Hi I See You Want A Request! Hb Some Angst To Comfort !drunkgojoxreader Where He Always Shows Up Drunk

me @ y/n when they do something i’d never do:

like babe this isn’t us ?? get it together

We all have that one character we’re in too deep for.

I can’t believe he’s done this

Could I request a fic about George x Muggle!reader? Like she stays and works in the little village near the Burrow. Could either be snippets of them throughout the years having little flirty talks and slowly turns into a George feeling protective/scared for her safety kinda thing. Fluff/smut/angst/maybe happyending? That I'll leave up to you if this isn't too much of a ask!

Absolutely love your work!

flour and flowers | george weasley x reader

a/n: writing a bunch today to distract myself from the day's events. thank you for the request and your kindness! hope you like it :)

warnings: a cross between implied smut and actual smut, mentions of grief, not proofread

The first time George Weasley saw you, you were balancing a tray of teacups in one hand and flicking a disobedient curl out of your eyes with the other. Your fingers moved with the practiced grace of someone who knew how to carry comfort in porcelain. The sunlight caught the edges of your hair and made your smile look warmer than the tea you were serving. You stood outside the village café—chipped pastel paint, a hand-drawn chalkboard sign still smudged with yesterday’s specials, and the smell of something sweet curling through the air like it was trying to lure people inside.

He’d just popped down from the Burrow to run an errand for Molly, not expecting anything more exciting than a loaf of bread and a scolding for forgetting the milk last time. But then he saw you—sunlight on your shoulders, shoes scuffed from too much walking, your laugh spilling out like it belonged in the air.

You didn’t notice him at first. Just another stranger with freckled hands and storm-worn eyes. But when your gazes met—something in your chest fluttered. Like the world paused to see what you’d say first.

He slowed down, just slightly. Told himself it was curiosity.

Told himself a lot of things that day.

You noticed him, of course. Tall, red-haired, freckled all over with that vaguely chaotic glint in his eyes—the kind of man who didn’t exactly blend in. You offered him a smile out of politeness. He blinked like he hadn’t expected it.

“Tea?” you asked, voice light. “Or are you more of a coffee and chaos type?”

He huffed a laugh. “What gave me away?”

You shrugged. “The hair. The grin. The air of impending mischief.”

He took a step closer, nodding toward the tray. “Those for customers or is one of them a peace offering?”

“Depends,” you said. “You planning to stay a while or just here for the bread and doom?”

George smiled. Fully. The kind that showed teeth and softened him around the edges.

“Maybe both,” he said. “But if I’m going to be doomed, might as well be with a cup of something sweet.”

From that moment on, George only ever stopped at one place to pick up bread.

Didn’t matter if the other shop was closer. Or cheaper. Or didn’t make him feel like his chest might cave in every time you smiled at him from behind the counter. He came back anyway.

Sometimes he bought things he didn’t need—an extra croissant, a jar of local jam, a scone you said turned out too flat but still tasted fine. But mostly, he came for the way your voice smoothed out the sharp edges in his head. The way your laughter cut through the fog he still lived in, even years later. Sometimes he didn’t buy anything at all. Just sat out front with a cup of tea and let you talk to him about things that had nothing to do with magic or war or anything that had broken him before. He listened closely. Memorized the shape of your sentences, the way you tapped your fingers when you were excited, the soft hum you made when you stirred your drink. And with every word, every passing moment, something unnamed began to stitch itself back together inside him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really. And he liked it that way.

Still, there were things you noticed.

He always stood with one shoulder tilted just slightly forward, like he was shielding something—or had once been forced to. There was a soft scar tucked behind the mess of curls on the right side of his head, where one ear should’ve been. You never asked about it.

The air around him always felt... different. Like it held a memory you couldn’t name. Like the warmth of his smile came from somewhere far away, carried on something heavier than it looked.

He laughed with you. Teased you. Rolled his eyes dramatically when you forgot his favorite muffin. But behind every grin, there was a flicker of something else. Grief, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of a name he hadn’t spoken out loud in a long time.

He came in more often as the weeks went by. Never said why. Just appeared like the wind—one minute the café was quiet, the next, the bell above the door chimed and there he was with a smirk and a sarcastic comment about your apron.

Sometimes you’d catch him staring out the window with a far-off look, like the village wasn’t quite real to him yet. Like he was still waiting for something—or someone—to tug him back into the storm.

Once, when it rained and no one else came in, you let him linger long after closing. You talked about stupid things: the worst thing you’d ever baked, his distaste for mint in desserts, a goat from the next village over who kept escaping. He laughed, really laughed, and then went quiet, like it surprised him.

Another time, he brought you a flower he swore he didn’t pick on purpose. It was crushed, a little muddy, and stuffed inside a napkin.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said.

But you kept it anyway. Pressed it between the pages of your recipe book. Every time you caught a glimpse of the browned, brittle petals, you smiled. Your fingers would sometimes linger on the page longer than necessary, tracing the soft edges as if they still held the warmth of his hand. It made your stomach twist, in that way beginnings always do—nervous and hopeful and quietly sweet.

The more he came around, the more he softened. Not all at once. Not loudly. But in small, steady ways.

He started fixing things—your sticky back door hinge, the café’s squeaky chalkboard sign, the wobbly stool by the window he always claimed as his. He never asked. Just noticed. Just did. And when you caught him at it, sleeves rolled to the elbows, wand tucked out of sight but clearly used, he’d shrug like it didn’t matter—like it hadn’t taken him an hour and a half to charm the latch back into place just right. Once, you found a small stack of napkins folded to level the back table leg. On one, he’d doodled a tiny magpie.

He started asking things, too. Quietly, like it cost him something. If you’d always lived here. If you ever wanted to leave. If you were scared to be alone at night. What your favorite song was. What your worst day looked like.

You caught him humming once. Under his breath, half-conscious of it. A melody that didn’t belong to the radio or the street—just something he was keeping close. You didn’t say anything. Didn’t want to scare it away. But something about the sound of it—gentle, aimless, half-happy—stayed with you. It echoed in your chest long after he left that evening, like the warmth of it had threaded into your ribs and settled there. You wondered what memory it belonged to. Or if maybe… it had something to do with you.

And slowly, you became part of the way he healed. Not by doing anything big, not by demanding he be different—but just by being there. Being warm. Being constant.

He stopped bracing when you touched his arm. He started remembering how you took your tea. He stayed longer. Looked lighter.

You weren’t magic. Not like him. But you felt like a kind of spell anyway.

---

He realized it on a Tuesday.

He’d been walking down the main lane into town, already half-smiling at the thought of seeing you, maybe teasing you for your questionable muffin-of-the-day choice—when he saw it.

The café was dark.

The lights were off. The chairs inside still up on tables. The chalkboard sign outside had been knocked over, lying face-down in the dirt.

Something in his chest snapped to attention.

He picked up his pace without thinking, scanning the windows, checking for movement. Nothing. No soft music, no scent of baking, no warm hum in the air that usually buzzed with your presence.

Then he heard it—from a passerby at the grocer’s doorstep.

“Shame about the café. Robbed last night, I heard. Poor girl must’ve been scared out of her mind.”

He didn’t hear the rest. Not really.

His hands were already shaking.

Because he didn’t know where you were.

Didn’t know if you’d been hurt. If you’d cried. If you were alone when it happened. If you were still alone now.

And that helpless, breathless ache clawed its way back through him.

Because the last time he’d loved someone enough to fear losing them, he had.

He didn’t think. Didn’t stop. Just moved.

Through the square. Past the post. His boots hit the pavement too hard, his breath shallow, heart thudding loud enough it might as well have been shouting your name.

The baker saw him and called something out—he didn’t hear it.

He rounded the corner toward your flat above the café, his hand already on the railing of the steps before his brain caught up. One breath. Two. Then he knocked.

And when you opened the door, eyes puffy, sweater too big, hair undone from what must’ve been a long and sleepless night—he couldn’t speak.

You blinked at him, then tried to smile. “Hi.”

He swallowed hard. “You’re okay.”

You nodded. “I’m okay.”

And then he was pulling you in, arms wrapped tight around your shoulders, his face buried in your neck like the world had stopped spinning and he needed to feel gravity again.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t need to.

Not yet.

Inside, the flat is dim—curtains drawn, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the table. You close the door behind him, the latch clicking into place like a sigh. Neither of you speaks at first.

He doesn’t let go.

Not until your hands come up to rest on his back, and even then, only enough to pull away and look at you—really look.

“Did they hurt you?” he asks, low. Rough.

You shake your head. “No. Just broke a window. Took the till. Some stock. I wasn’t here.”

Relief floods him so fast it feels like weakness. He sinks onto the edge of your couch, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

You watch him for a moment. Then sit beside him. “George?”

He looks up. His eyes are too bright.

“I—I didn’t know where you were,” he says, and it’s like the words rip something open.

“I thought—God, I thought I was going to lose you, and I didn’t even—”

He stops himself. But his hands find yours. Threaded. Tight.

“I don’t think I can do that again,” he admits. “Lose someone I—”

You squeeze his fingers.

“I'm here,” you whisper.

And this time, when he leans in, it’s not with panic. It’s with promise.

His lips brush yours like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast. Gentle. Testing. But once you respond, his restraint slips, just a little—your mouths part, meet again, deeper this time. His fingers knot themselves in your hair, and your hands find the edge of his shirt, anchoring him to you.

The kiss turns hungry in a heartbeat, built from everything unspoken and aching. Your bodies shift closer, knees bumping, breath warm and shared, and when he moans softly into your mouth, it sends a bolt of heat down your spine. You gasp against him, fingers curling at the hem of his shirt, dragging it up, needing more—needing him.

His thumb grazes the underside of your jaw as he pulls back for only a second, eyes searching yours, glazed with want. “Is this going to be okay?” he murmurs.

You’ve wanted him for so long it feels like it’s woven into your blood. Like every soft glance and crooked grin and half-step closer was a stitch, and now you’re coming apart to make room for him. Your body aches for him, not just with need—but with something fuller. Something that feels dangerously close to love.

You don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

And you kiss him like it’s the answer to every question he never dared to ask.

You’re not sure who exhales first, but the sigh between you is shared, warm, heavy with everything you haven’t said aloud.

When he pulls back, it’s barely an inch. His forehead rests against yours. His thumb still moves in slow circles at your side.

“Tell me this isn’t nothing,” he murmurs.

You shake your head, barely breathing. “It’s everything.”

He kisses you again.

Not tentative this time—there’s a hunger to it now, an ache that’s been building under every laugh, every shared cup of tea, every moment you made him feel like someone whole. His fingers slide under the hem of your sweater, slow and reverent, like he’s asking permission. Like he’s afraid if he rushes, it’ll all disappear.

You nod before he even says a word.

That night is soft. You take your time, like the two of you are learning a new language written in breath and bare skin. He kisses the slope of your shoulder, the bend of your knee, murmurs something indecipherable against your stomach that sounds like worship. You drag your fingers through his hair, pull him back to your mouth, feel his weight press into you like he’s trying to be rewritten by your body alone. The rhythm you find together is slow, reverent—like memory, like healing. He touches you like he doesn’t believe he’s allowed.

You let him.

You tell him he is.

And in the morning, the sun paints gold across your floorboards, catching on the curls at the base of his neck where he sleeps, half-tangled in your sheets.

You wake before him. Watch his chest rise and fall, slow and steady, one hand curled loosely beneath his chin. He looks younger in the light—unguarded, almost boyish, like the weight he carries has finally been set down for a while.

Something in your chest swells. You press a kiss to his shoulder, light as air, and whisper his name just to be sure it’s real.

He stirs. Wakes slowly. Stretches. Blinks at you like he’s still dreaming.

“I want to try something,” he says.

You raise an eyebrow. “Try what?”

He doesn’t answer. Just slips out of bed, bare feet padding over wood, and reaches for his wand from where it rests on the windowsill. You sit up, blanket clutched to your chest, watching as he steps into the patch of sunlight by your window.

He closes his eyes. Breathes.

He thinks about the way you looked at him last night. About your hands in his hair. The sound you made when he whispered that you mattered. The way it felt to finally, finally be held without fear.

When he opens his eyes, he lifts the wand and speaks—clear, quiet, certain.

“Expecto Patronum.”

And for the first time since Fred, something silver and stunning bursts from the tip—light and wild and alive.

It takes the shape of a magpie.

He turns to you, eyes glassy, smile trembling.

You don’t say anything. Just reach for him.

And he comes home to you all over again.

-----

tagging: @hanneh69 @jamespotteraliveversion @glennussy

𓆇 •ִ ᜔. 🧸 my secondhand bookstore

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TAYLOR SWIFT toasting KENDRICK LAMAR The 67th Annual Grammy Awards

Doyoung making a list of all the fansites he needs to glare at once he reaches the airport

Werewolf Taeyong x y/n moodboard 2022

•

Inspired by his song “Ghost”

The gifs are mine creation.

ahhh my friend’s first fic 🫶pls support her~

No Room For Secrets-Chapter 1: Meet Cute?

Pairing: roommate!Jungkook x (f.)Reader

Genre(s): Roommates AU, strangers to friends, FWB, lovers, slice of life, angst, smut, fluff, (New Girl AU?), slow buurn

Summary: You settle into your new apartment and quickly bond with your roommates(plus Taehyung). A deeper conversation with Jungkook about life sparks subtle flirting and an unexpected connection.

Warning(s by chapter): explicit language(cursing)

Word Count: 4.6k

A/N: hey thanks for being here :) My fic ‘No Room For Secrets’ is HEAVILY INSPIRED BY THE TV SERIES NEW GIRL so don’t be surprised the apartment layout is the same. I know I could’ve been more creative but it’s one of my fav shows and thinking of bts being in that sort of dynamic inspired me to write this disaster :D hope you enjoy and feel free to let me know your thoughts❣️

“Alright, let’s get started. Why do you think you’d be a good fit as our roommate?” Your new acquaintance, Jin, is sitting on the couch in front of you leaning in with a welcoming smile.

You open your mouth to answer, fully intending to keep it simple, but somehow, words just keep spilling out.

“Well, I’m pretty easygoing. I clean up after myself, I don’t throw wild parties, and I actually enjoy doing dishes—well, not enjoy, but I don’t mind them, which is basically the same thing, right? Also, I’m not a morning person, so you don’t have to worry about me making noise at ungodly hours. But I do sometimes talk to myself, like, just thinking out loud, not full conversations or anything weird—though I guess that’s subjective—”

“Wait, go back. You like doing dishes?” The man who introduced himself as Taehyung, raises a brow.

“I mean, yeah, relatively speaking.”

“Interesting.” He grips his chin. “Suspicious, even.”

The small one, who you now know as Jimin, starts laughing. “Tae, we’re supposed to be making her feel comfortable, not interrogating her dishwashing habits.”

“Though it is good to know.” Jin nods. “I enjoy cooking, but I loathe doing dishes.”

The three men sit across from you on the couch—Jin on the left, Taehyung in the middle, and Jimin on the right, all watching you with varying degrees of interest. From what you’ve gathered so far, they seem like good company. Or at the very least, not serial killers—which is always a plus.

“Maybe if this works out,” Jin continues. “We can familiarize you with our apartment responsibilities? Like when I cook, the ones who ate my food take responsibility for cleaning dishes after.”

Before you can respond, the front door swings open. You turn just in time to see a figure step inside—dark hair slightly tousled, black hoodie hanging loosely off his frame. His gaze flickers over to the scene in front of him, and his brows furrow.

“What’s going on?”

“Interviewing our potential new roommate.” Taehyung wiggles his eyebrows and grins.

“You don’t even live here.” The man blinks.

Jimin looks at you and sighs. “We’ve been telling him that, but he refuses to leave.”

Taehyung gasps with so much offense, his chest puffs out. “Excuse you, I bring valuable insight.”

“You asked about dishes.” Jin deadpans.

Taehyung looks at his nails. “And I stand by it.”

The dark haired man by the door just shakes his head, turning his attention to you. There’s a moment of silence as he studies you—assessing, curious, unreadable.

“Did they at least offer you water?”

You smile awkwardly, glancing toward Jimin. “No.”

Still by the door, he throws a look at the others. “You guys suck at this.”

“Noted.” Jin says, turning back to you. “Would you like some water?”

“I’m good, thanks.” You smile politely.

The man whose name you still don’t know, huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head as he moves toward the kitchen. The conversation resumes, but you catch the way he glances at you one more time before turning his back and reaching for the fridge door.

You try to focus, but your brain is still processing the fact that there’s another hot guy in the room. And he’s barely spoken since walking in, and yet somehow, his presence felt the loudest. It was almost deafening, the way your attention gravitated to him.

A moment later, he’s back and the others stop bickering amongst themselves. He doesn’t say anything as he sinks into the couch next to Jimin, absently biting into an apple. But in his other hand, he holds out a glass of water.

You blink. Didn’t you just say no?

He doesn’t look at you, just keeps chewing, gaze focused on some random spot across the room like this is the most normal thing in the world.

Without a word, you take it. Noting his hand tattoos that just make him even more of a hot mystery. And, despite insisting you didn’t need it, you practically down the whole thing in one go.

Jimin watches in amusement. “Thirsty?”

You wipe your mouth, setting the empty glass on the table. “Apparently.”

The guy with the apple smirks to himself and keeps chewing.

“So,” he says with his mouth full, finally turning to you, “why are you looking for a new place?”

You hesitate for a split second before exhaling. “Because my current roommate sucks.”

Taehyung leans forward, intrigued. “Like, normal ‘steals your food’ sucks or ‘burns sage to cleanse your aura but also forgets to pay rent’ sucks?”

“Both. Plus, she invited her boyfriend to stay over every single night and now he basically lives there rent-free.” You sigh. “They also fight constantly. Over the dumbest things. One time, I woke up at 2 a.m. because he put the peanut butter in the fridge.”

Jin winces. “Yikes.”

“Yeah. So now I’m here, trying to reclaim my sanity.” It’s comical really. You thought it would work out with your friend-of-a-friend from college, but once she got a boyfriend she became a liiiittle demanding and less considerate of you also living there. You’re just grateful you didn’t grow close to her, otherwise this sudden move would make you feel guilty.

Mystery guy hums, studying you for a second. “Fair.” Then, he leans back against the couch, one arm tucked under the arm holding his apple. “What do you do?”

You open your mouth to answer, but Taehyung cuts in first. “More importantly, do you come with references?”

You scoff. “What is this, a job interview?”

Taehyung nods solemnly. “A highly competitive one.”

Jimin rolls his eyes, looking somewhat exhausted. “Please ignore him. Go on.”

You shrug. “I work remotely, which means I’ll probably be home a lot. But I keep to myself, and I promise I won’t be the ‘bothering you all the time’ type of roommate.”

“That’s what they all say.” Taehyung narrows his eyes.

“I mean it.”

Jin tilts his head. “You said your current roommate sucks, but do you suck?”

“Not unless you ask my ex, but that’s another story.” You flash a grin.

Jimin chokes on a laugh while Jin fights a smirk.

Tatted hottie raises an eyebrow. “Do you have any redeeming qualities?” He takes another bite of his apple, chewing obnoxiously.

You cross your arms, feigning offense. “Yes, actually.”

A beat of silence. Four pairs of eyes stay on you, waiting.

You tilt your head, pretending to think. “For one, I’m great at remembering random trivia. Completely useless stuff, but it makes me fun at parties.”

Jin hums. “Example?”

You grin. “Bananas are berries, but strawberries aren’t.”

Taehyung’s jaw drops. “No. Shut up.”

“I don’t make the rules.”

Jimin leans forward, intrigued. “More.”

You hold up a finger. “Octopuses have three hearts.”

“Holy shit.” Taehyung gasps and grips his chest. “I have one heart and that’s already too much.”

The dark haired man, who has been silent up until now, clears his throat before speaking. “That’s nice, but can you cook?”

You hesitate. “I can make a mean grilled cheese.” You smile hopefully, praying he can’t see through your half-truth.

Jin snorts then tilts his head. “How mean?”

“Perfectly golden brown, crispy edges, just the right amount of cheese pull.” You raise your chin, really selling yourself. “Michelin star-worthy.”

Jimin gasps. “You have to prove this.”

The guy whose name you STILL don’t know, smirks. “Yeah. That sounds like bullshit.”

You narrow your eyes at him, feeling competitive now. “You doubt my skills?” Oh the nerve on this guy.

“I don’t know. You just don’t seem like you can cook.”

You scoff. He’s not wrong. “And you seem like the type to drink protein shakes and eat sadness, but here we are.”

Jin and Jimin burst into laughter. Taehyung wheezes. The tatted man just raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching up before tossing the apple core into a nearby trash bin without looking and it lands perfectly. Of course it does.

“Alright,” he says, tilting his head. “Guess we’ll see.”

Taehyung calms down and waves a hand. “We’ll get to that. Continue. What else makes you tolerable?”

“I guess you’ll have to ask my best friend, Yoongi.”

The room falls into unexpected silence.

Jimin blinks. “Wait—Min Yoongi?” He looks at you quizzically. “Like, the Min Yoongi?”

You tilt your head. “Well, I don’t know if he deserves to be called ‘the Min Yoongi’ but… yeah, why?”

Tattoo hands exhales through his nose, shaking his head like he’s suddenly exhausted. Jin pinches the bridge of his nose. Taehyung looks at Jimin and points at you in disbelief, giggling like a little girl.

“You’re the best friend?” Taehyung is so shocked he’s giggling. But not at you. No, he’s laughing at how comically coincidental the circumstances are that you ended up being the one they interviewed for the roommate spot. Small world.

“You should’ve led with that,” Jin mutters with a smile.

“Yeah,” Jimin agrees, eyes wide with disbelief. “We could’ve saved a lot of time.”

You frown. “What? What does that mean?”

Taehyung just grins, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “It means, sweetheart, that you’re in.”

“Really? Just like that?”

“Just like that,” Taehyung waves a hand.

“How do you guys know Yoongi?” You raise a brow. Given, your close pal produces music and actually has a social life, unlike you. But these guys don’t look like they make music?

Jin puts his hands together. “Let’s just say, Yoongi doesn’t let just anyone into his life. If he’s your best friend, you’re probably not a total disaster.”

“Or you are a disaster, but he likes you anyway.” Hottie smirks, but not in that ‘hot guy wants your number’ kind of way. It’s a warm and alluring smirk, like he’s intrigued. Like he’s curious. Like he’s already figured something out about you that you don’t even know yet. “Jungkook,” he introduces himself, finally giving you a name to match the presence that’s been taking up too much space in your mind already.

Jungkook.

The name suits him—strong, effortless… annoyingly attractive.

He reaches his tattooed hand out for a greeting.

The moment your fingers brush, a jolt of something sharp and unexpected shoots through you. His grip is strong, his skin slightly rough, like someone who’s used to working with his hands. You’re not sure if you imagined it, but for a split second, his thumb lingers against yours before he lets go.

Great. Fantastic. Now I’m overanalyzing handshakes.

He lets go first, and you hate how aware you are of the lingering warmth on your skin.

“Y/n.” You introduce yourself back and press your lips into a straight line. “Hope you don’t snore.”

His eyes never leave yours. “Y/n,” he tries your name on his tongue and a shiver runs down your spine. “Welcome to apartment 4D.”

Taehyung stands up enthusiastically, clapping his hands. “Should we show you around? You can see the room—your room first!”

Jimin stands up, placing a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Tae, maybe y/n should be getting a tour from someone who actually lives here.”

Jin ends up being the one to show you around—mostly because Taehyung got offended by what Jimin said, which led to a dramatic exit and some inevitable bickering.

Honestly? You’re not complaining.

This apartment is so much better than the shitty two-bedroom place next to the highway—the one that somehow always felt cold and damp, no matter how high you cranked the heat.

The layout is open, welcoming. There’s a communal bathroom, which you expected to feel awkward, but instead, it just adds to the homey vibe. The kitchen is surprisingly spacious for four people living together, with enough counter space to cook without feeling cramped.

Yeah. This place already feels different. Better.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything when Jin leads you toward the hallway. He stands, runs a hand through his messy dark hair, and watches you for a few breathtaking moments. Was he this magnetic the whole time?

Jungkook shoves his hands into his pockets, eyes lingering on yours for just a second too long. Then, with the faintest hint of a smile, he turns and disappears into his room.

You don’t know what you were expecting when you walked into this apartment today. But as Jungkook’s eyes linger on yours for just a second too long, something twists deep in your stomach—something you don’t have a name for yet.

The air feels strangely lighter once he’s gone—like a pressure you hadn’t noticed before has suddenly lifted. You exhale, tension slipping from your shoulders, but there’s something oddly hollow about his absence too, like the room isn’t quite as full as it was a second ago.

You brush the feeling off and follow Jin to see your new room.

You came here looking for a place to live. And yet you have a feeling you just walked into something much bigger than that.

——————————————

Move In Day

It’s taken you about 4 days to slowly move in with your new roommates.

Day 2 of knowing Jimin and Taehyung, they helped you move in your bed-frame, dresser, and nightstands(the day after your interview). Taehyung insisted you call him Tae cause he ‘likes your vibe’ and your taste in furniture. Bro is always asking you if he can have your things.

Day 3, Jin said he would lend you his dry cleaning bags to pack and move your clothes. And then he insisted on helping you do it, fearing you’d somehow ‘crease the bags.’

Next, all you had to move were a few—11 boxes, into the apartment.

You underestimated how much stuff you actually own.

At first, you thought you’d be able to bring everything up in just a few trips, but after the fourth round of lugging boxes up the stairs, you’re starting to regret every single one of your life choices. After that 4th trip carrying boxes up by yourself, you caved and begged the guys for help.

“Remind me again why we don’t have an elevator?” you ask no one in particular, huffing as you shift the box in your arms.

“Because this building is ancient,” Jin replies from behind you, carrying a box labeled kitchen up the stairs. “And because the landlord is a cheap bastard.”

“We actually do have an elevator. It’s just been ‘Out of Order’ for months now. You’d think with rent this high, they’d invest in some modern conveniences,” Jimin chimes in, walking in the front door and setting the box down near the entrance of your new room. He stretches his arms over his head, his cropped sweatshirt riding up slightly. “This is a workout.”

Jungkook, who’s been eerily silent during all of this, walks in with two boxes stacked on top of each other like they weigh nothing. He doesn’t even look winded. Show-off.

“You guys are weak,” he says, dropping the boxes beside Jimin’s. He looks at you, eyes scanning your flushed face. “Need a break, princess?”

You narrow your eyes at him and scoff. “I’m fine.” The last couple days Jungkook has briefly observed you receiving help from Jimin and Jin. And as a result, he’s decided to start calling you ‘princess’ just to get a reaction out of you. And it’s being working. Slowly.

“You sure?” He crosses his arms, leaning against the doorframe. “Because you look—”

“If you say ‘like you’re struggling,’ I will throw something at you,” you warn lowly.

Jungkook smirks, amused. “I was gonna say ‘like you’re about to pass out,’ but struggling works too.”

You huff, choosing to ignore him, and grab another box from the pile near the front door, planning to bring it into your room. It’s heavier than you expect, and for a second, you wobble on your feet as the weight shifts in your arms.

“Ahh—careful!” Jin calls, but before he can do anything, Jungkook is already there.

One second, you’re bracing for impact, and the next, Jungkook’s hands are on your waist, steadying you effortlessly like you weigh nothing at all. His grip is firm, warm, and annoyingly familiar, even though you’ve barely known him a week. 4 days to be exact.

You suck in a breath, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. The box you were trying to balance, long forgotten on the floor. His chest is inches from yours, his dark eyes locked onto your face like he’s checking to make sure you’re okay.

“You good?” His voice is lower than usual, quieter. Like his words were meant only for your ears to hear.

You swallow hard, as you begin to feel the flush spread up your cheeks. Were his eyelashes always this long? “Yeah. Yeah, I just—”

“Okay, lovebirds, break it up,” Jin says, completely oblivious, as he wedges himself between you and Jungkook to grab another box. “We still have a lot to move, and if I throw out my back, I’m making one of you pay my medical bills.”

The moment shatters, and Jungkook lets go of you immediately, clearing his throat. The tips of his ears turn red. You take a step back, heart pounding for no good reason.

Jimin, of course, is watching all of this unfold with the most amused expression you’ve ever seen. Though, he doesn’t seem the least bit surprised by what just happened.

“That was cute,” he hums.

You glare at him. “Shut up.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. He just grabs another box and walks with it to the kitchen like nothing happened.

But when he passes by, you swear you see the corner of his mouth twitch—like he’s trying to contain a smirk.

A few hours later Jin had made dinner. Conveniently, Taehyung decided to show up right as it was done and not when you needed help but none of the others seemed surprised. Where the fuck was he when you were moving boxes?

Dinner went by fast, with the grown men scarfing down every last noodle of the carbonara Jin made. You cleaned up the kitchen while Jin started prepping the coffee maker and packing his lunch for his work day tomorrow.

“Thanks for helping me get settled in here.” Your voice is calm, appreciative as you smile up at Jin.

“Hey don’t worry about it,” he looks over at you as he’s putting his coffee away in the cabinet. “It’s the least we could do since you’ll be putting up with our stray cat.”

Now you’re confused. “Wait. You guys have a cat?” You tilt your head.

You hear Jimin start giggling from over on the couch. “Yeah, you could say that.”

Then Taehyung walks in the living room from the bathroom, yawning and stretching his arms up over his head.

“See! Isn’t he just adorable?” Jimin is full on laughing now and Jungkook breaks a grin next to him.

Taehyung blinks, still half-asleep. “What?” he mumbles, looking between everyone.

Jin closes the cabinet with a smirk. “They’re talking about you, stray cat.”

Taehyung frowns, rubbing the back of his neck. “Stray cat?”

“Yeah,” Jimin says, still laughing. “You show up whenever you want, sleep wherever you want, and steal everyone’s snacks. You’re basically feral.”

Taehyung considers this for a second, then shrugs. “As long as someone feeds me, I’m fine with that.”

Jungkook grins. “Yeah, but we’re still debating if we should let you on the furniture.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “Do I need to get you a little bell for your collar?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrow, but there’s amusement there. “Only if it’s Gucci.”

Jin chuckles, grabbing his coffee mug to set it by the coffee maker. “Yeah, that’s fair. Only the finest for our stray.”

You can’t help but smile as the conversation rolls on, easy and light. It already feels like home.

——

The apartment had settled into a comfortable quiet, the kind that felt heavier after laughter faded and footsteps retreated behind bedroom doors. Jin was the first to say goodnight, followed by Jimin and Taehyung. Taehyung had crashed in Jimin’s room, leaving the living room to just you and Jungkook.

The soft glow of the lamp cast shadows on the walls, and the low hum of the city outside was the only sound. You pulled the blanket tighter around you, suddenly hyper-aware of the silence. And of Jungkook, sitting just a few feet away on the couch, his legs stretched out, his gaze unreadable.

It felt tense—but not in an awkward way. Charged. Heavy.

Jungkook glanced over, catching you watching him. A slow, knowing smile pulled at his lips. “You always this quiet after dark?”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “Just thinking.”

He tilted his head, studying you. His gaze was slow, deliberate. “That’s a dangerous habit.”

You looked away, hoping he couldn’t see how his attention made your skin feel too tight, too warm. Why did it feel like every word he said was meant to pull at something inside you?

There was a pause before you spoke again. “How’d you get into photography?” The question broke the silence, simple and safe. Something to focus on that wasn’t the way his eyes made your pulse trip.

Jungkook leaned back, his gaze drifting to the ceiling like he was sifting through memories. “Started with a cheap camera when I was a kid. I took pictures of anything that caught my eye. Mostly stupid stuff at first—like street signs or random clouds. But it felt… safe. Like I could hold onto moments that would’ve just disappeared otherwise.”

You nodded, fingers fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “Like freezing time.”

“Exactly.” His eyes found yours again, and something about the way he looked at you made it feel like you were under a lens, being studied, captured. “And sometimes, it’s about understanding people. Seeing them the way they don’t show themselves.”

Your heart gave a small, traitorous beat. “And do you think you’re good at that? Seeing people?”

Jungkook’s smile was slow and a little dangerous. “Sometimes.” He let the word hang for a second. “I think I understand you a little better now.”

The words were simple. Casual. But they landed heavy, a low pulse beneath your skin. You hated how much you wanted to ask what he meant. Hated how just one look from him felt like more than it should.

You kept your voice steady. “Oh, yeah? What do you see?”

He shrugged, but there was mischief in his eyes. “Someone who doesn’t like silence. Someone who thinks too much when it’s quiet.”

Your lips twitched into a small smile. He wasn’t wrong. “Maybe.” You looked down for a second, letting the moment break, but your thoughts didn’t quiet. Did he really see that? Or was that just a good guess? Was he actually trying to look deeper, or were you imagining it?

You looked back up. “Sometimes it’s easier to think when it’s quiet. But it’s also… lonelier.”

Jungkook’s gaze lingered on you, something softer there now. “Yeah.” His voice was quieter. “Silence can be loud when you’re the only one in it.”

The words sat between you for a moment, heavier than the room and real. You wondered if he felt it too—this quiet weight between you. Or if it was just in your head.

“I guess that’s why I take pictures,” he said. “To fill the silence with something that matters. Like… proof that I was here, that something I saw mattered to someone.”

You watched him, wondering how many moments he’d tried to hold onto. How many he’d let slip through his fingers. And why it felt like he was saying more than just words.

“Do you ever think about the future?” you asked, surprising yourself. “Like… what happens when the moments stop coming? When there’s no one to share them with?” The last question carries more meaning than you intend it to. When there’s no one to share the moments with because your friends have moved on and have their own lives.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked to yours, and the warmth in them turned sharp, curious. “You mean ‘the future’ like… finding someone? Having a family to share them with?”

You nodded. You hated how vulnerable it felt, but you didn’t take it back. Jungkook’s next words came slow, careful.

“Yeah. I think about it.” He paused, then added, “Wonder if I’m chasing something that isn’t really meant for me though.”

The vulnerability in his tone pulled something from you. Something deep in your chest. “I think about it too,” you said, softer. “Like, what if it never happens? What if it’s just… always this?”

Jungkook’s eyes don’t leave yours. He was watching you again, like he could see more than you wanted him to. “Maybe you’re just too picky.”

You let out a soft breath, forcing a small smirk. “Or maybe I just haven’t met the right person.”

His smile turned slow, with warmth beneath it. “And where do you think the right person is hiding?”

“Beats me,” you said, but your heart was racing now. “If I knew, I’d have found them by now.”

His gaze dropped to your lips for half a second—brief but noticeable—before returning to your eyes. “Maybe they’re closer than you think.”

The words hit deeper than you wanted them to. Your stomach twisted, heat pooling low. You hated how easily his words unraveled you. How much you wanted to believe him. You told yourself it was just flirting, harmless and casual, but it didn’t feel harmless. Not when his gaze felt like a touch, not when his words left something burning beneath your skin.

Silence stretched again, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was charged, electric. You knew you should look away, say something to break it, but you couldn’t. You didn’t want to.

And then Jungkook said, voice low, “Do you ever feel like… even with all these people around, no one really gets you?”

You swallow thickly as your throat tightens. You could’ve lied, but it felt wrong in this moment. “Yeah. All the time.”

He nodded, his eyes softening in a way that made it worse. “Same. It’s like… they know the version of me that I show them, but not the rest. Not the parts I don’t even understand.”

“Yeah,” you said, your voice quiet. “Like there’s always some part of me that feels… alone.”

Jungkook’s eyes bore deep into yours. “Maybe you just haven’t met the right person yet. Someone who actually sees you.”

The words lingered, heavier than the air, thicker than the quiet. For a moment, you didn’t breathe, didn’t move. You weren’t sure if it was the words themselves or the way he said them. Slow. Intentional. Like they meant more.

His hand brushed against yours—accidental or not, you couldn’t tell. But he didn’t pull away.

The sound of a creak from the hallway broke the moment, snapping you both back into the real world. Jungkook glanced toward the hallway, then back at you, the corner of his mouth lifting like he knew exactly what that moment had been.

“Guess we should call it a night,” he said, voice low but still soft.

“Yeah,” you replied, though your pulse was still thrumming.

But neither of you moved for a few seconds.

Not yet.

You both just sat there, too far away from each other on the couch. The atmosphere too quiet. Too intimate. Too palpable.

Jungkook took a slow, deliberate deep breath and stood up, looking over at you as he started walking to his room.

“Goodnight, Y/n.”

“Night, Jungkook.” You watch him disappear down the hall and into his room.

—

End chapter 1

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