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死 KKANGPAE | #22 死

pairing: jungkook x f!reader | rating: 18+ | wc: 9,2k | warnings: here genre: e2l, fwb, gang au, angst with smut, slow burn, forbidden love

† knives fly†

"When care turns clumsy, it draws blood—not from the skin, but from the bonds that hold you together."

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↪︎author's note : Okay so: insomnia texts at 2AM are basically the literary equivalent of “you up?” but make it trauma. Jeon didn’t need to say anything else—just “sleep?”—and it already screamed “I don’t know how to ask for help so I’ll weaponize minimalism.” Classic Jeon. And Y/N spirals because she knows the truth: it wasn’t a booty call, it was vulnerability, and that’s scarier. Then we get AD, king of sitting in a chair all night pretending it’s no big deal. His whole arc is “grumpy cat on the outside, IKEA cinnamon bun on the inside.” He will literally break his spine keeping vigil but god forbid anyone thank him. Contrast that with Jeon who asks for help sideways—two different forms of care, neither of them healthy, both of them real.

Yun vs. Y/N? That wasn’t about V at all—it was about hypocrisy. Y/N doesn’t trust Yun’s choices but defends her own messy entanglement with Jeon. Ouch. Friendship fights cut deeper than knives (and we had actual knives this chapter). Which brings us to V, the psycho theater kid who said “what if we solved trust issues by almost killing each other?” He thrives on spectacle and chaos. Yun stepping up there... that’s friendship in Kkangpae language. The knife trial wasn’t about skill—we know Y/N can throw. It was about proving loyalty under pressure, in public, with stakes. That’s how V plays: he takes private wounds and drags them center stage. And the hoodie, uggggh. Smell, fabric, memory. And then cafeteria Jeon. Bro cannot experience one single meal without turning it into a dominance game. It’s ridiculous. It’s also exactly how they show intimacy: through escalation, not tenderness. For them, affection is war.

So yeah—this chapter is about how everyone cares, they’re just catastrophically bad at it. And the cost is always blood.

Anyway! Be feral in the comments. Jeon deserves to be bullied for “Netflix and chill??” energy. Yun deserves to be yelled at for trusting V. And I deserve reblogs and likes for letting V monologue like a sadistic drama teacher. Now go scream.

The message sits there, stupidly simple, glaring at you from your screen like it's your fault.

"𝚂𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙?"

You stare at it, thumb hovering over the screen like the word might suddenly rearrange itself into something less... loaded. Less accusing.

It doesn't.

It just sits there, timestamped at 2AM, carrying the weight of someone else's insomnia.

It's the second message that gets you, though.

"𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝."

That one came in at 5:32AM.

By then, you were already dead to the world, passed out in the safety of your room while Jeon was—what? Pacing the halls? Chain-smoking out by the trees? Picking fights with ghosts?

And now it's 8AM, and you're sitting on your bed, staring at his words like they're some complex code you need to crack. Like there's a right answer hidden in there somewhere, a perfect response that won't make everything worse.

Because Jeon? He's not asleep. You know that for a fact.

Maybe he's already in the cafeteria, trying to drown his restless night in coffee so strong it could strip paint. Or maybe he's still wandering the castle, waiting for some part of his brain to shut the fuck up and let him breathe.

You chew the inside of your cheek, eyes flicking between the messages and the clock.

It's not like you owe him anything. You don't. Sleeping with Jeon—literally sleeping, body against body, his breathing evening out against your back—that's not part of whatever... thing you two have. You're not his emotional support animal.

And yet.

You can't stop the twist in your chest, the one that feels suspiciously like guilt.

Because yeah, you don't owe him shit, but you also know something most people don't: Jeon's insomnia is brutal. It sinks claws into him and doesn't let go, dragging him into nights spent battling demons he won't name.

You know because you've seen his arsenal of pills. They speak of someone to whom sleep doesn't come easily.

He reached out to you last night—you.

And you weren't there.

You could've been.

But you weren't.

It's not pity that's making your stomach do backflips. God no, Jeon would rather eat his own gun than be pitied.

It's... guilt? Maybe? Because he trusted you with this little piece of himself—this vulnerability he keeps locked away behind steel walls and sharp edges—and you weren't there.

It shouldn't be a big deal. He'll probably shrug it off, act like it never happened. Because you don't owe each other anything beyond orgasms and plausible deniability.

But.

But he apologized to you last time, didn't he? When he was being an absolute dick in the council room. When he said those things that cut a little too deep. He swallowed his pride and said sorry.

Should you apologize for this? Is that what he's expecting?

But it's different, right? Because last time he was an absolute asshole. This time you've just... not read his messages. Until now. And not purposefully.

And what would you even say? Sorry I didn't come cuddle you to sleep? My bad for not being your human security blanket? Everything sounds stupid in your head, too intimate or not intimate enough.

Plus, after how he reacted last time you tried anything resembling emotional closeness... You're lucky if he doesn't decide to solve this problem by having you transferred to Antarctica. Or just straight-up murder you and make it look like an accident.

Maybe it's better to leave it. He's survived worse nights without you. He doesn't need you.

You sigh, phone still clutched in your hand like it holds the answers to life's greatest mysteries. The screen goes dark, but his words are still burned into your retinas.

"𝙶𝚞𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚝."

Maybe you'll respond. Maybe you won't.

For now, you toss the phone onto the bed, pinching the bridge of your nose as if that'll somehow clear the fog in your brain.

Because yeah. Maybe it's better if you just let it go.

The sheets tangle around your waist as you sit up, rubbing crusty sleep from your eyes. AD's still in the same chair by Yun's bed, hunched over his phone like it holds the secrets of the universe.

"AD?"

He actually jumps, phone nearly becoming a very expensive projectile before he catches it.

When he looks at you, his eyes are wide behind his messy bangs, like he forgot other people existed for a minute there.

It's kind of adorable, honestly. Like catching a very grumpy cat doing something embarrassing.

"You've been here all night?" You gesture at Yunjin, who's still dead to the world, snoring softly into her pillow.

His eyes dart between you and Yunjin before he gives this tiny nod, like he's admitting to something shameful.

"Yeah," he mutters, hand coming up to scratch at his neck. "She's been out cold."

Now that you're more awake, you can see how rough he looks. The shadows under his eyes are deeper than usual, his face having that particular glazed look that comes from pulling an all-nighter.

He must be running on fumes by now.

"That's... really sweet of you," you say, because it is. "Have you slept at all?"

The shrug he gives you is pure AD—dismissive and slightly aggressive. "Usually up this late anyway. No big deal."

But the way he has to stifle a yawn mid-sentence kind of ruins the effect.

For someone who tries so hard to be intimidating, he's doing a pretty shit job of it right now.

"Still," you press, because sometimes AD needs to hear that he's not fooling anyone with his tough guy act. "Thanks. Yunjin's gonna appreciate it when she wakes up."

He shifts in his chair like your gratitude is physically uncomfortable for him.

"Yeah, well." He waves a hand vaguely. "Just... keep her hydrated and stuff. When she wakes up."

The dismissive gesture would work better if he didn't look like he was about to face-plant into the nearest horizontal surface.

But at least he's not scowling, which for AD is basically the equivalent of a sunny disposition.

"Go get some sleep," you tell him, fighting back a smile. "You've more than earned it."

He stands with a series of concerning joint-cracks, running a hand through his hair in what you think is supposed to be fixing it but really just makes him look more like an electrocuted hedgehog.

He stretches, bones popping, and heads for the door.

But then he pauses, turning back with this awkward little shuffle.

"Let me know if..." He trails off, gesturing vaguely at the walking cotton candy. "You know. Whatever."

Your smile widens. "I will. Thanks, AD."

He gives one last jerky nod before slipping out, like he's worried you might try to hug him if he stays any longer.

You watch the door close behind him, feeling weirdly warm inside.

For all his prickly exterior and permanent scowl, AD's got a soft center that he tries really hard to pretend doesn't exist.

You settle back against your pillows, watching the sunrise paint stripes across the floor.

Yun's still passed out, but she's breathing steady thanks to AD's all-night vigil.

It's weirdly comforting, knowing there are still people in this fucked-up world who care enough to lose sleep over someone else.

Suddenly, Yun starts stirring. You're at her bedside before she even gets her eyes fully open, watching her face scrunch up as consciousness hits her like a truck.

"Ugh," she groans, hand coming up to shield her eyes. "Who let an elephant tap dance in my skull?"

"Morning, sunshine," you say, keeping your voice soft. "How's the comedown treating you?"

"Like absolute shit." She squints at you through her fingers. "What even happened last night?"

You chew your lip, debating how to phrase this. "Well... you and V decided to go on a little acid adventure. Ring any bells?"

Her forehead wrinkles as she thinks. "I remember... dancing? And everything was really colorful..." She trails off, then her eyes snap to yours. "Did we take too much? Is that why I feel like death warmed over?"

"Yeah," you sigh, because there's no point sugar-coating it. "V wasn't exactly careful with the dosage. You were pretty far gone when I found you."

"Oh, come on," Yun waves her hand like she's brushing away your concern. "It's V. You know how he is—just wants everyone to have a good time."

You stare at her, because what the actual fuck.

Like yeah, everyone needs to blow off steam sometimes when you live in a world where death is basically an occupational hazard.

But there's a difference between having fun and whatever the hell last night was.

"Yeah, it's V," you echo, trying to make her understand. "The same V who kills people for breakfast? The Chief of Stealth who treats murder like it's an art form? That V?"

"Isn't that what makes him interesting though?" Yun counters, and jesus—when did your wavelengths get so out of sync? "He's like, the only one who doesn't get hung up on all the rules and politics."

You push to your feet, running a hand through your hair in frustration. "Yun, fucking him is one thing—I'm not judging that. But letting him drug you into next week? That's a whole other level of stupid."

"God, you're being dramatic." She rolls her eyes so hard it looks painful. "I'm not getting carried away. You worry too much. Besides, what's the big deal? The no-attachments rule is about dating, not friendship. Look at us. Or J-Hope and AD. V and I can totally be friends."

You study her face, trying to figure out when she got so... naive?

Because yeah, technically she's right.

RM's whole 'no attachments' thing is specifically about romance. The gang basically runs on friendship and loyalty—you need that trust between members or everything falls apart. Friend drama usually sorts itself out, but romantic fallout? That shit can tear organizations apart.

But there's friends, and then there's friends.

And V? V's the kind of friend who'll push you off a cliff just to see if you bounce.

Something in you snaps. "You could have died, Yun."

"But I didn't," she fires back, voice sharp. "So can you quit the lecture?"

"He's fucking dangerous!" The words burst out before you can stop them. "The man's got the moral compass of a broken GPS. Either he doesn't care how his shit affects people, or he's too fucked in the head to notice. Either way, you shouldn't—"

"That's rich," she scoffs, turning away. "Coming from you."

You blink. "The fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"Maybe take your own advice?" Her laugh is bitter, empty. "About not mingling with dangerous people?"

"What are you—"

"You and Jeon." She whips around to face you, eyes blazing. "He's a fucking traitor, Y/N. People talk, you know."

The accusation hits you like a bucket of ice water.

Jeon? A traitor?

That's... that's fucking impossible. He'd be dead if that were true. The gang doesn't exactly do second chances when it comes to loyalty.

"That's bullshit," you say, arms crossing over your chest. "Let me guess—V told you that? The same V who'd rather eat glass than say anything nice about Jeon? That V?"

"Or maybe he's right and you just don't want to hear it." Her voice drips with accusation. "How's that for hypocrisy?"

Your mouth falls open, because what the actual fuck.

"Are you seriously comparing Jeon's supposed 'betrayal'—which, by the way, is complete horseshit—to V being an actual fucking psychopath?"

"Maybe what's horseshit is you acting all high and mighty!" Her voice rises with each word. "Everyone here's got their demons, Y/N. You don't get to pick which ones are acceptable!"

"Yeah, let's talk about that when you're fucking dead!"

"I'm a grown-ass woman!" She's full-on screaming now, face flushed with anger. "I can make my own choices! If you don't like them, that's your fucking problem!"

"Fine!" You throw your hands up, fury burning in your chest. "Go be besties with the resident sociopath! See if I care!"

You're moving before you finish speaking, storming toward the door like it personally offended you. Your hand's on the handle when her voice cuts through the air behind you:

"Maybe I fucking will!"

The door slams behind you with a satisfying bang, but it doesn't drown out the storm of thoughts in your head.

Because what the fuck just happened? When did your best friend turn into someone who'd defend V's bullshit? When did she start believing rumors about Jeon?

And why does that particular accusation make your stomach twist like this?

The air in the training room has that heavy, suffocating quality to it, like the tension from your earlier argument with Yun somehow followed you here and decided to camp out in your chest.

You lean against the cool wall, arms folded, trying to will the frustration out of your body. But it's not working.

Every time her words replay in your head—"I'm a grown-ass woman, Y/N!"—you feel your teeth clench all over again.

Across the room, Yun's laughter echoes, bright and carefree like nothing ever happened. She's chatting with Sakura, eyes sparkling like she wasn't just screaming at you an hour ago.

It makes the knot in your chest tighten, even though you try your best to ignore it.

You're halfway to convincing yourself that you don't care when the doors sweep open, and V strides in like he owns the training room.

Which for today's exercise, he does.

He's dressed in all black, his high-tech assassin gear hugging him like a second skin, and his demeanor practically screams 'look at me.'

It works.

Your jaw tightens as his eyes scan the room, sharp and calculating. When his gaze lands on you, his lips curl into the kind of smirk you want to slap off his face.

One eyebrow quirks, daring you to rise to whatever challenge he's silently throwing your way.

You don't bite. Not visibly, at least.

But your narrowed eyes and the subtle flex of your jaw probably say more than you'd like.

V's smirk deepens, but he doesn't stop to engage.

He saunters to the center of the room like he's stepping onto a stage, the weight of his presence drawing everyone's eyes.

Even Yun and Sakura stop talking, their heads turning toward him.

"Alright, my devious darlings," he announces, voice light and playful but tinged with just enough darkness to keep everyone on edge. "Today's exercise is all about trust. And precision. But mostly trust."

A knife appears in his hand like magic, the blade gleaming dangerously. He flips it lazily in his palm, catching it with an ease that makes your stomach churn.

"You're going to throw these lovely little things," he continues, spinning the knife again, "at your partner. Well, if we get specific, at the bullseye directly behind your partner." He makes a point to let the room simmer in silence for a beat before adding, "Hit the mark. Spare the life. Should be easy, right?"

The unease in the room is shared. People shift on their feet, exchanging glances that range from skeptical to mildly horrified.

Then Chaewon steps forward.

Her arms are crossed, her expression firm in a way you've only ever seen when she's about to throw an iron-fisted 'no.'

"I'm not putting my people in harm's way for one of your twisted little games, V."

Everyone turns to look at her.

The temperature in the room drops about ten degrees.

V's still smiling, but it's different now—less playful, edge sharpening it. His whole attitude shifts from 'chaotic theater kid' to 'serial killer who thinks murder is performance art.'

"My realm, my rules, sweetheart," he says, voice light but loaded with enough venom to kill a horse.

V scans the room like he's picking out his next meal, hazel eyes glinting.

The cinnamon scent that always follows him around feels too sweet, like poison wrapped in candy—the kind of smell that warns about monsters, not delicacies.

"But what if—" Eunchae latches onto Kazuha like a very dramatic koala, voice wobbling. "What if someone slips?"

What if is right. In your line of work, what if is usually followed by and then they died. Throwing knives at each other sounds exactly like the kind of shit that ends with someone in J-Hope's infirmary—or worse, in a body bag.

V's laugh cuts through the tension like one of his beloved knives. "We're not running a fucking bakery here, princess. Risk is literally in the job description."

His presence eats up all the oxygen in the room.

You catch a glimpse of that tattoo behind his ear—the one that peeks out when he moves just right. It's weirdly fitting, that hidden mark. Like everything else about V, it's both an art piece and a warning sign.

His eyes find yours again, that infuriating smirk back in full force. "Unless some of you are too chicken?" He tilts his head, all false concern. "It's okay to admit you're scared."

The taunt hits exactly where he meant it to.

Before you can stop yourself, you're pushing off the wall, squaring up.

"Scared?" You load the word with as much contempt as possible. "Of what? A man treating his knives as personal fidget toys?"

A ripple of laughter moves through the room, and something flickers in V's eyes—might be respect, might be murder, honestly hard to tell with him.

Either way, he's already moving, tossing a knife your way without warning.

You snatch it out of the air before your brain catches up with your hand.

The handle feels dangerous.

"Then show me," V practically purrs, carrying to every corner of the room.

You think now would be the perfect opportunity to flip him off.

But also, you're not stupid. And you can't really back down when poking fun at a Chief—and when said Chief is looking at you like that, like you don't have a choice.

"Okay." You match his smirk with one of your own, all teeth and false confidence.

Because fuck him and his mind games and his stupid dramatic ass.

If he wants to dance, you're going to fucking dance.

V's smirk stretches wider, and your stomach drops before he even opens his mouth.

You know that look. That's his I'm-about-to-have-so-much-fun look.

"Oh no, sweetie," he chuckles. "Not me."

His arm sweeps out in this dramatic fucking arc—because god forbid V do anything without making it a whole production—and your eyes follow it against your will.

His finger lands on its target with full-on theatricality.

"Her."

Your blood goes cold when you see where he's pointing.

Yunjin.

"Absolutely fucking not."

Because this? This is exactly the kind of manipulative bullshit V lives for.

Taking your fight from this morning, the tension still crackling between you and Yun, and turning it into his own personal entertainment.

Using it to make you both dance like puppets on his strings.

But then Yun steps forward, and something in your chest twists. She looks... calm. Way too calm for someone who's volunteering to let knives get thrown at her.

Her eyes meet yours, steady and sure.

"It's okay," she says, soft but certain. "I trust you, Y/N."

You swallow thickly, staring at her.

Is this about V? Is she trying to prove something? Or does she actually mean it?

But looking at her face—at the open, honest way she's watching you—you know.

She means it.

After everything that happened this morning, after all the shit you said to each other, she still trusts you with her life.

Something warm blooms in your chest, right next to where the anger was sitting.

Because this? This isn't the kind of trust you throw around in Kkangpae. This is the real deal. The kind that gets you killed if you're wrong about it.

A laugh bubbles up your throat, not quite humor but not quite hysteria either.

Because of course. Of fucking course this is how your morning's going. Fighting with your best friend, then having to prove you won't accidentally murder her in front of an audience.

But when you meet her eyes again, you know you're going to do it.

Not because V wants you to, not because you have something to prove, but because Yun believes in you.

Even when you're being an ass, even when you're fighting, she still thinks you've got her back.

"Alright," you say, quiet enough that maybe only she can hear it. "I've got you."

And you do. You really fucking do.

V can take his mind games and shove them up his ass.

The room goes dead quiet as Yun walks to the bullseye, her steps echoing like gunshots in the silence.

You can practically taste the tension—everyone holding their breath, waiting to see if this is going to end in triumph or tragedy.

"Better tie up that hair, sweetheart," V drawls, because apparently he physically can't shut up for more than thirty seconds. "Wouldn't want any accidents—though my aim is never that sloppy."

You bite the inside of your cheek hard enough to taste copper.

The way he's looking at Yun makes your skin crawl—like she's just another toy for him to play with.

She pulls her hair back into a low ponytail, and something in your chest tightens at how young she looks suddenly.

Your turn now. The cross marked on the floor might as well be a fucking execution spot for how heavy it feels when you step onto it. V hands you three knives, and they're cold in your palm, like little strips of winter.

Everyone's eyes are on you now, the weight of their stares making your shoulders itch.

The first throw is supposed to go past Yun's right hand. Easy enough in theory—you've done this a thousand times in practice.

But this is Yun. This is your best friend, standing there trusting you not to accidentally maim her.

You take a breath. Let it out slow.

The room goes so quiet you can hear your own heartbeat, loud as war drums in your ears. When you release, the blade makes this soft whisper as it cuts through air.

Thud.

Perfect placement, inches from Yun's hand. The collective exhale from the room almost makes you smile. Almost.

Second target: left cheek. This one's trickier—one wrong move and you'll be explaining to J-Hope why your roommate needs facial reconstruction. Your arm's starting to shake from the tension, but you can't afford to rush this.

The knife flies true, embedding itself an inch from Yun's face. She doesn't even flinch.

Last one. Above her head. The final knife feels more dangerous somehow, like it knows what's at stake.

"A calm mind is the difference between life and death."

You inhale deep, exhale slowly.

For once, you're grateful for Jeon's cryptic assassin wisdom.

When you release, it's like time slows down—the blade spinning through air in a perfect line until—

Thunk.

Dead center above her head.

The room explodes into noise—cheers and whistles and probably a few sighs of relief.

Yun steps away from the wall unscathed, looking like she just got off a roller coaster—terrified but exhilarated.

You're still rooted to your spot, hands tingling from adrenaline, when V turns to you with that insufferable grin of his.

The knife embedded is still vibrating slightly, a physical reminder of how close that could have gone wrong.

All you want to do is punch that smug look off his face.

But you didn't miss. Not even close.

And that? That feels better than any violence could.

"Well, well!" V claps. "The power of friendship truly is wonderful."

You're about two seconds away from testing how well V can dodge a punch when Yun appears beside you. Her fingers slip between yours, squeezing gently, and just like that, the urge to commit violence drops from an eleven to maybe a seven.

When you look at her, her eyes are soft but complicated. There's guilt there, maybe, or something close to it. Like she's finally seeing the mess she's caught between—you and V, loyalty and whatever the fuck he offers her.

Her hand tightens on yours, a silent 'I'm sorry' or maybe just 'I get it.'

You squeeze back, because what else can you do? She's still your best friend, even when she's making choices that make you want to scream.

The moment breaks when V starts calling out partners for the next round.

Because of course this isn't over. Of fucking course.

"Y/N with Dongho!"

Your jaw clenches so hard your teeth creak. Because V's second-in-command? That's just perfect. That's just exactly what you needed today.

Dongho approaches like the world's grumpiest person—all coiled muscle and barely contained violence. He's built like someone ordered a tank and got a person instead, with a face that looks like it's never met a smile it liked. His eyes, when they settle on you, hold all the warmth of a shark's.

"Let's get this over with," he growls, voice like gravel in a blender.

You meet his glare head-on, because fuck all of V's team and their intimidation tactics. "Ready when you are, sunbeam."

His lip curls at your tone, which is exactly what you were going for.

He stalks over to the throwing line like an offended cat, snatching knives from V's outstretched hand.

You plant your feet at the target, shoulders squared.

"Breathe in through your nose, out through your mouth. Control your body, control your mind."

The room fades away until it's just you and Dongho and the glint of steel in his hands. You can practically feel V watching, waiting for someone to flinch or fuck up or bleed.

Well. He's going to be waiting a while. Because you might be scared (you're not an idiot), but you'll die before you let either of them see it.

The first blade comes at you like a silver streak, close enough that you feel it disturb the air by your cheek. Your heart tries to jump out of your chest, but you lock your muscles down.

Stay still. Stay fucking still.

You don't even have time to process before the second knife is flying, whistling past your right arm. The thunk as it hits the wall behind you seems louder than a gunshot. Your fingers twitch but you force them still.

Dongho's face twists when you don't react—like your composure is personally offending him. The third throw has more force behind it, the blade embedding itself inches from your throat. You can practically feel the metal singing through the air, but you don't move. Can't move.

Four comes in hot, slamming into the wall beside your head hard enough to make your skull vibrate. Sweat trickles down your spine but you might as well be carved from stone. Your heart's doing the cha-cha in your chest but externally? Nothing.

The last knife comes slicing through like death with better aim. You track it almost in slow motion, watching it pass so close to your thigh that—

Fuck.

Fire blooms across your leg as the blade clatters to the floor. Blood trickles warm down your skin where metal kissed flesh, leaving a thin line of red in its wake.

But you don't move. Don't even look down.

The room goes dead silent. Everyone's staring at you, at the knife on the floor, at the red slowly spreading across your leg. The cut burns like a motherfucker but you keep your stance, your eyes finding Dongho's.

"Enough."

Chaewon steps between you, all five feet nothing of pure fury.

"She's proven herself," she says, voice colder than arctic ice. "Try that shit again and the next knife goes through your fucking skull."

Dongho grunts—actually grunts, like some cave-dwelling neanderthal—before stalking off. V lets out this dramatic sigh, like we're all ruining his fun, but he doesn't push it.

The room collectively remembers how to breathe.

Your leg throbs in time with your heartbeat as you turn to face V. His eyebrows shoot up before his mouth curves into that infuriating grin—like you've just done exactly what he wanted.

Like this was all part of his plan.

He tips his head at you, a gesture that might be respect if it came from literally anyone else, before sweeping out of the room like the dramatic bitch he is.

You don't move until he's gone. Can't give him the satisfaction of seeing you wobble.

Even if your leg feels like it's on fire and your muscles are screaming from being locked so long.

You stare at your phone screen like it might bite you, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

Jeon's messages from last night are still there, making your stomach do weird flips every time you look at them.

You should text him. Probably.

Maybe.

You start typing, then immediately hate everything about it:

"𝙷𝚎𝚢, 𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚢 𝙸 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚝 𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝. 𝙸 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚢 𝚋𝚞𝚜𝚢 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔 𝚖𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚘𝚗𝚎."

Delete. Why are you apologizing? You're not dating. This isn't a relationship. He's your... boss? Chief? Well, not yours directly, but technically, he's above you.

I̶n̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶w̶a̶y̶s̶ ̶t̶h̶a̶n̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶

You try again:

"𝙸𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚕𝚎𝚝 𝚖𝚎 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝."

Delete. Jesus, clingy much?

"𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙𝚜 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎. 𝙸'𝚖 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍 𝚖𝚎."

Delete delete delete. Why is this so fucking hard? It's not rocket science. You're just offering to help him sleep. That's it. That's all.

Keep it simple, stupid.

"𝚕𝚖𝚔 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝"

You hit send before you can overthink it more, flopping back on your bed with a groan.

Why does everything with Jeon feel like defusing a bomb while blindfolded?

Your phone pings almost immediately.

"𝙲𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕?''

You can practically see his eyebrow going up. Asshole probably thinks he's being smooth.

"𝚢𝚎𝚊, 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕. 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚊𝚗 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙 𝚒𝚗 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚐𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚒𝚝 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜."

His reply is instant:

"𝙸 𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚜, 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜𝚜. 𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝'𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚗?"

"𝚍𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚘, 𝙽𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚡?"

The pause before his next message feels loaded.

"𝚂𝚘 𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚖𝚎 𝚝𝚘 𝙽𝚎𝚝𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚡 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚕?"

Heat floods your face even as you fight back a smile. You didn't even mean it like that, but trust Jeon to take the most direct route through any conversation.

Subtle as a brick through a window, that one.

But that's kind of his whole thing, isn't it? Direct, confident, just cocky enough to be annoying but not enough to make you want to punch him. Usually.

"𝚖𝚊𝚢𝚋𝚎. 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛?''

"𝚆𝚊𝚢 𝚝𝚘 𝚔𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐.''

"𝚢𝚘𝚞'𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚎''

You toss your phone aside and flop back onto your pillows, trying to ignore the way your heart's doing its best impression of a drum solo. Your stomach feels like it's hosting its own private butterfly collection, and you're not sure if it's anticipation or anxiety or some weird combo of both.

A night with Jeon usually goes one of two ways: either you end up thoroughly fucked or thoroughly frustrated. Given how cocky he's being over text, you're betting on option one.

Not that you're complaining—the tension between you has been building since that thing in the hallway, and you could use the release.

Your mind helpfully supplies images from last time—his hands everywhere at once, mouth hot against your skin, the way he'd—

Nope. Not going there. Not yet anyway.

But god, there's just something about him that pulls you in like a black hole. It's probably stupid, definitely dangerous, absolutely going to end badly—but you can't seem to stop yourself from falling into his orbit again and again.

So yeah, you'd bet good money the TV's not even going to get turned on.

Not that you mind. A night tangled in Jeon's sheets sounds exactly like what you need right now.

Your eyes drift to your closet, then catch on the black zip-up hoodie thrown across Yun's bed. It's the one you've stolen approximately eight million times, soft from wear and perfect for going to the cafeteria to grab a bite.

Your hand reaches for it automatically before freezing mid-air.

Shit.

After this morning's fight, borrowing her clothes feels... wrong somehow. Like crossing a line that wasn't there before. You've never had to think twice about it—that's just how your friendship works. What's yours is hers, what's hers is yours.

But now? Now everything feels complicated. Messy. Like even touching her stuff is some kind of betrayal.

Sure, you'll patch things up with Yun eventually—this fight was stupid, born more from worry than actual anger. The kind of argument that happens when you care too much and show it all wrong.

But it's still your first real fight since joining Kkangpae. Your first crack in the foundation of what's probably your closest friendship in this whole fucked-up world.

Your hand hovers in the air like you're playing the world's most indecisive game of chicken.

It's just a hoodie, right? Yun's never cared before. You've basically had joint custody of half her wardrobe since day one.

But taking her stuff now, before you've cleared the air? Feels wrong. Like adding insult to injury.

"Fuck," you mutter, dropping your hand.

You're definitely overthinking this.

But the doubt's already there, whispering that maybe some conversations need to happen first.

Your eyes catch on something else—the grey hoodie, still folded neat in its plastic bag from that night.

RM's celebration, that stupid dare to swap clothes.

Jeon in your oversized hoodie, looking somehow softer despite still being built like a brick wall.

You in his jacket, swimming in leather that smelled like pine and wood and him.

That was the first time you felt it—this thing between you. This gravity that keeps pulling you into him no matter how hard you try to maintain distance.

You still don't understand it, if you're being honest. Still can't put a name to whatever the fuck this is.

It's not love.

You know love—the butterflies, the stupid grins, the way everything looks better through rose-tinted glasses.

This isn't that.

It's a contradiction wrapped in a riddle wearing a leather jacket.

He's someone who makes your blood sing even while your instincts scream danger. Someone who can take you apart with his hands but won't let you see behind his walls.

You don't have words for it. All you know is that when you're with him, everything else just... fades away.

You shake your head, trying to derail that particular train of thought before it goes somewhere you're not ready for.

The grey hoodie's still sitting there in its plastic bag.

Fuck it.

You grab the bag and dump it out, watching the hoodie fall onto your bed in a soft grey heap.

Without thinking, you bring it to your face and—oh.

It still smells like him. Faint now, after all these weeks, but unmistakable. Pine and wood, definitely tinged with the smoke of the cigarettes he always smokes.

Because seriously, who gave him the right to smell this good? It should be illegal.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you pull the hoodie on. The fabric settles around you like a memory, soft and oversized and carrying ghosts of that night in every fiber.

You close your eyes, letting yourself sink into it for just a moment.

So much has changed since then. You and Jeon have become... Better? Worse? You're not sure there's a word for what's shifted between you.

But this—this feels the same. Constant. Real.

The mirror catches your eye when you look up. It looks... right somehow. Like you've been missing this piece of yourself without realizing it. Or maybe it's not yourself you've been missing, but a piece of him.

Because that's the thing about Jeon—he's good at making you forget shit.

He's an asshole most of the time, sure, but he's a fun asshole. The kind that makes your days better even while he's driving you crazy.

And okay, yeah, the sex is pretty fucking fantastic too.

There's nothing wrong with being drawn to someone like that, right? It's natural. Like gravity or magnetism or whatever scientific bullshit explains why you keep ending up in his bed.

Maybe... maybe that's what Yun feels with V. Maybe you've been too quick to judge.

She is an adult—not your kid sister or your responsibility. She gets to make her own choices, even if those choices make you want to tear your hair out.

Maybe she'll regret it, maybe she won't. That's her call to make.

And hell, maybe there's more to V than the psychotic theatre kid routine. Maybe—

You stop that thought dead in its tracks because nope. Not going there. One emotional crisis at a time, thanks.

After the brief contemplation, you grab your digital card and head for the door, stomach rumbling already.

The walk to the cafeteria feels weird without Yun's constant chatter beside you.

Your lonely footsteps make the silence feel even bigger.

No squealing laughter, no dramatic retellings of her day, no elbows bumping as she gestures wildly about whatever gossip she's collected—just you and the hollow sound of your own steps.

When you get there, the cafeteria smells amazing. The familiar mix of spices and steam hits you as soon as you push through the doors, and your stomach reminds you that emotional turmoil is no excuse for skipping meals.

You scan the crowd automatically, looking for a friendly face to fill the Yun-shaped void at your side.

The food line's loaded today—bulgogi that makes your mouth water just looking at it, japchae noodles glistening with sesame oil, kimchi fried rice steaming in its metal tray. You pile it all on, adding some spicy braised potatoes for good measure.

"Careful with those spuds," a voice says behind you as you reach for chopsticks. "They're nuclear today."

You turn to find J-Hope grinning at you, though the smile doesn't quite hide how tired he looks. The gang's Chief Medical Officer looks like he hasn't slept in about three days, eye bags under his eyelids.

But his eyes still have that warmth to them, that gentle spark that makes him so good at his job.

"What's wrong, doc?" You can't help teasing—he looks like he could use it. "Can't handle a little heat?"

His laugh brings out warmth within your chest. "Please. I eat ghost peppers for breakfast."

He starts loading his own tray, chattering about some new medical technique he's studying and how the training regimens need updating.

It's... nice. Normal. Like maybe today isn't completely fucked after all.

"Mind if I join you?" he asks as you both turn to face the sea of tables. "Food's always better with company."

You hesitate for a split second, the empty space beside you feeling heavier suddenly.

But eating alone sounds about as appealing as another round with Dongho's knives.

"Yeah," you say, managing a real smile. "I'd like that."

The way his face lights up makes you think maybe he needed the company just as much as you did.

You're following J-Hope through the cafeteria when he suddenly stops, his face lighting up like he's just had the best (or worst) idea ever.

"Change of plans," he says, and something in his tone makes your stomach drop. "Think I found someone else who needs company."

You follow his gaze and—fuck. Of course. Because your day wasn't complicated enough already.

Jeon's at his usual corner table, alone and methodically destroying his food like it personally offended him.

Before you can come up with an excuse (any excuse), J-Hope's already heading over there like a very determined doctor.

You trail after him because what choice do you have?

Jeon looks up when J-Hope drops his tray, his scowl deepening to new and impressive depths.

"This seat taken?" J-Hope asks with the cheerful confidence of someone who regularly deals with people trying to murder him. When Jeon just grunts—which could mean anything from "fuck off" to "whatever"—J-Hope takes it as an invitation and sits.

You hover awkwardly, trying to decide if eating alone is actually that bad, when J-Hope pats the seat next to him.

"Come on," he grins. "I promise he doesn't bite."

('Yes he does', your brain helpfully supplies, followed by some very unhelpful memories.)

With a mental sigh, you slide onto the bench across from Jeon. His eyes meet yours for a split second before dropping back to his food, but that's enough to make your pulse skip. You focus very intently on your own plate, pretending the air between you isn't thick enough to cut.

J-Hope, bless his oblivious heart, fills the silence with endless chatter about hospital protocols and training schedules. You and Jeon contribute the occasional "mm-hmm" or nod, letting him carry the conversation.

And then—oh.

Something nudges your foot under the table.

Your brain loops on itself when you realize it's Jeon, who's apparently abandoned his bunny slippers for the express purpose of torturing you.

The contact sends electricity up your leg even through his sock, and you absolutely refuse to look at him.

The worst part? Jeon's just sitting there eating his food like nothing's happening, the picture of innocence. But every time his eyes catch yours through those stupidly long lashes, they're dark with promises.

You shift in your seat, trying to ease the ache that's been steadily building thanks to the absolute menace sitting across from you.

Jeon notices, of course he does, because what doesn't he notice?

The barely-there smirk tugging at his lips is proof enough that he's clocked every single tell on your face. Bastard.

Determined not to give him an ounce of satisfaction, you turn your attention to J-Hope, who's still talking animatedly about... something. Medical procedures? Suturing techniques? Honestly, you have no idea because Jeon's foot is still dragging along your ankle, making it impossible to focus on anything else.

Your breath catches, heat licking along your skin, and you swear under your breath. Damn him. Damn his stupid foot, his stupid smirk, the stupid way your body reacts to him even when you're telling it to calm the fuck down.

With a scowl sharp enough to cut, you shove his foot away under the table. Hard. It's a clear fuck off, but Jeon being Jeon? He doesn't miss a single beat.

Instead of backing off, he doubles down, sliding higher to tease along your calf.

He's not just ignoring the message—he's sending one of his own. Loud and clear.

You bite the inside of your cheek, scrunching your napkin into a ball in your lap like it's his stupid cocky head.

Meanwhile, Jeon just keeps eating like nothing's happening, throwing in the occasional comment to J-Hope as if his foot isn't actively driving you mad.

Fucker.

Fucker. Fucker. Fucker.

Your grip tightens on the napkin, and you seriously consider throwing it at his face. He's infuriating—too handsome for his own good and way too aware of how much he gets under your skin.

The heat pooling low in your belly spreads as his foot inches higher, brushing the back of your knee.

That's it. Enough.

You set your jaw and lash out with your sneaker, catching him square in the shin. The solid thud is immensely satisfying, followed by his grunt of pain as he jerks back.

"Something wrong?" J-Hope pauses mid-sentence, looking between the two of you with confusion.

"Fine," Jeon bites out, voice flat but eyes burning into yours like molten steel. "Just a leg cramp."

You raise an eyebrow, lips twitching in triumph. Let him stew on that. But the look he shoots you isn't annoyance—it's a fucking threat.

So great. You've just started a war.

You grab your water and take a long swig, willing your pulse to stop doing its best impression of a jackhammer.

But Jeon? Oh no, he's not done. Not even close.

Under the guise of stretching—because of course he needs to stretch in the middle of dinner, the absolute dick—his foot finds yours again. This time there's nothing teasing about it. His touch is firm, almost possessive as he drags up your calf. Your thighs clench reflexively as he strokes higher, and higher, and—

Fuck this.

You are so done with his games. If he wants to play footsies in the middle of the cafeteria? Fine. Let's see how he likes it when the tables turn.

Decision made, you kick off your sneaker under the table.

Jeon's still talking to J-Hope, all casual nonchalance like he isn't currently trying to feel you up with his foot. He even takes a deliberate sip of water, eyes never leaving J-Hope as his tongue darts out to catch a stray droplet on his pierced lip.

The action's innocent enough, but you know better. It's for you. All of it—the tongue, the piercing, the way his throat works as he swallows.

Too bad for him, you've got other plans.

You don't hesitate. The ball of your foot finds his crotch through his sweatpants, pressing firmly.

The reaction is instant—Jeon inhales sharply, eyes going wide as saucers as his gaze snaps to you. He chokes on his water, completely blindsided by your sudden boldness.

You arch an eyebrow in a silent 'fuck you' as you start massaging him through the fabric.

Holy shit, you can actually feel him getting harder under your touch, his cock throbbing against your foot like it has a mind of its own.

His hand shoots under the table faster than you can blink, fingers wrapping around your ankle in a grip that's just shy of painful.

Jeon's jaw ticks, a muscle jumping as he clenches his teeth—face slightly flushed, eyes dark with what you bet is a mix of arousal and anger.

He's pissed, 100%.

And you can't lie, you're a bit turned on by the heady rush of power that comes from getting Jeon in this state in public.

Revenge, as it turns out, feels pretty fucking fantastic.

Especially when it comes to Jeon.

You meet Jeon's gaze across the table, refusing to back down even as his eyes promise evisceration (or maybe just really rough sex), and you can literally feel how the air becomes more dense between your gazes.

This is definitely crossing several lines, but the recklessness of it all just makes everything feel more intense.

You move your foot slightly again, grinding the ball of your foot against his cock. In response, his fingers dig into your ankle hard enough to leave marks.

His nostrils flare, thighs tensing under the table, and fuck—watching him try to keep his composure while you tease him in the cafeteria is doing things to your brain.

He looks absolutely livid now, which serves him right.

Clearly, he wasn't expecting you to go straight for his dick when he was just playing footsie with your legs.

But what did he think would happen? He was being a tease, and now he's learning exactly what happens when you push back.

Maybe next time he'll think twice before starting shit he can't finish.

You're so caught up in your little power play that J-Hope's voice hits you like a bucket of ice water:

"Are you two okay? You're looking kind of... worked up."

You freeze, foot still pressed against Jeon's very obvious erection.

For one wild, hysterical moment, you consider just telling J-Hope everything. 'Oh, nothing much doc, just giving Jeon a footjob under the table because he decided to be a dick.'

The look on both their faces would almost be worth the fallout.

But no. As tempting as it is to watch Jeon spontaneously combust from embarrassment, this is between you and him.

With exaggerated casualness, you withdraw your foot and slip it back into your sneaker.

"Yeah, just... hot in here," you manage, aiming for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile.

Jeon clears his throat, and his voice comes out rougher than usual.

"Spicy food," he says, giving you a look that suggests retribution. "Always gets me worked up."

J-Hope glances between you and Jeon slowly. "So..." He draws the word out carefully. "You two are playing husband and wife for this mission?"

You tense automatically, catching Jeon's eye across the table.

Right. The fucking mission. You almost had forgotten.

"And you're supposed to be..." J-Hope waves his hand vaguely, "...convincing?"

"What, we don't look madly in love?" The sarcasm drips from your voice like honey-covered poison. "I'm hurt."

"You look like you're plotting each other's murders," J-Hope says bluntly. "Which, you know, might be a problem when you're supposed to be newlyweds."

Jeon makes this noise in his throat—something between a scoff and a growl. "We can handle it."

But the way he rolls his eyes suggests he'd rather handle a live grenade.

You resist the urge to kick him again. Barely.

"What my beloved husband means," you say, sugar-sweet and razor-sharp, "is that we're both very good at pretending we don't want to strangle each other."

"Anything for the family, honey." The endearment sounds like a threat in his mouth.

"Right..." J-Hope's eyes bounce between you like he's watching a bomb about to go off. "Maybe work on... not looking like you're mentally calculating how to dispose of each other's bodies?"

"We'll manage." Your smile feels brittle enough to crack your face.

"It's not our first fucking rodeo," Jeon snaps, voice rough with lingering tension that has nothing to do with the mission and everything to do with what just happened under the table.

J-Hope's shoulders hunch slightly as the air between you and Jeon practically crackles with... something. Anger? Sexual tension? Murder vibes?

Probably all three.

"You know what?" He grabs his tray, already backing away. "I just remembered I have... things. Medical things. Very urgent." He gives you both a look that's half concern, half 'what the actual fuck.' "You two clearly need to... sort some stuff out."

The look he gives you both is equal parts concerned and amused before he turns tail like he's expecting crossfire.

You're left alone with Jeon, the silence between you thick enough to choke on.

It’s like the fucking air around you is swirling in and seizing up your lungs, digging his anger right into your bone marrow.

Like a hurricane gaining strength.

His eyes are drilling holes into yours, jaw clenched so tight you can see the muscle jumping under his skin. The scowl etched into his features would probably send rookies running, but you're way past being intimidated by his murder face.

You meet his glare head-on, lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'm leaving," you both spit out simultaneously.

"Fuck this," you mutter, snatching up your tray.

You make a break for the drop-off window, but Jeon's right on your heels because of course he is. His stupidly large frame crowds up against your back as you reach the window first, effectively boxing you in.

He nudges your hip impatiently, nearly making you dump your leftovers all over the floor. Without thinking, you drive your elbow back into his ribs, satisfied when he lets out a grunt that's half pain, half surprise.

When you spin around, his face is thunderous. The look in his eyes is pure heat—whether it's rage or lust or some unholy combination of both, you're not sure. He looks like he's seriously debating whether to throw you against the wall or throw you out a window.

(Knowing Jeon? Probably both. In that order.)

You effectively dispose of your leftovers, then tilt your head slightly to hit him with your best 'try me, bitch' glare before shouldering past him, making sure to put some extra force into it.

Your boots echo off the floor as you storm towards the elevators, punctuated by the heavy thud of his footsteps right behind you.

You slam the elevator button harder than strictly necessary, running through every creative insult you can think of.

Asshole. Dick. Bastard. Insufferable prick. Walking hard-on with anger issues.

He gets under your skin like nobody else—and the worst part is, he knows it. Uses it.

Your breath comes quick and shallow, skin still buzzing everywhere he touched you. Anger and arousal war inside your brain, making you feel like a nerve exposed, crackling with energy that needs somewhere to go before you explode.

You stride in the elevator as soon as it arrives, Jeon following so close you can feel the heat rolling off him. The doors slide shut with a quiet hiss, trapping you both in this metal box.

You keep your eyes locked straight ahead, refusing to look at him even though you can feel his gaze on you. It burns across your skin, hungry and heated, making your pulse jump under your skin.

God, you want to grab him. Want to shove him against the wall or maybe down to his knees. Want to do something to break this awful tension that's making it hard to breathe.

But you stay perfectly still, hands clenched at your sides, heart trying to punch its way out of your chest.

Jeon reaches past you—close enough that you catch a whiff of pine and wood that makes your mouth water—and hits the button for the 5th floor.

When you glance over, he's got one eyebrow raised in challenge, like he's daring you to object.

You press your lips together, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a response.

Instead, you lean back against the elevator wall, arms crossed over your chest like some kind of shield. Jeon mirrors you on the opposite side, stretching his neck in this slow, deliberate way that makes the muscles in his throat shift and flex.

Fuck.

Why does everything he does have to look like porn? It's just neck-stretching for christ's sake, it shouldn't be hot.

You tear your eyes away, but not before he catches you looking—you can feel the weight of his stare for a split second before you focus very intently on watching the floor numbers tick up.

The elevator doors slide open and Jeon's out like a shot, not even bothering to look back. You hover in the doorway, warring with yourself.

On one hand, he's being an absolute dick. On the other... you did kind of stand him up last night, even if it wasn't on purpose. And you were the one who texted first today.

Plus, he needs sleep. That was the whole point tonight, wasn't it?

Before it devolved into footsie and sexual tension and murder eyes over dinner.

Fuck it.

You step out into the hallway—your pride's already taken enough hits today, what's one more?

You trail behind him, keeping a few steps' distance like there's some invisible barrier between you. The hallway feels longer than usual, or maybe that's just the weight of everything unsaid.

When he reaches his door, Jeon glances back over his shoulder. Your steps falter as your eyes meet, and—motherfucker—there it is. That tiny smirk playing at the corners of his mouth, gone so fast you might have imagined it.

But you didn't imagine it, because that's just so Jeon.

He knows exactly what he's doing. Knows you can't stay away, knows you're drawn to him like gravity no matter how much he pisses you off. And he's enjoying it, the absolute dick, watching you follow him to his room like you're on some invisible leash.

You want to kick him. Want to sink your teeth into that plush lower lip until his smug little smirk disappears. Want to show him what you think of his insufferable smug attitude.

Instead, you watch the muscles in his back flex as he unlocks his door, betraying tension that his casual demeanor tries to hide.

He steps inside without looking back again, but you know he's waiting. Expecting you to follow.

Well. You're already here. Might as well see this through.

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