la isla

Not dimmed.

Gone.

You inhale sharply.

“Relax,” he murmurs somewhere very close. His voice has always had a curious warmth to it, like sunlight through glass. “If you tense like that at a ball, every gentleman in the room will assume you are hiding something dreadful.”

“I am hiding something dreadful,” you say dryly. “I am hiding the fact that I cannot see.”

A soft chuckle moves through the air between you.

“Exactly,” he says. “And yet you must behave as though you see everything.”

You stand in the center of the small music room at the edge of his family’s townhouse, acutely aware of every detail that sight normally softens. The faint crackle of the fireplace. The citrus and bergamot of his cologne. The quiet brush of his boots on polished wood.

He circles you slowly.

Your pulse stumbles.

“You rely too much on appearances,” Jimin continues. “Fluttered lashes. Shy glances. Carefully lowered eyes. Every young lady in London performs the same tired tricks.”

“And they work,” you protest.

“They attract attention,” he corrects. “Not interest.”

His voice is closer now. Perhaps only an arm’s length away.

“Interest,” he says quietly, “comes from presence.”

You fold your hands together. “I fail to see how removing my ability to see improves that.”

“You are not meant to see.” His tone softens, patient but firm. “You are meant to feel the moment you are in.”

There is a pause.

Then his hand takes yours.

The contact is light, almost formal, but the shock of it travels all the way up your arm.

“Walk,” he says.

“With my eyes covered?”

“You are perfectly safe.”

You hesitate only a moment before stepping forward. The room feels enormous without sight. Every movement is uncertain, every breath amplified.

His thumb shifts gently against your knuckles.

“I am right here,” he says.

You move again.

Another step.

The faint music of a violin begins somewhere behind you. One of the household musicians Jimin must have stationed there earlier. The melody is slow, lilting.

“A dance?” you ask.

“A... conversation,” he corrects.

He guides you into position, one hand settling carefully at your waist. Even through the layers of muslin, warmth spreads where he touches you.

Your heart is beating far too loudly.

“Now,” he murmurs, “speak.”

“To whom?”

“To me.”

“That hardly seems educational,” you say, attempting lightness.

“On the contrary.” His breath brushes the edge of your ear as he moves you into the first turn. “Pretend I am the most sought-after gentleman in the ton.”

“You already behave as though you are.”

He laughs softly.

The sound vibrates through your ribs.

“Tell me something honest,” he says.

You take a breath.

Without sight, his nearness feels… enormous. The subtle shift of his weight guiding yours. The warmth of his palm. The quiet rustle of silk and linen as you move together.

“I think,” you begin slowly, “that you are entirely too pleased with yourself.”

“A devastating observation.”

“And,” you continue, “I think you enjoy tormenting me.”

He leans closer.

“And why might that be?”

Because you are impossible.

Because every lesson feels less like instruction and more like danger.

But what you say instead is quieter.

“Because you think you understand people.”

“And you think I do not?”

“You understand games,” you say. “Not hearts.”

The dance falters.

His hand tightens slightly at your waist.

When Jimin speaks again, his voice is lower.

“You believe that?”

You nod before bitting unconsciously your bottom lip, “Yes.”

Silence stretches.

The violin continues.

Then his fingers tilt your chin upward.

The gesture is so unexpected you forget to breathe.

“Listen carefully,” Jimin says.

You do.

The fire crackling.

The music swelling.

Your own pulse rushing through your ears.

And his breathing. That is slow, steady, and far too close.

“This,” he murmurs, “is what people notice. Not lashes. Not practiced smiles. They notice when someone is present with them.”

His thumb brushes lightly along your jaw.

Your lips part before you can stop them.

“When you speak,” he continues softly, “you must mean it. When you listen, you must truly hear.”

His voice drops even lower.

“And when you look at someone…”

He pauses.

“…you must make them feel as though they are the only person in the room.”

The air between you thickens.

You cannot see him, but you know—know—his face is inches from yours.

Your voice comes out barely above a whisper.

“And am I doing that now?”

For a moment, he does not answer.

His breath grazes your lips.

“Yes,” Jimin says quietly.

The word trembles between you.

Neither of you moves.

The almost-kiss lingers there, fragile as glass.

Then, slowly, he releases your chin.

The spell fractures.

“Lesson concluded,” he says, voice suddenly composed again. “You see? No eyelashes required.”

But as he unties the ribbon and light floods back into the world, you realize the most dangerous part of the exercise was never the blindness.

It was how clearly you felt him.

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“Take your time,” the woman behind the counter says, already stacking chairs. “We’re closing in twenty, but you’re welcome to wait out the worst of it.”

You thank her and wander toward the fiction shelves, shaking snow from your coat. New Year’s Eve wasn’t supposed to look like this. You were supposed to be somewhere louder. Somewhere full. Instead, you’re here, surrounded by books and quiet, and honestly? It doesn’t feel like the worst version of the night.

You notice him a few minutes later.

He’s standing in the poetry section, coat still on, scarf loose around his neck like he forgot to finish getting dressed. He’s tall in a way that feels grounding rather than imposing, shoulders relaxed, brow furrowed as he reads the back of a book like it might answer something important.

He catches you looking and offers a small, polite smile. The kind that doesn’t assume anything.

“Good escape plan,” he says, nodding toward the windows. Snow keeps piling up outside.

“Desperation,” you reply. “Disguised as culture.”

He laughs softly, not performative. Like he means it.

“I’m Namjoon,” he adds after a second, holding up the book. “I always forget bookstores close early on holidays.”

You tell him your name. He repeats it once, quietly, like he’s testing the sound.

The staff keeps moving around you, lights dimmed slightly, chairs stacked, but neither of you leave. Instead, you end up at the same table near the window, both pretending to read while the snow thickens.

“So,” he says eventually, tapping the page without really looking at it, “were you avoiding something tonight, or just wandering?”

You consider lying. Decide not to. “A little of both.”

He nods like that makes perfect sense. “Same.”

Outside, someone shouts a countdown. Too early, too enthusiastic. Fireworks crack somewhere far off, muted by the storm.

“You a resolutions person?” you ask.

Namjoon hums, thoughtful. “I used to be. Lately I’m more… small hopes. Drink more water. Call people back.”

You smile. “Very ambitious.”

“I like achievable dreams.”

There’s a pause. Not awkward. Just… present.

“I had plans,” you admit. “They fell through. I told myself I didn’t care, but I think I do.”

He doesn’t rush to fix it. Doesn’t joke it away. Just says, “Yeah. That makes sense.”

Midnight suddenly creeps closer without ceremony. The woman at the counter turns the sign to CLOSED, but she doesn’t rush you. Just lets the moment breathe.

When the fireworks finally hit their peak, you and Namjoon are standing side by side at the window, shoulders almost touching. You don’t look at each other when the clock turns. You just watch the sky.

“Happy New Year,” you say.

“Happy New Year,” he replies. His voice is quieter than the fireworks. Closer.

You glance at him then, really look. The softness around his eyes. The way he seems both steady and curious, like he’s always listening for something beneath the noise.

“This was… unexpected,” you say.

He smiles, just a little. “Not bad, though.”

“No,” you agree. “Not bad at all.”

The storm eases enough for the door to open safely. Coats are shrugged on. Goodbyes hover.

Outside, the cold bites again, reality settling back in.

“Well,” he says, shifting his weight, hands in his pockets. “If nothing else, I’m glad I didn’t spend midnight pretending I was somewhere else.”

You meet his eyes. “And I'm glad I felt less like I’m catching my breath like I do all the time.”

He hesitates, just a beat, then pulls out his phone. Not smooth. Not dramatic.

“If you want,” he says, “we could get coffee sometime. When the snow stops trying to make decisions for us.”

You take it. Smile as you type.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’d really like that.”

And when you walk away, snow crunching under your boots, the year already feels—if not miraculous—then gently, promisingly open.

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Instead, you ran into your ex.

The kind you don’t just “run into.”

As far as you knew, Taehyung wasn’t even supposed to be in Korea.

You first saw him at the bakery next to your guesthouse, flipping through an art zine and talking to the barista about fermentation. You tried to duck behind a fridge full of yogurt drinks, but he looked up like he’d sensed you breathing.

You hadn’t spoken in three years.

That was five days ago.

Now, you’re on a nearly empty beach, head resting on a rolled-up towel, a plastic bottle of barley tea sweating beside you. You’re not writing. You’re trying to tan, unsuccessfully, and going over every moment since you’d last kissed Kim Taehyung in the doorway of your old apartment… Your hands in his hair, his books still on your shelf, your mouth still bruised from fighting.

A shadow falls over your legs. You open one eye.

“You again,” you say.

He grins. “Try not to sound so thrilled.”

You adjust your sunglasses. “So you just happen to visit the same beach I told you I liked?”

“Maybe it’s coincidence,” he says, tossing down his bag. “Or maybe you just have good taste.”

He lays out a towel two down from yours. It feels pointed.

“I’m going for a swim,” he adds, already peeling off his shirt. You have to make an effort not to stare out of habit. “Mind watching my stuff?”

“I do, actually.”

“Great,” he’s already standing. “Knew I could count on you.”

You glare at him over the rim of your sunglasses. “Don’t stay long. I don’t want to be held legally responsible for your belongings.”

He waves you off, walking backward toward the water, leaving behind the usual: a towel, a half-read book, a tube of sunscreen, and a stack of papers—unbound. A stack that was clearly full of notes with his own handwriting.

Rookie move, you think, your fingers itching to have a peek.

Before you can, the wind starts small. Gentle. Then stronger.

By the time you notice the paper shifting under the book’s weight, it’s already too late. One page flies off, then another. You scramble after them, cursing under your breath. One lands near someone’s snack cooler. Another cartwheels toward the rocks. A third slaps flat against your leg before sailing off like it was never meant to be held at all.

You’re crouched on all fours chasing the last of them when Taehyung returns, dripping wet, out of breath.

“Seriously?” he says.

You hold up a damp page. “Your system was very flawed.”

He stares at you, half amused, half annoyed. “Did you read them?”

You snort. “What am I, a raccoon? I wasn’t rifling through your garbage.”

“I just—” He drags a hand through his wet hair. “Forget it.”

“No, say it.”

“I wouldn’t put it past you to skim a few lines. You’re curious. You always were.”

You glare. “And you’re still paranoid. I see that hasn’t changed.”

“And you still hate being wrong,” he says, grabbing the nearest page from your hand.

You stand, brushing off your knees. “Oh my god, I didn’t read them, Taehyung! But I could have. And honestly? If you leave things unsecured on a beach, that’s on you.”

He pauses, then mutters with a sigh, “You always had a knack to make me feel like I’m in the middle of an argument I’m about to lose.”

“And you always deflected when you were embarrassed.”

“Embarrassed?” He laughs, incredulous. “You think I’m embarrassed?”

You cross your arms, heat rising in your chest. “You act like you’re above it all, like nothing ever touches you. But you wouldn’t have left those pages there unless you wanted me to see them. That’s your thing. Passive-aggressive emotional exhibitionism.”

He scoffs. “That’s rich coming from you. The girl who used to make Excel sheets for ‘conversations we should have.’”

“That was structure.”

“That was control.”

Your voices overlap, short and sharp, like the snap of kindling just before it catches flame.

“You were impossible to talk to without everything becoming an abstract metaphor.”

Taehyung huffs out a humorless laugh, dragging a wet hand through his hair and shaking the water off like a dog. Drops catch the light as they scatter. “Because real things freaked you out,” he says. “Because being vulnerable meant you didn’t have the upper hand.”

The words hit harder than you expect. You stiffen. The sand shifts beneath your heel as you snap, “You were the one who left!”

“I just stopped showing up.”

“Exactly. Because you didn’t want to fix anything.”

“No, because you didn’t want anything real.”

The back-and-forth is maddening, all rhythm and recoil. You feel it rising in your throat, in the way your jaw tenses.

Your chest tightens. “Well, I wanted us to work.”

“Yeah,” he says, eyes sharp, narrowed. “As long as it followed your plot outline.”

You roll your eyes so hard it hurts, furious now. The breeze lifts the edge of your towel, but you ignore it. “We were never going to work. We couldn’t even pick a takeout place without arguing.”

He exhales, slow and tired, like he’s been holding his breath in for months. His gaze drifts out over the horizon, unfocused. “You know... I missed this.”

You blink. You’re not sure you heard him right.

“What?”

He turns back toward you. The faintest curve tugs at the corner of his mouth. “The chaos. The part where you say exactly what’s in your head and I forget how to breathe.”

You stare at him, jaw slack, half-laughing despite yourself. You want to be annoyed, but there’s something infuriatingly soft in the way he says it, like it’s an ache he’s been carrying. One you wouldn’t admit out loud of also bearing.

“You’re such a—”

“Don’t say asshole.”

“—sentimental masochist.”

He grins, finally, fully. “Fair.”

You both go quiet. The waves are slow today, lazy, curling onto the shore in soft sighs. Someone’s playing an acoustic guitar badly in the distance, but you don’t mind.

He sits down on his towel, motioning for you to do the same. And you do. The heat between your bodies feels thicker than the sun.

After a minute, he says, “I’m writing about the ways people hide, if you'd like to know.”

You glance over. “From what?”

“From each other... From themselves.”

You hum in response. “Sounds familiar.”

“I meant it to.”

You turn to face him. The sun’s lower now, casting his profile in gold. His skin still glistens faintly from the sea.

He looks at you, like he’s about to say something else, something serious, but the moment passes. He just stares at the horizon instead, jaw set.

Later, at a small restaurant tucked between two alleys, you share a bottle of strawberry soju over grilled squid and something green you can’t name. The conversation is easier. No landmines. Just laughter and sarcasm and flashes of the way things used to be when you still liked each other more than you feared each other.

He walks you back to your guesthouse. You’re both tipsy. Not drunk. But warm. Bright. Breezy.

There’s a lightness to the air. A kind of dizzy stillness.

He stops at your door and says, “Hey.”

You turn.

He’s closer than you expected. Close enough to see the mole on the tip of his nose, the one you used to trace with your thumb. Close enough to smell the faint citrus of his shampoo, mixed with salt and something like lavender.

Neither of you moves for a second. The silence stretches.

His eyes flicker from your mouth to your eyes and back. Your heart kicks against your ribs like it remembers something you’ve been trying to forget.

And then you grab him by the collar and kiss him.

It’s not planned. It’s not cautious. It’s a collision, fast and hungry and strange in how natural it feels.

His lips part like muscle memory. His hand finds the back of your head. He pulls you closer, and you don’t stop him. You rise to your tip toes. You kiss harder.

Yours fists pull at the front of his shirt like he might vanish if you don’t hold him there.

He kisses you like he’s been waiting for this all week. Maybe longer. Maybe since that last fight you never finished.

You break for air, then lean in again, softer this time. Your lips curve into something like a smile mid-kiss.

When you break apart again, both of you are breathing differently.

He whispers, “Okay.”

You say, “Don’t ruin it.”

And Kim Taehyung grins in that way that makes your heart hiccup, and your stomach flip to the prospect of trying to guess his next move. But neither of you says “Let’s pretend that didn’t happen.”

Because it did.

And it might again.

And again.

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He’s not even a bad musician. That’s the worst part. The tracks he works on are good, sometimes brilliant, but not when you’re trying to hit a novel deadline and a five-piece rock band is shaking your filing cabinet with an aggressive bass drop.

You fought, at first. A lot. Passive-aggressively, then full-blown yelling. One time you left a signed copy of your latest book with a note that read “For your ears, since you clearly have no taste in soundproofing.” He responded by playing a demo on loop titled “Writer’s Block.” It was just thirty minutes of typewriter sounds and the occasional scream.

But here’s the thing: enemies are only enemies when you don’t really know them. Then one day, his studio flooded and someone had to share their WiFi and space while the flooring got redone. That someone, tragically, was you.

And he was... human. Funny. Weirdly intuitive. Insufferably hot. The kind of hot that makes you reevaluate your type mid-sentence.

Weeks passed. He started bringing coffee. You started defending his stupid beats. One night, you both ended up at the same open mic night and accidentally-on-purpose sat together the whole time.

Now you’re here. Tipsy on cheap cocktails after a friend’s party, walking toward his apartment, giggling like idiots. And somewhere along the line, the wall between you—literal and not—fell away.

“Okay, but hear me out,” Jungkook says, wobbling slightly as he skips backward in front of you, hands animated in the warm blur of city night. His black oversized bomber jacket flaps open with the movement, revealing a sliver of soft, golden skin and the worn waistband of jeans he’s clearly had forever. “This pizza place? Will alter the trajectory of your taste buds.”

You roll your eyes, half-laughing. You had to, just to keep your brain from short-circuiting. The streets are quiet now, washed in orange glow from overhead lamps, the world that had been loud and dizzy with party people now humming low and quiet. “You said that about the Thai place and I spent twenty-four hours regretting my life choices.”

“Okay, yes, but that one was a heat miscalculation. You have the spice tolerance of a Victorian child.”

You side-eye him as you walk, kicking at a loose rock. “I’ve literally eaten ghost pepper wings on a dare.”

He tilts his head, mock offended. “You also made me scrape chili flakes off your slice last week.”

“I was hungover,” you snap. “And ok, perhaps also emotionally vulnerable.”

He grins, slowing beside you again, the laughter settling into something softer. The kind of ease that only arrives at 12:47 a.m. when your feet are sore, your head’s fuzzy, and your company is Jungkook—who smells like citrus shampoo and rain-drenched concrete.

He stops suddenly, holding his hand up like he’s taking an oath. “This time, I swear on Namjoon’s vinyl collection.”

You freeze mid-step, eyes going wide. “That’s blasphemy,” you whisper, scandalized.

“Totally,” he agrees, bunny teeth flashing in a grin that does irreparable damage to your judgment.

“You have no fucking clue to what blasphemy means do you?” you try to manage the adoration oozing from your eyes with very little success. You can only hope he just sees it as you being completely drunk. 

Jungkook sways a bit, laughs through his nose, then grins wider. “No. Sounds nice though!” 

And just like that, you find yourself laughing uncontrollably while following him across a crosswalk and into a sleepy, blinking pizza shop that looks like it’s closed but isn’t.

The guy behind the counter doesn’t even look surprised to see Jungkook. He leans in, slaps palms with him over the register like they’re in a secret club, and you stand off to the side, arms crossed, watching the interaction with something that might be fondness or envy.

“Two slices of the good stuff, Yoongiihh!” Jungkook says funnily, pointing at a half-empty tray of bubbling mozzarella and burnt-edge crusts. “And extra napkins, please. We’re messy eaters.”

“We?” you mouth behind him, eyebrows raised.

He glances over his shoulder and smirks. “You especially.”

The clerk, Yoongi, stifles a laugh and passes over a white paper box.

You’re still bickering about him not letting you pay as you step onto the gravel alley behind his building, where the fire escape twists upward into the dark like something out of a noir film. The metal is cold, sharp, glittering faintly under the streetlights. The kind of climb that feels vaguely illegal. The pizza box is tucked between you and Jungkook’s chest now, shared like a secret.

He glances up at the ladder after frowning and tucking his phone back into his jeans. “Jimin locked the bottom latch, again.”

You stop contemplating opening the box to snatch a clandestine slice for yourself. “And this matters because…?”

He turns toward you, grinning like he’s about to unveil a heist. “We’re going up the old-fashioned way.”

Your eyes widen. “Oh, hell no.”

“The fire escape,” he confirms.

“For fucks sake, JK,” you mutter. “Is this a setup? Are you trying to murder me and keep the pizza for yourself?”

He laughs, that low rasp that always hits you too low in the gut. “If I were gonna murder you, it would be for your fancy gamer keyboard, not the pizza.”

You stare up at the rickety thing. “Do I look like someone who climbs structures in a midi dress and birkenstocks?”

He’s already got one foot on the lower rung. “You look like someone who’d complain the entire time and then act smug at the top.” when you don’t mention moving, he snatches the pizza box from your hands. “Come on,” he coaxes, “You even have a slit in your dress. Great mobility. Ok fine, I promise not to look up your—” 

“Finish that sentence and I’ll push you off the moment we reach the top.”

Jungkook grins like he wants you to try.

You glare, but your heart is thudding a little faster, and it’s not because of the climb.

When you reach for the first rung, your foot slips. A second later, you feel his hand on your waist.

Firm. Warm. Electric.

“I got you,” he says softly, right behind you, breath grazing your ear.

You freeze. Not because you’re afraid but because your brain has been thrown off a cliff. His palm doesn’t leave. In fact, it tightens just slightly, as if making sure you’re there, real, grounded. His fingers are splayed just above your hip, and the contact, simple as it is, lights you up like a struck match.

You nod once, then keep going.

But that touch... his skin on yours, through a thin layer of your favorite black dress, it doesn’t leave your memory, not even as you step through the open window into his bedroom.

His room smells like him.

Not in an obvious, cologne-heavy way, but something lived-in and layered. A little diffuser, some bergamot, hints of laundry soap and cedar. The lamp with a bandana on top in the corner casts a dim orange glow across the hardwood floor and the chaos of his space. Cords snaking under a desk, notebooks left open, a hoodie flung across the back of a chair.

It’s intimate. Personal.

It’s also, apparently, your new dining area.

He kicks aside a Hello Kitty plushie you start wondering where he got from, and then gestures for you to sit. You drop down onto a pillow by the wall, and he follows suit, setting the pizza box between you like a peace offering.

When your thighs touch, it’s casual. When they stay touching, it’s not.

“Cheers,” he says, holding up a slice like it’s champagne. You clink crusts. The cheese stretches dangerously between you both before snapping back.

You try to focus on the pizza. You really do.

But he’s watching you again. Like you’re the story he doesn’t want to stop reading.

And you feel it, down to your stomach, where butterflies seem to fly rampant. The way your breathing shifts, the heat that’s crawling up your neck, the fact that your thigh is still pressed to his and now you can feel the way he flexes it when he shifts.

He wipes a bit of sauce off his lip. You watch his tongue catch the rest.

It’s fine.

Totally fine.

Except then he leans back, resting his inked arm on the mattress behind him, and looks over.

“Do you ever think about us?”

The words hit like a piano falling from the third floor.

You blink. “Us?”

“I mean... yeah.” His voice is quieter now. The buzzed, post-party haze has faded into something slower. “We weren’t exactly supposed to like each other… I think.”

You snort. “We used to actively not.”

“I still have that post-it you left taped to the wall.”

You smirk. “Which one?”

“All of the ragy ones like ‘I’ll impale you with your drumsticks’.” He chuckles, eyes trailed to the window. “But then... I dunno. I started looking forward to your threats.”

You glance down at your hands. “If we are in a sharing moment, well... I think I hated how much I liked hearing you sing.”

Silence blooms. He shifts closer. Your hands brush. You don’t pull away.

“You have something...” he murmurs, reaching out to brush the corner of your mouth. His thumb lingers there.

You hold your breath.

And he doesn’t move.

Jungkook just looks at you, and in his starry eyes there’s that same soft ache you’ve seen when he listens to a song he’s trying not to fall in love with.

You exhale. “Are you going to kiss me or—”

He does.

It’s not gentle.

Not sweet like once or twice you imagined as you caught yourself fantasizing what he’d do, how he’d be.

It’s a storm breaking loose, all noise and heat and weeks of tension crashing down in a single, breathless second.

Jungkook’s hands are on your face, your neck, then your waist, gripping tight like he needs the contact or he’ll come undone. Your fingers thread into his thick hair instead, pulling just enough to make him groan into your mouth.

The kiss deepens, slower now, but heavier. He tastes like pizza and whiskey and something uniquely Jungkook—warm and just slightly out of control.

You climb into his lap without thinking. He lets out a moan that punches straight through your stomach and down. Your dress rides up thanks to the flowy slit on your left leg, and his fingers curl into your hips, dragging you flush against him. 

You gasp when you feel him hard beneath you.

He kisses you harder for it. His tongue sliding against yours with the slow, sinful certainty of someone who knows exactly what he’s doing.

Your hands move on instinct, pushing his jacket off, dragging your nails across the warm skin of his neck. He shivers.

He pulls back for air, forehead against yours. “You’re unreal,” he whispers. “You feel,” he closes his eyes, biting the soft spot by your year, tugging on your hips as you roll them instinctively against his hard-on. “God, you feel fucking unreal.”

You smile, dazed, kissing him again, and it’s slower, much slower—exploratory, indulgent. His mouth moves to your jaw, your neck, tongue teasing just below your ear again. Your breath stutters, and he groans when you arch into him.

His hands slide further under your dress, bunching it as they go. Fingertips skate over your ribs, reverent.

“Please tell me you’re not that drunk,” he murmurs against your neck, tongue flipping, teeth rasping. “That you know exactly what you’re doing to me right now- Please.”

But your hands are already on his shirt, tugging it over his head. Your answer is your body—your mouth on his collarbone, your fingers at the waistband of his jeans.

He tilts his head back, fingers on the verge of bruising you like he’s going to run out of time.

Like this, you, were something he’d earned the right to want and is terrified he might still lose.

“Fuck,” he breathes against your skin, right before his hands slide from your thighs to your hips, spinning you slightly, and walking you back until your knees hit the edge of the rug. You barely have time to laugh before you are on the floor. Your back skimming the cool wood, his weight settling over you.

The way he moves feels more like instinct than choreography. Raw, imperfect, real.

He doesn’t undress you so much as he tears you apart.

Your dress is gone, flung to the side. His sneakers hit the floor with a muted thud. He kisses down your chest like he’d been dying to. Like he is memorizing you by mouth alone. When he reaches behind you to unhook your bra, his hand is shaking.

“I’ve thought about this,” he whispers, teeth grazing the top of your breast. “So many times.”

“Good,” you tug at his locks, arching. 

Your fingers claw at his belt, jerking it loose with more desperation than grace. He sucks in a breath when your hand slides inside, wrapping around him, hot and heavy and so hard it makes your thighs clench.

“I swear to God,” he growls, “if you keep doing that, I’m gonna—”

“Then do something about it,” you whisper, biting and sucking his bottom lip.

That was all it took.

He drags your panties off with rough, impatient hands, mouth returning to yours with a new kind of hunger. The kind that leaves bruises. The kind that unravels.

You gasp at the cold air on your skin, then gasp again when his fingers slip between your legs, groaning when he feels how ready you are.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “You’re so wet, baby.”

You tug at his waistband, wordless now.

He strips the last of his clothes, kneels between your thighs, and for one heartbeat, just one, he hovers.

Eyes locked.

Breaths heavy.

Everything suspended.

Then he pushes into you with one long, deep thrust, and you see stars.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, clutching his arms. “Oh– Fuck,”

The stretch, the heat, the fullness... he fills you like he belongs there. Like this is the only way your bodies are ever supposed to fit.

“Ah, yes, right there,” you moan, rolling into him. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”

He groans, low and guttural, rocking into you with slow, deep strokes. “You feel so good—fuck, you feel so fucking good.”

Your hands grip his back, nails scoring lines down his spine. “Harder,” you pant. “Just like that, oh—”

“Look at me,” he growls, hips snapping harder into yours. “I want to watch you.”

You do.

The slap of skin fills the room. Your gasps turn to throaty moans. You are unraveling beneath him, clinging to his shoulders, your legs lock around his waist, each thrust tearing another piece of you open.

“God, you’re so fucking perfect,” he mutters against your mouth, kissing you deep and messy. “Ah, fuck.”

He swallows your moans, his pace relentless now. And when your body seize around him, pleasure tearing through you like lightning, you cry out his name like a vow.

“Jungkook,” you choke, trembling. “I’m— I’m coming—”

He curses, thrusts once more, deep and shuddering, and then he is spilling into you with a broken sound against your throat, collapsing on top of you in a mess of sweat and tangled limbs, your bodies still connected, your breaths shared.

You lay there together on the floor, sticky and undone, the air thick with everything that hadn’t been said, but was felt anyway.

He doesn’t speak for a while.

Just kisses your shoulder, your cheekbone, your jaw, like he can’t stop touching you.

And then he pulls back slightly, only enough to look at you. And look, he does.

Like you are the only thing he can see with those starry eyes of his. Like he wants to memorize you again.

Jungkook’s fingers tangle slowly through your hair, brushing it off your face, soft and slow, over and over, like it calms him just to touch you.

“You’re so damn beautiful,” he whispers, kissing the edge of your mouth, and then again, this time catching your bottom lip between his teeth. Gentle, possessive, drunk on you.

“Shut up,” you chuckle, unable to not press closer to his warmth. 

Eventually, he nudges your nose with his. “You’re never gonna win another argument, by the way. You know that, right?”

You laugh, breathless. “That’s what you think, loser.”

And when he kisses you again, it isn’t about lust.

It is about every late night. Every fight. Every inch of space you’d carved into each other just to finally land here.

Right here.

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He likes the hum of the projector behind the walls, the hush that blankets the theater like freshly fallen snow. He likes sitting in the back row with one leg over the other, sneakers kicked halfway off, hoodie pulled up.

And he likes you.

You, who always come alone—same seat, middle row, slightly off-center. Always with that worn-out baseball cap pulled low and a paper cup of coca-cola you rarely drink. You don’t talk to anyone. You don’t look at anyone. Least of all him.

But he notices everything.

Your deep eyes, which sometimes crinkle with laughter when a scene is unexpectedly funny. Your fingers, peppered with rings, always restless on your lap. The way you lean ever so slightly to the right, like you’re always ready to get up and leave.

He’s liked you for months. And he’s never said a word.

Until today.

Because today, you look like the world’s weight is sitting on your chest. And Jungkook, inexplicably, can feel it.

You walk into the cinema ten minutes late for Thunderbolts, a rare Thursday screening. Just you and him in the room. He knows this already because his uncle texts him like clockwork:

only 2 tickets sold. one of them is yours. come if u want.

You settle in your usual spot, cap even lower than usual, arms folded tight. And Jungkook doesn’t think. He just gets up and walks down the steps, quiet like a ghost, and drops into the seat one over from yours.

Just a chair between you.

The screen glows, colors dancing across your face. Yelena’s voice echoes across the empty space. “Grief makes you weird,” she says, and Jungkook watches you go still.

You shift. You press your lips together.

Then you close your eyes.

Not sleeping. Not watching. Just… gone. The kind of gone you only are when everything hurts too much to keep pretending you’re fine.

He can see your chin shaking. Tiny tremors. He hears you sniff, barely there. Then you bite your lip.

And he can’t do nothing anymore.

He leans in, gentle. Just enough that his voice won’t carry.

“Hey,” he says. “You okay?”

You.

You open your eyes.

Not fully—just enough to see someone sitting next to you, one seat over. You’ve seen him before. The quiet and somewhat edgy one. The one who always gets to the cinema before you. Sometimes you’ve caught him looking, and you’d pretend not to notice.

Because it felt safer not to.

But now he’s here. And his voice… is soft. Not intruding. Just there, like a hand stretched out without asking for anything in return.

Surprisingly, you shake your head. No. You’re not okay.

He nods, slow. Like he knew the answer already. Like you were both used to confide in each other as old friends unspokenly do.

“Do you want me to leave?” he asks.

Your lips part, but nothing comes out. You blink hard, trying to swallow the lump in your throat.

“No,” you whisper.

He shifts, and now he’s in the seat right next to you. Not touching. Not even close enough to brush elbows. But he’s there. And for some reason, it makes breathing a little easier.

The flickering light from the screen plays across your skin. You pretend to watch, but you’re not really seeing anything. There’s too much weight behind your eyes, pressing against the inside of your skull like a wave about to break.

A single tear escapes before you can stop it. Just one, but it betrays the whole dam.

Then his hand—steady, warm—lifts just slightly. It doesn’t rush to wipe it away. It just finds your cheek, the edge of it, his inked fingers grazing the path your tear took. Like he wants to understand it more than erase it.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says quietly. “I just didn’t want you to sit here alone tonight.”

You don’t look at him, your eyes trailed firmly toward the big screen. Nor do you speak. Just sit in the quiet. Let the soft hum of the projector and the weight of the moment hold you both.

“You always sit over there,” you murmur after a moment. “Back row.”

It feels oddly okay admitting to a complete stranger you had noticed him before. He seemed rather comfortable implying the same. Like he too had watched you come and go from the darkness.

He breathes a soft laugh. “I watch a lot. Movies. People. I don’t usually say anything to anyone though.”

“Why now?”

“Felt like maybe… someone should.”

You laugh, but it comes out uneven. “You picked a great time. I’m really winning at life right now.”

He glances sideways, not smiling but not looking away either. “I don’t think we get points for winning. Just… surviving.”

Your eyes finally meet his.

There’s nothing flashy in his face. No grand heroism. Just quiet steadiness. That kind of calm you don’t notice until you need it.

“I come here when I can’t think straight,” you say, your voice no louder than the rustling of candy wrappers somewhere in a memory. “When the world feels too loud.”

“I come when it’s empty,” he replies, like a confession. His eyes twinkle like they hold a thousand stars. “When I can pretend I’m the only one in it.”

The silence stretches, but this time it doesn’t press in—it holds.

You ask, “Does it help?”

He shrugs, but it’s soft, almost careful. “Sometimes. Not always.”

“Same.” you sigh, taking your cap out and straightning your stray locks.

Then, after a pause, he adds, “You looked like you needed someone who doesn’t expect anything from you.”

The words land like a hand on your spine, steadying.

“Yeah,” you say, nearly breathless. “That’s exactly what I needed.”

You don’t know what this is. Who he really is. What any of it means. But it doesn’t feel strange.

It feels like finding a light in a room you forgot had windows.

“You know… You don’t even know me,” you whisper, when the intensity of his stare starts blooming something warm in your chest. "I don't even know your name."

He doesn’t flinch. Just watches you like you’re a film he’s been meaning to see.

“But I see you,” he says with a soft smile. "And you can call me Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook."

And somehow, that’s even better.

The tear you didn’t realize was forming slips down your cheek. You don’t wipe it. Neither does he. But his fingers find your cheek again—gentle, reverent. A soft graze like he’s saying I know without needing to say anything at all.

And in the hush of that half-lit theater, with the story on the screen lost to both of you, it feels like a beginning.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just right.

“Just be your usual charming self,” Nicole had told you. “And maybe don’t wear those boots that make you look like an indie film villain.”

So, naturally, you wore the boots.

Your translator gig? Supposed to be a quick fix. A financial Band-Aid while you figured out how to turn art and anxiety into rent. You didn’t expect the first name on your assignment list to be Jeon Jungkook.

Yes, that Jeon Jungkook. The one whose face you may or may not have cried over in 2019. In your defense, your boyfriend at the time had dumped you via text, and Jungkook's voice was the only thing that made sense in a world where grown men broke up with emojis.

Now, he was a client. And you were the woman tasked with making sure he didn’t accidentally tell a New York producer that his lyrics were about “hugging his ego” instead of “healing his soul”.

And now here you were—standing outside a Manhattan recording studio like the opening scene of a movie you didn’t audition for.

The studio was warm in that manufactured way, like expensive lighting and stress-sweat. You adjusted the strap on your tote and walked into Studio B with the confidence of someone who knew she was good at her job—even if it wasn’t originally her job.

Jungkook was already there, standing beside Jimin. Beanie jammed low, sleeves rolled high, hoodie crumpled like he’d slept in it and still looked like a Calvin Klein ad. He turned as you entered, eyes landing on you like they were scanning for weaknesses.

Something flickered behind them. Not recognition. Not interest, exactly. Just...a shift. Like he wasn’t expecting you to be you.

You ignored it. Or tried to.

“Hi,” you said, aiming for cool and professional but landing somewhere between I have a crush and I’ve forgotten what English is.

Jimin waved. “You’re Nicole’s friend, right?”

“Yep. That’s me.”

Jungkook's eyes narrowed, slow and considering. Like you were a painting he couldn’t decide if he loved or wanted to set on fire.

“You?” he said.

You blinked. “Me.”

“She’s Nicole’s friend,” Jimin repeated, like maybe Jungkook had forgotten how words worked. “Art director before she started translating.”

“Oh,” Jungkook said. Like he’d just been told the forecast was thirty percent chance of regret.

The booth was small. Soundproof. Oppressively intimate. He slid in next to you, close enough that your knee grazed his thigh when you sat. You crossed your legs with unnecessary flair. 

The first ten minutes were polite. Neutral. Then came the lyric check. His focus was surgical, and every time you spoke, he looked at you like the sound might cut him open.

It was almost annoying how good he was.

Annoying how aware you were of it.

Annoying how much hotter he got every time he looked confused by a metaphor and then got it seconds later like he’d never doubted himself in the first place.

“Wait, what does ‘moth in the hallway light’ mean again?” he played with his piercing, pen hovering over the margin.

“It’s not literal,” you said, looking up. “It’s about being drawn to something that might hurt you.”

“Oh.” He held your gaze.

You didn’t know what was happening, but it felt like being slow-danced around a campfire. Beautiful. Dangerous. The kind of thing that left ashes.

The longer you worked, the more the air changed. Charged, heavy. Every time you leaned in to point something out, your shoulders almost brushed. Every time he sang and looked over to see if you approved, your pulse betrayed you.

Then you leaned over to note another change, and your finger brushed his.

Electric.

You didn’t flinch. He did. But only barely. Just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he’d just remembered something interesting.

“You’re very precise,” his head tilted ever so lightly.

You arched a brow. “Is that a compliment?”

He shrugged, eyes still on you. “Unexpected.”

You smiled, tight-lipped. “My whole life is a series of unexpected things.”

He didn’t laugh. But he watched you like he wanted to. And then didn’t.

Tension? Thick. Banter? Borderline flammable. He pushed back against half your suggestions. You challenged every one of his metaphors. It wasn’t arguing. It was art. Somewhere between creative friction and foreplay.

Jimin left halfway through. You didn’t notice. You were too busy daring Jungkook to explain why he’d used the word "echo" five times in the same verse.

Later, when the session ended, you could have left it there. You should have. But of course, the charger.

You’d made it all the way to the elevator before remembering it, and by the time you crept back into the studio, the door to the booth was cracked and the conversation already happening.

“She’s probably another one of those fans-turned-hires,” Jungkook was saying, frustrated. “She glared at me half the time.”

“Maybe that’s just her face,” Jimin offered.

“No, it’s—she thinks she’s better than this. Like we’re wasting her time.”

You stood in the hallway, phone cord in your hand, lungs doing this weird stutter-step thing.

It wasn’t the worst thing anyone had ever said about you.

But it hurt. Because he’d been right about one thing.

You had looked at him like that.

Because it was easier to be unimpressed than to admit you were already a little bit undone.

You left before they saw you. And you never corrected him. Because people like Jungkook didn’t want to know they’d knocked the air out of you in a single glance. And people like you didn’t admit that kind of thing. Not when you were already struggling to find where you fit in a world that only ever saw the edges.

The next time you were in a room together, you didn’t smile.

But he still looked at you like you were a problem he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve—or maybe one he absolutely did.

𓂃˖ ࣪♡ part two

What started as a friendly wrestling match—the kind where he pinned your wrists with ease and you called him a menace—turned into something else entirely.

Because now, you’re perched on his lap.

And not just perched—settled. Comfortable in that entirely compromising way that doesn’t leave room for jokes or easy exits. Jungkook's body sprawled across the carpet like it’s claimed the whole living room. Your hands still tangled in his—collateral from the playful shoving and grabbing—but now they’re unmoving. Fused. Anchored.

And he’s looking at you like you’re a secret he’s trying not to say out loud.

Your cheeks burn. His do, too. And maybe that’s the worst part—how mutual it is. How unspoken and obvious. Like two actors in a play who forgot to stick to the script.

His chest rises beneath you, not rapidly, but intentionally. Slower. Like he’s trying to draw in enough air to ground himself, but you can feel the tremble in it. The restraint.

You stare down at him, and his eyes glisten just a little too much for this to be funny anymore.

If you were just friends, you’d laugh it off. Shriek something dramatic like “God, you wish!” and scramble off him while tossing a pillow at his face.

But that’s not your case. Hasn’t been for a while.

The tension’s been living here longer than either of you would admit—sleeping on the couch between movie nights, hiding in the silence that followed almost-too-long hugs, sneaking glances when one of you thought the other wasn’t looking.

Your thighs tighten instinctively where they’re resting on either side of his hips, and Jungkook exhales sharply through his nose. His eyes flicker to your mouth and back—so fast, you’d think you imagined it.

You didn’t.

"Are we still wrestling, or…?” he says, voice low, a little hoarse.

You shake your head once, because words don’t work anymore. Not when you’re aware of everything—his tattooed hand still holding yours, the weight of his thigh beneath yours, the way his hair has fallen over his forehead in a way that makes you want to brush it back just to see his whole face clearly.

Your heart drums against your ribcage like it’s trying to tell him everything you can’t. That you’ve thought about this too much. That there were nights you couldn’t sleep thinking about how his hands would feel on your waist if it were real. That you hated every girl who ever got to kiss him just a little.

That you don’t want to be almost anymore.

Jungkook's thumb brushes against your knuckle. A small, insignificant motion. But to your skin, it feels like fireworks.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers.

You don’t.

Instead, you lean in—slow, uncertain, the kind of motion that says I’m terrified and please kiss me all at once.

And when your lips meet, it’s not fireworks.

It’s quieter than that.

Like falling asleep to rain tapping against the window. Like finally walking into a place you didn’t know was home until you stepped inside.

His hands are in your hair now, in your waist, everywhere. Yours roam on instinct, one curling around the back of his neck, the other still tangled in his. It’s unpracticed and messy, but holy hell—it’s real.

You both break apart with a gasp, your foreheads pressed together, breathing in tandem like you’re trying to recalibrate.

“I wasn’t supposed to do that,” you murmur.

“Well, I was hoping you would,” he replies.

You huff a breath that’s half laugh, half disbelief. “Jungkook…”

“Yeah?”

“This ruins everything.”

“Or it makes everything make sense,” he says.

You look at him—really look at him. His lips are pink and swollen, eyes soft and wrecked with something deeper than want.

And you realize then, with terrifying clarity:

You’re not afraid of ruining the friendship.

“Taehyung, you can’t keep doing this.”

He raises a brow, lips tugged into that crooked little smile that always manages to make your pulse stutter. “Doing what?”

“This,” you say, motioning to the space between you both like it holds some unspoken offense. “Showing up. Flirting. Acting like we’re a thing.”

“You look so cute trying to deny we’re not together.”

You cross your arms, heat crawling up your neck. “That’s because we’re not!”

“See?” he grins wider, lazy and amused. “So cute proving my point.”

You groan and swipe the barcode scanner across the overpriced candle he insisted on buying, even though you both know he doesn’t care for lavender or citrus. It’s his fifth visit this week. Your coworkers have started calling him “Retail Romeo” behind the stockroom doors.

“You need hobbies,” you mutter, tossing the candle into a paper bag with more force than necessary.

“I have hobbies,” he says, watching you. “You’re one of them.”

Your heart skips a beat, traitorous and loud. “I’m not flattered. That’s objectifying.”

“Don’t worry,” he says, pushing his hair back like it’s not already perfectly tousled. “I objectify myself plenty.”

You glance around, suddenly hyperaware of the line forming behind him. One teenage girl is whispering into her phone, sneaking pictures with the subtlety of a jackhammer. Taehyung doesn’t seem to notice—or maybe he’s just used to it.

“Do you do this at all your favorite shops?” you ask, voice quieter now. “Drop in, charm the staff, make them feel like they’re special?”

He pauses.

And the look he gives you then is not playful.

“No,” he says, and just like that, the air changes.

Your throat dries.

It’s not a confession. Not exactly. But it sinks into your skin like warm light through glass, catching on the parts of you that want to believe he means it.

You hand him the bag, avoiding his eyes. “Well, maybe you should.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not interested.”

He steps a little closer. You don’t move.

“I think you are,” he says.

You shake your head. “I think you’re used to getting attention, and I’m the first girl who didn’t fall for you in five minutes. It’s a novelty. That’s all.”

He’s silent for a second, the candle bag rustling in his hand.

Then he leans in, low enough for only you to hear, his breath brushing your cheek like a dare.

“You think I fly across the city, into traffic, during golden hour—my best lighting, by the way—because I’m bored?”

You stare at him, your mouth suddenly dry. “Taehyung…”

“I like you,” he says, simply.

And you hate how soft he sounds when he says it. How honest.

You also hate that your heart is now tap dancing against your ribs like it’s auditioning for a rom-com.

He straightens, adjusts the strap of his messenger bag, and flashes you one last look.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says, already backing toward the door.

You don’t stop him.

The rain kept soaking the hem of your jeans and blurring the outline of the train station as if the universe was trying to smudge you out. You stood under that crooked umbrella like a cliché, one half shielding you from the weather, the other half failing entirely. A perfect metaphor for your relationship.

Namjoon stood across from you, his suitcase at his side, that ridiculous passport cover you gave him tucked under his arm. He looked like someone preparing for a flight, not just a train. A man about to leave for a life that didn’t have you in it.

“You always pick the saddest weather,” you said, trying to laugh. Your voice cracked like glass anyway.

He gave a soft smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes anymore. “You think I planned the rain?”

“I think the rain plans you.”

He glanced up, following a drop that slipped from the umbrella’s edge. “Maybe it’s poetic.”

“Maybe it’s cruel.”

You weren’t touching. That’s what you remember most vividly. His fingers were in his coat pocket. Yours were white-knuckling the umbrella handle. Between you: every word you never said, every almost, every 'I love you' you were too scared to let loose.

“Why are we like this?” you asked.

“Like what?”

“Right for each other. But never at the right time.”

Namjoon looked away then, toward the tracks, like he was afraid that if he met your eyes, he’d crumble. “If I knew that,” he said, “I’d rewrite the whole damn story.”

And there it was—that ache. The one that bloomed every time you imagined what you could’ve been if you’d just been less yourselves. If he hadn’t had to chase his dreams to a different city, a different future. If you hadn’t been so rooted, so unwilling to un-plant your whole life just to follow him.

You kissed. You don’t remember moving. Just his lips on yours, warm and trembling, like he was trying to memorize the shape of goodbye. Your hands slid into his hair. His arms wrapped around you like he was trying to keep something from slipping through his fingers.

When you pulled away, he whispered against your lips, “I’ll miss you every day.”

And that was the worst part—because you would too.

The loudspeaker overhead crackled, announcing the departure. The train was waiting, the world already pulling him away from you in invisible threads.

You wanted to be brave. To tell him to stay. Or at least to beg. But the words died in your throat like wilted flowers.

Instead, you asked, “Do you think we’ll find each other again?”

Namjoon’s eyes softened. He brushed a thumb across your cheekbone. “We always do. In some version of us. Maybe not in this one.”

A pause. The kind that feels like an eternity living in the span of a second.

“I love you,” you breathed. Finally. “Even if it doesn’t matter.”

“It matters,” he said. “It matters more than you know.”

He stepped back. Picked up his suitcase. And every inch he moved away from you felt like someone pulling thread from a seam—quiet, deliberate, final.

You didn’t watch him board. You couldn’t. You stared at the ground, watching raindrops gather in a small puddle by your boot, warping your reflection like a funhouse mirror.

And when the train pulled away, the sound was deafening.

You stood there long after it left. Still holding the umbrella like a relic. Still feeling the ghost of his mouth on yours. Still pretending the warmth on your face was rain and not heartbreak leaking out of you in slow drips.

The umbrella tilted to one side. The wind picked up. And just like that, you were alone.

But even in the cold, the kiss lingered.