Bad Neighbor | Jeon Jungkook (1/2)
Pairing: Jeon Jungkook × Y/N
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, Romance, Smut, Slice of Life, Angst, Slow Burn, Neighbor AU
Sypnosis: Y/N has always believed in structure over emotion, choosing stability over connection. But her new neighbor, Jeon Jungkook, refuses to respect either. Loud, unpredictable, and impossible to ignore, he disrupts every part of her carefully built life. As their clashes turn into quiet understanding, she is forced to question whether control is worth more than the connection she never expected to find.
A/N: Surprise! This was originally meant to be a one-shot, but my brain had other plans and turned it into something much bigger, ending up at 30K+ words. I hope you enjoy reading it just as much as I enjoyed (and slightly suffered through) writing it. Thank you for being here and for always supporting my stories.
You wake up before your alarm. There is a quiet kind of pride in that, though you would never say it out loud. The world has not yet begun moving, and still, you are already ahead of it. The city outside your window lingers in that soft gray hour where everything feels paused. No traffic yet. No noise. Just the distant hum of something waking up far away.
6:00 AM. You don’t check your phone. You don’t scroll. You don’t linger in bed the way other people do, tangled in blankets and thoughts they don’t want to face. You sit up, feet touching the floor at the same exact second every morning, as if your body has memorized a script you refuse to rewrite.
The floor is cold. It always is. You like that. It reminds you that you’re awake. That you’re here. That the day has started whether you feel ready or not.
The curtains slide open with one smooth motion. The light is faint, barely there, but you let it in anyway. Your apartment is small, clean, quiet. Everything has its place. The books aligned neatly. The shoes arranged by color. The kitchen counter spotless, as if no one ever cooks there.
Breakfast is the same as yesterday. And the day before that. Toast. Eggs. Coffee brewed to the exact strength you prefer. You move through it all without thinking, like muscle memory. No music. No television. Just the sound of the kettle, the clink of ceramic, the soft rhythm of a life that runs exactly the way you want it to.
Controlled. Predictable. Safe.
Your phone buzzes against the table. You glance at it, already knowing who it is. Anna. You let it buzz once. Twice. Three times. Then you pick it up.
“You’re awake, aren’t you?” she says the second you answer, her voice too bright for this hour. You take a sip of coffee before responding. “It’s six in the morning.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
You don’t smile. But there’s a shift in your expression, something softer. “Yes. I’m awake.”
“I hate you,” Anna groans. “Do you ever sleep like a normal person?”
“I sleep enough.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
You lean against the counter, gaze drifting toward the window. The sky is slowly turning from gray to pale blue. “You called me for a reason.”
“I did,” she says, then pauses. You can hear the rustling on her end, probably her digging through her bag, already running late. “I need you to tell me honestly. If I don’t show up today, will everything fall apart?”
“Yes.”
A beat. Then a dramatic sigh. “Unbelievable. You didn’t even hesitate.”
“You asked for honesty.”
“I was hoping for comfort.”
“Wrong person.”
Anna laughs, the sound warm and familiar. “You’re so cold. I don’t understand how we’re friends.”
“You talk too much. I don’t understand it either.”
“That’s a lie. You’d miss me.”
You don’t answer immediately. You take another sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch just long enough to be noticed.
“…You would,” she insists, quieter now.
“…Maybe,” you say.
Anna gasps. “That’s the closest thing to affection I’ve ever gotten from you.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And you’re still late,” you remind her.
She curses under her breath. “Okay, fine. I’m leaving now. Don’t start the meeting without me.”
“I will.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“You have five minutes.”
“I need ten.”
“You have five.”
“Y/N.”
“Anna.”
A pause. Then she laughs again, softer this time. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re predictable.”
“Wow. That’s rich coming from you.”
You hang up before she can say anything else. The silence returns instantly, settling around you like it belongs there. You finish your coffee. Wash your cup. Dry it. Place it back exactly where it goes. By the time you step out of your apartment, you already feel ahead. Of time. Of people. Of everything.
The hallway is empty. No one else on your floor wakes up this early. No one else moves this quietly. You lock your door, checking it once. Then again. Just to be sure. It clicks the same way it always does.
The elevator ride is uneventful. The lobby is calm. The city, however, is no longer asleep. Cars begin to fill the streets. People rush past each other with coffee cups and tired eyes. The world catches up quickly. But you’re already ahead. Work is where everything makes sense. Deadlines. Expectations. Results. There is no confusion there. No uncertainty. You put in the hours, you get the outcome. Simple. Clean.
Your office is already open when you arrive. Lights on. Air conditioning too cold. The faint smell of coffee lingering in the air. You settle into your desk, laptop opening, fingers already moving before you fully sit down. Emails. Reports. Edits. Everything flows the way it should. Until the chair across from you scrapes loudly against the floor.
“You started without me.”
You don’t look up. “You were late.”
“I was three minutes late.”
“You said five.”
“That was a negotiation tactic.”
You glance at her now. Anna looks exactly how she always does in the morning. Slightly disheveled, hair barely cooperating, but still somehow put together in a way that feels effortless.
“You lost,” you say simply.
She drops into the chair, exasperated. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet, you sit next to me every day.”
“Because you’d replace me if I didn’t.”
You don’t deny it.
Anna narrows her eyes. “You’re kidding. Right?”
You tilt your head slightly.
“…You’re kidding,” she repeats, less certain.
“You’re good at your job,” you say. “That’s why you’re still here.”
She stares at you for a moment, then leans back in her chair. “You know what your problem is?”
“I don’t have one.”
“You do. You treat everything like it’s temporary. Like people are just… tasks.”
You return your attention to your screen. “People complicate things.”
“That’s the point.”
“No,” you say, typing steadily. “That’s the problem.”
Anna watches you quietly now. The teasing fades, replaced by something more thoughtful.
“When was the last time you went out?” she asks.
“I go out.”
“Work doesn’t count.”
“It does to me.”
“That’s sad.”
“It’s efficient.”
She leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. “Have you ever even dated anyone?”
Your fingers pause for half a second. Barely noticeable. “No.”
Anna blinks. “Wait. Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“Not even once?”
“No.”
She lets out a small, incredulous laugh. “Y/N… you’re telling me you’ve lived your whole life and never even tried?”
“I didn’t see the point.”
“The point is… I don’t know, living?”
“I am living.”
She studies you, searching for something. “You’re surviving,” she says gently. “That’s not the same thing.”
You close your laptop. Not forcefully. Just enough to signal that the conversation is over.
“I have work to do.”
Anna sighs, leaning back again. “You always do.”
“Yes.”
“And when you don’t?”
You meet her gaze. Calm. Certain. “I make sure I do.”
Anna looks like she wants to say more. She doesn’t. Instead, she reaches for her coffee, taking a long sip before muttering, “One day, someone’s going to mess all of this up for you.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Unlikely.”
She smiles, but there’s something knowing in it. “You say that now.”
You turn back to your screen. Your world is steady. Carefully built. Untouched. And you intend to keep it that way. You always do. You don’t notice the moving truck pulling into your apartment building that evening. You don’t hear the laughter echoing through the hallway hours later. You don’t see the door beside yours opening for the first time. For now, your world remains exactly as you left it. Quiet. Controlled. Uninterrupted. But not for long.
The first sound comes at 11:47 PM. It is soft enough to ignore. A dull scrape, like something dragged across a floor. You pause, only for a second, eyes lifting from your laptop screen. You wait for it to end. It doesn’t. Another sound follows. A heavier one this time. A box hitting the ground. Then a voice. Laughter. Full, unfiltered, spilling into the hallway like the time does not matter. Like nothing needs to be adjusted.
You stare at the wall. Your fingers hover over the keyboard, suspended between finishing the sentence you were typing and closing the laptop entirely.
It will stop, you tell yourself. People move in. It’s temporary. One night. Maybe two. You try to return to your work. A burst of music cuts through the wall. Your head lifts again. This time, you don’t try to ignore it.
The bass is low but persistent, vibrating faintly through the quiet you rely on. Another laugh follows, louder than before. Someone says something you can’t quite make out, then a chorus of voices responds.
You exhale slowly, closing your laptop with care, even though irritation has already settled beneath your skin. You glance at the clock. 11:52 PM.
Five minutes. You give them five minutes. You stand, moving to the kitchen, pouring yourself a glass of water. The sound continues behind you. Something drops again. A voice calls out, amused, unapologetic.
“Careful, that’s probably breakable.”
“It’s fine,” another voice answers, followed by laughter.
You take a sip of water. You wait. Five minutes pass. Nothing changes. The music shifts into something louder. The laughter follows. Footsteps move back and forth, uneven, uncontained.
Your routine fractures quietly. Sleep at eleven. Wake at six. Repeat. Simple. Reliable. Not tonight.
You set the glass down. You don’t rush. You straighten your sleeve without thinking, grounding yourself in the small habits that have always kept everything in place. Then you walk to the door. The hallway greets you with light and noise. Boxes are stacked carelessly outside the apartment beside your door. Some are open, some half taped, as if whoever owns them lost interest halfway through. Shoes are scattered near the entrance. A jacket hangs off the door handle like it was tossed there without a second thought. And the door itself is open. Wide enough for the music and laughter to spill out without resistance.
You stand there for a moment. This is new. This kind of mess. This kind of presence. It doesn’t belong here. Not in your building. Not on your floor. You step forward anyway.
Your knock is firm. It blends into the noise. No one hears it. You knock again. Louder this time. Still nothing. Your patience thins, just enough to push you one step further. You reach for the door and push it open. The room inside feels alive in a way that unsettles you immediately. Warm light. Music playing from somewhere you can’t see. Boxes everywhere, open and half unpacked. A group of people sitting on the floor, drinks in hand, laughing like this is the best part of their day.
And then there’s him. He’s standing near the center of it all, one hand holding a box, the other pushing his hair back absentmindedly. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing ink that stretches from his wrist up past his arm, disappearing beneath the fabric. The tattoos catch the light when he moves, detailed and impossible to ignore. There’s a small silver ring on his lip. Another glints at his ear. He turns at the sound of the door. His eyes land on you instantly. And he smiles. Like this is normal. Like you showing up uninvited at midnight is just another part of his evening.
“…Hi,” he says.
The word lands softer than the room around it. You don’t return it. “It’s midnight,” you say. Your voice cuts through the space. Not loud, but sharp enough to shift the energy.
The laughter quiets. Conversations pause. A few heads turn toward you, curious, mildly amused. But he doesn’t look away. He studies you for a moment, as if trying to place you somewhere he hasn’t quite figured out yet.
“Okay,” he replies.
You blink once. “That’s not a response,” you say.
“It sounded like a statement.”
“It’s a problem.”
A faint laugh slips from him, quiet but clear. He sets the box down beside him, giving you his full attention now.
“You live next door?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“That explains the timing.”
“The timing is the issue.”
“Right,” he nods, glancing briefly around the room. “We might be a little loud.”
“A little?”
He looks back at you, lips pressing together as if he’s holding back another smile. “Okay. More than a little.”
You cross your arms. “There are people trying to sleep.”
“There are also people trying to move in,” he counters, not defensive, just matter of fact.
“That doesn’t require this,” you gesture slightly toward the room, the music, the noise, the entire scene unfolding behind him.
He follows your gaze, then shrugs lightly. “It helps.”
“With what?”
“Not hating the process.”
You stare at him. “I don’t care if you hate it,” you reply. “I care that you’re keeping everyone else awake.”
There’s a small pause. Then he exhales softly, running a hand through his hair again. “That’s fair.”
The answer comes easier than you expect. No argument. No resistance. Just… agreement. It throws you off more than if he had pushed back. He turns slightly, addressing the room. “Hey, let’s bring it down a bit.”
There’s a mix of groans and halfhearted responses, but the music lowers. Conversations soften. The space adjusts, not silent, but no longer overwhelming. You feel it immediately. The difference.
When he looks back at you, there’s something quieter in his expression now. Still relaxed. Still easy. But more aware.
“Better?” he asks.
You hesitate, just for a second. “…Yes.”
He nods once, satisfied. You should leave. You know that. The problem is addressed. There is nothing left to say. But you don’t move. And neither does he.
“You came over fast,” he says after a moment.
“I gave you time.”
“How much?”
“Five minutes.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “That’s generous.”
“It was enough.”
“For you, maybe.”
“For anyone who respects basic rules.”
“Okay,” he raises his hands slightly, not mocking, just acknowledging. “I get it. Quiet hours. No chaos. Minimal fun.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s what I heard.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. He smiles again. Not in a way that feels mocking. Just… playful. Like he’s testing something.
“You always this strict?” he asks.
“You always this inconsiderate?”
“Only on moving day.”
“And after?”
“Depends,” he says, tilting his head slightly. “Are you going to keep knocking on my door?”
You don’t answer immediately. Because there’s something in the way he says it. Not annoyed. Not defensive. Almost… curious.
“That won’t be necessary,” you reply.
“We’ll see.”
You don’t like that answer. You turn, stepping back into the hallway.
“Hey,” he calls out before you can leave completely.
You stop. “What?”
There’s a brief pause. Then, softer this time, “Sorry.”
You look at him properly now. For the first time, without the noise, without the irritation clouding everything. He looks… normal. Not careless. Not reckless. Just someone in the middle of something new.
“…Keep it down,” you say.
“I will.”
You nod once. Then you leave. Your door closes behind you with a soft click. The silence returns, but it’s not the same. It feels thinner. Like it can be broken now.
You stand there for a moment, listening. The music is quieter. The laughter softer. Still there, but distant. You walk back to your desk, sit down, open your laptop. You try to return to your work. But your thoughts don’t settle as easily. Your focus slips. You exhale slowly, leaning back in your chair. This is temporary, you tell yourself. Just a neighbor. Just noise. Just one night. It doesn’t mean anything. It won’t change anything.
But when you finally lie down, the quiet you’ve relied on for so long feels unfamiliar. And for the first time in years, sleep doesn’t come immediately.
You wake up at 6:00 AM. Your body does not care that you slept later than usual. It does not adjust. It does not offer mercy. Your eyes open to the same pale light, the same stillness pressing softly against your windows. For a second, you lie there. Listening. Silence. It’s there, just like it always is. Thin and clean and familiar. You almost convince yourself that last night was an interruption that has already passed. A one time inconvenience. Something you handled, corrected, returned to order.
You sit up. The routine begins. Curtains open. Light spills in. The city wakes slowly beneath you. The kettle hums. The scent of coffee fills the kitchen. Everything falls into place the way it should. You carry your mug to the counter, lifting it just as it happens.
A voice. Soft at first. Then louder. Singing.
You freeze. It’s coming from the other side of the wall. The same wall that held silence for years. Now it carries music without music. A voice untrained but confident. You stare at the wall.“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
The singing continues. Louder now. Clearer. He’s not even trying to keep it down. There’s water running too, the faint echo of a shower, steam turning his voice into something softer around the edges but still impossible to ignore. You close your eyes briefly. It’s morning. There are rules for this. There are expectations.
You take a sip of your coffee. He hits a high note. Keeps going. You set the mug down a little harder than necessary. "This is insane.”
You try to ignore it. You sit at your desk. Open your laptop. Pull up your schedule. Your emails. Something that requires your attention. Something that demands focus. His voice follows you anyway. It slips through the walls, settles into your space like it has every right to be there. There’s no hesitation in it. No awareness that someone else might be listening. You press your fingers lightly against your temple. You have lived here for three years. Three years of quiet mornings. Of coffee without interruption. Of thoughts that stayed yours from beginning to end. And now there’s a stranger singing like the world belongs to him.
You last ten minutes. That’s more than enough. You stand and walked to the door. Open it. The hallway is brighter this morning, sunlight creeping through the far window, catching dust in the air that wasn’t there before. Or maybe it was. You just never noticed. His door is closed this time. The sound is clearer out here.
You knock. Once. Twice. Nothing.
The shower is still running. His voice continues, completely unaware.
You wait. And wait. And then, finally, the water shuts off. The singing doesn’t.
You knock again, louder. Footsteps. Closer. The door swings open without warning. And there he is. Hair damp, falling loosely over his forehead. A towel slung over his shoulder, another wrapped low around his waist. Water still clings to his skin, tracing down his collarbone, disappearing somewhere you immediately decide not to look.
Your eyes lift instead to his face. To the faint curve of a smile that forms the second he sees you. “Well,” he says, voice still rough from singing. “Good morning.”
You don’t react to anything else. “It’s six in the morning,” you say.
“Yeah,” he nods, glancing briefly behind him like he’s checking something. “That sounds right.”
“You’re loud.”
“You came back.”
The words land at the same time.
You blink once. “I didn’t come back,” you correct. “I never left. You’re just still a problem.”
That smile deepens slightly. “Wow,” he says softly. “That’s a strong start to the day.”
“You were singing.”
“I was.”
“Loudly.”
“I thought I sounded pretty good.”
“You didn’t.”
He lets out a quiet laugh, running a hand through his damp hair. “Okay. That one hurt a little.”
“It was honest.”
“I can tell,” he says. “You seem very committed to that.”
You cross your arms. “People are trying to have a peaceful morning.”
“It’s morning. People are awake.”
“Not like that.”
He studies you for a second, tilting his head slightly. “You don’t like noise, do you?”
“I don’t like unnecessary noise.”
“And you decide what counts as necessary?”
“Yes.”
He smiles again. “Of course you do.”
You exhale slowly. “This isn’t a conversation. It’s a request.”
“Another one?”
“A final one.”
He leans lightly against the doorframe, completely unbothered. “You say that like I’ve been ignoring you for years.”
“It’s been less than twelve hours and I’m already exhausted.”
“That feels personal.”
“It is.”
He looks at you like he’s trying to figure something out. “You always wake up this early?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Even on weekends?”
“Yes.”
“Do you ever sleep in?”
“No.”
“Do you ever relax?”
You hold his gaze. “This is me relaxed.”
He stares at you for a second longer. Then a quiet laugh slips out, softer this time. “That’s kind of terrifying.”
“That’s not my concern.”
“It should be,” he says lightly. “You’re making me feel like I need to fix my life.”
“You should.”
“Wow.” He shakes his head, amused. “You don’t hold back, do you?”
“There’s no reason to.”
“There is if you want people to like you.”
“I don’t.”
The answer comes easily. Too easily. For a moment, something shifts in his expression “That’s new,” he says quietly.
“What is?”
“Someone who means that.”
You don’t respond. Because you do mean it.
“Alright,” he says after a moment, pushing himself off the doorframe. “I’ll keep it down.”
You study him carefully. “You said that last night.”
“And I did,” he gestures behind him. “We’re quieter now.”
“Relatively.”
“I’ll aim for absolutely.”
“You should.”
He nods once, like he’s sealing a deal. "Anything else?” he asks.
You hesitate just briefly. Then you shake your head. “No.”
“Good,” he says. “Because I was running out of ways to apologize creatively.”
You almost react to that. Instead, you turn to leave.
“Hey,” he calls out again.
You stop. You don’t turn immediately. “What?”
“…You never told me your name.”
You glance over your shoulder. He’s still standing there, watching you, expression unreadable now. “…Y/N.”
He repeats it quietly, like he’s testing how it sounds. “Y/N,” he says again, softer this time. Then he smiles. “I’m Jungkook.”
You face forward again. “Try to be quieter, Jungkook.”
“I’ll try to be quieter, Y/N.”
You walk back to your apartment, closing the door behind you. The silence returns. But it doesn’t settle the same way it used to. It feels… aware now. Like it’s waiting for something else to interrupt it.
You stand there for a moment, listening. Nothing. Then, faintly, you hear it. Humming. Softer this time. Barely there. You close your eyes. “This is not happening,” you whisper to yourself. But it is. And somehow, despite everything, despite how much it irritates you, despite how much it disrupts the life you’ve built so carefully, you don’t knock again.
It starts small. It would be easier if it didn’t. If it were one loud night, one careless mistake, one moment you could point to and say this is the problem. This is where it ends. But it isn’t like that. It settles into your days instead. Quietly at first. Then persistently.
Music through the walls. A steady reminder that you are no longer alone in the silence you built. Footsteps at odd hours. Late nights. Early mornings. Sometimes both. You begin to recognize patterns you never asked to learn. The way he moves around his apartment like he has no schedule. The way his music shifts depending on the time of day. Slower in the afternoon. Louder at night. Random in the morning, as if he wakes up and presses play on whatever feels right without thinking about it.
It’s inconsistent. You hate inconsistency. At first, you try to ignore it. You tell yourself it’s manageable. Temporary. Something you will eventually tune out. You’ve adapted to worse things before. You can adapt to this. But it isn’t just the noise. It’s him. Because he doesn’t stop. And worse, he doesn’t seem to care that you’ve noticed.
The first time it happens again is in the hallway. You’re leaving for work, keys in hand, bag slung neatly over your shoulder. Everything about you is composed. On time. Prepared. You open your door. And he’s there. Leaning casually against the wall like he’s been there long enough to get comfortable. One foot resting behind him, arms loosely crossed. His hair is still slightly damp, like he showered and didn’t bother to dry it properly. A black shirt clings to him just enough to show the lines of his shoulders, sleeves pushed up, ink peeking through. He looks up when he hears your door, and smiles. “Good morning, Y/N.”
Your steps don’t falter, but they slow just enough to register it. “You’re in the way,” you say.
He glances behind him, then back at you. “Am I?”
“Yes.”
He pushes himself off the wall, stepping aside with an ease that suggests he was never really blocking you in the first place. “There you go,” he says lightly. “Problem solved.”
You walk past him without stopping. But he follows. Just enough to keep the conversation alive.
“You leave at the exact same time every day,” he notes.
“That’s not your concern.”
“It’s interesting.”
“It’s predictable.”
He hums softly, like he’s considering that. “I think predictable can be interesting.”
You press the elevator button. “I don’t.”
He steps beside you, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed like this moment belongs to him too. “I saw you last night,” he says.
You glance at him briefly. “You saw me knock on your door.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “After that.”
Your expression doesn’t change. “That didn’t happen.”
“You were standing in your kitchen,” he continues, ignoring you completely. “Holding a glass of water like you were deciding whether to throw it at the wall.”
You stare at the elevator doors.
"You were watching me,” he adds.
“I wasn’t.”
“You were,” he says, and there’s no teasing in his voice this time. Just certainty.
The elevator arrives with a soft chime. You step inside immediately. He follows.
“Even if I was,” you say, pressing the button for the ground floor, “it doesn’t mean anything.”
“I didn’t say it did.”
“Then stop talking about it.”
“Okay.”
Silence fills the space. For about three seconds.“You looked like you wanted to say something,” he adds.
You close your eyes briefly. "Jungkook.”
“Yeah?”
“Stop.”
He watches you for a moment. Then nods. “Alright.”
And just like that, he does. No argument. No teasing. Just quiet. It should feel like a victory. It doesn’t. Because when the elevator doors open and you step out into the lobby, he’s still there. Walking beside you like this is normal. Like you’ve done this before. Like you will do it again.
“Have a good day,” he says as you reach the entrance.
You don’t stop. “You too,” you reply automatically.
The words leave your mouth before you can take them back. You pause for half a second. He notices. “That sounded genuine,” he says, a hint of amusement returning.
“It wasn’t.”
“Sure.”
You walk away before he can say anything else. But the rest of your day feels… off. Just… slightly out of place. Like something shifted and hasn’t settled yet.
It happens again the next day. And the day after that. Small things. A knock on your door that turns out to be him asking if a package left outside belongs to you. It doesn’t. He stays anyway.
“You should get one of those signs,” he says, leaning casually against your doorframe. “Do not disturb. Or maybe do not exist.”
You look at him flatly. “Why are you here?”
“You opened the door.”
“You knocked.”
“I was hoping you would.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It worked, though.”
You stare at him for a moment. “You don’t get tired of this?” you ask.
“Of what?”
“Talking to someone who clearly doesn’t want to talk to you.”
He tilts his head slightly, studying you. “I think you do want to talk to me,” he says.
“I don’t.”
“You keep answering.”
“That’s called being polite.”
“No,” he says softly. “That’s called staying.”
The words linger longer than they should. You don’t respond. Because for a second, you don’t have one. He straightens slightly, pushing himself away from the doorframe.
“I’ll see you around, Y/N.”
You don’t say anything as he walks away. But you don’t close the door immediately either. And that bothers you more than anything else.
Days pass like this. Interrupted. Shifted. Different in ways you can’t fully control anymore. And the worst part is not the noise. Not the music. Not the footsteps. It’s the way he looks at you like none of it matters. Like your irritation is temporary. Like your distance is something he can step around without even trying. Like you are not as unreachable as you think you are.
One evening, it happens again. You step out into the hallway, ready to leave, and he’s already there. Of course he is. “Hey,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
You sigh quietly. “Do you wait for me?”
“Sometimes.”
You blink. “Why?”
He shrugs. “I like talking to you.”
“I don’t.”
“I know.”
“Then stop.”
He smiles slightly. “You’ll miss me.”
You let out a quiet breath, shaking your head. “That’s not going to happen.”
“Everyone says that before it does.”
You meet his gaze. Steady. Certain.
“You’re not that important.”
Something flickers in his expression. “Not yet,” he says.
You don’t respond. Because you don’t know how to. And that, more than anything, unsettles you.
It happens without warning. No flicker. No slow dimming. One second the hallway is lit in that steady, familiar glow. The next, everything disappears. Darkness settles fast. You stop walking. The sound of your own footsteps fades into something quieter, replaced by the sudden awareness of everything else. The hum of electricity is gone. The faint buzz of lights above you no longer exists. Even the air feels different, like the building itself is holding its breath.
For a moment, there is nothing. Then a voice breaks through it. “…Well, that’s dramatic.”
You close your eyes briefly. Of course “Jungkook,” you say into the dark.
There’s a soft shuffle, the sound of fabric moving, footsteps adjusting. “Yeah?”
“Stop talking.”
A quiet laugh answers you. Close enough to remind you he’s right there. “I think this is the part where people usually panic,” he says. “You’re supposed to say something reassuring.”
“I’m not here to reassure you.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he replies. “I’m just saying it would be nice.”
You don’t move. You know this hallway. You could probably walk it blind and still reach your door without trouble. But something about the darkness makes you pause. It shifts your certainty just enough to notice.
There’s a soft click. A dim light appears. Jungkook’s phone screen glows faintly, illuminating part of his face. Shadows settle along the edges, catching the curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw, the glint of metal at his lip. His tattoos look darker in this light, ink blending into shadow as if it belongs there.
“There,” he says. “Not completely tragic anymore.”
You glance at the light, then back at the space around you.
“Do you know how long this will last?” he asks.
“No.”
“You didn’t check?”
“I don’t have to.”
He tilts his head slightly. “You seem like someone who always checks.”
“I seem like someone who minds their own business.”
“That too,” he admits.
A door opens somewhere down the hall. Someone mutters something about the power. Another voice answers. The building begins to react slowly, people stepping out, trying to understand what happened. You remain where you are. So does he. “You were going somewhere,” he says after a moment.
“Yes.”
“Important?”
“Yes.”
“Work?”
You glance at him. “Obviously.”
He smiles faintly. “You don’t strike me as someone who has anywhere else to be.”
“That’s because you don’t know anything about me.”
“I know you wake up at six,” he says. “I know you drink coffee like it’s part of a ritual. I know you don’t like noise, or people, or interruptions.”
You hold his gaze. “That’s observation. Not understanding.”
“Maybe I’m working toward that.”
“You shouldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because it won’t matter.”
There’s a pause. The kind that lingers longer than expected. “Everything matters to someone,” he says quietly.
You look away first. The hallway feels smaller in the dark. Closer. Like the distance you usually keep has been reduced without your permission. You shift slightly, leaning back against the wall.
“So what now?” he asks.
“You wait.”
“That’s it?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds boring.”
“It’s efficient.”
He laughs under his breath. “You really love that word.”
“It works.”
“Does it?”
You glance at him again. “Yes.”
“For everything?”
“Yes.”
He studies you, the light from his phone catching the edges of his expression. There’s something quieter there now. Less teasing. More… thoughtful. "I don’t think it does,” he says.
You don’t respond immediately. Because there’s something in the way he says it. “It works for me,” you say instead.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It’s enough.”
He watches you for a moment longer, then nods slowly. “Alright.”
The conversation should end there. It doesn’t. Because the darkness stretches. And time, for once, doesn’t move the way you expect it to.
Minutes pass. Maybe more. The building remains dim. The hallway stays quiet except for the occasional voice in the distance. Jungkook slides down the wall, sitting on the floor like he has nowhere else to be. “You can sit,” he says, glancing up at you.
“I’m fine.”
“You’ve been standing for ten minutes.”
“I’m still fine.”
He shrugs lightly. “Suit yourself.”
You remain where you are for another minute. Then two. Then, without saying anything, you lower yourself onto the floor across from him. The tile is cool beneath you. You fold your hands loosely in your lap, gaze fixed somewhere ahead. He notices. “I won,” he says softly.
“This isn’t a competition.”
“It felt like one.”
“You’re wrong.”
“I don’t mind being wrong,” he replies. “It gives me something to work with.”
You almost ask what that means. You don’t. The quiet settles again. But it’s different now. Less tense. More… shared.
“You always keep everything this controlled?” he asks after a while.
“Yes.”
“Does it get exhausting?”
“No.”
He leans his head back against the wall, eyes lifting toward the ceiling he can’t fully see. “I think it would be.”
“That’s because you’re not used to it.”
“Maybe,” he admits. “Or maybe I just don’t want to be.”
“Then don’t.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It is.”
He turns his head slightly, looking at you again. “You really believe that?”
“Yes.”
“Everything is either one thing or the other with you.”
“That’s how it works.”
“No,” he says quietly. “That’s how you make it work.”
The words settle between you. You don’t push them away immediately. That’s new.
“Why do you care?” you ask after a moment.
“About what?”
“Any of this.”
He thinks about it. Not quickly. Not like he has an answer ready.
“Because you don’t,” he says finally.
“That’s not true.”
“You care about your work. Your schedule. Your routine.”
“Yes.”
“But not people.”
You meet his gaze. “People leave,” you say.
The words come out quieter than you expect. He doesn’t respond right away.
“You don’t get attached,” you continue. “You don’t get disappointed.”
“And that works?”
“Yes.”
“For how long?”
“As long as I need it to.”
He studies you carefully now. Not teasing. Not pushing. Just listening.
“That sounds lonely,” he says.
“It’s peaceful.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because it’s true.”
He nods slowly. “I don’t think those two things are the same,” he says.
You don’t argue this time. Because for a second, you’re not entirely sure. The silence that follows feels heavier. And then, suddenly, the lights flicker back on. Bright. Immediate. The hallway returns to normal. People step back into their apartments. Doors close. Voices fade. Everything resets. Except it doesn’t feel the same. You blink against the light, adjusting. Jungkook stands, brushing his hands against his jeans. “Well,” he says lightly, though his voice is quieter than before. “That was fun.”
“It wasn’t.”
He smiles faintly. “You stayed.”
You rise to your feet. “I had nowhere else to go.”
“Sure.”
You don’t argue. Because you’re not entirely sure that’s true. You reach for your door, unlocking it with practiced ease. Before you step inside, you pause. Just for a second. Then you glance back at him. "Keep the noise down tonight,” you say.
He nods once. “I will.”
There’s a brief silence. Then, softer, “Goodnight, Y/N.”
You hesitate. “…Goodnight.”
The word feels unfamiliar. But not entirely unwelcome. You step inside, closing the door behind you. The silence returns. But it’s no longer empty.
You have always trusted your first impressions. They are efficient. Clean. Built on observation, not emotion. You see something once, you understand it, and you move on. It saves time. It saves energy. It keeps things simple. Jungkook should have been simple. Loud. Disorganized. Careless. The kind of person who fills silence because he doesn’t know what to do with it. The kind of person who moves through life without thinking about how it affects anyone else. You decided that early. You were certain. And yet, every time you see him now, that certainty slips just enough to make you notice.
The day had been long in a way that lingers. Meetings that stretch too far, conversations that circle without resolution, work that keeps multiplying no matter how much you finish. By the time you step out of the building, the sky has already dimmed into that muted blue that sits between afternoon and night.
You don’t slow down. Your heels strike the pavement in steady rhythm, your mind still tangled in everything you didn’t get to complete. Tomorrow is already forming in your head. Tasks lining up. Deadlines stacking.
You reach your apartment building. Push the door open, and stop. He’s there. Standing beside Mrs. Alvarez. She lives on the third floor. You’ve seen her dozens of times, always carrying more than she should, always insisting she’s fine when she clearly isn’t.
Today, she has two grocery bags in each hand. Too heavy. Too full. Her fingers wrapped tightly around the handles, shoulders slightly hunched as she tries to maintain her balance.
Jungkook is facing her, listening.
“Oh no, no,” Mrs. Alvarez is saying, her voice warm but strained. “It’s alright, I can manage. It’s just a few more steps.”
“You said that five steps ago,” Jungkook replies gently.
There’s no humor in his voice. No teasing. Just quiet insistence.
“It’s really fine,” she repeats, though her grip loosens anyway.
He reaches for the bags, careful, not abrupt, as if he knows exactly how to take them without making her feel like she’s losing control of the situation.
“Let me help,” he says. “You can tell me I’m overstepping after we get upstairs.”
She laughs softly at that. “You’re very persistent.”
“I get that a lot.”
“You remind me of my grandson,” she adds, her expression softening.
“Then he must be a good guy,” Jungkook says.
“He is,” she nods. “But he doesn’t visit enough.”
Jungkook adjusts the bags in his hands, shifting the weight so it sits more comfortably. “Then I’ll fill in for him today.”
The simplicity of it lands somewhere you didn’t expect. There’s no hesitation. No performance. Just… action.
You stand there longer than you should. Watching. Trying to place this version of him next to the one who sings at six in the morning like the walls don’t exist. They don’t align. They don’t even feel like the same person.
He turns then, as if sensing your presence without needing to look for it. His eyes find yours immediately. There is no surprise in his expression. No awkwardness. Just recognition.
“Hey,” he says, like he saw you coming all along.
You nod once. “You’re blocking the entrance.”
It comes out automatically. Familiar. A line you’ve used before. But it doesn’t carry the same weight this time.
He shifts to the side without comment, making space for you without turning it into anything more.
“Long day?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You look like it.”
You frown slightly. “Define that.”
“You walked in like you’re still arguing with someone in your head.”
You pause. Just for a second. Then you step past him. “I’m not.”
“Alright,” he says easily. “Then you’re winning.”
Mrs. Alvarez looks between the two of you, her smile widening. “You two know each other?”
“Unfortunately,” you reply.
Jungkook glances at you, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly. “She says that every time.”
“Because it remains true.”
“Consistency is important,” he says.
You don’t respond. Mrs. Alvarez laughs softly, patting his arm. “Come, before my ice cream melts and we all regret this conversation.”
He nods. “Lead the way.”
As they move toward the elevator, you step aside. You could leave it at that. You should. But your eyes follow them anyway. The way he adjusts his pace to match hers. The way he listens when she talks, nodding, responding without rushing her. The way he carries the weight without making it look like a burden.
You turn away first. Walk toward the stairs instead of the elevator. Faster. Like distance might fix something you don’t have a name for yet. You tell yourself it was a one time thing. It’s easier that way. But two days later, you see him again.
This time, outside the building. The evening is softer, the air cooler, the sky streaked with fading light. People pass by slowly, conversations blending into the background, life moving at a pace you don’t usually allow yourself to notice.
You’re heading home. Focused. Until something pulls your attention to the side. He’s crouched near the edge of the sidewalk. There are cats around him. Strays. You’ve seen them before, slipping between shadows, keeping their distance from anyone who gets too close.
They’re closer to him now. He’s holding a small paper bag, pulling out pieces of food, placing them carefully on the ground one at a time “Hey,” he murmurs, voice low, steady. “Easy.”
One of the cats inches forward, hesitant. He doesn’t reach for it. Doesn’t try to close the distance. He just waits. The cat takes a step closer. Then another. Finally, it eats. You don’t realize you’ve stopped walking until he looks up. Sees you. His expression shifts slightly, surprise flickering for a moment before settling into something more familiar.
“You’re staring again,” he says.
“I’m not.”
He smiles faintly, brushing his hands together as he stands. “It’s okay. I don’t mind the attention.”
“That’s not what this is.”
“Then what is it?”
You don’t answer immediately. Because you don’t have one that feels right. You glance at the cats instead. One of them watches you carefully, body still, eyes alert.
“You feed them often?” you ask.
“Most evenings,” he says.
“Why?”
He shrugs lightly. “They show up.”
“That’s not a reason.”
“It is for me.”
You look at him again. There’s no defensiveness in his tone. No need to justify it beyond that.
“You don’t seem like the type,” you say.
“What type?”
“The one who does this.”
He tilts his head slightly. “You’ve known me for a week.”
“That’s enough.”
“Not even close.”
You hold his gaze.
“You’re loud,” you say. “Careless. Disruptive.”
He nods slowly. “That sounds like me.”
“And this,” you gesture toward the cats, “doesn’t fit.”
He considers that for a moment.
“Maybe you’re working with incomplete information,” he says.
You don’t like that answer.
“Or maybe you’re inconsistent,” you counter.
“Or maybe,” he says, stepping a little closer, “people are more than one thing.”
The words settle somewhere deeper than you expect. You look away first.
“Go home,” he adds, softer now. “You look tired.”
“I’m fine.”
He studies you for a moment.
“You walk like you’re carrying something heavy,” he says quietly.
You stiffen slightly. “I’m not.”
“You are,” he insists, not forceful, just certain. “You just don’t put it down.”
“That’s not your concern.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Then stop acting like it is.”
There’s a pause. The city moves around you, indifferent to the shift in the air between the two of you. He exhales slowly, stepping back just enough to give you space again.
“Alright,” he says.
You nod once. “Goodnight, Jungkook.”
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
You walk away. But something follows you this time. Not noise. Not irritation. Something that lingers quietly, refusing to be ignored.
Later that night, Jungkook stands outside his apartment door, keys in hand, staring at the number like he forgot what it means. He’s never been the type to think too much about people. He meets them. Talks to them. Moves on.
Simple. But you are not simple. You walk through the world like nothing can touch you, like everything has already been decided.
And yet… He’s seen the moments you don’t notice. The way your shoulders lower slightly when you think no one’s watching. The way you pause outside your door, just for a second, like you need time before stepping inside. The way you say you’re fine like it’s a habit you’ve practiced too many times. He leans back against the wall, exhaling slowly.
“What is this,” he mutters under his breath.
He doesn’t have an answer. He just knows that this isn’t casual anymore. Not entirely. Something has shifted. And for the first time, he doesn’t want to laugh it off.
Your routine carries you forward the way it always does. Wake up at six. Coffee brewing before your eyes fully adjust to the light. Emails checked before the first sip. Your day mapped out before you even step outside. You open your door with your keys already in hand, mind halfway through a meeting you haven’t had yet. And then you pause. There’s something taped just below the handle. A small piece of paper. You stare at it for a second, like it might disappear if you don’t acknowledge it. You reach for it, peeling it off carefully. The handwriting is messy. Slightly slanted. Like the person who wrote it didn’t care enough to make it neat but still wanted it to be readable.
“Good morning, Neighbor.
You look like someone who forgets to smile. Try it once today. It won’t kill you. Probably.”
There’s a small doodle in the corner. A drawn smiley face with uneven eyes. You stare at it longer than necessary. Then you fold it once. Slip it into your bag. And leave. You don’t think about it again. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
The second note appears that evening. You’re exhausted. The kind that sits deep in your bones, carried from one task to another until you forget what it feels like to be without it. Work has been relentless. Deadlines closing in faster than you can keep up. Expectations stacking on top of each other until there’s no space left to breathe. You move through it all the way you always do. Efficient. Focused. Unyielding. But today, something lingers. A mistake you didn’t expect. A comment from your supervisor that wasn’t harsh, just… pointed. “You’re capable of more than this.”
It echoes longer than it should. You reach your door, already preparing to step into the quiet waiting on the other side. And there it is again. Another note. You don’t pick it up immediately. You just look at it. Like you’re deciding whether to let it exist. Then you take it anyway.
“You came home later today. That means you worked too hard. That means you should eat something delicious. This is your reminder. You’re welcome.”
There’s another drawing. This one looks like a bowl. Or maybe a cloud. It’s unclear. You exhale softly. “This is ridiculous,” you murmur. But you don’t throw it away. You unlock your door. Step inside. And for the first time in a long time, the silence doesn’t greet you the same way.
It becomes a pattern. A note on a Wednesday morning.
“You walk like you’re late even when you’re not. Where are you going?”
A note on Friday night.
“If you’re reading this, you survived the week. That’s impressive. I almost didn’t.”
Sometimes there’s no message. Just a doodle. A drawn coffee cup. A stick figure sitting at a desk with its head down. A tiny version of your door with a smaller figure standing in front of it. You don’t understand why that one makes you pause longer than the others.
You start keeping them. Not consciously. It just… happens. They end up in your bag. Then on your desk. Then in the drawer you don’t open often. You don’t reread them. You don’t think about them. But you don’t throw them away. And that is the part you don’t examine too closely.
You see him less in the hallway. Or maybe you notice him differently. He still plays music. Still moves through his apartment like time doesn’t apply to him. Still greets you like your distance is temporary. But there’s something else now. Something quieter in the way he looks at you. Like he’s paying attention without making it obvious. Like he’s choosing his moments. You don’t like that. It feels intentional. And intention is harder to ignore.
Work becomes heavier. The kind of heavy that follows you home. You bring it with you without meaning to. Your laptop opens the moment you step inside. Emails blur into reports. Reports turn into revisions. Time slips past unnoticed until your coffee goes cold beside you.
You don’t stop. You don’t slow down. Because if you do, everything catches up at once. The pressure. The expectations. The quiet voice that keeps asking if you’re falling behind. You don’t answer it. You just work harder.
It’s late when you finally stop. The city outside your window has already settled into night. Lights flickering in distant buildings. The hum of traffic softer now. Your shoulders ache. Your eyes burn. You close your laptop slowly, leaning back in your chair. The silence returns. But it doesn’t feel like relief. It feels… empty.
You sit there longer than necessary. Then you stand. Walk toward the door without thinking about it too much. When you open it, the hallway greets you with stillness. And a note. Of course. You almost smile. You take it down carefully, unfolding it under the soft light above your door.
“You didn’t turn on your lights until late. That means you stayed out longer than usual. Or you were sitting in the dark. Either way… You don’t have to do everything alone.”
Your fingers tighten slightly around the paper. For a moment, you don’t move. Because this one is different. It doesn’t feel like a joke. It feels like something closer to understanding. And that unsettles you more than anything else.
A door opens. You don’t look up immediately. You already know.
“You read that one longer than the others.”
His voice is softer than usual.
You fold the note slowly. “You’ve been watching me.”
“I’ve been noticing you.”
“That’s worse.”
He leans lightly against his doorframe, arms crossed loosely. “Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s unnecessary.”
“Maybe,” he says. “Or maybe it’s honest.”
You meet his gaze. There’s no teasing there. No easy smile. Just… something steady.
“You don’t know anything about me,” you say.
“I know you don’t sleep enough,” he replies.
“That’s not your concern.”
“I know you carry your day home with you,” he continues.
“You’re making assumptions.”
“I know you don’t like being seen,” he adds quietly.
You stop. Something in your chest tightens “Then stop looking,” you say.
He doesn’t move. “I could,” he says. “But you’d notice.”
The words land before you can stop them. You don’t respond. Because you don’t trust what might come out if you do.
He exhales softly, pushing himself away from the doorframe. “I’m not trying to make things harder for you,” he says.
“You are.”
“How?”
“You’re… disrupting things.”
“Your routine?”
“Yes.”
“Your silence?”
“Yes.”
“Or the way you’ve decided everything has to be?”
You stare at him. “That’s not your place.”
“I didn’t say it was.”
“Then stop acting like it is.”
There’s a pause. Longer this time. Then he nods slowly. “Alright,” he says.
You wait for more. For a joke. For something lighter. It doesn’t come.
“I’ll stop,” he adds.
The simplicity of it catches you off guard. “You will?”
“Yeah.”
“Just like that?”
“If it bothers you this much,” he says. “Yeah.”
Something shifts in your chest. Unexpected. Unwanted. “You don’t have to,” you say before you can stop yourself.
He studies you carefully. “You just told me to.”
“I know.”
“Then which one is it?”
You hesitate. Because you don’t have an answer that makes sense. “I don’t know,” you admit quietly.
The words feel unfamiliar. He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t tease. He just nods once. “Okay,” he says.
Another pause. Then, softer, “Keep the notes?”
You glance down at the one in your hand. “They’re unnecessary,” you say.
“That’s not what I asked.”
You don’t look at him when you answer. "I haven’t thrown them away.”
There’s a faint shift in the air. Something warmer. Something that lingers.
“Good,” he says quietly.
You nod once. Then you step back into your apartment, closing the door gently behind you. The silence returns. But it doesn’t feel empty anymore.
The lights go out without warning. One second your apartment is filled with the quiet hum of your laptop and the distant rhythm of the city outside. The next, everything disappears.
Darkness settles quickly. You sit there for a moment, fingers still resting on your keyboard, your eyes adjusting to the sudden shift. The silence feels heavier tonight, pressing in from every corner like it has something to say. You lean back slowly. “Perfect timing,” you murmur.
Your work is still running through your mind. Numbers, emails, unfinished sentences looping over each other without pause. The blackout does nothing to quiet them. If anything, it makes them louder. You stand, moving through your apartment with practiced familiarity. Your hand glides along the wall, past the edge of the table, toward the kitchen drawers.
You open one. Nothing. Another. Still nothing. You pause, frowning slightly. You remember buying candles. You remember putting them somewhere safe. You just don’t remember where that is anymore. You let out a quiet breath, closing the drawer. A knock interrupts the stillness. Soft. Certain. You don’t hesitate. You walk straight to the door and open it.
Jungkook stands there, holding two candles and a lighter, the faint glow from the emergency lights behind him outlining his figure. His hair falls loosely over his forehead, slightly messy, his expression calmer than usual. “I was right,” he says.
“About what?”
“You don’t have any.”
You glance at the candles. “…I was looking.”
He lifts one slightly. “I come prepared.”
You step back. “Come in.”
He doesn’t tease you for it. Doesn’t make a comment. He just walks in like he understands this moment isn’t the same as the others. You close the door behind him. The apartment shifts. The quiet no longer feels empty. He moves toward the table, setting the candles down and lighting them one by one. The flames flicker to life, casting a warm glow across your space, softening the edges of everything you’ve kept so controlled. Your apartment looks different like this. Less rigid. More human.
“You live exactly how I imagined,” he says, glancing around.
“Efficient?”
“Terrifyingly organized.”
“It works.”
He nods. “I’m sure it does.”
You sit on the couch. He takes the chair across from you, close enough that the candlelight reaches both of you. For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. It feels… shared.
“You were working,” he says.
“Yes.”
“In the dark?”
“I was finishing something.”
“You didn’t finish.”
“No.”
He leans back slightly, studying you. “You don’t like that.”
“I don’t like interruptions.”
“Life is full of those.”
“I manage.”
“You endure,” he corrects gently.
You look at him. “You always have something to say.”
“You always give me something to respond to.”
You exhale softly, shaking your head. “I didn’t invite you here to argue.”
“Good,” he says. “I’m off duty.”
That pulls a small laugh from you before you can stop it. It surprises both of you.
“There it is,” he says quietly.
“What?”
“That sound. You should use it more.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late.”
The moment lingers. The candlelight moves between you, soft and unsteady, making everything feel slower.
“You work too much,” he says after a while.
“It’s necessary.”
“For what?”
“For everything.”
He tilts his head slightly. “That’s a big answer.”
“It’s a true one.”
He watches you for a moment, then shifts forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. “Can I ask you something?”
You hesitate. “…Depends.”
“Do you act like this all the time?”
“Like what?”
“Like you’ve already decided how everything should go.”
You frown. “I don’t.”
“You do,” he says easily. “You walk like you know exactly where you’re going, even when you don’t.”
“I do know.”
“Do you?”
You hold his gaze.
“Yes.”
He studies you for a second longer, then smiles faintly. “I wonder what you’re like when you’re not like this.”
You narrow your eyes slightly. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“Maybe you’re only like this with me,” he says.
“That’s unlikely.”
“Or,” he continues, ignoring that, “maybe you’re one of those people who act all serious and distant, but the second you’re with your boyfriend, you turn completely different.”
You blink. “What?”
“Soft,” he says, counting on his fingers. “Smiling all the time. Talking more. Laughing at everything. Probably clingy.”
You stare at him. “That’s ridiculous.”
“So you’re always like this?”
“Yes.”
“Even with someone you like?”
“Yes.”
“Even with someone you love?”
You pause. The word sits there, heavy. You look away. “…I wouldn’t know.”
He frowns slightly. “What does that mean?”
You hesitate. Then exhale quietly. “It means I’ve never had a boyfriend.”
The words feel strange in the air. Too honest. Too exposed. You expect him to react. To laugh. To tease. To say something that makes you regret saying it out loud. But he doesn’t. He just looks at you. ”Ever?” he asks, softer now.
“Ever.”
“Not even close?”
“No.”
There’s a pause. Then he nods. “Okay.”
You blink. “…Okay?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s all you have to say?”
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know. Something.”
He leans back slightly, still watching you, but there’s no judgment in his expression. No disbelief. “It doesn’t change anything,” he says.
“It should.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not normal.”
“Who decided that?”
“Everyone.”
He shakes his head. “Everyone doesn’t get to decide that for you.”
You don’t respond. Because the way he says it feels steady. Certain.
“You’ve just been busy,” he adds.
“That’s not it.”
“Then what is it?”
You hesitate. Because this part is harder to explain. “I don’t see the point,” you say finally.
“In relationships?”
“In letting something in that might not stay.”
He nods slowly, like he’s considering it. “That’s honest,” he says.
You glance at him. “…That’s it?”
“You want me to argue?”
“A little.”
He smiles faintly. “I don’t think you’d listen.”
You almost smile again. Almost. The conversation softens after that. It shifts into something easier. You talk about work. He listens without interrupting, asking questions that feel more like curiosity than judgment.
“You carry everything with you,” he says at one point.
“It’s my responsibility.”
“It’s also heavy.”
“I can handle it.”
“I know,” he says quietly. “That doesn’t mean you should have to all the time.”
You look at him. There’s something in his expression you don’t recognize. Something that makes your chest feel tight in a way you can’t explain. Time passes without you noticing. The candles burn lower. The room feels warmer. Lighter. And when the lights finally come back, it feels abrupt. Like something ended too soon.
He stands, you follow. You walk him to the door. Your hand rests on the handle but you don’t open it yet. Neither of you speaks. The moment stretches. He looks at you. Then his gaze shifts, to your lips. It’s quick, but you feel it. Your chest tightens. Your heart stumbles, then picks up faster than it should. You forget what you were about to say. Forget why you’re standing this close to him.
He looks back up. Something unreadable flickers in his eyes. Then he steps back. Like he’s choosing distance. “Goodnight, Y/N,” he says quietly.
Your fingers tighten slightly around the handle. “…Goodnight.”
You open the door. He leaves. And just like that, the space feels empty again. You close it slowly. Lean back against it. Your heart is still racing. Your thoughts scattered, restless. You press your hand lightly against your chest. “This is nothing,” you whisper.
But your pulse doesn’t agree. And neither does the way your mind keeps returning to the moment his eyes lingered just a second too long
Change does not arrive like a storm. It does not announce itself, does not demand to be acknowledged. It comes quietly, settling into the edges of your days until it no longer feels like something new.
You do not notice it at first. You only realize it later, when you try to remember when things were different and cannot find the exact moment where they shifted.
It begins with mornings. The kind you used to own completely. Your alarm rings at the same time every day. You wake up without hesitation, your body trained to move before your mind has the chance to argue. The routine follows like muscle memory. Shower. Coffee. Clothes laid out the night before. Everything in its place. It has always been enough. It has always been yours. Until it isn’t entirely anymore.
The first time it happens, you open your door and find him doing the same. Jungkook steps out of his apartment, one hand still tugging at the sleeve of his shirt, hair slightly damp like he didn’t fully dry it. He pauses when he sees you. “Morning,” he says.
His voice is softer than you’re used to hearing from him. No teasing laced into it. No attempt to get a reaction. Just a greeting that lands easily between you. You hesitate for a fraction of a second. Then, “Morning.”
It feels strange. Not uncomfortable. Just unfamiliar in its ease. You step into the hallway, adjusting your grip on your coffee. He notices immediately. “That’s it?” he asks, nodding toward your cup.
You glance at it. “That’s what?”
“You didn’t make extra.”
“I made what I need.”
He exhales like you’ve personally disappointed him. “You live like you’re the only person in the world.”
“I live alone,” you reply.
“That’s not the same thing.”
You look at him. “You’re standing in your own doorway.”
“And I’m still being neglected,” he says, tone light but eyes watching you more closely than before.
You should walk away. That’s what you would have done before. But instead, you pause. Then, without thinking too much about it, you hold your cup out toward him. “One sip,” you say.
He blinks. “You’re serious?”
“You’re already complaining. Take it or stop talking.”
A slow smile spreads across his face, like he didn’t expect this. Like he’s trying not to react too much to it. “Wow,” he mutters, stepping closer. “This is progress.”
“Don’t make it a big deal.”
“It is a big deal.”
“It’s coffee.”
“It’s your coffee,” he corrects, taking the cup from your hands.
His fingers brush yours. The contact is brief, but it lingers longer than it should. You notice it. You wish you didn’t. He takes a sip. Pauses. Then looks at you with a thoughtful expression. “You put too much sugar.”
You take the cup back immediately. “Then you should have declined.”
“I didn’t know it would be this sweet.”
“You asked for it.”
“I asked for coffee,” he says, following you as you start walking down the hallway. “Not dessert.”
You take another sip, unfazed. “Then make your own.”
He falls into step beside you. “I might start doing that,” he says.
“Please do.”
“Or,” he adds, glancing at you, “I could just keep bothering you.”
“That sounds more likely.”
He smiles. And for a moment, neither of you says anything else. The quiet between you is different now. It doesn’t feel like something to fill. It feels like something that already knows its place.
The next shift is smaller. Easier to miss. You come home late. The kind of late that settles into your bones. Your shoulders ache, your mind still tangled in everything you didn’t finish, everything waiting for you tomorrow. The hallway is quiet when you step out of the elevator. The building feels like it’s already asleep.
You reach your door. And stop. There’s something sitting on the floor beside it. A container. You crouch slightly, picking it up. It’s still warm. Your name isn’t written anywhere. It doesn’t have to be. You already know. There’s a small piece of paper taped to the lid. You peel it off slowly.
“Eat this before you pretend you’re not hungry.”
You stare at the note longer than necessary. Your first instinct is to be annoyed. At the assumption. At the audacity. At the fact that he noticed at all. But your stomach tightens slightly, betraying you. You unlock your door and step inside. You don’t overthink it. You don’t question it. You just sit down, open the container, and take a bite. It’s warm. Simple. Good.
You eat slowly at first. Then faster. And by the time you’re done, you realize you finished all of it without checking your phone once. Without thinking about work. Without feeling like you had to be anywhere else. That realization lingers longer than it should.
The next evening, you find yourself standing in front of his door. You don’t remember deciding to come here. You just… did. You lift your hand and knock. Once. The door opens almost immediately. Jungkook looks at you like he’s been expecting this. “You’re right on time,” he says.
“For what?”
“For the part where you pretend you’re not here to thank me.”
You hold up the empty container. “This.”
He takes it from you, glancing down at it briefly before looking back at you. “You ate it.”
“Yes.”
“All of it?”
“Yes.”
He nods, satisfied. “Good.”
You hesitate. “…Thank you.”
The words don’t come easily. He notices that. Something in his expression softens, just slightly. “You’re welcome,” he says.
There’s a pause. Then he steps back, opening the door wider.
“You look like you haven’t eaten yet today either,” he adds.
“I have.”
“Lying doesn’t suit you.”
“I’m not lying.”
“You are.”
You look at him. “You’re very confident for someone who’s guessing.”
“I’m not guessing,” he says. “I’m observing.”
You blink. “That’s my word.”
“I learned from the best.”
You should leave. You don’t. You step inside. His apartment feels familiar now. Not in the way yours does. Yours is structured. Predictable. Controlled. His is… alive. There’s music playing softly from somewhere, something low and easy that blends into the background without demanding attention. A jacket draped over a chair. A glass left on the table. Nothing out of place. Just not arranged to be perfect.
“You always look like you’re about to inspect something,” he says, watching you as you stand near the entrance.
“I’m just looking.”
“You’re judging.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he insists, smiling slightly. “You’re deciding how much this bothers you.”
“It doesn’t.”
“Not yet.”
You exhale softly. “Are you going to let me sit down or keep analyzing me?”
“Sit,” he says, gesturing toward the table. “I’ll analyze you while you eat.”
You sit. You don’t argue. That alone feels like a change. He moves around the kitchen with an ease that feels natural. No rush. No overthinking. Just… movement.
“You cook often?” you ask.
“Enough to survive,” he replies.
“That’s not reassuring.”
“You’re still here.”
“Questioning that decision.”
“You’re not leaving,” he says, glancing at you briefly.
“No.”
He sets a plate in front of you. “Eat,” he says.
“You’re very bossy.”
“You’re very difficult.”
“That’s not the same thing.”
“It works together.”
You take a bite. Pause. Then glance at him. “…This is good.”
He leans against the counter, arms crossed. “Better than yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“I knew you’d come back.”
“I didn’t come back for the food.”
“Sure.”
You don’t argue. Because you don’t have a clear answer. And that unsettles you more than you want it to.
Days pass. The changes continue. Small things. He knocks on your door. You stop pretending you’re not home. You leave your door unlocked when you know he’s around. He walks in without hesitation.
“Still working?” he asks one evening, stepping inside like he belongs there.
“Yes.”
He sets a cup of coffee on your table. You glance at it. “You remembered.”
“You take it too sweet,” he says.
You pick it up. “…Thank you.”
He shrugs, sitting beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What are you working on?”
You hesitate. Then turn your laptop slightly toward him. “This.”
He leans closer. Close enough that you can feel the warmth of him beside you. “You’re overcomplicating this part,” he says.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“You say that about everything.”
“Because you do that with everything.”
You hold his gaze for a moment. Then look back at your screen. “Maybe.”
The word slips out quietly. You don’t take it back. He notices. And he doesn’t say anything about it. Which somehow means more.
Later that night, the two of you sit in your apartment. No work. No distractions. Just quiet.
“You’re different,” he says.
You glance at him. “How?”
“You’re here.”
“I’ve always been here.”
“No,” he says softly. “You were always somewhere else. Even when you weren’t.”
You don’t respond immediately. Because you know what he means.
“And now?” you ask.
He looks at you. “Now you stay.”
The words settle into the space between you. Gentle. Honest. You look at him, something shifting quietly in your chest. “That’s new,” you admit.
“Yeah,” he says.
The silence that follows feels different. Not something to escape, but something to hold. You still argue. He still gets under your skin. You still tell yourself this is temporary. But somewhere between shared coffee, warm meals, quiet conversations, and doors that no longer feel like boundaries…You have stopped standing on opposite sides of the hallway. And started meeting somewhere in between.
It starts as a suggestion you have no intention of accepting. You are standing in your kitchen, sleeves rolled up, laptop open on the counter, your attention split between an email you are rewriting for the third time and the quiet hum of your thoughts. The evening has already settled in, the sky outside your window turning a deep shade of blue that you barely notice anymore. A knock comes at your door. You don’t need to check who it is. “It’s open,” you call out.
The door clicks, then closes. “You really need to stop leaving your door unlocked,” Jungkook says as he steps inside.
“You really need to stop walking in like you live here,” you reply without looking up.
“I practically do.”
You exhale softly, eyes still on your screen. “What do you want?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. You hear him move around your space, the quiet sound of him setting something down, the faint shift of weight as he leans against your counter. “Come out with me tonight.”
You stop typing. Slowly, you look up. “No.”
He doesn’t seem surprised. “That was fast.”
“It was obvious.”
“I didn’t even tell you where.”
“It doesn’t matter where.”
He studies you for a moment, then tilts his head slightly. “You’re not even a little curious?”
“No.”
“It’s just dinner.”
“I have work.”
“You always have work.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not even trying to pretend to consider it.”
“I am considering it.”
“And?”
“No.”
He lets out a quiet breath, not annoyed, just… thinking.
You look back at your screen. “You should know the answer by now.”
“It’s not about the answer,” he says.
“Then what is it about?”
“You showing up.”
You pause. Something about the way he says it lands differently. You shake your head slightly. “I don’t do that.”
“I know.”
“Then stop asking.”
“I won’t.”
You glance at him again. “Why?”
He shrugs lightly. “Because one day you might say yes.”
You hold his gaze for a second. “That day is not today.”
He smiles, pushing himself off the counter. “Okay,” he says easily. “Then I’ll go without you.”
“Please do.”
He heads toward the door, pausing just before he leaves. “They’re not that bad, you know,” he adds.
“I didn’t say they were.”
“You’re acting like they are.”
“I don’t know them.”
“Then come meet them.”
“No.”
He nods once, like he already expected that. “Alright,” he says softly, then adds, “but just in case you change your mind later, it’s the restaurant at the corner.” His voice stays gentle as he looks at you for a moment longer. “It’s not far. You might like it."
Then he leaves. The door closes behind him. And the apartment feels quieter than it did before. You stare at your screen. The words blur. The sentence you were writing doesn’t make sense anymore.
You reread it. Rewrite it. Delete it. Nothing sticks. You press your fingers against your temple, exhaling slowly. “This is ridiculous,” you mutter.
You’ve had harder days than this. You’ve handled worse. But something about today lingers. The pressure, the expectations, the constant feeling of being just slightly behind no matter how much you do.
Your phone lights up. A message from Anna. “Did you eat?”
You stare at it for a moment before replying. “I’m working.”
Three dots appear immediately. “That’s not what I asked.”
You don’t answer. You set your phone down. The silence stretches. Your apartment feels smaller than usual. Too quiet. Too still.
You glance at the door. Then back at your screen. Then at the door again. You don’t overthink it. You don’t give yourself time to. You stand, grab your bag, and head out.
The place is louder than anything you’ve allowed yourself to be in for a long time. You hesitate at the entrance, your hand still resting on the door handle. This was a mistake. You should leave. You almost do. Then you hear his voice. You glance inside. Jungkook is sitting at a table with a group of people, laughing at something someone just said. It’s easy. Effortless. The kind of laughter that doesn’t need to be held back or measured.
You’ve never seen him like this. For a moment, you just watch. Then he looks up. His eyes find you immediately. The laughter fades from his expression, replaced by something else. Surprise. Then something softer. He stands. Walks toward you without hesitation. “You came.”
You shift slightly. “I was nearby.”
“That’s a lie.”
“Yes.”
He smiles. “I’m glad you did.”
You glance past him at the table. “I’m not staying long.”
“That’s fine.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
He steps aside slightly. “Come on.”
You follow him inside. Every step feels unfamiliar. You’re aware of everything. The noise, the people, the way your routine isn’t here to guide you. But then you reach the table. And everything slows.
“This is Y/N,” Jungkook says.
His friends look at you. Not with judgment. Not with curiosity that feels invasive. Just… open.
“Hi,” one of them says warmly.
“Finally,” another adds, smiling. “We’ve heard about you.”
You glance at Jungkook. He shrugs. “Only good things.”
“I doubt that,” you say quietly.
They laugh. And somehow, it doesn’t feel like they’re laughing at you. It feels like they’re letting you in.
You sit. At first, you don’t say much. You listen. The conversation flows easily around you. Stories, jokes, small arguments that don’t carry weight. You expect to feel out of place. You don’t. Not entirely.
“Y/N,” someone says, pulling you into the conversation. “Jungkook said you work a lot.”
“That’s an understatement,” Jungkook mutters.
You glance at him. “You’re very talkative tonight.”
“I’m always talkative.”
“That’s true,” one of his friends adds. “He doesn’t stop.”
You find yourself smiling. A small one. But real.
“And what do you do?” another asks.
You answer. They listen. Not just waiting for their turn to speak.
“That sounds exhausting,” someone says.
“It is,” you admit.
“Then why do you do it?”
You pause. “Because I’m good at it.”
Jungkook glances at you. “That’s not the only reason,” he says quietly.
You look at him. “…It’s enough.”
He doesn’t argue. But his gaze lingers. Like he knows there’s more you’re not saying. The night moves forward. At some point, you forget to check the time. You forget to think about work. You laugh. More than once. And each time, it feels a little easier. A little less unfamiliar.
At one point, you step outside for air. The night is cooler here. Quieter. You lean against the railing, exhaling slowly. A moment later, the door opens behind you. Jungkook steps out. “You okay?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“You don’t look like you want to run anymore.”
You glance at him. “It’s not as bad as I thought.”
“That’s high praise coming from you.”
“It’s honest.”
He nods. “That’s all I need.”
You look out at the city. “I don’t usually do this,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“I don’t usually leave my routine.”
“I know that too.”
You hesitate. “It’s not terrible.”
He smiles slightly. “I’ll take that.”
You look at him. “You make it easy,” you admit.
The words come out softer than you intended. He still hears them. His expression shifts, something deeper settling in his eyes. “You make it harder,” he says.
You frown slightly. “What does that mean?”
“You make me think about things I usually don’t.”
“Like what?”
“Like slowing down,” he says. “Like paying attention. Like… staying in one place longer than I’m used to.”
You don’t respond immediately. Because that… matters more than it should.
“You’re good at that,” he adds.
“At what?”
“Making people stay.”
You look at him. “I don’t try to.”
The silence that follows is softer. Warmer. Different from anything you’ve shared before. For a moment, neither of you moves. Then someone calls his name from inside. He glances back. Then at you. “Stay a little longer,” he says.
You hesitate. Then nod. “…Okay.”
And for the first time in a long time, you choose to stay.
2/2
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