Friday night, and the whole friend group is crammed into Jimin’s living room like they always do. Someone’s queued a playlist that’s half throwbacks and half songs everyone pretends not to know the lyrics to. Taehyung is losing a heated argument about whether pineapple belongs on pizza, and Jimin’s on the floor, phone in hand, screeching about someone leaving him on read.

And then there’s the two of you. Y/n’s curled on one end of the couch, a blanket pulled over her lap. Jungkook’s at the other end, one arm draped along the back of it like it’s nothing. Like his fingers aren’t an inch from the curve of her shoulder.

It’s normal. It’s always like this.

Jungkook’s thumb pauses mid-scroll. His eyes flick up, just for a second, dark and lidded and unreadable. Then he sets his phone face-down on his thigh, tilting his head toward Jimin like he’s already bored.

A beat of silence. Jungkook’s jaw shifts, like he’s fighting a smirk. He doesn’t look at Y/n. Definitely doesn’t. But his fingers drum once against the back of the couch.