• 14- ᴊᴜɴɢᴋᴏᴏᴋ •

The espresso isn't half bad.

I take another slow sip, letting the bitterness sit on my tongue, my eyes on Y/N.

It's been over six days.

Six days of silence. Six days of her ignoring me. Six days of her looking right through me like I don't fucking exist.

I should be fine with it. I should be used to people shutting me out. But with her-it's different. It's wrong.

I shift in my seat, drumming my fingers against the table as I watch her move through the café.

She stops at a table full of guys-college kids, about our age-taking their orders, her voice calm and professional. One of them leans in, grinning too much, the other's gaze drops to her legs, lingering.

My fingers curl into a fist.

She doesn't react. Just writes their orders, nods, and turns away.

It shouldn't fucking bother me.

But it does.

I drag in a breath, trying to force my thoughts elsewhere. But they loop back, connecting dots I hadn't before.

That breakdown she had. The way she locked herself in the bathroom after that little shit kissed her. At first, I thought it was just about me-that she was pissed at me. But maybe it's not just that.

Maybe it's YOONGI.

I think of that disgusting love letter I found between her books, written by some loser pouring his soul out to her. If she's loyal to him, if she actually likes him -then maybe that's why she lost it that night. Maybe she felt guilty.

The idea makes my stomach twist in a way I don't like.

I exhale sharply, pressing my knuckles against the table. I don't even realize I'm staring at her again until she moves behind the counter, tying her apron, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

And then, I remember.

The sketch.

It slams into my head with full force.

Fuck.

She sketched me.

Me.

Not YOONGI. Not the guy at the party. Me.

I grip my cup tighter. My mind replays that moment-the way she tried to shove the sketchbook away, the way her face turned red.

Like she was hiding something.

Like I wasn't supposed to see it.

Like I wasn't supposed to know.

I breathe out harshly, looking away. But the feeling doesn't leave.

I just want things to go back to how they were.

Back when she wouldn't shut up, when she'd call me an asshole but still talked her heart out to me. Back when she looked at me like I was someone. When she liked me.

Fuck.

Why do I want her to like me?

I shouldn't.

But I do.

I rub my jaw, staring at the empty cup in front of me.

I need to apologize. But it's not that fucking easy. I haven't done it in years.

But I'm working on it.

. . . . .

The café door swings shut behind me, cutting off the morning chill and replacing it with warmth and the rich scent of freshly ground coffee.

The air hums with conversation, the occasional burst of laughter, the soft clinking of mugs meeting saucers. Sunlight filters through the dusty windows, casting golden streaks across the worn wooden floors, the atmosphere hazy with the comforting lull of jazz from a speaker in the corner.

I should be fucking focused. I should be going over what I've practiced, the damn apology I've replayed in my head more times than I'd like to admit. It shouldn't even be that hard-just two words. 'I'm sorry'.

But considering I haven't said them in years, it feels like trying to speak a foreign fucking language.

Still, I'm going to do it. Today.

But then I see her.

And everything I planned goes straight to hell.

Y/N is sitting at a table near the window, her hands wrapped around a steaming mug, her posture relaxed in a way I haven't seen in days. But, she's not alone.

There's a guy with her.

My shoulders tense instantly, something sharp and heated curling in my chest, an unfamiliar and unwelcome feeling I don't want to fucking acknowledge. I step further inside, keeping my movements casual, even as my pulse picks up, as my gaze locks onto the scene in front of me.

Y/N laughs, shaking her head. Laughs.

Not just a polite chuckle, not the forced pleasantries she gives customers, but something real, something warm. It's the kind of laughter that reaches her eyes, softening them, making them glow.

And it's for him.

I exhale slowly, shoving my hands into my pockets. I don't care. I don't fucking care.

Still, my feet carry me to a table nearby. Not too close. Just close enough. And obviously not because I want to hear what they're saying. That would be ridiculous.

Then I hear it.

"YOONGI, you're impossible."

YOONGI.

The name rings through my head like a fucking alarm bell, setting my teeth on edge. YOONGI.

That name-his name-was on that disgusting love letter I found between her books. The one dripping with desperation, with some guy pouring his heart out to her. The one I wanted to crumple and toss aside because it was fucking pathetic.

My jaw tightens as I finally turn my head, sizing him up.

He's not impressive. Average height, dark hair, neatly cut. Clean-shaven, dressed in a cheap sweater that makes him look painfully generic. He doesn't seem like much. I could easily take him. One well-placed punch to the jaw, maybe an elbow to the ribs. He wouldn't even see it coming.

But then my gaze shifts back to Y/N.

She's looking at him with a warmth I haven't felt in days, like he's someone safe, someone who makes her happy without trying.

And it hits me like a fucking sucker punch.

I could never make her look like that. All I can do is make her cry. I've done that plenty. But happy? Relaxed and easy, with her eyes crinkling at the edges and her shoulders loose?

I stare down at the table, my fingers pressing against the cool ceramic of my cup. My chest feels tight, like something's wound up too much, threatening to snap.

What the fuck am I even thinking?

A movement catches my eye-a waitress standing hesitantly beside me, holding her notepad in both hands. Her name tag reads ROSE.

She looks nervous. No, flustered. Her cheeks are pink, and she's hesitating, like she's debating how to speak. I don't have the patience for this shit.

"Espresso," I say, cutting her off.

She nods quickly, nearly tripping over herself as she scurries away.

I lean back, fingers tightening around my cup, but the tightness in my chest doesn't ease. And then-

"You're the best younger brother ever."

I go still.

My head snaps up.

Brother?

YOONGI is her brother?

The relief crashes into me so fast it's almost fucking dizzying. My body relaxes, the tension uncoiling like a snapped wire. I let out a sharp breath, pressing my fingers against my temple, a quiet, almost disbelieving laugh escaping me.

Fucking hell.

The stupid grin tugging at my lips is beyond my control. I shake my head at myself, leaning back in my chair, exhaling slowly. I was ready to throw hands over her brother. Unbelievable.

Minutes later, Y/N walks up to my table, her notepad in hand. Her expression is wary, like she's preparing for an argument.

"Do you need something else?"

I glance up at her, taking in the guarded way she's holding herself, the stiffness in her stance.

And then I ask, "When's your shift over?"

Her brows furrow slightly. "Noon. Then I have class. Why?"

I take a slow sip of my espresso before answering, letting the bitterness coat my tongue. "So I know when I won't have to be around your annoying ass anymore."

She exhales sharply, eyes narrowing. "Great. Can't wait to be free of your annoying ass too."

Her fingers flex against the notepad like she's holding back something. I fight the urge to smirk. She lingers for another second, like she wants to say something else, before huffing and walking away.

Isn't she fucking cute.

. . . . .

Her shift ends, and I watch as she heads for the door, slipping her bag over her shoulder.

I follow.

She stops abruptly, turning around so fast I almost walk into her. Her arms are crossed, her lips pursed, her expression sharp.

"What?" she demands.

She's acting mad. Arms tight over her chest, chin lifted in challenge. But all I can focus on is how fucking adorable she looks.

I exhale, dragging out the silence, watching as confusion flickers across her face.

Her brows furrow. "JUNGKOOK."

I tilt my head.

Her eyes narrow further. "JUNGKOOK."

I stay quiet.

"JUNGKOOK."

Another beat. And then, finally, I sigh, dragging out the words dramatically. Is this even worth it?

"I'm sorry."

She blinks.

For a second, I think she's going to shove me or roll her eyes, but instead- she giggles. It's soft, barely there, but real.

I don't even think she realizes she's smiling, but she is.

And fuck, this was so worth it.

"I'm gonna be late for class," she says, shaking her head, but the smile doesn't leave.

I watch as she walks off, disappearing into the crowd.

And I realize-

I'm in a stupidly great fucking mood.

. . . . .

The knock is frantic. Loud and relentless, like whoever's on the other side is seconds from breaking down the fucking door.

I sit up, frowning.

What the fuck?

The knocks don't stop-just keep coming, over and over, so rushed and desperate that for a split second, I think maybe the building's on fire.

I push off the bed, crossing the room in three long strides. "For fuck's sake, I'm coming-"

The second I pull the door open, a blur of motion crashes into me.

Y/N.

Tear-streaked. Breathless. Terrified.

She grips my shirt like a fucking lifeline, fingers twisting into the fabric, her whole body trembling as she shoves herself into the room, half-hiding behind the door.

My stomach fucking drops.

"Y/N," I breathe, but she doesn't answer -just tightens her grip, like she's trying to disappear into me, her gasping breaths hot against my chest.

Then I see him.

The guy from the party.

Standing just a

few feet away, hands shoved into his pockets, his expression far too casual for how completely fucking wrong this situation feels.

"Hey, man," he says, casually, leaning against the door with a shit eating grin.

"Did you see a girl come this way?"