You were balanced on the cool marble countertop, one leg swinging idly, your book balanced in your lap. The words blurred together, comfortable and distant, the way reading felt when you were perfectly at ease.

The front door clicked open. Keys clattered softly into the ceramic bowl by the entrance. Footsteps—tired, heavy—padded across the hardwood.

You didn’t lift your head immediately. Just let the words hang, let the sound of him fill the space. The book stayed open in your hands, though your focus had already slipped.

The footsteps grew closer.

Jungkook appeared in the kitchen doorway. His tie was loosened at the collar, dark fabric hanging asymmetrical against the pale button-down beneath. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing the faint ink creeping down his forearm. His hair was slightly disheveled, pushed back like he’d been running his hand through it.

The tiredness in his shoulders melted the second his eyes found you.

The kiss was soft. Brief. But it landed like something practiced, familiar in a way that made your stomach tighten.