Minaru looks so uncomfortable

where is security??

this is entitlement

staff failed them

People recognized him. He’d been doing this for a while—pushing boundaries with female idols and posting their discomfort as trophies. Backlash was swift.

You sat cross-legged on the dorm couch scrolling while Minaru read beside you.

“You okay?” you asked.

She shrugged. “I said no. People never hear no if they don’t respect you first.” Bleakly wise.

Your phone buzzed.

Jungkook: hey i saw that fansigning thing. looked so uncomfortable for u guys.

Then another message right after:

Jungkook: you handled that so well.

You physically flopped backward onto the bed. Praise from him hit different. Dangerous chemical reaction.

Minaru looked over. “What happened?”

You showed her the screen.

“Oh brother.”

“What?”

“He likes you.”

“No he doesn’t.”

“He noticed a niche controversy involving your hand being touched for three seconds and texted privately to comfort you. That’s targeted niceness.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re projecting romance because you’re bored.”

Minaru shrugged. “Maybe. But if a man I barely knew texted me twice to validate my emotional experience, I’d assume agenda.”

You stared at the messages, then finally replied:

you: thank you :( it was definitely weird but we’re okay

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Minaru grinned. “Cause why didn’t he text me? I’m the one who actually looked scared.”

You burst out laughing.

She sat up straighter, fully committing to the bit now. “He didn’t even ask about me.” She rolled her eyes dramatically. “No concern for the real victim.” You clutched your stomach. “Please.”

“I was visibly distressed.”

“You looked annoyed.”

“Same family of emotion.” She held out her hand. “Give me his number.”

“No?”

“I just want to ask why his empathy is selective.” You laughed harder. She kept going, face completely serious. “Text him back and say, Minaru would also appreciate support at this difficult time.”

“You’re insane.”

“And seeking support.” You kicked a pillow at her. She caught it effortlessly. “Honestly,” she continued, laying back down, “it’s kind of rude he skipped over me.”

“He does not know you.”

“He should want to.” That made you snort. Minaru folded her arms over her chest. “I’m mysterious, traumatized, and practically a comedian. Men love that.”

“You are none of those things.”

“I’m at least traumatized.” Your phone buzzed again. Both of you froze. Then slowly looked at each other. Minaru pointed. “Read it aloud to the class.” You grabbed the phone protectively. “Back off.” She gasped. “Wow. Keeping secrets from your best friend over a man.”

“It’s not a man, it’s Jungkook.” Silence. Then Minaru slowly sat up. “Oh,” she said. “You’re gone gone.” You screamed into the pillow on instinct.

______________________________________________

“I’m nervous.”

“Don’t be!” Jiha smiled. “He’s literally our CEO.”

“Yeah, and we’re the only hit this company has had in three decades,” you replied.

“Thanks to HYBE,” Minaru added dryly.

Everyone chuckled.

Today felt extra stressful. The kind of stress that made everyone clean harder than necessary. Your CEO, Kim Ja-Kyung, was coming to evaluate the group. Evaluate. An evil corporate word that made you feel like an appliance.

You paced the practice room while staff adjusted mirrors that didn’t need adjusting and managers pretended not to be anxious. Jiha laughed. “He’s just coming to watch rehearsal.”

“Yeah,” you said. “And judges decide your future by watching things.”

“That’s talent shows.”

“Same energy.”

Noa stretched in the corner pretending not to listen. Solene fixed her hair like beauty might improve quarterly profits. Minaru sat cross-legged on the floor with iced coffee, radiating calm.

“Thanks to HYBE,” she repeated quietly. Jiha pointed at her. “Please don’t say that if he walks in.”

“I would never,” Minaru said. A beat. “Unless asked directly.”

You dropped down beside her. “This is serious.”

“It is,” she replied. “That’s why I’m calm. Panicking doesn’t improve anything.”

The door opened. Staff movement spiked. Everyone sat up straighter like someone flipped a professionalism switch. You grabbed Jiha’s hand. “If I pass out, tell them I died for art.”

Jiha squeezed back. “You’re so dramatic.”

“Expressive,” you corrected. Minaru snorted into her coffee.

Your phone buzzed at the worst possible moment. You glanced down under the practice room lights.

Jungkook: hey yvez i was wondering if you were going to Mingyu’s bday party?

Your heart did an embarrassing little jump. You typed back quickly.

you: wasn’t invited :(

Three dots appeared almost instantly.

Jungkook: well if you want to go consider this an invite… i’ll only go if you do.

You crouched to the floor. Minaru noticed immediately. “Why do you look like that?”

“No reason.” Lie.

You typed with shaky thumbs.

you: isn’t he ur friend 😭

Jungkook: yeahhh but you’re interesting anddd supposed to be teaching me english

You physically crouched lower. “Nope,” Solene said from across the room.

“What happened?” Jiha asked.

“Nothing!” you yelped from ground level.

Minaru snatched the phone with ninja speed, read it, and handed it back calmly. “Oh, he’s pursuing.”

The room erupted. Noa screamed. Solene dropped to the floor laughing. Jiha covered her face like a disappointed mother. You wanted to die.

“I hate all of you.”

Minaru shrugged. “You love attention from millions. Suddenly one man texts and you crumble.”

The CEO visit went fine. Sharp formations, clean vocals, perfect energy, respectful bows. Kim Ja-Kyung nodded a lot, said words like potential and trajectory, and left pleased. That should have been the most stressful part of your day.

It wasn’t.

Because now there was the party.

Mingyu’s birthday was real private—secluded venue, heavy security, no phones allowed inside. Minaru came with you (“Absolutely not letting you go alone”) and Solene tagged along because “free alcohol and rich people are my kind of thing.”

The three of you stepped into a dimly lit space full of music, candles, expensive laughter, and faces that would make the public combust.

You tried to act cool. You failed. Because somewhere in here was Jungkook—the man who said he’d only come if you did.

You spotted him across the room. Laughing with a woman you immediately disliked on principle. Tall. Glossy hair. Tiny expensive dress. She had one hand on his arm. He leaned down to hear her. They stood too close.

Minaru followed your stare. “Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous.”

“You look like you’re about to commit a misdemeanor.”

Solene sipped her drink. “That girl’s gorgeous.”

“Thanks, Solene.”

“Just adding context.”

You watched another ten seconds of them talking—her laughing, him nodding, her touching his wrist. Then Jungkook glanced over, spotted you, and his face brightened. He said something to the woman and walked toward you. Confident stride. Hands in pockets. Looking annoyingly good.

“Hey,” he said. “You made it.”

“Yeah.” Your arms crossed on instinct.

He blinked. “…Okay?”

“That’s so weird.”

“Timber,” Solene muttered.

Jungkook tilted his head. “What is?”

“You flirting with me. And then flirting with other people.”

Minaru stepped back to enjoy the show. Solene whispered “damn.”

Jungkook stared for a second, then let out a short, incredulous laugh. “Flirting with you? Flirting with other people?”

You felt heat crawl up your neck but doubled down. “Yes?”

“Yvez…” He said your name like a warning. “You’re kind of delusional.”

The word hit like a slap. Minaru inhaled sharply. Solene whispered “damn” again. You heard yourself and realized how insane you sounded—possessive over a man you weren’t dating.

“Oh my god.” You laughed once, brittle and humiliated. “Wow. Okay.”

“Wait—”

“No, you’re right,” you said quickly, stepping back. “That was crazy. Super crazy of me. Sorry I’m delusional.”

He reached for your wrist but you moved first. “I’m gonna go find my friends.” You turned and walked away like you were fleeing a crime scene.

Behind you, Minaru gave him a look that universally translated to: You handled that terribly.

Jungkook was confused. Deeply. So confused that he spent the next hour talking to Minaru about whether he should apologize. Huge mistake.

Minaru, slightly tipsy and bored, turned it into a debate. “Assuming she’s just in a bad mood because she’s delusional over you is kind of narcissistic,” she said, sipping something sparkling.

Jungkook stared. “Why are you trying to convince me I’m a narcissist?”

He pointed vaguely. “And what was the other word?”

“I said you were misogynistic.”

“I am not—” He groaned and dropped his face into his hands. Minaru barely blinked. “I’m just saying you’re acting confused like you can’t imagine anything from her perspective. Like her reaction manifested out of nowhere.” She leaned back. “Which usually hints there’s a little ‘must be on her period’ somewhere in the back of your mind.” Jungkook looked up instantly.

“You’re literally gaslighting me.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe.”

“Because I did not say or think any of that.” Which was true. Minaru knew it was true too. But she was bored, slightly tipsy, and Jungkook was proving very easy to poke. “You’re just a narcissistic misogynist,” she said thoughtfully, “and there’s hope for you.”

“I’m not.”

“You can grow.”

“I don’t need to grow from crimes I didn’t commit.” Minaru held up one finger. “Okay. Example.” Jungkook closed his eyes. “No.”

“What kind of media do you consume?”

“No.”

“I guarantee there’s some subconscious gender dynamic in there where the woman exists to validate male ego.”

“What are you even talking about?”

“Culture.”

“You are making things up in real time.”

“Critical thinking can feel like that to some men.” He laughed once in disbelief. “This is insane.”

“No, this is educational.”

“I started talking to you for advice.”

“And you got theory.” He rubbed both hands over his face. “I’m not a narcissist. I’m not misogynistic. I’m confused because she accused me of flirting with someone I’ve known for years.” Minaru nodded. “Okay, progress. Context.”

“She got mad out of nowhere.”

“Did she?”

“Yes.”

“Or…” Minaru tilted her head. “Did she feel publicly embarrassed after believing you liked her?” That made him go quiet for half a second. Then: “I do like her.” Minaru’s eyes widened theatrically. “Oh wow. Breakthrough.”

“I meant— obviously.”

“Not obvious to the patient.” Before he could answer, you reappeared from across the room, walking back with the cautious energy of someone returning to a crime scene after cooling off. Both of them looked up. Minaru smiled immediately. “Great,” she said, standing. “My work here is done.”

“You did nothing,” Jungkook muttered.

“I dismantled patriarchy.” Then she walked off, leaving the two of you alone. Again. Jungkook looked at you. You looked at him. The music thumped somewhere in the background. Finally, he sighed. “I think I’m supposed to apologize.”

“I’m sorry I shouldn’t have left you with her…” you muttered first. Meaning Minaru. Obviously. No one should be left alone with Minaru for extended periods without training. “And I’m sorry for going off like that.” You looked anywhere but his face. “I’m just…” You laughed once at yourself. Bitter little thing. “You were right. I was being really delusional.” Jungkook’s expression shifted immediately. Not smug. Not satisfied. Just softer.

“Well…” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I guess I’m sorry I upset you.” Calm. Honest. “I wasn’t trying to.” Which somehow made it worse. Because cruelty was easier to hate than kindness. He looked at you for a second, then said your name quieter. “Yvez.” You glanced up. “But why did you get upset?” There was no judgment in it. Just actual confusion. You sighed. Because apparently tonight was about humiliation and vulnerability. “I guess…” You folded your arms around yourself. “I got a little jealous.” His eyes stayed on you. “Because I let myself think you liked me.” Silence. Then— casually, like discussing weather— “I do like you.” Your heart misfired. Completely. He smiled a little. “You’re cool.” You smiled too before your brain caught up. “No, I mean…” You swallowed. “Like romantically.”

“Oh.” He blinked once. Then looked almost apologetic. “I meant as a friend.” There it was. Clean shot to the chest. You nodded fast. “I figured.” Lie. He exhaled and leaned back against the wall beside you. “Look, Yvez…” His voice stayed gentle. “I know you don’t really know me, but… I don’t date.” You looked over. “Not because I don’t want to.” He shrugged faintly.

“It just gets crazy.” The room behind you kept pulsing with music and laughter, but the hallway suddenly felt very still. “They’d especially make it crazy for you.” That part landed heavier. “With you being in a group and everything… it affects all of you. Not just you.” True. “I’m too busy for it,” he continued. “Too all over the place.” Then he laughed softly at himself. “And I know I can be kind of a flirt. I’ve just… always been like that.” A pause.

“I never meant to lead you on.” Honest. Painfully honest. And weirdly poetic for someone rejecting you by the emergency exit. You should’ve been angry. Instead you understood him immediately. Which was even more pathetic. “Yeah,” you said quietly. “I get it.” And you did. Fame as a cage. Schedules as religion. Every interaction becoming public property. “Trust me, I know.” You smiled weakly. “Even the little amount we’ve interacted publicly got a huge reaction.” He nodded, jaw tightening slightly like he hated that too. For a second neither of you spoke. Then he looked down at you. “You okay?” You laughed. “Ask me tomorrow.”

“I still want to be your friend,” he admitted. You looked up slowly. Because that sentence alone could mean anything from comforting to catastrophic. He stepped a little closer, voice low enough that the party noise blurred around it. “I like you as a person, Yvez.” Your chest tightened stupidly. “And… maybe if we talk more— sometime in the future— we could become more.” He held your gaze the whole time. Calm. Steady. Like he’d thought this through. “I’m not rejecting you.” A beat. “I don’t want you to feel rejected.” Then softer— “I’m protecting you.” Protecting you. From headlines. From fans. From scandal. From himself, maybe. It was the kind of line that should’ve felt corny. Instead it landed devastatingly well. Because he said it like truth. You stared at him for a second too long, trying to recover. Somewhere behind you, people screamed-laughed at something in the main room. Glass clinked. Music changed.

But all you could think was: Wow.

This man talks like the final episode of a drama. And then, traitorously, another thought followed right after. Has he said this before? It was too smooth. Too measured. Too perfectly phrased. Like he knew exactly how to let someone down without letting them leave. Like he’d practiced. You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Be honest.” He blinked. “About what?”

“Have you given that speech before?” His eyebrows shot up. “What?”

“That was suspiciously polished.” A tiny laugh escaped him. “No.”

“It sounded rehearsed.”

“It wasn’t.”

“It sounded like something a handsome man says often.” He looked genuinely offended now. “I’m being sincere.”

“I know,” you said quickly. “Which is annoyingly worse.” That made him laugh again, shaking his head. Then he looked at you in that direct way that made you feel overexposed. “I don’t talk to girls like this.”

“Sure.”

“I don’t.”

“Sure.”

“Yvez.” You smiled despite yourself. Because maybe he had said things like this before. Maybe he hadn’t. Maybe experience made people smoother. Maybe pain made them careful. Either way, the result was the same: You were standing in a hallway, half-rejected and somehow still charmed.

Historic low point. “I’m just saying… there are rumors about you.” The second it left your mouth, you heard it. Bitter. Sharp. Ugly in a way you hadn’t meant. Fuck. Jungkook just smiled a little and shrugged.

“And you believe them?”

“I dunno.” Honest answer. Weak answer. Only answer available. He tilted his head. “Well if you did…” That calm logic voice again. “Why would you be surprised at me talking to a different girl?” You blinked. “Shouldn’t it be more of an I knew it moment?” Damn. He was right. Like annoyingly, surgically right. You hated when men were logical while handsome. Dangerous combo. “Okay…” you muttered. “Fair.” He laughed softly through his nose. Victory laugh. Then his expression changed. Softer now. Less teasing. “I don’t really get why people like me as much as they do,” he admitted. That made you look at him properly. “You… the fans.” He shrugged. “I appreciate it all, obviously.” His gaze drifted toward the party room. “I try to be that version of myself they think I am.” The words sat heavier than he said them. “But I’m just not.” He gave a small helpless shrug. “I’m kind of boring if people really knew me.” You frowned instantly. Boring? This man had caused three emotional crises in your life already.

“I don’t…” you started, then winced. “Like idolize you.” That sounded insane. “No— wait.” You shook your head fast. “That came out wrong.” He was smiling already. “I mean— I look up to you. I support you.” You stepped a little closer without realizing. “But I don’t see you as above being human.” His smile faded into something quieter. More real. “I don’t think you’re some perfect god person.” You shrugged. “I think you’re talented. Funny. Kind of annoying.” He snorted.

“And clearly dramatic.”

“Me?”

“You.”

“But I don’t see you as more than a person.” Your voice softened. “I think that’s why I liked you in the first place.” The hallway got very still. He looked at you for a long second like no one had said something quite like that to him before. Then he glanced down, almost shy for the first time all night. “Yeah?” he asked quietly. “Yeah.” He nodded once, jaw tight like he was trying not to feel too much in public. “That’s… nice.” You laughed at that . “Wow. Poetry.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” And weirdly— you did.

“I just find it hard to believe,” you said, folding your arms again, “that you don’t have girls throwing themselves at you.” He laughed immediately. A real laugh. Like the question itself amused him. “Well…” He rocked back on his heels. “I’m not saying I don’t.” Exactly. “But usually,” he continued, “no one wants to look like they’re throwing themselves at me.” That made sense in a sad, weirdly strategic way. “They try to get me to chase them instead.” He mimed quotation marks with one hand. “Like… make me notice them. Make me pursue it.” You blinked. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He shrugged casually, like this was weather. “You never really have to reject anyone if you just don’t bite the bait.” Your jaw dropped a little. “That is the most emotionally unavailable thing I’ve ever heard.”

He laughed again. “Probably.”

“So you just…” You gestured vaguely. “Ignore flirting?”

“Most of the time.”

“That’s evil.”

“It’s peaceful.” You stared at him. Then narrowed your eyes. “Wait.”

“What?”

“You’re telling me women set traps for you romantically and you just walk around them like landmines?” He grinned. “Basically.”

“That is insane.”

“It keeps life simple.”

“No wonder there are rumors about you.”

“Exactly.” He pointed once like you’d solved something. You shook your head, half laughing.

“Then why text me?” The question slipped out before you could stop it. He went quiet for a second. Then looked at you directly. “Because you weren’t trying to trap me.” Your stomach flipped.

“You were awkward.” You gasped. “Honest.” Better. “Funny without trying.” Rude but flattering. “And you liked me before I ever spoke to you.” He smiled slightly. “That’s rare.” You stared at him, suddenly unable to think of one clever thing to say. Which was deeply offensive. So instead you muttered, “You make it very hard to stay mad at you.”

“I know,” he said calmly. Cocky. Annoying. Correct. Then he added, quieter this time— “I wanted to know you.” Your whole posture softened before you could stop it. Shoulders dropping, guard slipping, heart immediately acting unemployed. “Dude,” you said, almost offended by how effective that was. “What?”

“You can’t just say things like that.” He looked amused. “Why not?”

“Because they do damage.” He laughed under his breath. You pointed at him. “And you’re not trying to make me fall in love with you right now?” That got a bigger laugh. He looked down, shaking his head once. “No.”

“Liar.”

“I think,” he said, glancing back up at you, eyes bright now, “you might have some psychological issues where any amount of kindness and honesty feels like love.”

Silence. You stared at him. Okay rude. Actually violent. “Wow.” He was still smiling. “Am I wrong?”

“Yes.” Immediate lie. “Completely.”

“Really?”

“No.” You crossed your arms tighter. “I just watch a lot of TV.” That made him laugh harder. “There it is.”

“What?”

“The real problem.”

You scoffed. “Television raised me beautifully.”

“It convinced you eye contact means we’re soulmates.”

“Sometimes it does.”

“It absolutely doesn’t.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“You’re anti-romance.”

“I’m realistic.”

“You’re emotionally repressed.”

“You’re projecting narratives onto basic human decency.” You gasped.

“That was too far.” He stepped closer, grin still there. “Was it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why are you smiling?” You froze. Because you were. Betrayed by your own face. “I hate that you notice things.”

“I know.” God. Then he softened again, voice lower. “But for the record…” You looked up. “I am being nicer to you than I am to most people.”

Your stomach flipped so hard it nearly filed a complaint. “That doesn’t help your case,” you whispered.

“It’s not a case.”

“Then what is it?” He held your gaze for one impossible second too long. “I told you.” A beat. “I wanted to know you.” The two of you ended up talking for the rest of the party. Actually talking. Not flirting disguised as jokes. Not awkward surface-level idol small talk. Real conversation.

Music thumped somewhere behind you, people drifted in and out of rooms, laughter rose and fell, candles burned lower. And somehow neither of you noticed time passing. “So your real name is… what?” he asked at one point, leaning back against the wall with a drink in hand.

You looked offended immediately. “You’ve been texting me for like weeks and don’t know my government name?”

“I know Yvez.”

“That is branding.” He laughed. “Okay then. What is it?” You straightened dramatically. “Yvessirae Florence Hwang.” He blinked. “That’s long.”

“It’s elegant.”

“It’s several names.”

“It’s French.” You lifted one finger. “And my middle name is where my parents got married.” He raised an eyebrow. “Florence, Italy.”

He stared at you for a second, then nodded slowly. “Creative.” You gasped. “That was romantic.”

“That was rich people nonsense.”

“Same thing sometimes.” He laughed again. You were becoming addicted to making him laugh, which felt concerning. He repeated your full name once under his breath, testing the syllables. The way he said it in his voice should’ve been illegal. You looked away immediately. Then Minaru reappeared like she’d been summoned by sheer emotional vulnerability. Solene was beside her, giggling and slightly flushed from attention and champagne. “Oh my god,” Solene said, dropping dramatically beside you. “Like ten people asked for my number.” You nodded solemnly. “Burden of beauty.” She flipped her hair. “Exactly.” That kind of thing happened to Solene constantly. She was the visual in the kind of obvious, scientifically undeniable way that made people lose sense in public. Minaru, meanwhile, looked entirely untouched by the party. Same calm face. Same drink. Same judgmental aura. She glanced at Jungkook. “Narcissist.” He didn’t even look at her. “I’m literally ignoring you.”

“Yet you heard me instantly.”

“I hate your voice.”

“You’re fascinated by my mind.” Solene burst into laughter. You looked between them. “What happened while I was gone?” Minaru took a sip. “I educated him.” Jungkook groaned. “She accused me of crimes with no evidence.”

“Patriarchy leaves traces.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

“It means guilty.” You started laughing so hard you had to grab Jungkook’s arm for balance. Everyone went still for one second. Including you. Your hand was on his forearm. Warm. Solid. You let go instantly like the contact burned. Minaru noticed everything, of course. Interesting little smile. Jungkook only looked down at where your hand had been, then back at you. Way too calm. Dangerous man.

______________________________________________

The next week was hell again. Which meant things were normal. Dance practice filming for your first comeback.

ATTENTION. Three-song EP. All three tracks built to be dangerously replayable — catchy hooks, addictive production, the kind of songs that made people say just one more listen forty times in a row.

Which also meant three separate choreographies. Not easy ones either. Detailed formations. Fast transitions. Killing-point moves designed for TikTok and shoulder injuries. Then music video filming after that. Then content shoots. Then jacket photos. Then more rehearsal because suffering was the company culture.

You barely had time to think. Unfortunately, you still found time to think about Jungkook. You hadn’t really talked since the party. Not badly. Not dramatically. Just… life.

From what you saw online, he was busy with his own group schedules. Airports. Rehearsals. Brand things. Mysterious handsome obligations. And you were busy being spun around by stylists and yelled at by choreographers. Still, every now and then you’d try. Strategically. Never too vulnerable. Never too direct. You’d send a TikTok. A meme. A dumb video of a cat falling off a counter. Things that required nothing serious in return. Things so low-stakes you couldn’t technically feel rejected if ignored. Emotionally intelligent queen. Coward queen.

Sometimes he’d reply with a spam of laughing emojis. Sometimes he’d heart the message. Sometimes nothing for twelve hours and then suddenly:

😭😭😭😭

Which somehow felt more intimate than paragraphs. One time you sent a meme about men being emotionally unavailable and he only replied:

you thought this was funny?

You stared at that for ten minutes smiling like an idiot. Minaru caught you during water break in practice.

“Did he text?”

“No.”

“You’re smiling at your phone.”

“It’s a meme.”

“Sure.”

Then the music started again. You snapped back into formation beside Jiha, body moving automatically. Five, six, seven, eight. Sharp turn. Hip hit. Slide left. Drop level. Your lungs burned. Sweat rolled down your back. The mirrored walls reflected five exhausted girls trying to look effortless.

“Again!” the choreographer yelled. Of course. You bent over catching your breath while your phone buzzed by your water bottle. You tried not to look eager walking over. Failed internally.

Jungkook: u alive? haven’t heard u complain in days

You smiled so fast it hurt. Not butterflies. Just dehydration probably. You stayed up all night. Which was irresponsible considering tomorrow’s call time. But sleep had lost to dopamine again. It started innocently enough. You replied to his message after showering, hair damp, knees sore, body humming with that post-practice exhaustion that made everything feel surreal.

you: been dying actually. comeback prep is evil

He replied almost immediately.

Jungkook: dramatic

you: accurate

Then somehow the conversation shifted to the comeback. You told him the title. The concept was still secret, so vaguely. Neon, loud, playful, dangerous. You told him you were filming dance practice and learning three choreographies at once. His reply came fast.

Jungkook: Three songs???

You smiled into your pillow.

Men were so easy to charm when they used punctuation sparingly.

you: yes omg it’s a 3 song ep

you: all with choreo

Typing…

Jungkook: that sounds terrible

You laughed out loud.

you: thank you for supporting women in music

Jungkook: i support rest and sitting down

you: revolutionary stance

The clock kept moving. 1:08 a.m. 1:47 a.m. 2:19 a.m. You should’ve slept hours ago. Instead you were cross-legged in bed explaining comeback rollout schedules to one of the busiest men alive. He kept asking questions too. Real ones. How long rehearsals were. If all members got equal parts. Whether you liked the songs. Which choreography was hardest. You told him track two was your favorite but would probably kill your knees.

Jungkook: good songs should injure people a little

you: finally someone gets art

You kicked your feet once at that and then stopped immediately. Humiliating instinct.

At 2:53 a.m. he sent:

Jungkook: send me a spoiler

You gasped dramatically to no audience.

you: absolutely not

Jungkook: fake friend

you: i have morals

Jungkook: since when

You stared at the screen grinning like a loser. Across the room, Minaru’s voice came from the dark.

“If you giggle one more time I’m reporting you to management.”

“You’re awake?”

“I’ve been awake since midnight because your energy is loud.”

“Energy can’t be loud.”

“It can when your nails are tapping on the screen like you’re communicating in Morse code.”

You threw a pillow blindly in her direction. Missed completely. Your phone buzzed again.

Jungkook: go to sleep idol

You stared at that one longer than necessary.

you: you first

A minute later:

Jungkook: no ❤️

You put the phone face-down on your chest and stared at the ceiling. This was getting dangerous.

You dozed off eventually. Phone still in your hand. Jungkook’s last message glowing somewhere in your dreams like a bad decision.

Then two hours later— violence.

“Yves.” A hand shook your shoulder.

“Yves. Get up.” You groaned and rolled deeper into the blanket.

“Five minutes.”

“It is 5:32.” You opened one eye.

Your manager stood over you with the same dead-eyed exhaustion you imagined soldiers had. Bags under her eyes. Hoodie half-zipped. Coffee in one hand. Clipboard in the other. She looked like she’d been awake since the invention of stress.

“You need to move.”

You sat up like a haunted Victorian child. Today’s schedule began immediately and never truly ended. You were conscious for maybe thirty percent of it.

The rest was drifting in and out of awareness while being transported, styled, painted, adjusted, and repositioned like expensive furniture.

At some point you were in the glam room. Bright lights. Too many mirrors. Heat tools hissing like snakes. Your naturally curly-wavy hair was being aggressively straightened into submission. The stylist tugged another section. You made a faint sound of suffering.

“Almost done,” she lied. Jiha sat two chairs over with a hair mask processing under foil and plastic wrap. She wrinkled her nose dramatically.

“Why does this smell like chemicals and— trash?” No one answered. Because it did. Noa, meanwhile, was in active negotiations with her colorist.

“That is too much bleach.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“It’s standard.”

“My scalp says otherwise.”

The woman kept brushing product on while Noa muttered in her native language. Minaru was somehow fully asleep while they did her makeup. Not drowsy. Asleep.

Head tilted back, mouth slightly open, concealer being blended across a face with zero participation. A talent. Honestly. You watched her through half-lidded eyes.

“How is she doing that?” you mumbled.

Your makeup artist didn’t pause. “Practice.” Fair. Someone shoved an iced americano into your hand. You drank it without tasting it. Someone else clipped a mic pack to your waistband. Someone said you had ten minutes. Someone else said five. Your body moved before your brain did. Outfit on. Boots laced. Jewelry attached. Then to set.

The neon ATTENTION stage was already glowing when you arrived, all chrome and pink and camera cranes. Music started before your soul fully returned to your body.

Five, six, seven, eight. You danced on instinct alone. Smile here. Turn there. Hit center. Hair flip. Eye contact camera two. A human machine powered by caffeine and delusion. During break, you checked your phone. One new message.

Jungkook: awake?

You laughed weakly.

you: unfortunately yes

You sent him a quick photo of the set during break. Neon lights. Chrome props. Backup dancers stretching in the background. A fog machine working harder than most interns. The whole thing looked expensive in a way that made your company suddenly seem far more competent than it felt. A minute later he replied.

Jungkook: looks expensive…

You laughed immediately.

you: thanks to hybe

Three dots appeared.

Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

Jungkook: ???

Right. That was an inside joke between you and the members.

Any success, any budget increase, any decent catering, any functioning air conditioner— thanks to HYBE. You typed back.

you: long story 😭 internal group joke

He hearted the message. Then another text came through.

Jungkook: let’s meet up tonight. before you get tooo busy.

You stared at the screen so hard your reflection appeared. Tonight. Meet up. Casual wording. Catastrophic impact. Your stomach flipped despite the coffee. You read it again. And again. Before you get tooo busy. Three o’s.

Why was that somehow flirtier than anything else he’d ever said? “Why are you smiling like you won the lottery?” Solene asked, dropping beside you with a towel around her shoulders.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“No I’m dehydrated.”

She leaned over shamelessly trying to read your phone. You snatched it away.

“OHHH,” she said immediately. “Man related.”

“Shut up.”

Across the room Minaru looked up from her seat. “What happened.”

“Nothing.”

“Then why is she glowing?” Solene asked.

“I’m sweaty.” Minaru narrowed her eyes. “Read the message.”

“No.”

“Then it’s definitely him.”

Traitors. Every last one. Your manager called everyone back to places. You were still frozen. Because now you had to answer. Cool girl answer? Busy girl answer? Interested but chill answer?

You typed:

you: tonight?? i have schedule stuff but maybe late

Deleted. Too available.

Typed again:

you: depends when i survive today first

Deleted. Trying too hard.

Typed again:

you: okay where

Sent. Immediate regret. Immediate panic. Immediate heartbeat issues. His reply came before you could spiral.

Jungkook: there she is 😌

You covered your face with both hands. “Oh my god,” Solene whispered. “He’s smooth.” Minaru didn’t look up. “He’s annoying.” Both statements were true.

Minaru and Solene treated getting ready like a military operation. “Dress casual,” Minaru ordered from your bed, arms crossed.

“Like accidentally hot casual,” Solene corrected. “No,” Minaru said. “Like doesn’t care casual.”

“But she does care.”

“Exactly why we must conceal it.” You stood in the middle of the room holding three outfits and no dignity. “I hate both of you.”

“No you don’t,” Solene said. “Now put the hoodie on.” They were firm about the rest too. Mask. Cap. No flashy bag. No perfume anyone would recognize from interviews.

“No perfume?” you asked, scandalized. “You are not leaving a scent trail to a scandal,” Minaru replied. Fair. So an hour later you were dressed like a suspicious college student avoiding cameras. Oversized hoodie. Loose pants. Sneakers. Mask. Cap pulled low.

The kind of outfit that screamed definitely famous or definitely shoplifting. Then there was the arrival problem. He’d invited you to his house. Which meant you had to make the route look inconspicuous.

You got dropped off two streets over. Walked a different direction first. Circled back once like a criminal with anxiety. Tried to make it seem like his house was where your house was. You had no idea if anyone bought that. You barely bought it. Still, eventually you stood at his door trying to breathe normally. You knocked once. Then immediately regretted every life decision leading here. The door opened. Jungkook took one look at you and laughed. Not meanly. Warm, surprised, amused.

“I love the disguise.” You glared through the mask. “It’s tactical.”

“You look like you’re here to rob me.”

“Maybe I am.” He leaned against the doorframe, smiling down at you. “You came all this way for theft?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you stealing?” You pushed past him into the entryway before he could keep doing that voice.

“I’m not sure yet.” He laughed again and shut the door behind you. The sound echoed through the quiet house. Then softer, closer now— “You’re cute when you’re nervous.” You turned so fast your hood nearly flew off. “I’m not nervous.” He raised an eyebrow.

“You walked past my street twice.” Silence. “You saw that?”

“I have windows.” Humiliating. He took your bag from your shoulder casually, like he’d done it a hundred times. Then tugged lightly at the edge of your mask. “You can breathe now,” he said. “No one’s here but me.” Somehow that was the scariest sentence yet.

“So… uh.”

You stood awkwardly in his impossibly clean living room, still half-zipped in your hoodie.

“What did you… want?” You tried to sound casual. Cool. Unbothered. Like your pulse wasn’t currently doing choreography. Jungkook looked up from the kitchen counter.

“Oh!” He said it so simply you almost relaxed.

“To give you this.” He walked over holding a small jewelry box. Blue. Your stomach dropped immediately. No. He placed it in your hands.

“I suck at giving gifts,” he added. You opened it slowly. Inside sat a delicate gold bracelet with a tiny blue heart charm. Your mouth actually fell open. “You got me a Tiffany bracelet?” You laughed in disbelief because what else could the body do in crisis. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Yeah.”

“How much?” He winced. “Don’t ask that first.”

“How much and why?” you corrected. He shrugged like this was normal behavior.

“Like… four million.” You stared at him.

“Won?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god.” Roughly three thousand dollars. For a bracelet. For you. Your brain began buffering.

“And it’s a comeback gift,” he said. “You know… congrats on the successful comeback.” He leaned against the counter, still way too calm.

“I’ll be in the U.S. for promotions while you’re promoting here, so.” So. As if that explained Tiffany. As if that justified financial terrorism. You looked back at the bracelet. Then at him. Then back at the bracelet.

“Most people get like… cake.”

“No one eats those things.” You laughed so hard you had to sit down.

“That is not the point.”

“It kind of is.”

“It absolutely is not.” He grinned, clearly pleased with himself now that you were flustered.

“You don’t have to keep it if you hate it.”

“I don’t hate it.”

“Then wear it.” You looked up sharply. Bossy. Dangerous tone.

“I can’t just accept this.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s insane.”

“It’s a bracelet.”

“It’s Tiffany.”

“It’s jewelry.”

“It’s three thousand dollars.”

He tilted his head. “You’re making it weird.”

“I’m making it weird?”

“Yes.”

“You gave me luxury goods in a hoodie.” He laughed again, walking closer.

“Come here.” Before you could argue, he gently took the bracelet from the box and reached for your wrist. Your breath caught instantly. His fingers were warm. Careful. He fastened it with more concentration than some men used in relationships. Then turned your hand over once, thumb brushing the inside of your wrist absentmindedly. “There,” he said quietly. “Looks better on you.” You forgot every language you spoke.

“I usually get all my idol friends gifts for their comebacks,” he added casually.

Right. Just friends. Of course. Naturally. While actively making you feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Your face stayed neutral through force alone.

“Oh.” Elegant response. Inside, however, you were collapsing dramatically down several flights of emotional stairs. All my idol friends. Plural.

So maybe somewhere out there another girl was also receiving luxury jewelry and life-altering eye contact. Sickening thought. He didn’t seem to notice your spiral.

“Just so you don’t feel like everything is in vain,” he continued. His voice softened.

“I know how stressful it gets.” That stopped you cold. Because suddenly it wasn’t about the bracelet. It was about him understanding the exhaustion.

The weeks with no sleep. The pressure of charts. The rehearsals until your knees ached. Smiling when your body wanted to shut down. Trying to act grateful while being slowly consumed by schedules.

He knew. Of course he knew. He’d lived it longer than you had. You looked at him properly then. God. Why was he so sweet? And why did sweetness feel more dangerous than flirting ever had? You glanced down at the bracelet on your wrist. The tiny blue heart caught the light when you moved.

“It doesn’t feel in vain,” you said quietly. “Even without this.”

“I know.”

“Then why buy it?”

He smiled a little. “Because I wanted to.” Terrible answer. Devastating answer. You groaned and covered your face.

“You can’t just say things like that.”

“I literally can.”

“You know what you’re doing.”

“I really don’t think I do.” Liar. Or worse— truthful. You lowered your hands. “This is how girls end up obsessed with you.” He laughed under his breath. “No…” he said, stepping closer. “This is how you clear my name to Minaru that I’m not a narcissist.” You gasped.

“I was trying to be vulnerable.”

“You were trying to accuse me.”

“Minaru really got in your head huh? .” He smiled again. Softer this time. Then looked down at the bracelet on your wrist, gently touching the charm once with his fingertip. “You work hard,” he said. “You should have nice things too.” There it was again. That effortless kindness that made you want to both cry and bite him. You hated how quiet it made you. Because for once there was nothing clever to say.

You smiled at him despite yourself.

“Thank you.” You settled into it finally. The bracelet. The gesture. Him. He nodded once like that was enough. Then, almost shyly— which looked strange on someone like him—

“So… uhm. You wanna watch a movie?” Movie. Okay. Normal. Casual. Friendly. Is this what friends did after exchanging luxury jewelry? You didn’t know anymore. “Sure,” you said, trying to sound sane. Now you were sitting on his couch.

The couch was huge, soft, suspiciously expensive, and somehow still looked untouched like no one had ever truly relaxed on it. Train to Busan played across the massive screen. You’d seen it six times already.

But it had been this or some cheesy romance movie, and you absolutely could not survive that right now. Not with him beside you. Not while wearing the bracelet he bought you. Not while every glance felt loaded. The zombies screamed in the background. A train rattled across the screen. Your entire body was aware of where he sat next to you. Close enough to feel heat. Not touching. Which somehow felt worse.

Then you felt it. His eyes on you. The way guys looked when they wanted something. Heavy. Lingering. Quietly hungry. Your pulse started misbehaving immediately. Do not look at him. You kept your eyes locked on the television.

A man got bitten. Someone cried. The soundtrack swelled. None of it registered. Because every nerve in your body was busy knowing he was staring. Do. Not. Look. You adjusted your posture. Wrong move. Now you were hyperaware of your legs. Do not look.

You reached for your drink. Missed it the first time. Humiliating. Still don’t look. You tucked hair behind your ear. Why were you performing alone? Don’t look. On screen, society collapsed. On couch, so were you. Then his voice came low beside you.

“You know if you keep trying this hard not to look at me…” Your breath caught.

“…it kind of makes me want to see how long you last.” You snapped your head toward him instantly. Traitor. He was already smiling. Lazy. Knowing. Beautifully annoying.

“What are you talking about?”

You said it too fast. Too loud. Guilty volume.

Jungkook just laughed softly beside you.

“I know you see me looking at you.”

You shook your head immediately.

“Nope.”

Lie so obvious it offended language itself.

He scooted closer on the couch, smile still there. Casual. Dangerous.

The space between you shrank until it felt deliberate.

“I’ve been thinking, Yvez.”

Your stomach tightened.

That tone never led anywhere safe.

He leaned back, one arm stretching along the couch behind you.

“I talked to one of my members.” You blinked. Why was that terrifying?

“And I told them about you liking me.” You froze.

“I’m sorry— you did what?” He grinned. “Relax.”

“No, name the member right now.”

“Not important.”

“Very important.”

“He said I should try it out with you.” Your brain stopped functioning for a clean second. Try it out with you? Like a hobby? A recipe? A life-altering emotional event? Also, that sounded like something RM would say maybe?

“That I’m pushing thirty,” he continued, amused now at your face, “and I’m allowed to focus on other parts of my life.” You stared at him. This man had committee meetings about you? Member consultations? Strategic planning?

“Yvez…” His voice softened then. Realer now. “I know I warned you.” The movie kept playing forgotten in the background. Screams, glass, train brakes. “I know I said things get complicated.” He looked at you directly.

“But if you still—”

“Yes.” It flew out of you instantly. No hesitation. No dignity. No mystery. Just yes. He blinked. Then laughed in disbelief.

“I wasn’t even done.”

“I know.”

“That was reckless.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know what I was asking.”

“You were asking enough.” Jungkook shook his head, smiling, his eyes dropping for a second like he was trying not to enjoy you too much. Then he looked back up. “Okay.”

Two letters. Total cardiac event.

“Okay?” you repeated weakly.

“Okay,” he said again, stepping closer. “Let’s try it.”

You stared at him like prey. “Like… dating?”

“Like seeing where this goes.”

“That’s dating for people with commitment issues.”

He laughed. Then reached over, fingers brushing the Tiffany bracelet on your wrist before sliding down to lace with yours. Warm. Easy. Like he’d always meant to do it.

“You say yes very fast,” he murmured.

You swallowed. “You’re very persuasive.”

“No,” he said, thumb stroking your knuckles once. “You just wanted me to ask.”

His smile faded into something serious. Eyes locked on yours. Mouth slightly parted. Breathing quieter. He started leaning in—slowly, deliberately. The classic I’m about to kiss you look. Soul halfway out of his body.

And you—laughed.

Actually laughed. Helpless, real laughter right in his face.

Jungkook froze mid-lean, blinking. Confused. Beautiful. Mildly offended. “I’m sorry,” you managed between giggles. “It’s just—that was really stereotypical.”

“What?”

“The look.”

“What look?”

“The I’m about to kiss you look.”

He stared. “I did not make a look.”

“You absolutely did.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

Five minutes later turned into an hour. You spent the next sixty minutes showing him TikToks titled the face guys make before they kiss you. Every video featured some variation of the exact expression he’d made. You paused dramatically each time. “THAT.”

He groaned into a pillow. “I hate this app.”

“You hate being predictable.”

“I’m not predictable.”

“You were textbook.” He buried his face in his hands while you laughed harder. “This is character assassination.”

“This is anthropology.”

Eventually the clock ruined everything. You sat up fast. “Oh my god, I should go. I have a really busy schedule tomorrow.”

Jungkook’s expression shifted—tiny frown, barely there—then smoothed into understanding. This was exactly what he’d warned you about. Schedules. Timing. Always something pulling you apart.

After tomorrow, he was heading back to the U.S. for promotions. You’d be drowning in comeback stages here.

“Yeah,” he said softly, standing with you. “You need sleep.”

He walked you to the door in quiet steps. You fixed your hoodie and pulled your mask back on. Back into disguise. Back into distance. He hated that he couldn’t walk you out, couldn’t sit in the car beside you, couldn’t do one normal thing normally.

At the door, his hand rested on the knob while you both hesitated. He looked down at you.

“You really laughed at me.”

You smiled under the mask. “You were being cinematic.”

“I was trying to kiss you.”

Your heart stopped politely. “Oh.”

He opened the door. “Goodnight, Yvez.”

You stepped out, then turned back once. “Next time… less soul-leaving face.”

He laughed, finally real again. “Get home safe.”

The door shut softly. The whole ride back, all you could think was: Next time.

You made it back to the dorm past midnight, exhausted and wide awake at the same time.

The front door had barely closed before chaos erupted.

“What happened?!”

Solene came flying down the hallway like breaking news in human form, grabbing your wrist while using Minaru’s shoulders as an armrest. She was practically vibrating.

“Tell me everything.”

Minaru, seated on the couch in pajamas and a face mask, looked deeply unwilling to be used as furniture. “I was resting.”

“No one cares,” Solene replied. “This is history.”

Solene was the dorm’s resident relationship expert—scarily experienced. Vernon disaster. Hyunjin scheduling issues. A vague talking stage with Soobin that Minaru liked to call a ghosting. If anyone was qualified to consult, it was her.

She shoved you toward the couch. “Sit.”

“I’m tired.”

“Speak tired.”

You collapsed beside Minaru. She peeled one eye open. “How bad is it?”

“Depends,” you said weakly. “Emotionally or narratively?”

Solene screamed. “OH MY GOD SOMETHING HAPPENED.”

You covered your face. “He gave me a Tiffany bracelet.”

Silence. Then Solene shrieked loud enough to worry the neighbors. “HE WHAT?!”

Minaru sat up fully. “Show me.”

You lifted your wrist. The blue heart charm glinted under the dorm light. Solene dropped to her knees. “That man is so smooth.”

Minaru inspected it once and nodded. “Financial flirting.”

“It was a comeback gift,” you said quickly.

Both of them looked at you with pity.

“Aw,” Solene said softly. “She believes him.”

Minaru leaned back. “What else?”

You hesitated. “He said he wanted to know me. And we’re… trying it out?”

Solene started screaming again. Minaru grabbed a pillow and pressed it over her face until the noise dulled.

“You are impossible,” Minaru told you. “What did I do?”

“You accidentally entered a situationship with Jungkook.”

“That is not what happened.”

“That is exactly what happened.”

Solene yanked the pillow away. “Did he kiss you?”

You went quiet.

“Well?”

“No.”

Solene gasped like you’d announced a death. “Why not?!”

“Because I laughed at him.”

The room went dead silent. Then Minaru slowly started laughing so hard tears formed. Solene dropped to the floor, pounding the rug.

“You laughed at Jungkook trying to kiss you?”

“He made the face!” you defended. “The pre-kiss face!”

Minaru couldn’t breathe. Solene was in hysterics. And you, bracelet still sparkling on your wrist, realized this story would haunt you for years.

Jiha emerged from her room yawning, hair messy, oversized sleep shirt slipping off one shoulder. She looked like an exhausted angel sent to restore order.

“You’re literally so loud…” She rubbed one eye, then scanned the scene. “It’s late. Why aren’t you guys sleeping?”

No one answered reasonably.

“She’s dating Jungkook!” Solene yelled, pointing at you like a witness in court.

“We’re not dating,” you snapped. “It’s just—”

“A situationship,” Minaru supplied calmly.

Jiha went still, then turned to you with the Leader Stare. You sat up straighter on instinct.

“It is not a situationship.”

Jiha sighed the sigh of a woman aging in real time. She walked over, glanced at the bracelet, then back at your face. “What is that?”

“Nothing.”

“That is Tiffany blue.”

Jiha pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay.” Scariest word in leadership. Then she shrugged lightly. “Just don’t let it affect our career.” She turned to leave.

You blinked. “That’s it?”

She looked back over her shoulder. “What else would I say? You’re adults. Be smart.” She pointed at you. “And if Dispatch catches you looking stupid, I will never forgive you.”

Then she disappeared down the hallway.

Silence.

Minaru nodded thoughtfully. “Beautiful speech.”

Solene wiped tears from laughing. “She was way calmer than I expected.”

You looked down at the bracelet again, chest warm and panicked all at once. Somehow Jiha’s calm approval felt scarier than disapproval.

Minaru stood and stretched. “Anyway. If he doesn’t text tomorrow, I’m calling it over.”

You gasped. “This is why no one tells you things.”

Your schedule was brutal. Not booked and blessed busy—real busy. Rehearsals, fittings, stages, interviews, vans, caffeine, and someone always yelling your name. Now add Jungkook to the mix.

He was in the U.S. promoting. You were in Korea promoting. Time zones and chaos were actively against you.

Conversations became archaeological fragments stretched across sixteen hours:

Jungkook (2:35 AM): hi yvez how is your day?

you (7:04 PM): im so busy, wbu?

Jungkook (9:17 AM): same i just woke up in the makeup chair

you (12:42 PM): did u eat

Jungkook (11:58 PM): i think once

you (1:03 AM): that’s not an answer

Jungkook (10:21 AM): it is if ur malnourished enough

Ridiculous man.

Sometimes you sent a dressing-room selfie. He hearted it nine hours later. Sometimes he sent a blurry gym photo or airport ceiling. You stared at them like evidence.

At night, lying in bed with half-washed makeup, you’d scroll the thread and feel strangely warm. He kept showing up in lowercase, whenever he could. No grand speeches. Just quiet persistence. And somehow that felt sweeter than anything else. Minaru rolled over one night. “Did he answer?”

“Eventually.” You replied.

this fic was so fun for me not even gonna lie. It challenged just how creative I could be 🫩.

VISUALIZATIONS:

THE GROUP CHAT:

the idol au no one asked for.

I’m really bad at naming things in advance 😭. Like pls don’t hate me 🫩🫩. I tried to do a lot of research for this fic to make it as realistic (and do world building) as much as possible🌝. So there’s a lot of nonsense in here other than just reader x jungkook. Readers group are monster rookies, like impossible achievements but why not 😛

This fic mentions/ features half the Korean entertainment industry (that’s over exaggerated but it’s a lot.), age gap au slightly (had to make it realistic for it to be a gen 5 group), parings mentioned: Bangchan x yunjin, Jennie x Taehyung, jk x a bunch of ppl (I don’t even remember tbh it’s a long ahh fic bare with me), eventual smut (it’s pretty vanilla other than virgin reader) named! Reader, slow burn, no happy ending . Reader is named Yvez.

Warnings: swearing, toxic industry, toxic fans, TOXIC TOXIC TOXIC. Harsh schedule, I didnt write abt EDs but mentioned skipping meals due to work, exhaustion, fanwars, stan twt mention, shipping, misogyny, sasaeng, anything in kpop you can think of its in here 😛 HYBE owns everything, HYBE

TEASER- WEENIE HUT JRS.

——————————————————————————

The practice room was supposed to be quiet. Keyword: supposed. Instead—it was chaos.

You were sprawled on the floor, legs kicked up against the mirror, phone held way too close to your face as the same clip replayed for the fifth time. Jungkook. On stage. Sweaty. Hair sticking slightly to his forehead. That stupid sleeveless top—You groaned. Actually groaned. “God he’s so fine I’m losing my mind.”

Yunjin didn’t even look up from her drink. “Girl you better calm down…” she muttered, taking a sip like she’d heard this exact sentence at least ten times already.

Keeho did look up. Slowly. Judgmentally. “Yeah like— I’m getting uncomfortable with you being in heat.” You snapped your head toward him. “EXCUSE ME?” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “No because this is animal behavior at this point.” Yunjin snorted.

You rolled your eyes, going right back to your phone like you weren’t just attacked. “Shut up— you don’t get it.” Keeho gasped dramatically. “I don’t want to get it.” You ignored him. Because the clip looped again—That one move. That one look. You clutched your chest.

“One time—” You sat up slightly, suddenly way too serious. “One time when we were preparing to debut— he walked past our practice room.” Yunjin paused. Keeho froze mid-sip. You continued like you were narrating a life-changing event. “I was like… a door away from him…”

Silence. Yunjin slowly turned toward you. “…and you survived?” You ignored her completely. “I could’ve reached out and touched him.” Keeho blinked. “…that’s not something you should admit out loud.”

Yunjin physically shivered. “As someone who’s personally interacted with him—” She pointed at you. “I’m scared for him.” Your head whipped toward her so fast it was concerning. “What’s he like?” You scooted closer. Way too close. “What does he smell like?”

There was a pause. A long pause. Then—Yunjin screamed. “YOU’RE SCARING ME—” She shoved you back with both hands. Keeho stood up. “No because this is not normal.” He pointed at you like you were a case study. “You need a literal exorcist.”

You flopped back dramatically onto the floor. “I’m down bad, what can I say.” You said it like you were proud. Yunjin covered her face. “This is embarrassing for all of us.” Keeho nodded immediately. “Collectively, as a unit, we are suffering.”

You didn’t care. You hit replay again. The clip started—Your eyes locked in. “Look at him—” you whispered. Keeho walked closer. Squinted at your phone. Then sighed. “…you know it’s tea when you see those two fingers touchin—” He tapped his pointer finger and thumb together slowly. You LOST it. “OH MY GOD STOP—” You kicked your feet against the floor, laughing.

Yunjin groaned. “WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN??” Keeho shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s been stuck in my head for like a week.” You were still laughing—when your phone buzzed. You froze. Yunjin noticed immediately. “…what?” Keeho narrowed his eyes. “Why’d you go quiet?”

You slowly lifted your phone. And there it was. Jungkook (private account) has accepted your follow request. You sat up so fast you almost hit your head. “OH MY GOD—” Yunjin jumped. “WHAT??” Keeho rushed over immediately. “WHAT HAPPENED—” You clutched your phone to your chest. “HE ACCEPTED IT.”

Silence. “…who.” You stared at them like they were stupid. “WHO DO YOU THINK??” Yunjin gasped. “NO—” Keeho’s jaw dropped. “NO WAY—” He tried to look over your shoulder. You shoved him back instantly. “YOU DON’T EVEN GO HERE—” Keeho stumbled, offended. “EXCUSE ME??”

You pointed toward the door dramatically. “GET OUT—” He scoffed loudly, fixing his jacket like he was insulted on a personal level. “THE HYBE BUILDING HAS AMAZING SERVICE.” Yunjin doubled over laughing. “WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE??” “I WAS INVITED—” he snapped back. “BY WHO??” “…MYSELF.”

You were pacing now. Actually pacing. “Wait wait wait— do I follow him back? No I already follow him— OH MY GOD WHAT DO I DO—” Yunjin grabbed your shoulders. “BREATHE.” “I AM BREATHING—” “YOU’RE NOT—”

Keeho leaned in again. “Show me the account.” You turned your back to him immediately. “NO.” “YVEZ—” “NO.” Yunjin peeked anyway. Her eyes widened. “Oh… oh this is bad.” Your head snapped toward her. “WHAT??” She covered her mouth. “He has like… no posts.” Keeho gasped. “Oh he’s serious.”

You froze. “…what does that mean?” Keeho looked at you slowly. “It means you’re in deep.” You stared at your phone. Heartbeat picking up again. Because this—this felt like something. Small. But not small. And suddenly—that clip didn’t matter anymore. Because now? He was right there. Real. And your friends were absolutely losing their minds right along with you.

——————————————————————————

an: it’s in editing right now but will be dropping soon 🐺.

until then enjoy this pic 😛😛

FINAL CHAPTER : 7.7k

prev.

——————————————————————————

The email from Professor Gwen arrived mid-week, short and enthusiastic:

“Volunteers needed for the campus shelter partnership project! Film/Media students will create short promotional videos for our partner animal rescue. Animal Science students provide on-site support and handling. First meeting this Friday at the shelter annex behind the A building. 6 PM. Bring gloves and patience.”

You signed up immediately. It felt like the perfect distraction—something useful, something tied to what you actually loved. Working with the animals, helping tell their stories so they could find homes. You didn’t think twice about who else might be involved.

Until Friday evening.

The shelter annex was warm and smelled faintly of hay and disinfectant. A handful of students were already there—some from your Animal Science cohort, a couple from film. You were kneeling beside a nervous older cat named Pickles, letting him sniff your fingers, when the door opened again and Jungkook walked in.

He paused in the doorway for half a second, eyes scanning the room until they landed on you. No dramatic reaction. No lingering stare that made your stomach flip the way it used to. He just gave a small, polite nod in your general direction and moved to the other side of the room, where the film students were setting up a small tripod and lights.

Professor Gwen clapped her hands. “Alright, everyone! We’re pairing you up—animal handlers with filmmakers. Goal is simple: create a 60-second video that shows these babies at their best so they can get adopted. Be gentle, be honest, be kind.”

The pairings were called out alphabetically.

When she reached your name, your stomach did a small, unwelcome twist.

“Eimi—with Jungkook for the senior cat and the two bonded kittens.”

Of course.

You stood slowly, brushing fur off your jeans, and walked over to where he was already adjusting the camera settings. He looked up when you approached, expression careful—respectful, almost neutral.

“Hey,” he said quietly. No nickname. No “you look good.” Just a simple greeting.

“Hi,” you replied, voice soft but steady. You crouched down beside the playpen where Pickles and the two kittens were curled together. “These three need to stay together if possible. Pickles gets anxious without company.”

Jungkook nodded, eyes flicking to the animals before returning to you. “Got it. I was thinking we could do soft natural light, maybe some slow pans while they’re playing. Keep the tone warm but real. No sad music—just hopeful.”

You blinked, a little surprised at how thoughtful the idea was. “That sounds good,” you said honestly. “They respond better to calm energy. If we move too fast they’ll hide.”

The work started quietly. You handled the cats with the gentle confidence you always had—scooping Pickles into your lap so he could settle, guiding the kittens toward the toy Jungkook had placed in frame. Jungkook stayed on his side of the playpen, adjusting angles, murmuring instructions to you in a low, even tone.

“Little to the left… yeah, perfect. Hold there.”

Your hands almost brushed once when you both reached for the same feather toy at the same time. You both froze for half a second. Then you pulled back first, letting him take it. He didn’t push. Didn’t make it into anything. Just continued filming like nothing had happened.

The tension was there—underneath every polite exchange, every shared silence—but it was controlled now. Heavy, but not chaotic. Like two people who had once been tangled up in each other learning how to exist in the same space without pulling or pushing.

At one point Pickles climbed onto Jungkook’s shoulder while he was crouched filming the kittens. The big cat started purring loudly, kneading against his hoodie. Jungkook went still, a small, surprised smile tugging at his lips.

“He likes you,” you said softly, unable to help the tiny bit of warmth that slipped into your voice.

Jungkook glanced at you, eyes careful. “Guess I’m not completely hopeless with them.” He reached up slowly to scratch under Pickles’ chin, movements gentle in a way you hadn’t seen from him before. “You’re good at this. Making them feel safe.”

You gave a small nod, focusing on the kitten in your hands. “It’s what I want to do. Make things feel safe.”

The words hung between you for a moment—simple, honest, loaded with everything unsaid. Jungkook’s gaze lingered on your face a second longer than necessary before he looked back down at the camera.

The session ended without incident. You helped pack up the toys while Jungkook saved the footage. When everything was done, he zipped up his bag and stood.

“Thanks for the help with the cats,” he said. No extra lingering. No offer to walk you back. Just quiet gratitude. “I’ll edit this over the weekend and send you the draft if you want to check it before we show the group.”

You met his eyes—warm, but not open the way they used to be. “That’d be good. Thank you.”

He nodded once, respectful, and headed for the door.

You stayed behind for a few extra minutes, stroking Pickles’ fur while the quiet settled over the annex. You could still feel the echo of his presence—the careful distance, the way he hadn’t pushed, the small genuine smile when the cat chose him.

He was different.

Not dramatically. Not enough to trust yet.

But different.

And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest felt a little less like loss and a little more like cautious hope—guarded, quiet, and entirely your own.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The notification came late on Saturday night, just as you were finishing your notes for Monday’s Animal Science lecture. Your phone lit up on the desk with a simple message from Jungkook:

“Finished a rough cut. Let me know what you think.”

No long explanation. No “I worked on this for you.” Just the file attached and those quiet words.

You stared at the screen for a moment, thumb hovering. Then you clicked play.

The video opened softly—no dramatic music, no forced sadness. Just gentle natural light filtering through the shelter windows, the camera panning slowly across the playpen. Pickles appeared first, his old tabby face calm as he blinked at the lens. Then the two bonded kittens tumbled into frame, batting at a feather toy. The shots were patient, unhurried. Jungkook had waited for the right moments instead of forcing them.

You noticed the details immediately.

He’d caught the way Pickles’ ears twitched when one of the kittens climbed onto his back. He’d held on a quiet beat when the shy kitten finally peeked out from behind the tunnel, eyes wide and curious. The tone felt warm, hopeful—exactly what you’d described. It wasn’t flashy. It was kind. Thoughtful.

And then—

There was a shot of your hands.

Just your hands, soft and steady, cradling the little gray kitten while it purred against your palm. Your voice was in the background, barely audible: “There you go… you’re safe.” He hadn’t cut it. He’d kept it. The moment felt intimate without trying to be. Like he’d been paying attention not just to the animals, but to the way you moved with them.

You watched the whole thing twice.

The second time, you paused on that shot of your hands and let out a slow, quiet breath. Something tight in your chest loosened—just a little. He had listened. Not because he wanted something from you, but because he’d actually heard what mattered to you. The gentleness in the editing, the care in the framing… it showed a version of him that was trying. Quietly. Without fanfare.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t spiral into overthinking. You simply sat there in the soft glow of your desk lamp, the video paused on a still frame of Pickles looking peaceful, and felt the shift.

He was giving without taking.

After a minute, you typed back—careful, measured, not overly warm but honest:

“It’s really good. You captured them well… thank you.”

You hit send and set your phone down.

Jungkook’s reply came ten minutes later. Simple. No pressure.

“Glad it worked.”

Nothing more.

No “can we meet to go over it?” No late-night knock on your door. Just that.

You closed your laptop and leaned back in your chair, staring at the fairy lights strung above your bed. The ache was still there—quiet, familiar—but it felt different tonight. Less like waiting. More like cautious observation.

He was changing.

Not loudly. Not dramatically.

But in small, consistent ways that didn’t ask you to fix anything or soften first.

And for the first time in weeks, you let yourself notice it without immediately pulling away.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The text came on a Tuesday night, simple and unassuming, right as you were curled up in bed with your notebook open to tomorrow’s lecture notes.

Jungkook:

Professor wants a final version by Thursday. Need your input on one part. The shelter annex is open late if you’re free. No pressure.

You stared at the message for a long minute, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Part of you wanted to say no—keep the careful distance you’d been maintaining, protect the fragile boundary you’d finally set. But another part, quieter and more honest, remembered the video he’d sent. The gentle shots. The way he’d kept your voice in the background. The small, thoughtful choices that showed he’d actually listened.

You typed back before you could overthink it.

You:

Okay. I can meet you there in twenty minutes.

The annex was dimly lit when you arrived, only the emergency overheads and a couple of desk lamps on. The animals were mostly settled for the night—soft breathing and the occasional rustle of bedding the only sounds. Jungkook was already there, laptop open on the small work table near the cat playpen, headphones around his neck. He looked up when you walked in, expression careful, almost neutral.

“Hey,” he said quietly. “Thanks for coming.”

You nodded, setting your bag down on the opposite chair. “No problem.”

He turned the laptop slightly toward you so you could both see the screen. The rough cut played on loop—warm lighting, the cats moving naturally, your soft voice in the background guiding the shy kitten. You sat beside him, close enough that your shoulders nearly brushed if either of you shifted too much, but far enough to feel intentional.

For the first few minutes, the conversation stayed safely on the work.

“This wide shot at the beginning is nice,” you said, pointing at the screen without touching it. “It gives them space to be themselves.”

Jungkook nodded, leaning in a little to pause the video. “Yeah. I was thinking of trimming ten seconds here—right after Pickles yawns. It drags a bit, but I didn’t want to lose the calm feel.”

You watched the segment again, head tilted. “Trim it. But keep the yawn. It’s… sweet. Shows he’s comfortable.”

He made the change right there, fingers moving over the trackpad with quiet focus. The new version played. It felt better—tighter, warmer. Comfort started creeping back in, the kind that came from working toward the same goal without the old weight of expectation pressing down.

You pointed out a few more small things. He listened, adjusting without argument, occasionally murmuring “good call” or “yeah, that works.” The silence between suggestions wasn’t awkward. It was just… present. Heavy in that familiar way, but contained.

Then the shift happened.

He replayed the section with your voice in the background—your soft “There you go… you’re safe”—and something in his tone changed when he spoke next.

“Eimi…” He said your name softer than usual, almost like it slipped out without permission. “You were right about the tone. It feels like them now. Like how you see them.”

You glanced at him. The dim light caught the side of his face, highlighting the tired line of his jaw, the way his dark eyes stayed on the screen instead of turning to you. For a moment, the old comfort flickered—easy, familiar, dangerous.

You let out a small, involuntary laugh, the sound lighter than you intended. “I just know them. That’s all.”

The laugh hung in the quiet annex a second too long. Neither of you spoke right away. The silence stretched, heavy and loaded, the kind that used to pull you both closer without words. Your shoulder was inches from his. His hand rested on the edge of the table, close enough that if either of you moved even slightly, skin would brush.

You both noticed.

Eye contact happened then—slow, lingering. His gaze met yours and held. Not intense. Not pleading. Just… open. Searching in a way that felt careful, like he was afraid to push but couldn’t quite look away. You felt the pull deep in your chest, the memory of how easily you used to lean into that look, how safe it once made you feel.

This time, you didn’t look away immediately either.

The air thickened. Your breath caught just a little. His fingers flexed once on the table, almost imperceptibly.

Then his hand shifted—slow, unintentional—and the back of his knuckles brushed lightly against yours where your hand rested near the laptop.

Neither of you pulled away right away.

The touch was barely there, warm skin against warm skin, but it sent a quiet spark up your arm. Your heart stuttered. His did too—you could see it in the way his shoulders tensed, the way his eyes darkened just a fraction. For one dangerous heartbeat, the hesitation stretched. The old want flickered alive between you, soft and aching and familiar.

But you caught yourself first.

You pulled your hand back gently, curling your fingers into your lap. Your voice came out soft, controlled, not cold but firm in its boundary.

“We should focus,” you murmured, eyes dropping back to the screen. “The ending still feels a little long.”

Jungkook exhaled slowly, almost silently. He nodded once, jaw tight, and turned his attention back to the laptop. “Yeah. You’re right.”

The rest of the session stayed polite. Careful. You offered a couple more notes. He made the changes. When the final cut played through, it felt good—warm, hopeful, honest. Exactly what the animals deserved.

You stood first, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “It turned out well. The shelter will like it.”

He closed the laptop, standing too, but keeping the table between you. “Thanks for coming. I wouldn’t have caught half of those details without you.”

You offered a small, genuine but measured smile. “We both wanted the same thing for them.”

He didn’t walk you out. Didn’t ask if you needed company. He just nodded respectfully as you headed for the door.

“Night, Eimi.”

“Night.”

The cold air outside hit your cheeks as you stepped into the night. Your hand still tingled faintly where his had brushed it. The pull was still there—quiet, unresolved, alive. But you had pulled back first. You had kept the boundary.

And it felt like progress.

Even if your heart was beating a little too fast the whole walk back to your dorm.

Back in the annex, Jungkook stayed behind for a few extra minutes, staring at the darkened screen of his laptop. His knuckles still remembered the brief warmth of your skin. He didn’t text you again. Didn’t follow.

He just sat there in the quiet, letting the almost-moment settle.

He hadn’t pushed.

He hadn’t taken.

And for the first time, that small restraint felt like the right thing.

Even if it left him aching in a whole new way.

A month passed. No communication between the two of you. But he’d still been persistent when he had the opportunity to, which was rare. But today— if he saw you, he was going to try, to make a move. If he could.

The gym was loud with the chaotic energy of a campus charity game—freshmen versus upperclassmen, the bleachers packed with students cheering, laughing, and waving handmade signs. The air smelled like sweat, popcorn, and cheap floor wax. You’d come with Genesis and Aliza mostly to support the animal shelter fundraiser, but your eyes kept drifting to the court anyway.

Jungkook was playing for the upperclassmen. He moved with that familiar intensity—broad shoulders, dark hair damp with sweat, muscles flexing under his jersey every time he drove to the basket.

The game ended with the upperclassmen winning by six points. The crowd started filtering out, but you lingered near the side exit with your friends, waiting for the rush to die down. That’s when you saw him.

Jungkook stepped out of the locker room hallway, still in his jersey and shorts, towel slung over his shoulder. His eyes scanned the thinning crowd and found you almost immediately. He hesitated for half a second—jaw tight, like he was fighting the urge—then started walking toward you.

Your friends noticed. Genesis raised an eyebrow. “We’ll wait outside,” she said, already tugging Aliza away with a knowing look.

You stayed rooted near the wall, heart picking up speed as he got closer. He stopped a few feet away at first, too close for casual but not quite touching. The hallway was dimmer here, the noise of the gym muffled. His breathing was still a little heavy from the game, chest rising and falling under the damp jersey. He didn’t reach for you right away. He just stood there, dark eyes locked on yours, restraint visible in the tight line of his shoulders.

He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his damp hair like he was trying to steady himself.

“Didn’t think you’d come tonight,” he said, voice quieter than usual, still a little rough from the game.

You shifted your weight, fingers tightening slightly around the strap of your tote. “Genesis made me,” you admitted. “Said I needed to leave my room for once.”

A faint huff of a laugh left him—short, almost surprised. “Yeah… sounds like her.”

A small silence settled between you. Not awkward. Just… heavy. His eyes dropped briefly to your hands, then back to your face.

“You’ve been busy,” he added, softer now. “Haven’t seen you around as much.”

You nodded once. “Classes. Lab. Stuff.”

Another pause.

You could feel it building—the tension, the unspoken things sitting right under the surface. Neither of you rushed to fill it.

Jungkook shifted closer, just a step. Still not touching. Still giving you space.

“You look…” He stopped himself, jaw tightening slightly, like he was choosing his words more carefully than before. “You look good.”

It wasn’t flirtatious. It was honest.

Your breath caught a little, but you kept your voice steady. “So do you. You played well.”

“Yeah?” he murmured, something flickering in his expression. “Couldn’t really focus.”

Your brows knit slightly. “Why?”

“I didn’t come here for this,” he said, voice low and rough, almost strained. “But I can’t pretend I don’t want you.”

The words hit differently than anything he’d said before. Vulnerable. Honest. Not a demand—just a confession he couldn’t hold back anymore.

You looked up at him, pulse thrummed in your ears. You knew you should turn around. Walk away. Keep the boundary you’d fought so hard to build.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you held his gaze, breath shaky, and gave the smallest nod.

That was all it took.

Jungkook’s hand lifted slowly, carefully. His fingers brushed along your jaw, thumb tracing the line of it with a gentleness that made your stomach flip. He paused there, giving you time—one full heartbeat, then another—to pull away if you wanted.

You didn’t.

You leaned in first.

The kiss broke something open between you.

It started desperate and messy, months of restraint and yearning crashing together. His mouth was hot against yours, tongue sliding deep the moment your lips parted. You tasted salt from the game, felt the low groan vibrate in his chest when you rose onto your toes to meet him better. His free hand found your waist, gripping firmly but not roughly, pulling you closer until your body pressed against the hard line of his.

The kiss turned filthier—teeth nipping, tongues tangling, breath coming in short, needy pants. His hips pressed forward instinctively, letting you feel how hard he already was through his shorts.

“We shouldn’t—” you gasped against his lips when you finally broke for air, forehead resting against his.

“I know,” he breathed, voice wrecked. His thumb brushed your swollen lower lip. “I know.”

But neither of you stopped.

He walked you backward until your back met the cool wall of the hallway, caging you in. His mouth found yours again, slower this time but no less hungry, one thigh sliding between your legs so you could feel the solid muscle against your core. Your hands slid under his jersey, palms gliding over the warm, sweat-damp skin of his stomach, feeling every ridge and flex.

The tension was dangerous now—thick, electric, both of you breathing hard, bodies pressed close in the semi-public space where anyone could walk by. His hand slipped lower, gripping your hip possessively, thumb pressing into the soft curve there as he rocked against you once, slow and deliberate.

You moaned quietly, the sound swallowed by his mouth.

Jungkook pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against yours, eyes dark and stormy, breathing ragged.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper. “Tell me right now and I will.”

You didn’t.

Instead, your fingers tightened in his jersey, pulling him back down into another deep, messy kiss.

And that was the moment the restraint finally cracked completely.

The rest of the world—the gym noise, the risk of someone walking in, the months of careful distance—faded into nothing but the heat of his body against yours and the undeniable truth that, for tonight at least, neither of you wanted to be good.

You were both done pretending you could stay away.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The hallway outside the gym was quieter now. Jungkook’s hand stayed on your hip as he guided you backward through the side door that led into the upperclassmen locker room. The space was empty—most players had already showered and left—but the air still carried the sharp scent of sweat, metal lockers, and faint chlorine.

He pushed the door shut behind you with his foot, the click echoing softly. For a moment he just looked at you, chest still rising and falling, eyes dark with everything he’d been holding back.

Then he moved.

His hands found your waist, lifting you effortlessly onto the long wooden bench that ran between the rows of lockers. Jungkook stepped between your parted thighs, one hand bracing on the locker behind your head while the other cupped the back of your neck.

“Tell me again,” he murmured, voice low and rough, thumb stroking just under your jaw. “Tell me you want this.”

You looked up at him, breath shaky. “I want this.”

That was all he needed.

The kiss turned feral.

His mouth claimed yours—deep, demanding, tongue sliding against yours with a hunger that made your toes curl. You whimpered into it, hands fisting in his damp jersey as he pressed closer. He tasted like salt and adrenaline.

He pulled back just enough to yank his jersey over his head, tossing it aside. Then his hands were on you again, sliding under your shirt, palms hot against your skin as he pushed the fabric up and off. Your bra followed. The cool locker room air hit your bare breasts, nipples tightening instantly under his gaze.

“Fuck, look at you,” he growled. One big hand cupped your breast, thumb brushing over the stiff peak before he leaned down and took it into his mouth, sucking hard enough to make you arch with a soft cry.

His free hand worked your jeans open, tugging them down your thighs along with your panties in one rough motion. You kicked them off, leaving you completely bare on the bench while he was still in his shorts.

Jungkook dropped to his knees in front of you, hands gripping your thighs and spreading them wider. “Been thinking about this pretty little pussy for weeks,” he said, voice thick. He leaned in and dragged his tongue up your slit in one slow, filthy stripe, groaning at the taste. “So fucking wet already. All for me?”

You nodded frantically, fingers threading into his damp hair. “Yes—Jungkook—”

He didn’t tease for long. His mouth sealed over your clit, sucking with perfect pressure while two thick fingers pushed inside you, curling immediately against that spot that made your vision blur. You cried out, thighs trembling around his head as he worked you open, tongue flicking fast and relentless.

He pulled back just before you could tip over the edge, lips shiny with your arousal. “Not yet. I want you to come on my cock tonight.”

He stood, shoving his shorts and boxers down in one motion. His cock sprang free—heavy, thick, the head already leaking.

“On your knees, baby,” he ordered, voice dark and commanding.

You slid off the bench without hesitation, dropping to your knees on the cool floor in front of him. This was new—your first time. Your hands trembled slightly as you wrapped one around the base.

Jungkook’s hand came to your hair, gentle but firm. “Easy. Just like this.” He guided the head to your lips. “Open for me. Use your tongue first—yeah, just like that. Good girl.”

You licked tentatively at the tip, tasting the salty precum, then took him into your mouth. He groaned low in his throat, hips twitching but staying still, letting you set the pace at first.

“Fuck—your mouth feels so good. Suck a little harder, baby. Use your hand on the rest—yeah, just like that. You’re doing so well for your first time.”

The praise made you moan around him. You took him deeper, cheeks hollowing, eyes watering when he hit the back of your throat. Jungkook’s grip tightened in your hair, but he didn’t thrust—he talked you through it, voice rough and filthy.

“Breathe through your nose. Relax your throat. That’s it—good fucking girl. Look at you, taking me so pretty.”

He let you work him for a few more minutes, groaning every time you swirled your tongue or sucked harder. Then he pulled out with a wet pop, breathing hard.

“Up. Bend over the bench.”

You stood on shaky legs. He turned you around and guided you down so your chest pressed against the cool wood of the bench, ass up, back arched.

Jungkook kicked your legs wider, one hand smoothing down your spine while the other gripped your hip. “So fucking perfect like this,” he murmured. You felt the blunt head of his cock nudge against your entrance, sliding through your slick folds. “Gonna fuck you raw again. You want that?”

“Yes,” you whimpered, pushing back against him. “Please—”

He pushed in with one slow, relentless thrust, stretching you open. A broken moan tore from your throat.

“Fuck—still so tight,” he growled, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “Taking me so deep like a good little slut.”

He didn’t give you time to adjust. He pulled back and slammed in again, setting a brutal rhythm—deep, hard strokes that made the bench creak beneath you. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the locker room, mixed with your desperate whimpers and his low grunts.

One hand slid up your back and fisted in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to arch you more. “This what you needed? My cock splitting you open?”

“Yes—Jungkook—ah—!”

He fucked you harder, hips snapping against your ass, the angle hitting that perfect spot inside you with every thrust. Your legs shook, pleasure coiling tight and fast in your belly.

When you were right on the edge, he pulled out suddenly.

“On your knees again.”

You turned quickly, dropping back down. Jungkook stroked his cock fast, eyes locked on your face—dark, possessive, completely in control.

“Open your mouth. Tongue out.”

You obeyed instantly, looking up at him with wide, watery eyes.

He came with a deep groan, thick ropes of cum painting your face—across your cheeks, your lips, some landing on your tongue. The sight of you like that—kneeling, marked by him—made his cock twitch again.

“Fuck… look at you,” he rasped, thumb smearing his release across your lower lip. “So pretty covered in my cum.”

You were still trembling, aching and empty. Jungkook didn’t leave you waiting long.

He pulled you up, turned you around again, and bent you back over the bench. This time he slid back inside you in one smooth thrust, groaning at how wet and messy you were.

“Gonna fill you up now,” he growled, gripping your hips and pounding into you with deep, punishing strokes. “Gonna breed this tight little pussy until you’re dripping with me.”

You cried out, pushing back to meet every thrust, the bench creaking loudly under you. His pace was relentless—hard, fast, completely dominant. One hand reached around to rub your clit in tight circles while the other kept you pinned down.

“Come for me,” he ordered, voice rough against your ear. “Come on my cock like a good girl.”

The orgasm hit you hard—waves of pleasure crashing through you as you clenched around him, moaning his name brokenly. Jungkook fucked you through it, then buried himself deep and came with a guttural groan, flooding your pussy with hot, thick spurts.

He stayed inside you for a long moment, breathing hard, forehead pressed to your back. His hand stroked down your side almost tenderly.

When he finally pulled out, you felt his release trickle down your thighs. He turned you gently, cupping your cum-streaked face and kissing you slow and deep, tasting himself on your tongue.

“Mine,” he whispered against your lips, voice dark and possessive. “Even if we’re still figuring everything else out… tonight you’re mine.”

You leaned into him, boneless and glowing, the risk of the semi-public locker room only making the aftershocks sweeter.

For now, that was enough.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The door to Jungkook’s dorm room clicked shut behind you with a soft finality that made the air feel thicker.

You’d never been here before.

It was surprisingly neat for a guy’s space—dark sheets on the bed, a desk cluttered with editing equipment and scattered film scripts, a single string of warm fairy lights strung across the headboard that cast a soft golden glow over everything. The faint scent of his cologne and clean laundry lingered. It felt… personal. Intimate.

Jungkook stood near the door for a second, running a hand through his still-damp hair from the post-game shower. He looked awkward, almost boyish, like he was trying too hard to be something softer tonight.

He cleared his throat. “Uh… make yourself comfortable. I can get you water or… something.”

You sat on the edge of his bed, fingers twisting in your lap, watching him move around the small room with uncharacteristic hesitation. He dimmed the main light, leaving only the fairy lights and the glow from his desk lamp. Then he came to stand in front of you.

He reached down slowly, cupping your face with both hands, thumbs brushing your cheeks with a gentleness that felt new. “I wanted you here,” he murmured, voice low and a little rough. “Just us. No hallway. No rush.”

You nodded, heart racing. His thumbs kept stroking, almost reverent. He leaned down and kissed you—soft at first, almost careful, lips moving slowly against yours as if he was afraid of breaking the moment. When you sighed into it and parted your lips, the kiss deepened, but he kept it tender, tongue sliding lazily against yours, one hand sliding into your hair to cradle the back of your head.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against yours, breathing uneven.

“We seriously should invest in birth control and stop relying on Plan B’s,” he said quietly, the words slipping out between soft kisses he pressed to the corner of your mouth. “It’s irresponsible.”

You let out a small, breathless laugh, cheeks warming. “You’re the one who keeps… not pulling out.”

He shrugged, a crooked, almost shy smile tugging at his lips as he kissed you again, slower this time. “Yeah… I know.”

You pulled back just enough to look at him, curiosity mixing with the heat building low in your belly. “You always give girls Plan B’s?”

Jungkook paused, eyes darkening as he looked down at you. His thumb brushed your lower lip. “What? No. I wrap it up—always.” He leaned in closer, voice dropping into that rough, possessive register. “Just with you.”

The admission hung between you, heavy and intimate.

Because with you he never wanted anything between you. He’d wanted to feel every inch of you raw from the very first time—something primal and possessive twisting in his chest every time he buried himself inside you with nothing separating you. He’d never taken anyone’s virginity before. Never been anyone’s first. But you… you were made for him in a way that felt dangerous. You were the only one he’d ever had like this. The only one who’d ever let him in so completely.

It was sexy. Exciting. A quiet kink that made his cock twitch just thinking about it.

But underneath that… it was more.

He pulled back slightly, eyes searching yours in the soft glow of the fairy lights. His hand slid down to cup your jaw again, thumb stroking with that same careful tenderness.

“Eimi…” His voice cracked just a little, raw and honest in a way you’d rarely heard from him. “I love you.”

The words landed soft but heavy, hanging in the quiet room like they’d been waiting months to be said.

Your breath caught, eyes widening as you stared up at him. Jungkook’s gaze didn’t waver. There was no smirk, no deflection. Just him—looking down at you with vulnerable, dark eyes that said he meant it.

He swallowed hard, thumb still gently stroking your cheek.

“I know I’ve been shit at showing it,” he continued, voice quieter now. “I know I keep fucking up and pulling away and making you doubt everything. But I do. I love you. Have for a while, even when I was too scared to say it.”

The confession sat between you, warm and terrifying and real.

You didn’t answer right away. Your heart was pounding so hard you were sure he could feel it. Instead, you reached up, fingers brushing his jaw the same way he’d done to you, feeling the slight stubble under your fingertips.

Jungkook leaned into the touch, eyes fluttering half-closed for a second, like your gentleness undid something in him.

He kissed you again then—deeper, slower, more emotional than before. His hands slid down your sides, gripping your waist as he guided you back onto the bed, following you down without breaking the kiss. His body covered yours, but tonight there was no rush to dominance. Just heat and need and the quiet weight of his confession still echoing in the air between every kiss.

When he finally pulled back to look at you again, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged, his voice was barely above a whisper.

“Tell me what you want tonight,” he murmured, one hand sliding under your shirt to rest warm and steady against your stomach. “I’ll give you anything. Just… don’t let me ruin this again.”

You looked up at him—flawed, beautiful, and finally being honest—and felt something soft and terrifying bloom in your chest.

For the first time in a long time, it didn’t feel like he was taking.

It felt like he was offering.

And you weren’t sure you had the strength to say no.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

The first time Jungkook officially asked you to be his girlfriend wasn’t dramatic.

It happened on a quiet Tuesday night in early March, six weeks after the locker room. You were in his dorm again, curled up on his bed while he edited footage on his laptop. The fairy lights you’d helped him string up last month cast a warm glow over the room. Your head rested on his thigh, his free hand idly playing with strands of your long hair as he worked.

He suddenly paused the video, closed the laptop, and looked down at you with that careful, steady expression he’d been practicing.

“I don’t want to keep doing this halfway anymore,” he said quietly. No grand speech. Just honest. “I want to be with you. For real. Exclusive. Boyfriend and girlfriend. If… you’ll have me.”

You sat up slowly, heart thudding. His eyes were soft but serious, thumb brushing your knee like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

You searched his face for the old hesitation, the familiar pull-back. It wasn’t there.

“Okay,” you whispered, a small, hopeful smile breaking across your lips. “Let’s try this for real.”

That was how it started.

Six months later, you were still figuring it out—soft, healing, and undeniably messy in the way real relationships are.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon in late September. Sunlight filtered through the half-closed blinds of Jungkook’s dorm, painting golden stripes across the bed where you lay tangled together. Six months. It still felt surreal sometimes.

You were on your stomach, chin propped on your folded arms, wearing nothing but one of his oversized black hoodies. Jungkook lay beside you, shirtless, one arm draped possessively over your lower back as he traced lazy circles on your skin with his fingertips. The room smelled like the coffee he’d made earlier and the faint vanilla of your lotion.

“You’re staring,” you murmured without looking up from your phone, a small smile tugging at your lips.

“Can’t help it,” he replied, voice low and warm, the way it got when he was relaxed and happy. “You look good in my clothes. Always have.”

You turned your head to face him, cheek squished against your arm. “Flattery will get you everywhere, Jeon Jungkook.”

He grinned—that bright, boyish smile that still made your stomach flip—and leaned in to press a slow kiss to your shoulder. “Good. Because I plan on keeping you.”

The words were light, but the meaning underneath wasn’t. Six months of consistency. Six months of him showing up—walking you to morning classes even when he had a later start, bringing you coffee during long lab days, texting “did you eat?” at random hours. He still messed up sometimes (forgot to reply for a few hours when he got lost in editing, got quiet when old insecurities flared), but he never disappeared. Never made you feel like an afterthought.

You’d had your first real argument three months in—something stupid about him canceling plans last minute for a group project. You’d cried. He’d panicked, then apologized properly, sitting on the floor of your dorm while you sat on the bed, both of you talking it through until 3 a.m. No yelling that cut deep. No walking away. Just messy, honest communication and making up with soft kisses and tighter hugs.

Your families and Jimin still had no idea.

Jimin was back in Peru for the semester, and your parents thought you were “just friends again.” The secrecy added a thrilling, slightly guilty layer to everything, but it also made the private moments feel even more precious.

Jungkook’s hand slid lower, slipping under the hem of the hoodie to palm your bare ass. “You’re thinking too hard again,” he murmured, lips brushing your ear. “What’s going on in that pretty head?”

You shivered at the touch, turning onto your side to face him fully. “Just… us. Six months. It feels good. Scary good.”

His expression softened. He pulled you closer until your bodies pressed together, your shorter frame fitting perfectly against his taller one. “Yeah,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “It does. I’m still learning how to be what you deserve. But I’m trying every day.”

You reached up to cup his face, thumb stroking his cheek. “I know. And I’m still learning how to trust it without waiting for the other shoe to drop. We’re both messes. But we’re good messes.”

He smiled, the kind that reached his eyes, and kissed you—slow, deep, full of quiet emotion. No rush. No chaos. Just “I want you” in every brush of lips and tongue.

The kiss gradually heated. His hand slid up your thigh, gripping the soft flesh as he rolled you onto your back, settling between your legs. The size difference always made you feel delicate beneath him—his broad shoulders blocking out the light, his hips pressing you into the mattress.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he murmured against your mouth, grinding slowly against you so you could feel how hard he already was. “My girl.”

Your breath hitched. “Yours.”

The word still felt new and precious every time.

He took his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin he revealed—collarbones, the swell of your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach. When he finally pushed inside you, it was slow and deep, both of you moaning at the familiar stretch. No frantic pace tonight. Just long, rolling thrusts that made your toes curl and your hands clutch at his back.

“I love you,” he whispered against your neck as he moved inside you, voice rough with emotion. “So much.”

You gasped, legs wrapping tighter around his waist. “Love you too… ah—Jungkook—”

It built gradually, sweet and intense, until you came with a soft cry, clenching around him. He followed moments later, burying himself deep and spilling inside you with a low groan, hips stuttering through the aftershocks.

Afterward, you lay tangled together, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare back while your head rested on his chest, listening to his heartbeat slow.

“Stay the night?” he asked quietly, pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

You smiled against his skin. “Yeah. I’ll text Aliza I’m staying with a ‘friend.’”

He chuckled, the sound vibrating through his chest. “One day we won’t have to lie.”

“One day,” you agreed softly.

─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ───

A few weeks later came the night that would live in infamy.

You’d been teasing each other for days—light jokes about trying something new in bed. Jungkook had shyly admitted he’d bought soft silk ties “just to see,” and you’d laughed, intrigued and a little nervous. Tonight felt like the right time.

The dorm was empty—Aliza was at a late study group. Jungkook had you on his bed, wrists gently bound above your head with one of the black ties. He was being so careful, checking the knots every few minutes, kissing you softly between instructions.

“You okay, baby?” he murmured, hovering over you, completely naked and hard against your thigh. “Too tight?”

You shook your head, cheeks flushed, a shy smile on your lips. “It’s good. Feels… nice. Kinda hot.”

He grinned, leaning down to kiss you deeply, one hand sliding between your legs to stroke you open. “Good girl. Gonna take such good care of you—”

The door suddenly burst open.

Aliza walked in, phone in hand, mid-sentence about forgetting her charger—then froze.

The scene before her: you, naked and tied to the headboard with silk, legs spread, Jungkook between them, equally naked, one hand still between your thighs.

Aliza’s eyes went wide. “What the actual fuck?!”

You squeaked, trying to close your legs and failing miserably because of the way Jungkook was positioned. “Aliza—oh my god—close the door!”

Jungkook reacted faster than you’d ever seen him move. He grabbed the nearest blanket and flung it over both of you, shielding your bodies while simultaneously trying to look dignified.

“It’s not— we were— fuck,” he stammered, face turning bright red for the first time in years. “This isn’t— we’re dating. It’s consensual. Very consensual.”

Aliza stood there, mouth open, then slowly raised her phone like she was about to take a picture before thinking better of it. “Dating?! Since when? And you’re doing bondage in our dorm? On a Tuesday?!”

You buried your burning face in Jungkook’s shoulder, mortified laughter bubbling up despite everything. “Six months. Please leave. I’m begging you.”

Aliza backed out slowly, still staring. “I’m traumatized. I’m going to Genesis’s room. Do not— whatever you’re doing— finish before I get my charger tomorrow morning. Actually, never mind. Burn the sheets.”

The door slammed shut.

Silence.

Then Jungkook dropped his forehead to yours, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. “Well… that happened.”

You groaned, still tied up, face flaming. “I’m never going to live this down. She’s going to tell Genesis. They’re going to make fun of me forever.”

He kissed your nose, then your lips, still chuckling. “Worth it. You looked really hot tied up for me.”

You swatted his chest with your bound hands as best you could. “Untie me, you menace.”

He did, but not before pressing one more slow, deep kiss to your mouth, hands gentle as he rubbed your wrists.

Once you were free, you both collapsed back onto the bed, laughing softly into each other’s necks. The embarrassment lingered, but so did the warmth—the easy affection, the safety of being able to laugh at the mess together.

Jungkook pulled you on top of him, arms wrapping around your waist. “Hey,” he said quietly, thumb stroking your spine. “I love you. Messy parts and all.”

You smiled, pressing a kiss over his heart. “Love you too. Even when Aliza catches us mid-kinky experiment.”

He laughed again, the sound rumbling through his chest and into yours.

Six months in, it wasn’t perfect.

But it was yours.

Soft arguments that ended in apologies and cuddles. Late-night study sessions where he brought you snacks and you helped him with film theory. Morning kisses before class. Slow, emotional sex where “I want you” meant more than just bodies—it meant hearts, trust, and the quiet promise that you were both still choosing each other every day.

And even with the secrecy, the occasional slip-ups, and the awkward moments like tonight…

It felt like healing.

Like coming home.

Like the kind of love you’d always hoped for—the hopeless romantic in you finally getting to breathe.

Jungkook kissed the top of your head, holding you a little tighter.

“We’ll tell them soon,” he whispered. “When we’re ready. Until then… this is ours.”

You nodded, content in his arms.

Yours.

Finally, properly, beautifully yours.

─── ─── ─── ⋆⋅☼⋅⋆ ─── ─── ───

END

vii: idk if I am gonna write a part two where the families find out I just feel like it’d be too short like under 10k words short and I like writing 40-80k word fics. Unless I make him cheat on her or something

so uhm next fic being released might be a sugar daddy jk x stripper reader orrr this fantasy murder mystery one ORR singer jk x Instagram influencer reader accidental pregnancy. These r all so toxic but I live for drama.

chapter 4 : 8.5k

prev.

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She texted first—casual, familiar. “Missed that stupid face of yours. Coffee?” He told himself it was nothing. Just easy. No expectations. No heavy emotions. She met him at the campus café, blunt haircut framing her sharp eyes, that confident energy filling the space immediately. They fell into old patterns fast—arguing over nothing, her challenging him, the chaos that used to feel exciting. She kissed him outside the café like nothing had changed, her hands possessive in a way that stroked his ego.

It was familiar. Safe in its messiness. No quiet hope staring back at him. No risk of breaking something fragile.

But that night, alone in his room, the comparison crept in uninvited.

With Aira, it was heat and friction and distraction—loud, ego-boosting, temporary.

With you… it had been warmth. The way your fingers traced his jaw like he was worth gentleness. The soft whimpers that weren’t just pleasure but emotion. The way you stayed open even after he left you hurting. The way you looked at him like love wasn’t something to run from.

He’d never been loved like that before. Not really. Not without conditions or games.

Jungkook stared at the ceiling, phone heavy in his hand. Your contact was still there, last message from before break a simple “drive safe” that he’d never replied to properly. The realization settled slow and uncomfortable: he’d chosen what was easy. The chaos he knew how to handle.

And in doing so, he might have lost the one thing that felt real.

He didn’t text you. Not yet. The avoidant part of him still won, pushing the feeling down. But the missing lingered—quiet, insistent, starting to crack the walls he’d built.

Across campus, in your dorm, you lay in bed scrolling through old photos, heart aching but voice steady when Genesis asked if you were okay. “Yeah, totally fine,” you said with a small laugh that didn’t reach your eyes. You were trying. Acting chill. Telling yourself it was for the best.

Even as the hopeless romantic in you whispered that maybe, just maybe, he’d come back.

And the painful part was—you’d probably let him.

The morning after the confrontation during break, the house felt heavier than usual, like the walls themselves were holding their breath. Jimin had barely slept—his suitcase was already half-packed by the front door, the faint scent of airport coffee clinging to his hoodie from an early run to the corner store. He found you in the kitchen, standing at the counter in your oversized sleep shirt, stirring a mug of tea you weren’t really drinking. Your eyes were a little puffy, though you’d tried to hide it with makeup and that practiced “I’m fine” smile.

He didn’t waste time.

“Eimi, sit down for a second.”

You glanced up, heart already sinking at the serious tone in his voice. The fairy lights from last night still felt burned into your memory, the rumpled sheets, Jungkook’s retreating back. You set the spoon down slowly and slid onto one of the barstools, fingers wrapping tight around the warm mug like it could anchor you.

Jimin leaned against the opposite counter, arms crossed, looking every bit the protective older brother who had flown across an ocean just to be here for the holidays. His bleached blonde hair was messy from running his hands through it all night, and his eyes—usually playful—were sharp with worry.

“I’m heading back to Peru this afternoon,” he started, voice low but steady. “But before I go, we need to talk. For real.”

You sighed loudly, already bracing. “Jimin…”

“No, listen.” He stepped closer, resting his hands on the counter so he could look you in the eye. “What I walked in on last night… that’s not okay. Jungkook is not okay for you. You think anyone wants that for you? Wants him for you? The guy who shows up drunk, takes what he wants, and leaves you crying in your own bed? The same guy I warned years ago to stay the hell away?”

The words landed like little stones against your ribs. You looked down at your tea, throat tightening. It wasn’t fair. None of it felt fair. You were eighteen now—technically grown, technically free to make your own choices. But Jimin’s voice carried that big-brother weight that always made you feel small again, like you were still the kid who needed protecting.

“Jimin, I’m grown,” you said, the protest coming out softer than you wanted, laced with that emotional tremble you couldn’t quite hide. “I can do what I want—”

“Sure you can,” he cut in gently but firmly, not unkind, just resolute. “Just not with him.”

The sentence stung straight through your chest, sharp and immediate. Your fingers tightened around the mug until your knuckles went white. Why not? The question burned behind your eyes, but you didn’t ask it out loud. Because deep down, a part of you already knew the answer—Jungkook’s pattern, the way he pulled you close only to push you away, the guilt you’d seen flickering in his eyes even as he ended things last night. Still, hearing it from Jimin made it feel final. Like your feelings were something childish and misguided that needed to be corrected.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the fresh prickle of tears. “It’s not that simple,” you whispered, voice gentle and hesitant, the hopeless romantic in you still clinging to threads of hope even now. “He’s not… he’s not all bad. He cares, in his own way. I know he does.”

Jimin exhaled slowly, running a hand down his face. His expression softened just a fraction, the anger from last night giving way to something heavier—concern, frustration, love. “Eimi… I know you see the best in people. That’s who you are. But this? This isn’t the best version of anything. He’s older, more experienced, and he knows exactly how much power he has over you. You deserve someone who chooses you without making you beg for scraps. Someone who stays. Not someone who keeps you on a string because it feels good in the moment.”

You didn’t argue back this time. The fight had drained out of you overnight, leaving only that quiet ache and the familiar urge to downplay everything. You nodded instead, small and reluctant, eyes fixed on the swirling tea in your mug. “Okay,” you murmured, even though it didn’t feel okay. Even though part of you wanted to defend Jungkook, to explain that last night hadn’t been just sex—it had been you letting him in again, trusting him again. But confrontation wasn’t your way. You avoided it, always had.

Jimin watched you for a long moment, then reached across the counter to gently squeeze your shoulder. “I’m not saying this to hurt you. I’m saying it because I love you. And I don’t want to come home one day and find out he broke you in ways I can’t fix.” His voice dropped quieter. “Promise me you’ll at least think about it. Really think about what you deserve.”

You gave another small nod, lips pressed together to keep them from trembling. “I will.”

He pulled you into a quick, tight hug then—warm, familiar, the kind that used to make everything better when you were little. “Text me when you get back to campus. And if he shows up again… call me. I don’t care what time it is.”

When he finally let go and headed for the door, suitcase in hand, the house felt even emptier. You stayed at the counter long after the sound of his car faded down the street, the sting of his words still echoing in your chest.

Just not with him.

You told yourself you’d listen. That you’d be strong, act chill, move on like the grown adult you kept claiming to be. But deep down, the soft, emotionally driven part of you—the one that had fallen for Jungkook years ago and never quite let go—already wondered how long that resolve would last the next time he looked at you with those conflicted eyes.

Because even now, after everything, a quiet, hopeless little voice whispered that maybe “not with him” wasn’t a rule you were ready to follow.

The dorm room felt quieter than usual when you got back to campus, even with Aliza’s scattered clothes draped over her chair and the faint hum of Genesis’s playlist leaking through the wall from next door. You’d unpacked mechanically—folding sweaters, lining up your textbooks, plugging in your charger—doing everything you could to keep your hands busy so your mind wouldn’t wander. But the second you sat down on the edge of your bed, knees pulled up to your chest, the thoughts came rushing back anyway.

You hated thinking about the way Jimin had looked at you that morning.

Not angry. Not disappointed in the loud, shouting way. Just… sad. Worried. Like you were some fragile thing he needed to wrap in bubble wrap and hide from the world. Like you hadn’t been the one to open the door for Jungkook every single time. Like you hadn’t said yes with your whole chest, eyes soft and hopeful, body already leaning into him before your brain could catch up. Like you didn’t understand exactly who he was.

But you did understand.

Jungkook got around. Everyone on campus knew it. The girls who whispered in the quad, the knowing looks in the media building, the way his name sometimes came up in conversations that suddenly went quiet when you walked by. He didn’t stay. He didn’t do soft mornings or consistent texts or the kind of love that felt safe. He showed up when he needed something—warmth, distraction, escape—and then he left, carrying pieces of you with him like they didn’t weigh anything.

You’d always known that.

You were just stupid enough to hope he’d change those habits for you.

The thought made your chest ache, sharp and familiar. You hugged your knees tighter, long hair falling over one shoulder as you stared at the fairy lights you’d strung up above your bed—the same soft pink glow that had watched everything happen in your childhood room just days ago. Deep down, you knew the truth. He would never drop those habits. Not even for you. Especially not for you. You weren’t special enough to rewrite his patterns. You were just the girl next door who had always looked at him like he hung the moon, the one who still asked if he was okay even when he was the one hurting you.

Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you blinked them back quickly, swallowing the lump in your throat. Stop it. You’re not a victim. You had chosen this. Over and over. You had let him in, let him kiss you in your innocent childhood bedroom, let him end things with those careful, “protective” words that still stung worse than any outright rejection. This isn’t good for you. As if he got to decide what was good for you while still taking what he wanted.

You pressed your forehead to your knees, breathing slow and shaky. The hopeless romantic in you wanted to believe there was still a chance—that maybe the guilt you’d seen in his eyes meant something, that the way he kept coming back meant he felt it too. But the quieter, more honest part of you knew better. You were attached. Deeply. Painfully. And he was… Jungkook. Conflicted, avoidant, more experienced, and always one step away from walking out the door.

Your phone sat dark on the nightstand. No messages. No “did you get back okay?” Nothing. Just the heavy silence of a break that wasn’t even clean—just another messy, impulsive cut that left you bleeding quietly in your dorm room while pretending you were fine.

You let out a small, watery breath and reached for your blanket, pulling it up around your shoulders like it could shield you from the ache. I knew what he was. I just hoped I’d be different.

But you weren’t.

And that truth settled in your chest, heavy and unrelenting, as the fairy lights continued to glow softly above you—pretty, innocent, and completely out of place with how tangled and wrong everything felt now.

The days after Thanksgiving break dragged in a strange, muted way. Jungkook threw himself back into campus life—late nights in the editing lab, basketball pickup games he didn’t really care about anymore, anything to keep his hands and mind occupied. But the distraction never lasted long.

Aira noticed.

She’d been trying harder lately—showing up at his dorm unannounced, texting him memes at odd hours, dragging him to parties where the music was too loud and the lights too bright. But his responses had grown shorter, his touches absentminded. When they were together, his eyes would drift somewhere else, and she caught him checking his phone more often, thumb hovering like he was waiting for a message that never came.

“You’ve been weird since break,” she said one evening, perched on the edge of his desk while he pretended to edit footage. Her voice had that sharp edge she used when she sensed she was losing ground. “Who’s on your mind, Jungkook? Because it’s sure as hell not me anymore.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just shrugged, jaw tight. The truth sat heavy in his chest: it wasn’t her. It hadn’t been for weeks. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw soft eyes and full lips, heard a quiet “I missed you” that still echoed. You. Always you. The way you looked at him like he was worth staying for. The way you never pushed, never demanded, just gave and gave until he took too much and left anyway.

He started asking around in secret.

First it was casual—bumping into Genesis outside the campus center, mentioning your name like it was nothing. “Hey, how’s Eimi doing? Haven’t seen her around much.” Genesis raised a brow, arms crossed. “She’s fine. Why don’t you just talk to her yourself?” He’d laughed it off, but the knot in his stomach only tightened.

Then Aliza, in the M building hallway after one of her film projects. “She’s been keeping to herself a lot. Quiet. You good?” Again, the same gentle push: “Just text her, dude. Stop being weird about it.”

Every time, the answer was the same. Talk to her yourself. But he couldn’t. The guilt from that night in your childhood room still sat like lead in his gut. He’d ended it “for your own good,” and now the emptiness he felt proved how badly he’d lied to himself.

Aira found out anyway.

She was good at that—digging, piecing things together, turning suspicion into confrontation. One afternoon she cornered you outside the animal science building, blunt haircut sharp against her face, eyes narrowed with that familiar possessive fire.

“So you’re the one,” she said without preamble, stepping close enough that you had to stop on the path. “Eimi, right? Jungkook’s little childhood friend he can’t seem to quit talking about in his sleep.”

You blinked, adjusting the strap of your tote bag, the Hello Kitty pins catching the light. Your heart gave a small, tired lurch, but you didn’t flinch. You were done shrinking. Done playing the victim in your own story. You knew exactly what this was.

“Yeah,” you said quietly, voice soft but steady. “That’s me.”

Aira’s lips curled. “He was just using you, you know. To get back at me. To make me jealous. That’s all it ever was. Some pathetic attempt to feel something while we were on a break.”

You looked at her for a long moment, warm eyes meeting hers without anger, without tears. The old you might have crumbled. But something had shifted since Jimin’s words and that quiet night in your dorm. You weren’t going to let this hurt the way it once would.

“Yeah… I know,” you replied, almost gently. Like you were stating a fact about the weather. “I’ve known that for a while. He gets around. Doesn’t stay. It’s not anything new.” A small, tired smile touched your lips, not quite reaching your eyes. “Me and him… we’re done. Have been since break. So if that’s what you wanted to hear, there it is.”

Aira stared at you, clearly expecting more—tears, denial, some kind of fight. When nothing came, she just scoffed and walked away, heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

Later that evening, she brought it straight to Jungkook.

They were in his dorm, the door barely closed before she crossed her arms and dropped it like a grenade.

“I talked to Eimi today.”

Jungkook froze mid-reach for his water bottle, stomach dropping. “You what?”

“I talked to your little side project,” Aira continued, voice rising. “She confirmed it—you two are done. She said she’s known all along you were just using her. So why the hell do you still care? Why are you asking her friends about her? Why does her name still come up when you’re half-asleep next to me?”

The room felt too small. Jungkook’s pulse hammered in his ears. “You went and talked to her?” His voice came out low at first, then cracked with anger. “What the fuck, Aira? That’s not your business. You had no right to go near her.”

Aira laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “No right? You’re the one who’s been checked out for weeks because of her, and I’m the one overstepping? Please.”

Something inside Jungkook snapped.

He stood up fast, chair scraping loud against the floor. “You don’t get to do that. You don’t get to insert yourself into my shit and then act like you’re the victim here.” The words tasted bitter as they left his mouth—because they sounded too familiar. Too much like the ones he’d thrown at you years ago in high school, when you’d quietly stepped into his mess when the shit with Legacy happened, like a fly… You just overstep. Constantly insert yourself.

He’d yelled at you for the exact same thing. For caring too much. For getting too close. For seeing him clearly when he didn’t want to be seen.

And now—standing here, watching Aira do the very thing he’d punished you for—he felt the full circle hit him like a punch to the chest.

He’d been angry at you back then not because you were annoying.

He’d been angry because he wanted everything with you.

He hadn’t realized it at the time—too young, too ego-driven, too scared of the softness you brought out in him. You saw the real him. The bad parts. The revolving door of girls. The way he used attention to feel big. And instead of running, you stayed. You cared anyway. You offered band-aids and quiet concern and that hopeless, trusting love.

So he pushed you away. Hard. Because if you got too close, you’d see how ugly it all was. How scared he was to put his ego down and just be soft for you. How terrified he was that he wasn’t enough for the kind of love you gave so freely.

“Get out,” he said suddenly, voice rough, eyes dark with the crash of realization.

Aira blinked. “What?”

“I said get out.” He didn’t yell. Didn’t need to. The quiet anger was worse. “We’re done. For real this time. Don’t come back.”

She stared at him for a long beat, then grabbed her bag with a scoff. The door slammed behind her, but Jungkook barely heard it.

He sank down onto the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

Fuck.

Everything came rushing back—the café when you were kids, the way you’d tried to protect him from Joy and ended up taking the hit. The dinner where his eyes had lingered on you in that too-tight dress and he’d hated himself for it. The way you’d always been there, soft and steady, while he chased chaos and ego because it felt safer than admitting he wanted the real thing.

He’d yelled at you for overstepping because deep down he wanted you to. Wanted you in his life so badly it scared him. Wanted to be the kind of guy who deserved the way you looked at him. But he was too much of a coward to drop the armor, too addicted to the easy validation of girls who didn’t ask him to be better.

And now?

Now he’d pushed you away again. Told you it was “for your own good.” Left you hurting in your childhood bedroom under those stupid fairy lights. And the worst part—he still couldn’t stop thinking about you. Still couldn’t stop asking your friends about you like some pathetic secret. Still missed the warmth only you gave him.

Jungkook dragged a hand down his face, breath shaky.

He’d chosen easy. Chosen chaos. Chosen to protect his ego instead of being soft for the one person who had ever made him want to try.

And in doing so, he’d lost the only thing that had ever felt real.

The realization sat heavy, painful, and for the first time, he didn’t know how to run from it.

The quad was busy with the usual post-break rush—students hurrying between classes, laughter echoing off the buildings, the faint smell of coffee drifting from the campus center. Jungkook had cut across it on his way back from the M building, headphones half-on, mind somewhere else entirely, when he saw you.

You were sitting on the low stone wall near the fountain, legs swinging lightly, the baby-pink tote bag with its little Hello Kitty pins resting beside you. Genesis was saying something that made you laugh—soft, genuine, the kind of laugh that reached your warm eyes and made your full lips curve in that pretty way he remembered too well. You looked… okay. More than okay. Your long hair caught the winter sunlight, a few strands dancing across your cheek as you nodded at whatever Genesis was animatedly explaining. No lingering sadness in your posture. No searching glances toward the paths like you used to do when you hoped he might appear.

You weren’t looking for him.

The realization hit Jungkook square in the chest, hard enough that he stopped walking mid-step. His stomach twisted. You were smiling. Moving on. Existing without the weight of him pulling at you. And it destroyed him in a way he hadn’t expected—because he knew, deep down, he didn’t deserve to see you like this. Not after the way he’d left you in your childhood room, not after the cold “this isn’t good for you,” not after every time he’d taken your softness and given nothing steady in return.

He stood there longer than he should have, hidden partially by a group of passing students, eyes fixed on you. The regret tasted metallic on his tongue. She’s fine without me. The thought should have brought relief. Instead it hollowed him out.

You glanced up then—not at him, just scanning the quad casually—and for a split second your gaze almost brushed his direction. He turned away fast, heart hammering, and kept walking before you could notice.

But the image stayed with him all day.

Later that afternoon, he couldn’t stay away.

He found you outside the animal science building after your last class, the sky already turning that soft gray of early winter evening. You were adjusting the strap of your bag, cheeks a little pink from the cold, when he stepped into your path.

“Hey,” he said, voice quieter than usual, hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets like he needed the barrier.

You looked up, surprise flickering across your face before it smoothed into something more careful. Not cold. Not the open, trusting warmth he was used to. Just… guarded. Your eyes met his for a moment, soft but distant, like you were holding a piece of yourself back now. “Hey, Jungkook.”

The silence stretched awkward and heavy. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, the words tangling before they could form. “I, uh… saw you earlier. In the quad. With Genesis.” He rubbed the back of his neck, unfinished sentence hanging there. “You looked… good. Happy.”

You gave a small nod, adjusting your bag again. “Yeah. Class was nice today.” Your voice stayed gentle, but there was a subtle distance in it—no immediate “how are you?” no lingering look that asked for reassurance. The softness was still there, but it wasn’t offered as freely. You weren’t reaching anymore.

Jungkook felt the shift like a punch. The imbalance had flipped, and it left him unsteady. He was the one searching your face now, the one wanting more than the polite surface. “That’s… cool. You always liked that stuff.” He hesitated, then added, “I’ve been thinking about… break. About what I said that night.”

Your eyes flickered, but you didn’t fill the silence for him. Didn’t make it easier. You just waited, guarded but kind, like you were protecting the parts of yourself he’d already bruised.

He swallowed. “I didn’t mean to—” The sentence died again. He didn’t know how to finish it without sounding like he was making excuses. “I just… wanted to check if you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” you said softly, and it sounded true. Not a lie to spare him, but a quiet fact. Your full lips pressed together for a second before you offered a small, careful smile. “Really. Thanks for asking.”

The words should have been a relief. Instead they stung. You weren’t pulling away dramatically—you were just… different. Less immediate. Less open. And he hated how much he missed the version of you that used to lean in without thinking.

Before he could say anything else, you glanced toward the path. “I should head back. Aliza’s waiting for me to study.” You started to move past him, then paused, looking back with those warm eyes that still held too much understanding. “Take care of yourself, Jungkook.”

He stood there watching you walk away, the faint sway of your long hair, the pink tote bag bouncing lightly against your hip. The regret coiled tighter.

The next few days, he started trying—in his own clumsy, half-formed way.

He showed up outside your dorm one evening, pretending it was coincidence when you stepped out for fresh air. “Hey. Cold night,” he said, falling into step beside you without being invited. You didn’t tell him to leave. You just nodded, hands tucked into your coat pockets, guarded but not unkind.

Another time he lingered near the animal science building after your practicum, offering awkwardly, “Need help carrying any of that stuff? Looks heavy.” You let him take one of the lighter supply bags, but the conversation stayed surface-level. He tried to stay longer—asking about your classes, mentioning a film project he was working on—but every time the silence grew too heavy, you’d give that small, careful smile and say you had somewhere to be.

He kept coming back anyway. Small gestures. Random texts that said things like “saw they added new stuff to the quad café, thought you might like the pastries” or “if you need notes from bio, I still have mine from freshman year.” Nothing big. Nothing that admitted how much he missed the way you used to look at him. How much he missed being the one you chose without hesitation.

But every interaction left him more unsettled. You were polite. You were soft. You were still you.

Just… not his the way you used to be.

And the yearning only grew—quiet, insistent, eating at him in the quiet hours when Aira was long gone and the dorm felt too empty. He’d stare at his phone, thumb hovering over your contact, remembering the way your voice had trembled that night in your childhood room when he’d ended things “for your own good.”

He didn’t know how to fix it yet. Didn’t know how to say the messy, terrifying truth that had started to surface: that he missed the softness only you gave him. That he was starting to realize he’d pushed away the one person who had ever made him want to be better.

So he kept showing up. Badly. Awkwardly. Hoping that one day you’d look at him again the way you used to—open, trusting, like he was worth the risk.

Even if he still wasn’t sure he deserved it.

The wind had picked up by the time your last class let out, carrying that sharp, late-November bite that made your breath fog in the air. You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, the soft pink scarf you’d knitted last year brushing against your chin as you started the familiar walk back toward the dorms.

You didn’t expect him.

Jungkook appeared at the edge of the path like he’d been waiting—not obviously, but close enough that it couldn’t be pure coincidence. His hands were shoved in the pockets of his black hoodie, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold, dark eyes finding yours the moment you noticed him.

“Hey,” he said, voice low, almost swallowed by the wind. “Heading back?”

You nodded, adjusting the strap of your tote bag. “Yeah.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

The question felt careful. Like he was testing the waters. You hesitated for half a second—your guarded heart reminding you to be smart—but the night was cold and the path was long, and some part of you still couldn’t say no to him completely.

“Sure.”

The walk started quiet. Snow hadn’t fallen yet, but the ground felt frozen under your boots, every step crunching softly. Neither of you spoke at first. The tension between you wasn’t sharp like before; it was softer, heavier, wrapped in the kind of silence that used to feel comfortable when you were kids sneaking across backyards.

Jungkook kept glancing at you from the corner of his eye. You could feel it—the way his gaze lingered a little longer on the curve of your cheek, the way your hair moved when the wind caught it. He slowed his pace to match yours exactly, shoulders brushing yours once, twice, before he caught himself and shifted slightly away.

“You look warm,” he murmured after a while, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “That scarf… you still have it.”

You touched the soft yarn instinctively. “Yeah. My mom helped me finish it last Christmas.”

He hummed, the sound low and familiar. For a moment it felt like old times—the easy rhythm of walking side by side, no pressure, just presence. The cold air made your cheeks flush, and when you shivered, Jungkook moved closer without thinking, his arm hovering near your back like he wanted to pull you into his side for warmth.

You felt it. The almost-touch. The way the air between you thickened with that old pull. Your heart stuttered, remembering how safe his body used to feel against yours, how easily you used to lean in. For one dangerous second, you almost did—almost tilted toward him, almost let the softness win again.

But you caught yourself.

You stepped just far enough away that his arm dropped back to his side, the space between you suddenly deliberate. Your eyes stayed forward, voice gentle but steady. “It’s not that far now.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened. He felt the pull-back like a door closing softly in his face. The rejection wasn’t loud or angry—it was quiet, self-protective, and it killed him more than any fight could have. Because he could see it: you still felt something. The way your breath hitched when he got close, the way your fingers fidgeted with the scarf like you were holding yourself back. But you weren’t offering it anymore. Not freely. Not the way you used to.

He wanted to say something real. The words sat right on his tongue—I miss you. Not just this. You.—but they tangled, too heavy, too scary. Instead he settled for something safer.

“I’ve been thinking about that night. At your parents’ house.” His voice dropped lower, rougher. “What I said… ending things. I didn’t—” He stopped, swallowing hard, unfinished. His hand flexed at his side like he wanted to reach for yours but knew he’d lost the right. “I just… wanted to make sure you’re really okay.”

You glanced at him then, warm eyes meeting his for a long beat. There was still softness there, but it was tempered now, wrapped in caution. “I’m okay, Jungkook,” you said quietly. “I’m trying to be.”

The dorm building came into view too soon. You stopped at the steps, turning to face him fully. The fairy lights from your room glowed faintly through the window above, a soft pink reminder of everything that had happened. For a moment neither of you moved. The tension hung there—soft, aching, full of almosts.

Jungkook looked at you like he was memorizing the way the cold had pinked your cheeks, the way your lips parted slightly on a quiet breath. He took half a step closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne mixed with the winter air.

Your heart raced. You felt the pull—the old habit of wanting to close the gap, to let him in again. But you didn’t. You stayed rooted, guarding the tender parts of yourself he’d already bruised.

“Goodnight,” you whispered, offering him one last small, careful smile before turning toward the door.

“Night,” he managed, voice thick. He watched you go inside, the door clicking shut behind you, and stood there long after the light in your window flickered on.

The almost-moment replayed in his head the entire walk back to his own dorm—how close he’d been to saying something honest, how you’d pulled back first this time. It left a hollow ache in his chest that no amount of late-night editing or loud music could fill.

A few days later, the ache only sharpened.

You were in the campus center café during a free hour between classes, sitting at a small table near the window with a guy from your English composition class. His name was Minjun—tall, easy smile, someone who had started sitting next to you a couple weeks ago and actually listened when you talked about animal rescue stories. He was laughing at something you’d said, leaning in a little closer, and you were smiling back—soft, genuine, not guarded the way you were with Jungkook lately.

Jungkook saw it all from across the room where he’d stopped to grab coffee. The way Minjun’s hand brushed yours when he passed you a napkin. The way you didn’t pull away. The casual, light flirtation in the air that didn’t carry any of the heavy history you shared with him.

Something ugly twisted in his gut. Not the loud, possessive kind of jealousy he was used to feeling with other girls. This was quieter. Deeper. Oh… I actually might lose her. The thought hit hard and fast. You were moving on. Trying. And the possibility that someone else could give you the easy, consistent warmth he’d never managed to offer made his chest feel too tight.

He left without getting his coffee.

That evening he messed up.

He showed up at your dorm unannounced again, knocking on your door even though it was late. When you opened it—still in your soft pink pajama top, hair loose around your shoulders—he didn’t even wait for a proper greeting.

“So you’re dating now?” The words came out colder than he intended, edged with that old defensiveness. “That guy from English? Looked pretty cozy in the café today.”

You blinked, surprise flashing across your face before it settled into something steadier. You didn’t flinch. Didn’t shrink. You just looked at him with those warm eyes that now held a quiet boundary.

“His name is Minjun,” you said softly, voice calm but honest. “And we’re not dating. We’re just… talking. He asked me to grab coffee sometime.” You paused, then added, even gentler, “You don’t get to act like that, Jungkook. You’re the one who ended it. You said it wasn’t good for me. So you don’t get to show up and be weird when I try to listen to you.”

The words landed like a quiet slap. No yelling. No tears. Just the truth, delivered with that same soft strength you’d always had—but now it was protecting you instead of offering itself to him.

Jungkook stood there, mouth slightly open, the regret crashing over him again. He wanted to argue. Wanted to say he didn’t mean it like that. But he couldn’t. Because you were right. He had ended it. He had walked away. And now he was stumbling back in, clumsy and possessive, because the thought of you giving that softness to someone else terrified him.

“I—” He stopped, running a hand through his hair, frustration and self-awareness mixing badly. “I know. I just… fuck, I don’t know how to do this right.”

You didn’t reach for him this time. You stayed in the doorway, one hand resting on the frame like a gentle barrier. “Then maybe figure it out before you keep showing up,” you whispered, not unkindly. “I’m trying to be okay without waiting for you anymore.”

The door closed softly between you.

Jungkook stood in the hallway for a long time after, the quiet click echoing louder than any slam could have. For the first time, the realization settled fully, painful and clear:

He couldn’t just want you back.

He had to change—if he ever wanted the chance to deserve you again.

And right now, he had no idea how to start.

The silence after you closed the door lingered in the hallway longer than it should have. Jungkook stood there, forehead pressed against the cool wood for a few seconds, the weight of your calm, honest words pressing down on his chest like a stone he couldn’t shake off.

You don’t get to act like that. You’re the one who ended it.

He knew you were right. He’d said the words himself—“this isn’t good for you”—and then spent the weeks since trying to crawl back in small, clumsy ways. Offering to carry bags. Walking you home. Lingering like he still had any claim to your time. And every time you pulled back, guarded but kind, it chipped away at something inside him he didn’t know how to name.

He needed to stop. He needed to give you space. He needed to figure out how to be better before he kept hurting you.

Instead, he did the opposite.

Two nights later, the regret and frustration boiled over into something reckless.

Vanessa had been glaring at him every time their paths crossed since the beginning of the year—sharp eyes, clipped tone, the RA who still remembered how casually he’d treated her last semester. She hated him. Everyone knew it. The way she’d scan the freshman dorms like she was waiting for him to slip up again. The way her voice turned icy whenever she had to address him.

He told himself he wasn’t looking for her when he ended up at the small RA office near the front desk after midnight, pretending he needed to report a “noise complaint” that didn’t exist. She was alone, finishing paperwork, blonde hair tied back with that same neat ribbon, lips pressed into a thin line the second she saw him.

“What do you want, Jungkook?”

He didn’t have a good answer. The frustration from your doorway, the image of you smiling at Minjun in the café, the way you’d gently set a boundary he kept tripping over—it all mixed into a messy, selfish need to feel something easy. Something that didn’t ask him to change. Something that didn’t look at him with soft, guarded hope and make him feel like he was failing.

So when Vanessa stood up, arms crossed, ready to tell him to leave, he stepped closer instead. “I don’t know,” he muttered, voice rough. “Maybe I just wanted to see if you still hated me this much.”

She laughed once, bitter and sharp. “I do.”

But she didn’t step back.

The kiss was impulsive, angry, born from the wrong kind of hunger. It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t tender. It was heat and friction and the kind of distraction he used to chase before you. Vanessa’s hands fisted in his hoodie, pulling him into the small back room where the spare keys were kept, her mouth hot and demanding against his. Clothes came off fast—her neat ribbon coming undone, his shirt hitting the floor. She was experienced, sharp-tongued even in the moment, whispering things that stroked his ego while her nails dug into his shoulders.

He fucked her against the desk, hard and fast, the way he used to when feelings didn’t matter. Her legs wrapped around his waist, moans echoing quietly in the small space. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about how different it felt—how there was no quiet whimper of his name like a secret, no trusting hands cradling his face, no warm eyes searching his like he was worth staying for.

When it was over, the guilt hit almost immediately.

Vanessa fixed her hair with steady hands, the ribbon back in place like nothing had happened, but her eyes were colder than before. “This doesn’t change anything,” she said flatly. “You’re still an asshole.”

“Yeah,” he muttered, pulling his hoodie back on, the fabric suddenly feeling too tight. “I know.”

He left without looking back, the taste of regret already sour in his mouth. The walk across campus was freezing, but it did nothing to cool the shame burning low in his stomach. He’d messed up again. Not just because he’d slept with someone else, but because he’d done it the same night your words were still ringing in his ears. The same night he’d told himself he needed to do better.

By the next morning, the news had already started to spread in that quiet, dorm-way—whispers in the hallways, a knowing look from one of the other RAs. You heard about it before lunch.

Genesis mentioned it casually over coffee in the quad, not realizing how deep it would cut. “Apparently Jungkook hooked up with Vanessa last night. The RA? Girl has hated him forever. Guess hate sex is a thing.”

You froze mid-sip, the warm paper cup suddenly too hot against your fingers. The sting was immediate but quiet. Not the dramatic heartbreak from before—just a dull, familiar ache that reminded you exactly why you’d started guarding yourself. You’d known he got around. You’d known he didn’t stay. But hearing it so soon after he’d shown up at your door, after that almost-soft moment on the cold walk home, still hurt.

You didn’t cry. You didn’t chase after him. You just nodded, offering Genesis a small, tired smile. “Yeah… sounds like him.”

Inside, though, the hopeless romantic in you cracked a little more. He couldn’t even wait. Couldn’t even pretend he was trying. You’d pulled back. You’d set the boundary. And he’d gone and done the exact thing that proved why you needed it.

Jungkook found out you knew later that afternoon.

He was walking past the animal science building when he saw you sitting on the same stone wall as before, this time alone, knees drawn up, long hair falling over one shoulder as you scrolled through your phone. Something in your posture looked smaller, more closed off, and the guilt from last night slammed into him again.

He approached before he could talk himself out of it.

“Eimi.”

You looked up, eyes meeting his. There was no immediate softness this time. No searching gaze. Just a quiet, guarded calm that made his stomach drop.

“I heard,” you said before he could speak, voice soft but steady. “About Vanessa.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. He wanted to deny it, to explain it away, to say it didn’t mean anything. But the lie wouldn’t come. “It was stupid,” he muttered instead, running a hand through his hair. “I was pissed off. At myself. At everything. I wasn’t thinking.”

You nodded slowly, fingers tightening around your phone. “You don’t have to explain. We’re done, remember? You ended it.” The words weren’t angry—just honest, laced with that gentle exhaustion of someone who had already accepted the pattern. “But you don’t get to keep showing up at my door, walking me home, acting like you miss me, and then do… that. It’s confusing. And it hurts.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it. The regret was suffocating now. He could see the imbalance flipping even further—you protecting your heart while he kept stumbling forward, messy and selfish. He wanted to tell you he was sorry. That he was spiraling because the thought of losing you for real was starting to scare him more than anything. That sleeping with Vanessa had felt empty and wrong the second it was over because it wasn’t you.

But the words still wouldn’t come out right.

“I know,” he said finally, voice rough. “I fucked up. Again.”

You stood up, slinging your tote bag over your shoulder. The fairy lights pin on it caught the light for a second, a small, innocent reminder of everything he kept ruining. “Then stop,” you whispered, not cold, but firm in that soft way only you could manage. “Stop messing up and then coming back to me like I’m supposed to fix it. I’m trying to move on, Jungkook. You should too.”

You walked away without waiting for a reply, leaving him standing there in the cold quad, the wind biting at his skin.

This time the realization didn’t just ache.

It burned.

He couldn’t just want you back. He couldn’t keep showing up half-formed, expecting your softness to wait while he figured himself out. He had to change—if he ever wanted the chance to be the kind of person who didn’t make you pull away.

And for the first time, the fear that he might already be too late settled deep in his chest, heavy and unrelenting.

He watched your figure disappear toward the dorms, pink tote bag swaying, and felt the full weight of everything he’d lost by choosing easy over real.

The next few weeks settled into a quiet kind of distance that felt heavier than any fight.

Jungkook stopped approaching you.

Not dramatically. Not with some grand declaration or sudden disappearance. He simply… stepped back.

He still saw you around campus—sitting in the quad with Genesis and Aliza, laughing softly over something on your phone, your pink tote bag resting beside you like a small piece of home. He’d catch glimpses of you leaving the animal science building, cheeks flushed from the cold lab air, long hair tucked behind one ear as you adjusted your scarf. Every time, the urge to walk over hit him hard: to say something, to check on you, to linger like he used to.

But he didn’t.

Because every time he thought about closing that gap, your voice echoed in his head—calm, soft, but final.

You don’t get to act like that. You’re the one who ended it.

Stop messing up and then coming back to me like I’m supposed to fix it.

So he stayed where he was. Across the quad. On the other side of the path. Watching from a distance that felt like punishment he’d earned. The regret had stopped being sharp and loud; now it was a constant, low hum under his skin. He didn’t deserve to keep inserting himself into your life when all he did was make it messier. For the first time, the thought wasn’t “I want her back.” It was quieter, heavier:

I don’t deserve her right now.

He threw himself into other things instead. Long hours in the editing lab, actually finishing film projects instead of half-assing them. He stopped answering late-night texts from people who only wanted the chaotic version of him. He turned down parties. He even avoided the freshman dorm area altogether, not wanting to run into Vanessa and remember how empty that night had felt.

It wasn’t for you—at least, that’s what he told himself. It was just… necessary. Because continuing the way he had been wasn’t working. It was only hurting you more.

You noticed.

Of course you did.

At first it was a small relief. No more unexpected knocks at your door. No more awkward walks home where the tension made your chest tight. No more half-finished sentences that left you wondering what he really meant. You focused on your classes—staying late in the animal lab with the kittens, laughing more freely with Genesis and Aliza during study sessions, even agreeing to that casual coffee with Minjun from English (nothing serious, just nice conversation that didn’t come with years of baggage).

You were still soft. Still you. But the parts of that softness that used to reach instinctively toward Jungkook were tucked away now, protected. You weren’t waiting anymore. You weren’t checking your phone hoping for a text. You were choosing yourself, even if it still ached sometimes in the quiet moments before bed.

One afternoon, you saw him.

You were walking across the main quad after your practicum, scarf wrapped tight against the cold, when you spotted him near the M building steps. He was alone, backpack slung over one shoulder, staring down at something on his phone. For a second your heart did that familiar little stutter—the old pull, the memory of his warmth, the almost-moment on that cold walk home.

But then he looked up.

His eyes found yours across the distance.

For a long beat, neither of you moved. The wind tugged at your hair, at the hem of his hoodie. You could see the shift in his expression—the way his shoulders tensed like he wanted to cross the space, the way his jaw tightened like he was holding himself back.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there, watching you with dark, conflicted eyes that carried something new: restraint. Awareness. A quiet acknowledgment that maybe he shouldn’t come closer.

You felt it hit you somewhere deep.

He wasn’t chasing anymore.

The realization settled softly, not with triumph or relief, but with a strange, bittersweet ache. The boy who used to show up drunk at your door, who used to linger too long and leave too abruptly, was choosing to stay still now. Choosing not to push. Choosing—maybe for the first time—to respect the boundary you’d set.

Your fingers tightened around the strap of your tote bag. You gave him the smallest nod—polite, gentle, nothing more—and kept walking.

Jungkook didn’t follow.

He stayed right where he was, hands shoved in his pockets, eyes tracking you until you disappeared toward the dorm path. The regret twisted sharper, but underneath it was something else. Something quieter.

He was starting to understand that if he ever wanted a chance with you again, it couldn’t be because he wanted you.

It had to be because he’d become someone who didn’t keep breaking what he touched.

And for now, that meant standing still while you walked away.

Even if it hurt like hell.