• 4- ᴊᴜɴɢᴋᴏᴏᴋ •

I'm bored as hell.

Bored out of my fucking mind.

Bored like, stuck in the tiniest fucking room with nothing to do kind of bored.

The room is so fucking tiny, and suffocating, it's almost smothering me.

The walls feel like they're closing in, like the air is thinning by the second, and I swear if I don't get out of here soon, I might actually lose my fucking mind.

And what makes it worse-what makes it even more unbearable-is her.

Or more specifically, right now, her stuff.

I lie back against my pillow, staring at the ceiling, but all I can think about is the room-more specifically, the other side of it.

Her things are everywhere, like she's invaded my space without permission. A bag slung across the chair, a pile of textbooks stacked rather messily beside it, some random scent of vanilla and cinnamon in the air.

I hate it.

And the worst part? It doesn't even smell bad. It actually smells... good. Warm. Soft. The kind that sticks in your head even when you don't want it to.

I fucking hate it.

Her shit is scattered all over the place, and it's starting to make my skin crawl. How does one girl have so much stuff?

Lotion bottles, a hairbrush, a tan mug saying- this might be whisky, written in a handwriting as quirky as herself.

I roll onto my side, staring at the clutter.

I don't want her shit on my side of the room.

In fact, I don't want her shit in the room at all.

I want it gone. Out. Like she never fucking moved in to begin with.

I rub a hand over my face, feeling a headache start to form.

Why does she fucking bother me so much?

It's gotta be her eyes.

Those big, doe-like hazel eyes that she thinks are all innocent but actually carry that look. The look that says I'm trouble. She is trouble.

Trouble means complications.

And I don't do complications.

Or maybe it's the way she pouts. Yeah, that's it. She's always pouting, like she's waiting for me to notice her and say, "Oh, poor baby, I am so sorry." I can't fucking stand it.

But then there's the way she looks-like she stepped out of some soft, golden-hued painting. All warm tans and deep browns, like an old photograph come to life. Muted colors, soft waves falling past her shoulders, freckles that aren't all that visible until you're too close in her space.

She looks like she belongs in a cozy bookstore, or some slow, sleepy town where everything smells like coffee and autumn air.

Not in this fucking room with me.

Fuck.

I roll onto my back and drag a hand down my face, exhaling sharply.

I need to get the fuck out of here.

I push myself up from the bed, already irritated by the claustrophobia this damn room's giving me. My hand reaches for my jacket, ready to head out-but then I see it.

A sketchbook.

It's wedged between her textbooks, a corner sticking out like it's begging to be looked at.

I'm not one to snoop-okay, maybe I am-but I'm curious. I can't help it. I am curious. So, I grab it, flipping it open before I even think about the consequences.

And holy shit, it's good.

Like, damn good.

Each line is so deliberate, the shading so precise, it's like she's channelling something. A story in every sketch.

They're not just drawings, they're alive.

What the fuck?

I turn another page, then another, almost losing track of time.

This is... way more than I expected.

From someone like her.

I snap the book shut, pushing it aside like it never happened. I wasn't looking at it.

I don't care.

But it's hard to ignore the fact that she can sketch like that. Talented.

But, whatever.

I'm just about to walk out when a small piece of paper slips out and flutters to the floor, landing next to my foot.

I glance down at it, eyebrows furrowing.

A letter?

I pick it up, unfolding it with a little more care than I'd like to admit.

I almost expect it to be some kind of doodle or random scribble, but instead, the words hit me hard, like a punch in the gut.

"Y/N, you know I'll always be here for you. I'm never too far. I know you feel lost sometimes, but you don't have to be. I'll take care of you. Always have. Always will. I love you."

The words hit me like a backhanded slap in the face.

What the fuck?

I scan it again, trying to make sense of the words. It's personal, intimate-some dude is literally writing her love letters? And the way he's talking sounds serious.

YOONGI?

Who the hell is YOONGI?

I roll my eyes, a disgusted laugh escaping my lips. Must be some poor guy. Some guy who's clearly way too into her. Desperate. This is... gross.

What kind of loser would write something like this?

I shake my head, like I can just erase the image of this musty boy from my mind. It's not like I care.

Not at all.

I toss the letter back between two random books, barely giving it a second glance.

Not my problem.

Not like I give a shit who's into her.

But, somehow, I can't stop my thoughts from returning to it. YOONGI. What kind of guy would write something like that?

I shake it off again. I don't care. I don't.

I grab my jacket, heading out the door.

.....

The club is thick with smoke, music pounding so hard it rattles in my bones. Bass-heavy, slow, the kind that settles into your chest and makes everything feel a little more distant.

I take a sip of my drink, something strong, something that burns. My head's already light, mind slipping in and out of focus.

JIMIN's beside me, draped over the couch like he owns the place, a lazy smirk on his face.

A girl's in his lap, giggling against his neck. Another one's in mine, her nails dragging over my collarbone, saying something I don't bother listening to.

Her perfume is thick-cloying, artificial, like a scent designed to be seductive but overdone to the point of headache-inducing.

I don't even know who she is. And I don't care.

I tip my head back against the seat, letting the moment just exist. The haze, the music, the alcohol, the warmth of a body pressed against me-it's good. It's easy. No thinking required.

Until I catch her staring.

I try to make out her features, and they're familiar.

Fourth time now.

Same look she has on her face.

The kind of look that should stroke my ego, but all it does is annoy the fuck out of me.

Her lips are parted slightly, eyes wide, adoring. Puppy-like. Literal heart eyes.

And for some reason-God knows why-my mind slips.

For half a second, her gaze shifts in my head. It's not her anymore.

It's warm hazel, soft and fiery, watching me like I mean something. Looking at me like that.

I feel it like a punch to the gut.

I blink.

No.

No, no, no.

I shake off the girl on my lap, standing abruptly. She stumbles slightly, confused, but I barely register it.

JIMIN frowns, lifting his head. "What the hell, man?"

"I'm going home."

"You serious?" He gestures vaguely. "You've got a whole setup here-drinks, girls-"

"Not in the mood."

He squints at me like I've lost my mind.

And maybe I have.

Maybe I fucking have.

I roll my shoulders back, already making my way to the exit. "See you later, JIMIN."

.....

Btw y'all, in ch 1 Y/N mentioned her freckles and she was like it's not really visible unless people really pay attention and in this chap JUNGKOOK MENTIONED THEM BSICIQK.