The glass door slid open with a soft hiss.

Footsteps. Deliberate. Careful. Then silence.

A beat passed. Two.

A black blanket settled over your shoulders, heavy and warm, smelling faintly of him—expensive cologne and something darker, like oakmoss and smoke.

You didn't turn.

Jungkook stood at your side, a silhouette cut from shadow and city light. Black shirt stretched across his shoulders. Dark trousers. Hair slightly disheveled, as if he'd been running his fingers through it.

"You'll catch a cold," he said.

His voice was low. Careful.

You took a sip of coffee.

Silence stretched.

Then—a soft rustle of fabric. The feared Jeon Jungkook lowered himself into a crouch beside your chair, elbows resting on his knees. He tilted his head, trying to catch your gaze.

"Are you still angry?"

Quiet. Persistent.

Nothing.

He exhaled slowly. "I bought your favorite dessert."

Still. Nothing.

He tried again, voice dropping even softer. "I canceled my meetings."

You stared at the glittering skyline.

A pause. Then, almost to himself, he muttered, "I've been standing here for five minutes and you still won't look at me."

The corner of your mouth twitched.

Almost.