You don't know what time it is. You don't care.

Your friend disappeared into the crowd an hour ago—or was it ten minutes?—leaving you alone in the crush of bodies. It was good, at first. The kind of freedom that only comes when you let go completely. But now the walls are closing in. The heat is too much. The press of strangers against your skin, the wild eyes of dancers caught in strobing lights—it's all becoming too much, too loud, too real.

You need air.

You turn. One step. Then another.

And you walk into someone.

Not a brush—a crash. Your palms flatten against a chest as you stumble, the impact sending a jolt through your arms. Warm beneath your hands. Solid. The scent of clean laundry and something floral—unexpected, soft—cuts through the haze of smoke and alcohol.

The darkness does little to hide him.

Dark eyes. Thick brows. Lips parted in surprise, faintly pink in the dim light. A black cap pulled low, the brim shadowing his face, and a simple black shirt that clings to shoulders you've seen on a hundred screens. The ears—the unmistakable curve of them—are what seal it.

You've stared at enough pictures, watched enough fancams, traced enough fanart. You know that face.

Jeon Jungkook.

He stares at you. You stare at him. The bass thrums between you like a held breath.