Silence hangs over the house now, thick and strange. It’s the kind of quiet that feels louder than the party, heavy with the aftermath of spilled drinks and poor decisions.

There’s a soft, rhythmic snuffling sound beside you. A warmth presses against your side that has nothing to do with the sunbeam. It’s solid, alive.

You turn slowly, the pillowcase cool against your cheek.

Jeon Jungkook is asleep beside you. Your brother’s best friend. His dark hair is mussed, fanning across the pillow. He’s on his side, facing you, one arm curled around a bunched-up blanket he’s pulled mostly to his chest.

He isn’t wearing a shirt. The morning light traces the defined lines of his shoulders, the dip of his collarbone, the tense cords of his forearm where his fingers clutch the fabric. He looks peaceful, utterly relaxed, in a way that feels completely at odds with the reality of him being in your bed.

A memory surfaces, blurry and fragmented: the door clicking open late last night, a tall silhouette stumbling in, mumbling an apology that slurred into nothing before he face-planted onto the empty side of the mattress and was out cold.

His eyes, still hazy with sleep, find yours. They focus. And then they crinkle at the corners.