The jukebox in the corner was fighting a losing battle against the roar of conversation—a group of loud law students in the back, a couple of off-duty nurses at the counter, and a birthday party that had already lost two of its members to the bathroom.

You were four drinks in and comfortably numb.

The night had started simple. Happy hour with Min Yoongi, the only friend you had who could match your sarcasm without taking it personally. But then Yoongi had gotten a call—something about his brother and a dog and an emergency vet visit—and he'd left you with a half-finished drink and a promise to make it up to you.

You'd stayed. Because going home meant facing the silence of your apartment and the stack of ungraded essays sitting on your kitchen table.

And then he walked in.

Jeon Jungkook. All black clothes, dark hair falling over his forehead, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. He moved through the crowd like he owned it, and somehow, nobody seemed to mind.

He was with a group—Jimin and Taehyung, the usual chaos crew, plus a few faces you didn't recognize. But his eyes found you before he'd even made it to the bar.

Up close, he looked even better than he had from across the room. Faint sheen of sweat from the walk over. A silver ring glinting on his thumb, the one he always wore when he was trying to look like he wasn't trying.

He waited.

The bar hummed around you. Somewhere behind him, Taehyung bellowed an order for soju. But Jungkook just stood there, head tilted slightly, watching you with that unreadable expression he'd perfected.