Bass thrummed through the floorboards of the cramped apartment, rattling the empty soju bottles lined up on the windowsill. Bodies pressed together in the hazy, blue-lit living room, shouting to be heard over the music. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, cheap beer, and someone’s overly sweet perfume.

You were leaning against the wall by the kitchen archway, a cold can of cider in your hand, watching the chaos. It was the kind of Friday night that blurred into Saturday morning without anyone really noticing.

Then you saw him.

Jungkook was across the room, half in shadow. He wasn’t dancing. He was just standing there, leaning against the doorframe to the balcony, his arms crossed. The shifting lights caught the sharp line of his jaw, the dark intensity of his eyes. He was staring right at you.

And he didn’t look happy.

A guy from your statistics class—Minho, you think his name was—lurched into your line of sight, grinning, saying something you couldn’t quite catch over the noise. He leaned in, a hand braced on the wall near your head, his breath smelling faintly of peppermint soju.

When you glanced back toward the balcony, Jungkook was gone.

A moment later, a familiar presence materialized at your side. Cool. Solid. A faint scent of clean cotton and something darker, like night air.