Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jungkook never smokes.

He tells himself this as his thumb toys with the corner of the soft pack left behind.

silver foil glinting in the dim light, almost mocking. He shouldn’t be here, not again, not tonight. The apartment has been empty for months. No footsteps echo. No soft music floats from the speakers. No muffled laughter in the kitchen.

But the door still creaks the same way when it opens, like a breath being held too long.

It’s pathetic, coming back here. He knows that. But tonight, it’s raining and Jungkook doesn’t know how else to feel close to a ghost.

He sinks onto the floor by the window, knees drawn up, cold glass against his spine. The city outside is blurred by the water trails streaking down, neon lights bleeding into each other. He reaches for the cigarette Yoongi left behind.

Just one.

It sits on the sill like it belongs there. Like it never left. Like Yoongi never left.

His fingers tremble when they touch it. He holds it between his index and middle finger the way he’s seen Yoongi do a thousand times, absently, without thought, as if the cigarette belonged to him the way breathing does.

Jungkook’s lips over the filter. He doesn’t light it. He couldn’t if he tried. He doesn’t even know how. Instead, he inhales nothing, just memory.

Yoongi always hated the taste of burnt things. Said it reminded him of old houses and dying fathers.

Jungkook never asked for more than that. He just listened.

That was always the problem.

He tilts his head back. Closes his eyes.

Some nights, he remembers Yoongi’s mouth more than his voice. The weight of his body in bed more than the weight of his words. The way his silence used to mean something, instead of nothing the way it does now.

The cigarette slips from his fingers. It doesn’t fall, just rest in his lap, forgotten.

There’s a sound, a soft rustling. A memory he didn’t call for.

Yoongi’s voice tangled in smoke and sleep.

”You’re shaking.”

Jungkook opens his eyes. The apartment is still empty. Of course.

”I’m cold,” he whispers, the echo of a lie.

Yoongi’s hands were always warm. He used to press them against Jungkook’s neck when he couldn’t sleep, palm over his pulse. A grounding thing. A quiet kind of love.

”I never wanted to hurt you,” Yoongi had said, once. Back when the walls still knew their names.

Jungkook had laughed then, too. Not out of cruelty. Just disbelief.

”Then why did you?”

He doesn’t remember Yoongi’s answer. Maybe there wasn’t one.

Maybe it was the silence that hurt the most.

Jungkook leaves the apartment just after midnight.

He doesn’t bother locking the door. No one comes here anymore, not even him, not really. But tonight something pushed him back inside, some ache in his ribs he couldn’t ignore. Maybe it was the rain. Maybe it was the ghost of a voice he’s still trying to forget.

The streets are slick and glistening. Neon reflects off the pavement like it’s trying to reach him, but the glow never sticks. Everything feels too wide. Or maybe Jungkook’s just gotten too small.

He shoves his hands into his hoodie, keeps his head down as he walks through the skeleton of the city they once called home.

His boots splash through puddles. He doesn’t avoid them.

There used to be a rhythm between them, him and Yoongi. Not a dance, but something close. A way their days wrapped around each other. Nights that ended with Yoongi’s body folding behind his like a second skin.

Sometimes, when Jungkook can’t sleep, he wonders if they were ever really in sync… or if he just shaped himself around Yoongi’s silence because it felt safer than asking for more.

He passes a familiar alley. Stops.

There is a broken vending machine with cracked glass and peeling stickers. They kissed here once, after Yoongi stole a canned coffee and made Jungkook laugh so hard he choked on air. Yoongi had wiped at his mouth with a thumb and said, “You look better when you’re not holding everything in your chest.”

Jungkook hadn’t known what to say. So he kissed him instead.

He exhales now, ragged, and moves on. 

The rooftop bar is still open. Barely. It’s a miracle the place has survived, tucked between newer high-rises and forgotten by everyone except the people who needed it most. Yoongi used to call it “the ledge between dreams and breakdowns.

Jungkook just liked the view.

He takes the back stairs two at a time. His heart isn’t racing, but his hands are already sweating. The wind hits his face when he reaches the top, sharp and salted by the city. Rain has stopped. The clouds hang low and swollen, waiting for another moment to burst.

The bartender nods at him, recognition, not warmth. Jungkook orders a drink he won’t finish.

He sits at the far end, near the railing, where Yoongi used to press his body against his from behind and mumble poems into his hair. They were never good poems. But Jungkook remembers every single one.

He takes a sip of whiskey and lets the burn remind him he’s still here.

It had been this same rooftop.

Same cracked table. Same playlist of lo-fi beats and jazz chords unraveling into the night.

Yoongi had leaned on his elbows, cigarette caught between his fingers, eyes half-lidded like always. Jungkook had watched him without hiding it. Yoongi never looked away when he caught him staring—he just raised an eyebrow, smirked slightly, as if to say, go on, I dare you.

“Do you ever wonder,” Jungkook had said back then, “if we’re real?”

Yoongi had paused. “What do you mean?”

Jungkook shrugged. “Like… maybe we’re just a dream we haven’t woken up from yet.”

Yoongi took a drag, exhaled smoke into the sky. “I don’t think dreams feel like this.”

“Like what?”

Yoongi turned toward him. “Like you.”

Jungkook hadn’t known how to respond. So he leaned in and kissed him. Their teeth clacked. Their noses bumped. It wasn’t elegant. It was real.

And maybe that was the problem.

Now, sitting in the present, alone again, Jungkook feels the weight of that memory crack like old ice underfoot.

He finishes the whiskey. It does nothing to warm him.

He’s about to leave when the air shifts.

Not wind.

Not music.

Something else.

He feels it before he sees it—the way your stomach drops when you know someone’s watching you. The hairs on his arm rise. His throat closes, then loosens again in a desperate gulp.

He turns.

There, at the other end of the rooftop—

Yoongi.

Hands in the pockets of a long coat. Collar upturned. His hair is longer than Jungkook remembers, curling slightly at the ends like it’s grown tired of defying gravity. He looks… older. Not in years. Just in wear.

Their eyes meet.

Neither of them smiles.

For a moment, neither of them moves.

The rooftop stays hushed, caught in the heavy pause between breath and heartbeat. Music spills from inside the bar, too low to carry the melody, just enough to remind Jungkook that the world hasn’t stopped spinning.

He stands, slowly, not sure if he’s walking toward Yoongi or gravity is pulling him there.

Yoongi doesn’t move.

His eyes track every step, but his body stays perfectly still—shoulders squared, lips set in a line too calm to be casual. Jungkook used to read that stillness like scripture. Used to know what it meant when Yoongi’s fingers twitched in his coat pocket or when his jaw clenched just once.

Tonight, he reads nothing. He’s forgotten the language.

They stop a few feet apart. Too close for indifference. Too far for comfort.

“Didn’t think I’d see you here,” Yoongi says finally.

His voice is quieter than Jungkook remembers. More gravel in it. More space between syllables. Like he’s forgotten how to speak directly to him.

Jungkook lets the words settle. He shrugs, noncommittal. “Didn’t think you came here anymore.”

“I don’t,” Yoongi replies.

Silence again. The kind that tastes metallic, sharp on the tongue. Jungkook wants to flinch. Instead, he licks his lips and looks past Yoongi’s shoulder, at the skyline, at the blinking signs, at anything but the weight of what they were.

“You look tired,” Jungkook says, because he doesn’t know how else to start.

Yoongi huffs out a quiet laugh. “Still blunt, I see.”

“You used to like that about me.”

“I did,” Yoongi says. “Maybe I still do.”

There it is. The flicker. A loose wire sparking under skin.

Jungkook’s throat tightens.

“You left.” It slips out before he can dress it in safer language.

Yoongi meets his gaze without flinching. “You let me.”

That’s the thing about them. No screaming. No shattering dishes or dramatic exits. Just the slow rot of silence. The nights that ended with backs turned in bed. The mornings that skipped goodbye. By the time Yoongi left, the door barely had to close.

Jungkook forces his voice steady. “You never told me why.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away. He looks down at his hands, then out over the railing. His profile in the city light is sharp, sleepless. Jungkook aches at how familiar it still is—this shape of him.

“I didn’t want to stay long enough to ruin what was left,” Yoongi says finally.

Jungkook swallows. “Too late.”

Yoongi’s mouth twitches. Not a smile. More like a wince disguised as one.

“You really think I didn’t try?” Yoongi murmurs. “I tried every fucking night, Jungkook. I just kept losing.”

“Losing what?”

Yoongi turns back to him. His eyes burn, not with tears, but something heavier. “Myself. You. I don’t know. I couldn’t keep pretending I was good for you.”

Jungkook steps forward, closing the space between them. Only inches now. He can smell the memory of cigarettes on Yoongi’s coat. Something earthy. Something that makes his ribs pull tight.

“You don’t get to decide what’s good for me,” Jungkook says. “Not when you never asked.”

Yoongi blinks once. Slowly.

They’re too close now. The kind of closeness that tastes like a dare. Neither of them is breathing quite right.

“You’re shaking,” Yoongi whispers.

“I’m cold,” Jungkook lies again.

Yoongi doesn’t call him on it this time. Just reaches out, like he did that night months ago, and lets his fingers brush Jungkook’s wrist. The touch is featherlight. But it might as well be fire.

“You’re still wearing the bracelet,” Yoongi says, noticing the thin, frayed band of red thread around Jungkook’s wrist.

“You gave it to me.”

“I didn’t think you’d keep it.”

“I didn’t think you’d walk out.”

Their breaths mingle now. Jungkook wonders if the people inside the bar can feel this tension. If it’s visible from across the rooftop. If they look like ex-lovers or just strangers who still want too much.

“I thought you’d moved on,” Yoongi says. It’s almost a question.

“I tried.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

Yoongi’s hand curls loosely at his side. Like he wants to reach. Like he’s holding himself back from something dangerous.

“I shouldn’t be here,” he says.

“But you are.”

Yoongi nods. His voice is hoarse when he replies. “I think about you more than I should.”

Jungkook’s breath catches. His body hums with something ancient. Something raw and unmet.

“Then stop thinking,” he says quietly. “Start doing.”

Yoongi looks at him, long and hard. The kind of look you don’t give someone unless you remember exactly how they taste.

He steps forward.

And Jungkook doesn’t move.

that before.” Yoongi leans down. Kisses the corner of his mouth. “Then let me show you.”

Yoongi steps forward.

The space between them collapses like paper burned at the edges—slow at first, then all at once. Jungkook doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. The world seems to tilt, gently, toward impact.

He smells the familiar notes of Yoongi’s skin now: rain-soaked cotton, residual smoke, and something beneath it all-skin warmed by anger, by longing, by the quiet ache of a man who never learned how to stay.

Their chests brush when Yoongi leans in.

And still no words. Not yet.

Jungkook thinks he might go mad from the silence.

So he breaks it.

“Are you going to kiss me or just haunt me again?”

Yoongi flinches. Barely. Then his fingers rise, slow and unsure, until they cup the side of Jungkook’s jaw. His thumb rests beneath Jungkook’s ear, a soft press that says I remember you in a way words never could.

And then-

Then he kisses him.

Not softly. Not like a reunion.

It’s need. Not affection. It’s months of not-touching, of half-dreamed apologies and hands curled into fists in empty sheets. It’s desperate and clumsy and so painfully alive.

Jungkook gasps into it. Yoongi’s other hand slides to the back of his neck, grounding him. He doesn’t ask for permission. He takes. And Jungkook lets him.

Their mouths crash—lips bruising, breath stolen. Teeth catch. Tongues slide. There’s no rhythm yet, just contact. Craving. Jungkook fists his hands in the front of Yoongi’s coat, dragging him closer like he could fuse them if he tries hard enough.

Yoongi groans into his mouth. It’s quiet, but it punches straight through Jungkook’s gut. That sound. He remembers it. Nights in the dark. Yoongi’s voice gone wrecked with want, his control slipping thread by thread.

They break apart only when breath demands it.

Jungkook stares at him, chest heaving, lips swollen and wet.

Yoongi’s pupils are blown. His voice shakes when he says, “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

Jungkook swallows. His hands are still fisted in Yoongi’s coat.

“Then do it again.”

And Yoongi does.

Slower this time. More intentional. His mouth is warm and familiar, and Jungkook hates how easily his body falls into the memory of it. Like no time has passed. Like they never broke.

Yoongi’s tongue traces the seam of his mouth, and Jungkook opens willingly, hungrily. Their bodies slot together with more heat this time. The kiss goes deeper, dirtier. Yoongi’s hand slips beneath Jungkook’s hoodie, fingers skating over bare skin. Jungkook shudders.

He whispers Yoongi’s name like a confession. Like an open wound.

“We can’t do this here,” Yoongi mutters against his lips, voice dark and tight with restraint.

Jungkook’s breath hitches. “Then take me somewhere we can.”

Yoongi pulls back just enough to look him in the eye. “You sure?”

Jungkook nods once. “I’m so fucking sure I could scream.”

Yoongi’s gaze drops to his mouth. “Don’t. Not yet.”

They stumble into the apartment barely ten minutes later. Yoongi’s, not Jungkook’s. It still smells like him—leather, books, cold coffee. There’s a mug in the sink, a half-finished notebook on the couch. The heater is humming, casting a low warmth over the room.

They don’t speak.

Yoongi presses him against the door the second it closes. His mouth returns with the hunger of someone starving. Jungkook pulls his hoodie off, arms tangling briefly, and Yoongi’s hands are already on his skin—palm on his chest, thumb brushing his ribs.

“Still shaking,” Yoongi murmurs, voice rough and fond and almost broken.

“I told you. I’m cold.”

Yoongi shakes his head. “You lie like you want me to catch you.”

Jungkook grabs the back of Yoongi’s neck and kisses him again before he can say more.

He doesn’t want to talk. Not now. Not when Yoongi’s body is pressed so perfectly into his, not when his cock is already hard against Jungkook’s thigh, not when Jungkook feels more real than he has in months.

Yoongi bites his bottom lip. Jungkook moans.

Clothes peel off in pieces, shirts tugged over heads, pants shoved down without grace. They don’t make it to the bed. The living room is enough. The floor is cold, but their bodies are burning now.

Yoongi lays him down gently. His eyes scan Jungkook like he’s not sure he’s allowed to look.

“You’re still beautiful,” he says, hoarse.

Jungkook closes his eyes, breath unsteady. “Don’t say things like that if you’re going to disappear again.”

“I won’t.”

“You’ve said that before.”

Yoongi leans down. Kisses the corner of his mouth. “Then let me show you.”

Yoongi’s lips drag across Jungkook’s collarbone, open-mouthed and hungry. His teeth scrape lightly at the skin there, and Jungkook shivers, chest arching upward in silent demand. He’s always been like this, quiet when he wants something, loud only when he breaks.

Yoongi remembers. And he intends to make him break.

“Tell me to stop,” Yoongi murmurs, voice like smoke curling into the space between their bodies.

Jungkook’s eyes are wide, pupils blown dark. His hair is damp at the edges, sweat gathering at his temples. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

That’s enough.

Yoongi’s hand slides down the plane of Jungkook’s chest, slow and firm, palm grazing over the sharp line of abs, the sensitive skin just below his navel. Jungkook gasps when fingers wrap around his cock, not teasing, just taking, steady pressure from base to tip.

He bucks into the touch immediately, hips lifting. His thighs tremble.

Yoongi watches him like he’s starving. “Still so responsive,” he whispers, voice thick. “You haven’t changed.”

“You have,” Jungkook breathes. “You used to kiss me when you touched me.”

Yoongi leans in. “Then let me fix that.”

And he kisses him.

God, he kisses him like he’s trying to press every second they’ve lost back into his mouth. It’s slow this time, deep, tongues sliding together in a rhythm that makes Jungkook whimper low in his throat. Their bodies grind - skin on skin, hard cocks pressed together as Yoongi ruts down against him.

The friction is maddening.

Jungkook grabs at his shoulders, nails digging into muscle. “Yoongi…”

Yoongi pulls back just enough to look at him, breathing ragged. “Want me to fuck you?”

The question lands between them with heat so sharp it’s almost violent.

Jungkook nods, jaw clenched. “Yeah. I want-” he swallows, “I want to feel something that isn’t empty.”

Yoongi curses under his breath and leans down to kiss him again - softer, this time. Almost gentle. “You’re not empty.”

“Then fill me,” Jungkook says.

Yoongi fumbles in the drawer by the couch. Condoms, lube—he hasn’t touched this box in months, not since Jungkook left, and it feels wrong and right all at once to pull it out now.

He slicks his fingers and returns to Jungkook’s body like it’s a promise he never stopped keeping.

The first finger slips in easily, Jungkook already loose from grinding and arousal, but Yoongi still takes his time. He watches every twitch of Jungkook’s face, how his lashes flutter, how his bottom lip trembles as he exhales sharp and low.

A second finger slides in. Jungkook groans.

“You still sound so fucking good,” Yoongi says, and his voice cracks at the end like he’s trying not to feel too much.

Jungkook arches. “Please.”

“You want me?”

“Always.”

Yoongi pulls his fingers free and tears the condom open with shaky hands. He slicks himself quickly, carefully. Then presses the blunt head of his cock against Jungkook’s entrance and pauses.

“Look at me.”

Jungkook opens his eyes.

Yoongi pushes in.

The stretch makes Jungkook’s mouth fall open in a silent cry—hips jerking, fingers clenching tight in the rug beneath them. Yoongi breathes through his nose, forcing himself to stay still, to let Jungkook adjust.

“Okay?” he rasps.

Jungkook nods frantically. “Yeah. Move. Please … just move.”

So Yoongi does.

He fucks into him slowly at first, the drag of his cock deep and purposeful. Jungkook gasps each time, hips rising to meet him, legs spread wide and trembling. There’s sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, down his chest. Yoongi can’t stop looking.

Their rhythm builds—harder, faster, more desperate. Jungkook moans, loud now, with each thrust. His hands grasp at Yoongi’s shoulders, his back, like he’s trying to anchor himself to something real.

“You feel so good,” Yoongi grits out. “Fuck, you take me so well.”

Jungkook chokes out a laugh. “Don’t stop. Don’t- God, Yoongi - don’t stop.”

Their mouths collide again, messy and hot, teeth clicking, tongues sliding. Jungkook’s legs wrap around Yoongi’s waist, pulling him deeper, tighter, until every thrust punches a cry from his throat.

Yoongi reaches between them, wraps a hand around Jungkook’s cock again, stroking him in time with every thrust. Jungkook’s body jerks, overwhelmed, overstimulated, burning from the inside out.

“I’m-fuck …I’m close,” Jungkook moans.

“Come for me,” Yoongi breathes, mouth pressed to his ear. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

And Jungkook does.

His orgasm hits him hard, whole body trembling, vision whiting out. He comes in Yoongi’s hand with a hoarse cry, body arching and then collapsing under the weight of it all.

Yoongi’s thrusts grow ragged, deeper, uneven, and a few moments later, he’s gasping Jungkook’s name as he comes inside him, hips stuttering, body curling over his like he’s trying to disappear into him.

The room falls silent.

Only their breath remains—shaky, uneven, alive.

Yoongi doesn’t pull out right away. He stays there, pressed against Jungkook’s chest, listening to the uneven rhythm of his heart.

Jungkook’s fingers slide into his hair. Not to push him away.

Just to hold.

Yoongi exhales against his neck. “I missed you.”

Jungkook closes his eyes. “Don’t say that unless you’re going to stay this time.”

Yoongi lifts his head. Their eyes meet.

“I don’t know how to stay,” he admits.

“Then learn,” Jungkook whispers. “With me.”

The ceiling fan spins slowly overhead, stirring the warm air into lazy circles. Outside the window, the rain has started again, soft, steady, a hush that seeps through the cracks in the night.

Jungkook lies on his side, one leg tangled with Yoongi’s, eyes half-lidded but nowhere close to sleep. The sweat on his chest has dried to a chill. The room smells like sex and memory. His thighs still ache, in a way that feels too close to need.

Yoongi’s arm rests loosely around his waist. Not possessive. Not tentative. Just… there.

Present.

And somehow, that’s worse than silence.

Jungkook breaks it first.

“You’re not going to stay, are you.”

It isn’t a question.

Yoongi hums low, the sound more vibration than voice. “I haven’t left yet.”

“But you will.”

Yoongi shifts slightly, but doesn’t pull away. His nose brushes against Jungkook’s shoulder, lips just barely touching skin when he speaks. “I don’t know how to stay without hurting you.”

“You think not being here hurts less?”

Yoongi exhales sharply, like the question hits him in the chest. He doesn’t answer.

Jungkook turns his head to look at him. Their faces are close—closer than strangers should be, closer than ex-lovers are allowed to be. He watches Yoongi’s lashes flicker, the curve of his mouth softened by exhaustion.

“You always leave before it gets bad,” Jungkook murmurs.

Yoongi finally opens his eyes. “It already got bad.”

“And you still didn’t fight.”

“I didn’t know how.”

Jungkook bites the inside of his cheek. The ache in his jaw distracts from the ache in his ribs.

“I waited, you know,” he says softly. “I waited for you to come back. Even after I told everyone I was fine. Even after I started pretending I didn’t miss you.”

Yoongi closes his eyes again. “I missed you every fucking day.”

“Then why now?”

“Because I thought I could handle being without you,” Yoongi says. “I thought if I gave it enough time, the missing would dull.”

He lifts his gaze to Jungkook’s again. “It didn’t.”

The words fall between them like ash.

Jungkook wants to hate him. He does. But the body curled around his, the scent of him on Jungkook’s skin, the ache still low in his stomach — none of it feels like hate.

It feels like gravity.

Like something he’ll never get clean from.

“I don’t want to do this halfway again,” he says, quieter now. “I won’t survive it a second time.”

Yoongi nods. Slowly. His hand tightens, just slightly, at Jungkook’s hip. “Then let’s figure it out.”

“You always say that.”

“I mean it now.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply. Not right away. His eyes drift back to the ceiling, following the blades of the fan as they spin in circles. Endlessly returning to the same point.

“I don’t trust you,” he says finally.

Yoongi presses a kiss to the curve of his shoulder. It’s not an apology. Not a promise.

“I don’t trust me either,” he says.

They fall asleep like that anyway.

Wrapped in the aftertaste of something broken.

Still holding on.

Chapter Text

Jungkook wakes to the soft hum of rain and a warmth that doesn’t belong to the blanket.

Yoongi.

The name comes to him before memory does. His brain still wrapped in cotton, eyes sticky with sleep, breath caught somewhere between dreaming and the cruel clarity of morning.

Yoongi is curled beside him, one arm draped over Jungkook’s waist. His chest rises in steady rhythm against Jungkook’s spine, bare skin pressed flush. Not possessive. Just… familiar. Like they never broke. Like nothing ever ended.

For a long time, Jungkook doesn’t move.

His body remembers everything too easily, the weight of Yoongi behind him, the low rasp of his breathing, the way he always sleeps with one hand twitching slightly, like he’s chasing something in a dream. Jungkook used to tease him about it.

He doesn’t remember when that stopped being allowed.

The silence stretches long and taut.

ungkook’s heart thuds against his ribs, not from panic, but from the dull, slow realization that nothing has changed. Last night was fire. This morning is ash.

He slips out from under the arm as gently as he can. It still stirs Yoongi.

A soft breath. A furrow in his brow. His fingers close on empty sheets before falling still again.

Jungkook dresses quickly. Hoodie. Sweatpants. Doesn’t look in the mirror.

The apartment feels wrong now. His own space, but with someone else’s air still clinging to it. The scent of Yoongi skin and smoke and shampoo Jungkook used to steal, is everywhere. He opens a window.

The kettle clicks on. Coffee brews. The rain continues its soft, disinterested song outside.

He’s staring into his mug when Yoongi shuffles out of the bedroom, barefoot and rumpled, hair a half-hearted mess. The hoodie he’s wearing is Jungkook’s.

Of course it is.

“Morning,” Yoongi says, voice still sleep-soft. He looks unsure if he’s allowed to speak.

Jungkook answers with a nod. Sips his coffee.

Yoongi lingers in the doorway like a guest. He doesn’t sit. Just rubs the back of his neck and looks anywhere but at Jungkook.

“I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” he says, eventually. “I… should’ve left.”

Jungkook laughs once. It’s not kind, but it’s not cruel either. Just tired. “You always say that after you do.”

Yoongi flinches. “Right.”

They lapse back into silence. It’s not comfortable.

Jungkook looks at his mug like it might say something for him. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he says finally. “Last night.”

Yoongi swallows. “Okay.”

“It was just…” Jungkook gestures vaguely. “Closure. Or relapse. I don’t know.”

Yoongi’s hands curl at his sides. “It meant something to me.”

“That’s the problem,” Jungkook snaps, too fast. Then softer: “It always means something when it’s too late.”

Yoongi exhales slowly through his nose. “You want me to go?”

“I don’t want you here if you’re not going to stay.”

They both freeze at the honesty of it.

Yoongi’s face flickers, but he says nothing. He walks to the counter instead, grabs the other mug Jungkook poured without thinking, and takes a sip. He winces.

“You still drink it black?” he murmurs.

“Not everything changes.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer. Just holds the mug like it might warm him back to life.

Jungkook leans against the counter, eyes flicking over him. The hoodie hangs loose on Yoongi’s frame. His collarbone peeks out. There are faint crescent-shaped marks on his throat. Jungkook made them.

It feels like evidence.

“Was it always like this?” Jungkook asks suddenly. “Back then? Were you already halfway out the door and I just didn’t notice?”

Yoongi’s breath hitches. He stares into the mug. “No.”

Jungkook waits. He wants more. He always wants more.

Yoongi finally glances up. “I loved you. I still—” He stops himself. “Back then, I loved you so much it scared me. That’s why I started pulling away.”

Jungkook laughs again. This one is smaller. Hurts more. “You broke me because you were scared of being broken?”

Yoongi nods.

It’s not a good answer. But it’s an honest one.

Jungkook looks away. The rain has picked up. Fat drops tapping the windows like fingers asking to be let in.

“I have class later,” he says.

Yoongi nods again. Sets the mug down. “I’ll go.”

He hesitates. Like he wants to say something more. Apologize, or beg, or explain. But he does none of those things.

Instead, he steps close. Too close. His hand brushes Jungkook’s arm. A whisper of contact.

“Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

Yoongi meets his eyes. “For not asking me to leave last night.”

Jungkook says nothing. Doesn’t move.

Yoongi lingers a beat longer, then turns and walks toward the door.

The click of it closing behind him is quieter than it should be.

But it echoes anyway.

The sky stays gray all day, like the world decided to match Jungkook’s mood.

He goes through the motions. Shower. Hair. Hoodie over clean clothes. Texts Namjoon a polite lie about why he’s skipping their usual study session. Hugs his knees on the bus and pretends not to notice when his reflection in the window looks like someone who hasn’t slept.

He’s halfway through his second cup of vending machine coffee when Jimin appears, all bubble gum warmth and designer disapproval.

“You look like a haunted art student,” Jimin says, sliding into the plastic chair across from him in the empty lecture hall. “Did you get possessed by your own GPA?”

Jungkook smirks. “Is it working for me?”

Jimin eyes him. “The dark circles are giving tortured poet. The smell is giving ‘I didn’t wash my sheets after a hookup.’”

Jungkook winces. “I did wash them.”

“Ah.” Jimin leans forward, eyes narrowing. “So there was a hookup.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Just sips his coffee.

“You’re being evasive,” Jimin adds, poking Jungkook’s knee under the table. “Which means it wasn’t just a hookup.”

“You’re annoying.”

“And you’re clearly spiraling.”

Jungkook sighs. “I’m not spiraling.”

“Okay. Tell me who he was, then.”

Jungkook looks away. His fingers tighten around the paper cup.

Jimin blinks. Then blinks again. “No. You didn’t.”

Jungkook says nothing.

“You didn’t,” Jimin repeats, voice pitching higher. “Jeon Jungkook, tell me you didn’t sleep with Min Yoongi.”

Silence.

Jimin gapes. “Oh my god.”

“It just… happened,” Jungkook mutters. “He was there. We talked. Then … whatever.”

“Whatever?!” Jimin shrieks, scandalized. “That man emotionally curb-stomped you and ghosted like he was getting paid for it!”

Jungkook closes his eyes. “I know.”

“I had to spoon-feed you orange slices and make you a ‘He’s Trash’ playlist on Spotify.”

“I still listen to that sometimes.”

“That’s not the point.”

Jungkook bites his lip. The taste of Yoongi still lingers somewhere in his mouth. Smoke. Salt. Something broken.

“He said it meant something,” he whispers, more to the floor than to Jimin.

“Oh no.” Jimin’s face softens. “Oh, baby.”

“I know,” Jungkook says again. “I know it’s stupid. I know I shouldn’t want—shouldn’t hope.”

“But you do.”

Jungkook nods once. Then again, like maybe the motion will shake the feeling loose.

Jimin reaches over and squeezes his hand. “You don’t owe him anything. Not your body. Not your hope. Not even your time.”

“I know.”

“But…” Jimin sighs. “If you’re gonna let him in again, even just physically, you better be sure you can handle the aftermath.”

Jungkook is quiet for a long moment. Then he says, “I don’t think I can. But I did it anyway.”

Jimin doesn’t answer. Just holds his hand tighter.

The lecture goes on without him.

He stares at slides he doesn’t see. Takes notes he won’t reread. His mind loops back to Yoongi again and again, like his thoughts are orbiting a black star.

He remembers the way Yoongi looked in his hoodie.

The way he said “thank you” like it broke him to say it.

The way his voice cracked when he said “I still…” and couldn’t finish.

Jungkook swallows. It’s always the things unsaid that hurt the most.

By the time class ends, his notes are a scribbled mess of half-thoughts and a sketch of Yoongi’s hand holding a mug.

He doesn’t show Jimin.

Later, he walks home even though it’s raining again.

His umbrella is small and useless. Water drips down the back of his neck. His socks soak through.

Still, he keeps walking. Past the bus stop. Past the cafe where Yoongi used to pick him up. Past the lamppost they once kissed under after a fight that lasted three days and ended with Yoongi whispering “Don’t leave me” against his lips.

Jungkook stops there.

Looks up at the empty sky.

“I hate you,” he whispers. It doesn’t sound convincing.

He’s soaked to the skin by the time he gets home.

He dreams that night. He always does after seeing Yoongi.

In the dream, they’re back in that shitty little kitchen from three apartments ago, arguing about rice and whose turn it is to do laundry. Yoongi is smiling, soft and scrunched like Sunday mornings. Jungkook is shirtless, giggling. The light is gold.

Then it shifts.

The kitchen is cold. The rice burns. Yoongi is turned away from him, saying “I can’t do this anymore,” and Jungkook doesn’t know if he means the fight or the relationship or just existing in the same space without bleeding.

Jungkook wakes up with his face pressed to the pillow, jaw clenched tight.

There’s no one beside him.

And that’s the worst part: how normal it feels.

It started with a dare.

Not the kind laced with alcohol or bravado. Just a quiet challenge from a quiet man, half-draped over Jungkook’s second-hand couch in the middle of a summer too hot to breathe in.

Yoongi had said, offhand, “You look at me like you want something you’re not supposed to have.”

And Jungkook, then only twenty, bold and aching in a way he didn’t have words for, replied: “What if I do?”

That was the moment the air shifted. Everything got louder and quieter at once. Yoongi didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. Just stared at him like he was deciding between stepping forward or burning down a bridge.

Then Yoongi leaned in.

Their mouths met slowly. No urgency. Just weight. Just heat. Just the soft, devastating press of lips that meant this isn’t casual even if they pretended otherwise for months.

ungkook still remembers the way Yoongi cupped the side of his neck, thumb brushing the pulse there like he was trying to memorize how fast it beat. How he whispered, “You taste like trouble,” and Jungkook said, “You make me want to forget everything I’ve ever wanted before.”

Back then, it was sweet.

Back then, it was poetry.

Now, it’s a blade Jungkook carries behind his ribs.

He wakes up from the memory with a tight throat and a hard-on.

Disgust rolls in fast and sour.

He doesn’t touch himself. Not even to relieve the ache. He just pulls the covers up and buries his face into his arms until the want recedes into shame.

The worst part?

He can still feel the way Yoongi kissed him. Back then. Last week. Last night.

They’re all bleeding together.

—

He tells himself not to call.

He tells himself not to scroll through their old texts. The ones he didn’t delete. The ones Yoongi never replied to near the end. He tells himself not to look at that video, the one where Yoongi’s laughing while cooking tofu and yelling at Jungkook for putting chili powder in the rice.

He watches it anyway.

He doesn’t laugh.

—

It was good, once.

People forget that, when things fall apart. They reduce it to the break. The sharp snap of the ending. But Jungkook remembers the soft things too — the way Yoongi used to pull him into bed by the waistband of his sweatpants. The way he murmured “stay” into Jungkook’s shoulder like it was a prayer.

He remembers autumn afternoons when they’d go walking just to feel the wind. How Yoongi would hold Jungkook’s fingers like they were breakable, like he didn’t quite believe he had the right to.

The first time Yoongi told him he loved him, it was late. They were half-drunk on cheap beer and sunburned from the Han River. He’d whispered it like a confession, head pressed to Jungkook’s chest.

Jungkook had frozen.

Not because he didn’t feel it — god, he did — but because he hadn’t expected it from someone like Yoongi. Someone who carried his heart in pieces and hated when anyone saw him bleeding.

“I love you,” Yoongi had said again. “Even if I don’t know how to be good at it.”

And Jungkook had kissed him breathless.

He’d whispered back: “Then I’ll be good enough for both of us.”

—

Now, Jungkook isn’t sure if that was a promise or a curse.

He stayed good. Stayed patient. Stayed soft even when Yoongi turned sharp.

But love doesn’t save someone who doesn’t want saving. Love doesn’t fix the holes people dig into themselves just to prove they’re still hurting.

Yoongi had started slipping out early. Started answering less. Started recoiling from affection like it stung.

Jungkook tried harder. Held tighter.

And that’s the thing about holding tight,  it doesn’t stop people from leaving. It just bruises your hands when they go.

That night, Jungkook lies on the floor of his apartment, head resting against the cold side of the couch, staring at the ceiling.

His phone is on the table, untouched.

But not unread.

Yoongi texted two hours ago:

“I know I don’t deserve to ask, but… can I see you again?”

No punctuation. No emoji. Just Yoongi, raw and hesitant in a way Jungkook’s bones recognise.

He hasn’t answered.

He doesn’t know if he will.

Instead, he closes his eyes and lets the silence answer for him.

For now.

Jungkook doesn’t answer the text.

He doesn’t have to.

At 1:13 a.m., Yoongi knocks anyway.

The knock is light. Hesitant. Three soft taps, spaced far enough apart that Jungkook almost convinces himself it’s the wind. But the fourth tap comes a little firmer, a little closer.

Jungkook opens the door without thinking.

Yoongi looks like he hasn’t slept.

He’s in a hoodie Jungkook recognizes — not his own, but one Jungkook left in Yoongi’s old apartment back when they still blurred the line between my place and yours. His hair is unstyled, dark strands falling over his eyes.

Neither of them speaks.

Rain spits behind him. The hallway smells like metal and damp paper. Yoongi’s breath fogs in the air between them.

Jungkook swallows. “You shouldn’t be here.”

Yoongi nods. “I know.”

Silence.

But Yoongi doesn’t move.

and Jungkook doesn’t close the door.

—

It’s almost worse when Yoongi steps inside, like letting him in makes everything real again.

He takes off his shoes like muscle memory, like he belongs here. Stands awkwardly in the middle of the room, arms loose at his sides, gaze flicking from the couch to the half-drunk mug of tea on the counter.

“Did I wake you?” Yoongi asks quietly.

Jungkook shakes his head. “I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Me neither.”

More silence. The room hums with unsaid things.

Yoongi clears his throat. “I didn’t expect you to reply. I just… I didn’t know where else to go.”

Jungkook turns away. “You could’ve stayed away.”

“I know.”

“You should have.”

Yoongi nods again. Doesn’t try to defend himself. Just stands there, small, uncertain, utterly human.

Jungkook hates how much he wants to touch him. Hates how his body remembers the feel of Yoongi’s skin like it was yesterday. Like it never stopped being his.

“I thought we said everything we needed to,” Jungkook says, voice brittle.

“We didn’t,” Yoongi replies, gentle. “We never did.”

—

It happens fast, like the first time. Like they don’t trust themselves to hesitate.

Jungkook says, “You broke me,” and Yoongi replies, “I know.”

Then Jungkook pushes him against the wall and kisses him like it’s a punishment. Like maybe if he kisses hard enough, the hurt will transfer back.

Yoongi lets it happen. Lets himself be kissed, bitten, gripped at the hips and dragged into heat.

They crash to the floor somewhere between the door and the couch. Jungkook pulls at Yoongi’s hoodie, yanks it up like it’s offensive, like the cotton itself holds guilt. Their mouths don’t part.

Yoongi gasps when Jungkook’s palm slides under his shirt, over his chest, down to the waistband of his jeans. There’s a moment, one beat of breath, where their eyes meet.

Yoongi’s are blown wide.

“I’m not doing this to fix anything,” Jungkook whispers.

“I know.”

“I still hate you.”

“I know.”

And then Jungkook’s mouth is on his again, and it doesn’t feel like hate. It feels like mourning. Like desperation wrapped in heat.

Their clothes scatter.

Skin meets skin.

Jungkook pulls Yoongi into his lap, mouth on his throat, nails in his back. Yoongi trembles, not from fear, but from the sheer vulnerability of being touched like this after everything.

He whines when Jungkook grinds up against him, hard and needy. Moans when Jungkook’s hand slips between them and wraps around them both.

“I missed you,” Yoongi says into the crook of Jungkook’s neck, voice breaking. “I missed this.”

Jungkook squeezes his eyes shut. “Don’t say that.”

“But I did.”

“Don’t make this worse.”

Yoongi kisses him, softer this time. “Let me have this. Just tonight. I’ll go in the morning.”

Jungkook doesn’t answer.

But he doesn’t stop.

—

It’s rough.

Messy.

Bodies colliding with fevered hunger, gasps and groans mixing into something louder than forgiveness but quieter than love.

Jungkook presses Yoongi down against the floor, thrusts into him with raw purpose. Yoongi arches up, mouth open in a silent cry, hands clawing at Jungkook’s back like he’s trying to pull something from under the surface.

They don’t talk.

They just feel.

It’s not romantic. It’s not gentle.

But it’s honest in a way words never are.

—

After, they lie in a tangled heap on the living room floor.

Jungkook’s breathing slows. Yoongi’s fingers trace his spine like they remember it better than Yoongi himself does.

“I never stopped,” Yoongi whispers.

Jungkook blinks at the ceiling. “Stopped what?”

“Loving you.”

Jungkook closes his eyes.

This is the part he should run from.

But he doesn’t.

Not yet.

Jungkook wakes before the sun does.

It’s not gentle.

It never is.

The ache in his spine is a dull throb from falling asleep on the floor. His throat’s dry. There’s a blanket thrown half over his legs, Yoongi must’ve grabbed it sometime during the night. It smells like dust and old detergent. Smells like home.

Yoongi’s beside him. Curled toward him.

One arm is tucked beneath Jungkook’s ribcage, the other draped lightly across his stomach. His breath hits the curve of Jungkook’s shoulder in warm, rhythmic waves.

It’s so easy to pretend nothing broke.

To pretend nothing’s changed.

Jungkook stares at the ceiling, trying not to move. He tells himself he’s just tired. That’s all. But the truth is heavier: he doesn’t want to wake Yoongi because he doesn’t want this version of reality to end.

He wants five more minutes.

Of quiet.

Of weightless maybe.

Of before the regret sets in.

He eventually slips out from under Yoongi’s arm, careful not to disturb him.

Pulls on a hoodie and sweatpants.

Pads into the kitchen and puts on the kettle like muscle memory.

Outside, the sky is still dark, but morning is reaching for it with gray fingertips.

Inside, the silence buzzes.

He doesn’t know what this is. What it means. What he wants from it.

The kettle whistles.

Jungkook pours two mugs, one with honey and lemon, the way Yoongi always took his. It’s muscle memory again. A kindness he’s not sure he should still have.

Footsteps shuffle behind him.

He doesn’t turn.

“You made tea,” Yoongi says, voice rasped with sleep.

“Yeah.”

“You remembered how I like it.”

Jungkook shrugs. “It’s not a hard thing to remember.”

A pause. Yoongi steps closer. “Still. Thank you.”

The mug is warm between their hands when Yoongi takes it. They don’t look at each other.

Jungkook leans against the counter. “What now?”

Yoongi takes a sip before answering. “I don’t know.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“I know.”

Another pause.

Jungkook’s voice is quieter when he speaks again. “You said you never stopped loving me.”

Yoongi nods. “I haven’t.”

“And yet you still left.”

Yoongi sighs. “I know.”

“You still-” Jungkook swallows. “You still hurt me. Badly.”

“I know,” Yoongi repeats, almost helpless.

“I don’t understand you.”

Yoongi finally looks at him. Really looks at him.

There’s no defensiveness in his expression. No armor. Just exhaustion and something fragile — regret, maybe. Or guilt. Or the echo of something softer than both.

“I was afraid,” he says.

“Of what?”

“Of how much you loved me. Of how much I loved you. Of screwing it all up.”

“You screwed it up anyway.”

“I know.”

“Then what’s the point of coming back?”

Yoongi’s shoulders drop. He looks down at the tea in his hands like it might offer an answer.

“I thought maybe… if you let me in,” he says slowly, “I could show you I’m trying.”

Jungkook doesn’t say anything.

Because part of him wants to laugh.

And part of him wants to cry.

And part of him, the quietest, meanest part, wants to ask Yoongi to hurt him again, just to prove that pain feels better than confusion.

Instead, he says, “Don’t kiss me if you’re going to leave again.”

“I’m not going to kiss you.”

Jungkook looks up, startled.

Yoongi sets the mug down. Steps forward.

“I’m going to wait until you kiss me,” he says. “If that ever happens. If you ever want me again.”

Jungkook’s throat tightens.

They stand there in silence for a long time.

Then Jungkook says, quietly, “You can stay for breakfast.”

Yoongi doesn’t smile.

But his eyes soften.

“I’d like that.”

—

They eat on the floor again, because the table’s still buried in unopened mail and guilt.

Jungkook makes scrambled eggs, Yoongi butters toast. The radio plays low, static humming between songs. It almost feels normal.

Yoongi brushes crumbs from Jungkook’s lip, and Jungkook doesn’t flinch.

It’s too soon for hope.

But maybe not too late for it.

Later, Yoongi pulls on his jacket.

“Do you want me to go?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer at first.

Then: “Yeah.”

Yoongi nods.

Steps toward the door.

Jungkook watches him reach for the knob. Watches him hesitate.

Yoongi turns back. “Can I see you again?”

Jungkook doesn’t say yes.

But he doesn’t say no either.

Yoongi nods. “I’ll wait.”

Then he’s gone.

And Jungkook is alone again.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like the end.

It feels like maybe, maybe, it’s the beginning of something else.

Jungkook doesn’t text Yoongi.

Not that day. Not the next.

He thinks about it. Rewrites a dozen versions of the same message in his head. None of them survive the editing stage.

He wants to say: “I don’t know how to forgive you.”

He wants to say: “I think I miss you more when you’re kind.”

He wants to say: “Come back.”

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he launders the blanket they slept under. Folds it neatly and tucks it into the closet, like hiding it will make everything less real.

Still, he dreams about Yoongi.

He always has. Even during the months they didn’t speak.

But the dreams used to be sharp — full of endings and silence and the way Yoongi never said goodbye.

Now they’re different.

Less violent.

More like standing at a train station waiting for someone to arrive, even if you’re not sure they will.

—

Three days pass.

Jungkook thinks he’s doing okay.

He goes to work. He replies to Jimin’s texts with emojis and half-truths. He does not cry in the shower. Not really. Only a little.

But on the fourth day, Yoongi shows up again.

No warning this time. Just the buzz of the doorbell and the flutter in Jungkook’s stomach that betrays how badly he’s wanted this.

When he opens the door, Yoongi looks the same. Tired. Hopeful. Holding something behind his back.

Jungkook blinks. “Hi.”

Yoongi raises a hand. “Before you say anything, I brought something.”

He pulls it into view.

It’s a small houseplant. A pothos in a dark green ceramic pot. Vines already trailing gently over the sides.

“I know it’s stupid,” Yoongi says quickly. “But you used to say plants made the apartment feel like someone was staying. I thought maybe … if you didn’t want to see me again, at least you’d have this. Something that stays.”

Jungkook stares at the plant.

Then at Yoongi.

Then back at the plant.

“It’s not stupid,” he says quietly.

Yoongi exhales, visibly relieved.

“I don’t know what we are,” Jungkook says, taking the plant from him. “And I’m not saying we’re okay.”

Yoongi nods. “I wouldn’t believe you if you did.”

“But I don’t hate you today.”

Yoongi meets his eyes. “That’s enough.”

Jungkook steps back. Leaves the door open.

Yoongi hesitates.

Then follows.

—

They sit on the couch. Not touching, but not far apart.

Jungkook sets the plant on the windowsill.

Yoongi watches the light spill across the leaves.

“You named the last one,” Jungkook says. “Remember?”

Yoongi nods. “You killed it in two weeks.”

“It was dramatic.”

“It was a cactus.”

They both laugh, quiet, startled, like they didn’t mean to.

The silence after isn’t heavy.

It’s warm.

Jungkook glances sideways. “You can name this one too.”

Yoongi thinks for a moment. “How about… Stay?”

Jungkook blinks.

Yoongi looks sheepish. “Too on the nose?”

Jungkook smiles, just a little. “Maybe. But it fits.”

Yoongi nods, gaze soft.

And for a second, Jungkook doesn’t feel wrecked. Doesn’t feel haunted. Just… held, somehow. Not by touch. But by the possibility that maybe, just maybe, they’re still writing this story.

And it doesn’t have to end where it broke.

Chapter Text

Jungkook doesn’t ask Yoongi to come over again.

But Yoongi shows up anyway.

He knocks lightly on the door, like maybe he hopes no one answers. Jungkook opens it barefoot, bleary-eyed, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands.

They look at each other for three long seconds.

Then Jungkook sighs and steps aside.

“Come in.”

Yoongi does.

Neither of them says what they mean. Jungkook offers tea. Yoongi accepts. They sit on the couch, shoulder to shoulder but not quite touching, a plant named Stay soaking sunlight on the windowsill like it understands something they don’t.

Yoongi talks about the weather. Jungkook mentions a song he heard on the bus. It feels like filling air with noise so it doesn’t collapse under memory. Like they’re waiting for the ghost between them to settle down.

The ghost has Yoongi’s laugh and Jungkook’s tears. It wears every goodbye they never said.

Yoongi shifts slightly, angling toward him.

“You’re quieter than usual.”

Jungkook shrugs. “You’re here more than usual.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer that.

Outside, it starts to rain. Slow and steady.

The kind of rain that makes everything feel heavier. Softer.

“I dreamed about you last night,” Jungkook says, before he can stop himself.

Yoongi turns toward him. “Yeah?”

Jungkook nods.

“You were driving. I was in the passenger seat. I kept asking where we were going, and you wouldn’t tell me. Just kept your hands on the wheel. Eyes on the road. Silent.”

Yoongi’s face doesn’t change, but something flickers behind his gaze.

“Sounds like me.”

Jungkook huffs a laugh that isn’t quite a laugh. “I kept looking at your hands. Thinking about how they used to touch me. How they held so many of my firsts.”

Yoongi’s voice drops low. “What happened in the dream?”

“You drove off a cliff,” Jungkook says, just as low. “And I didn’t even scream.”

Yoongi closes his eyes.

Jungkook watches the way his jaw flexes. The way he swallows hard.

“I don’t want to be afraid of you,” Jungkook murmurs. “But I am.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want to want you still.”

“I know.”

Silence again. Dense and thick like the sky before thunder.

Jungkook looks down at his hands.

“They’re still yours,” he says softly. “Even now.”

Yoongi doesn’t speak. Just reaches out, slow and careful, and covers Jungkook’s fingers with his own. The touch is warm. Light. But it burns.

“I never wanted to make you afraid,” Yoongi says.

“You did anyway.”

“I know.”

Jungkook finally lifts his gaze. There’s nothing soft in it. Nothing gentle. Just honesty, carved into his bones.

“You never let me be angry, Yoongi. You left before I had the chance. You took everything from me, and then you disappeared. And now you’re back, and I don’t know where to put the grief that’s still sitting in my chest.”

Yoongi swallows. “Put it here.”

Jungkook blinks. “What?”

Yoongi’s voice cracks. “Put it here. On me. I can take it.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“I should. I gave it to you.”

It’s the first time Yoongi sounds like he hates himself.

Jungkook doesn’t know what to do with that. He’s spent so long building his anger into a shield that seeing Yoongi break open like this knocks the breath out of him.

“Why did you leave?” he asks, the question raw.

Yoongi’s eyes are glassy when he answers.

“Because I didn’t believe I deserved what you gave me. And I didn’t know how to stay.”

Jungkook is silent for a long time.

Then he says, “And now?”

Yoongi holds his gaze. “Now I know I was wrong.”

Jungkook exhales slowly. “That doesn’t make it better.”

“I know.”

“But it matters.”

Yoongi nods once.

They sit there like that. Hands touching. Breath shared. Grief like a thread between them — finally pulled taut, finally named.

It’s not forgiveness. Not yet.

But maybe it’s something close.

Jungkook doesn’t let go of Yoongi’s hand.

He could. It would be easy. A single shift of muscle. A breath too sharp. A reason made of habit.

But he doesn’t.

Yoongi’s fingers stay threaded loosely through his. Not tight. Not pleading. Just there.

Jungkook studies their hands. His is colder. Yoongi’s warmer. Always has been. Like he holds heat better. Like he’s built to endure.

“I used to love your hands,” Jungkook says softly. “I think I still do.”

Yoongi’s thumb brushes gently against his skin. A reflex. Or maybe a permission.

“I used to write songs just so I could hold your hand under the piano,” Yoongi replies. “Kept the chords simple. Gave myself an excuse.”

Jungkook’s throat goes tight.

He hadn’t known that.

“I never wanted it to end like that,” Yoongi says.

Jungkook doesn’t answer. Just shifts closer, knees barely brushing.

They sit in silence for a while. But it’s not empty. Not tense. Just full of things that don’t need to be said all at once.

Eventually, Jungkook gets up and walks to the kitchen. He pours a glass of water. His fingers tremble, only slightly. He ignores it.

Yoongi follows. Leans against the counter.

Watches him like he’s trying to memorize the way Jungkook moves in his own apartment. Like he’s trying to prove he still belongs in the same room.

“You don’t have to stay,” Jungkook says.

“I know.”

“But you’re still here.”

“I know.”

Jungkook turns slowly.

Yoongi is closer than before.

There’s something magnetic about him now. Something quieter than confidence, louder than hesitation.

Jungkook wets his lips.

Yoongi’s gaze tracks the motion, just for a second.

He speaks before Jungkook can.

“I don’t want to touch you if it makes you feel used.”

Jungkook blinks. “It doesn’t.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Yoongi exhales. “I want to be close to you. But I’m not going to take it. You’d have to let me.”

Jungkook looks at him. Really looks.

Yoongi doesn’t look like someone asking for sex. He looks like someone asking to be forgiven with skin.

And Jungkook isn’t sure he’s ready for that.

But he is sure about this:

“I don’t want you to leave tonight.”

Yoongi nods. “Okay.”

Jungkook swallows. “But we can’t pretend it doesn’t mean something.”

“I wouldn’t want to.”

Their eyes meet.

There’s a pulse in the silence. Something steady. Something fragile.

Jungkook looks down at the water in his glass. Then back at Yoongi.

“You still smell the same.”

Yoongi tilts his head. “Like what?”

“Like cedar and cold mornings and the inside of the hoodie I kept wearing after you left.”

Yoongi’s eyes soften.

“I never asked you to stop loving me,” he says.

Jungkook shakes his head. “No. You just left and assumed I would.”

A beat passes.

Then another.

Jungkook places the glass on the counter.

Takes a single step forward.

“You can sleep in my bed,” he says quietly. “But don’t make this into something it’s not.”

Yoongi nods. “Then tell me what it is.”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s enough.”

Yoongi doesn’t touch him.

Jungkook walks past him first.

Up the hallway. Down the stretch of memory they’d once carved together. Each step feels like walking through the past. It rises around him like smoke.

When he reaches the bedroom, he doesn’t turn around.

But he hears Yoongi follow.

Yoongi doesn’t ask if he should take the left side like he used to. He just does. And Jungkook lets him.

They don’t undress.

They don’t speak.

The lights stay off.

But under the covers, their legs tangle like instinct. Like muscle memory. Like maybe the body always remembers what the mind tries to forget.

Jungkook listens to Yoongi breathe. It’s slow. Steady. Real.

He closes his eyes.

Tomorrow will hurt.

But tonight?

Tonight Yoongi stays.

When Jungkook wakes, Yoongi is already looking at him.

Not watching. Not staring. Just… present.

He blinks slowly, like he’s been awake for a while but didn’t want to be the one to break the stillness.

Jungkook shifts under the covers. He’s warm, too warm. Not from the room, from the body beside him, steady and real and wearing a familiarity Jungkook hasn’t let himself feel in over a year.

He should say good morning. He should stretch. He should pretend this isn’t what it is.

But Yoongi speaks first.

“You twitch in your sleep.”

Jungkook groans into the pillow. “Great. Sexy.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t.”

Jungkook glances at him. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t flirt with me like it doesn’t mean anything.”

Yoongi goes quiet. Then says, “I wasn’t trying to.”

“I know.”

They stare at the ceiling together.

Jungkook’s voice is hoarse from sleep. “You used to wake me up with your mouth.”

Yoongi shifts. Not away. Closer.

“You used to beg for it,” he murmurs.

A pause thickens the air.

Jungkook can feel every inch of him now. The way his thigh brushes his. The heat radiating from his chest. The whisper of breath that smells like sleep and memory.

“I don’t think I remember how to beg,” Jungkook says, barely above a whisper.

Yoongi reaches out.

Not a kiss. Not a grab.

Just a hand on his cheek. His thumb brushes under Jungkook’s eye. It’s gentle. Almost reverent.

“You don’t have to,” he says. “You don’t owe me anything.”

Jungkook’s throat tightens.

“I don’t know what I want from you,” he confesses. “I’m scared if I ask for anything, I’ll fall back into everything.”

Yoongi nods slowly. “Then don’t ask. Just be.”

“Be what?”

“Here. With me. For a while.”

It’s not a plea. It’s a permission.

Jungkook lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

He rolls onto his side, facing Yoongi fully now. Their noses are close. Their legs are already touching. It feels like sharing oxygen. Like drowning in something you missed so deeply it started to hurt in new shapes.

“Did you dream last night?” he asks.

Yoongi hums. “Yeah.”

“Was I in it?”

“No.”

Jungkook blinks, startled.

“You weren’t in the dream,” Yoongi says again, voice soft. “You were the reason I woke up.”

Jungkook doesn’t know what to say to that.

He just leans in, lets his forehead rest against Yoongi’s.

Neither of them move.

The silence stretches again — but it’s different this time. Less brittle. More like a breath shared between two people who still don’t know how to be brave.

“Do you remember,” Yoongi murmurs, “that time we stayed in bed for two days straight? Just left the window cracked and ordered food we never ate?”

Jungkook nods. “We lit candles and kept forgetting to blow them out.”

“You told me you wanted to learn how to fall asleep without music.”

“You said my heartbeat was better.”

Yoongi’s eyes close. “Still is.”

Jungkook opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.

There’s nothing to say when grief feels like this. Soft. Lingering. Almost kind.

Yoongi leans forward.

Not enough to kiss him. Just enough to let their lips brush, a suggestion, not a request.

Jungkook doesn’t pull back.

He closes his eyes.

And breathes.

Jungkook doesn’t remember moving.

Only that at some point, his body shifts closer.

That his fingers find Yoongi’s shirt and twist there, soft cotton clenched between knuckles like an anchor.

That his lips brush Yoongi’s again, once, then again, not kisses, exactly. Just heat. Just presence. Just want.

Yoongi exhales into the space between them.

He lets Jungkook linger there, noses grazing, lips barely parted. Neither of them speaks. The weight of what they don’t say holds more tension than any word ever could.

Then Yoongi reaches for him.

His hand curls around Jungkook’s hip, palm warm and steady. It doesn’t move further. It doesn’t push. But it lingers, grounding him. Like maybe he’s trying to say this is yours, if you still want it.

Jungkook’s eyes flutter shut.

The air between them pulses.

His voice comes out quiet. “Don’t be careful.”

Yoongi stills. “What?”

“I don’t want careful. Not from you.”

Yoongi’s breath catches. “Are you sure?”

Jungkook nods. “I’m tired of pretending I don’t miss how you used to touch me.”

A pause.

Then Yoongi moves.

He doesn’t dive in. He leans forward slowly, giving Jungkook every second to change his mind. And when their lips finally meet — properly this time — it’s not careful.

It’s desperate.

It tastes like mornings lost and nights rewound. Like the memory of skin and sound and the ache of being missed in places no one else could reach.

Jungkook sighs into it, mouth parting. Yoongi’s hand slips from his hip to the small of his back, pulling him closer. Their chests touch. Heat spreads between them.

Jungkook’s fingers tangle in Yoongi’s shirt. Yoongi’s other hand ghosts up his side, under the hem of his sleep tee, brushing bare skin.

Jungkook gasps softly.

“Still okay?” Yoongi whispers against his mouth.

“More than okay.”

He arches into the touch.

Yoongi’s thumb strokes the dip between his ribs, the kind of slow that burns deeper than fast ever could. He kisses Jungkook like he wants to learn him again. Like every inch of him is a story worth rereading.

Jungkook lets him.

Their legs tangle again, this time with purpose. Jungkook rolls, shifting onto his back, bringing Yoongi with him.

He feels the weight of him, not heavy but real. Pressing him into the mattress. Making it impossible to forget the last time they did this. The time before that. The dozens of times when it had been love, not just lust, between them.

He wonders what it is now.

Yoongi kisses his jaw, then lower. His mouth traces the curve of Jungkook’s throat. He lingers there, breathing him in.

“You still wear the cologne I bought you,” he murmurs.

Jungkook breathes out a shaky laugh. “I stopped for a while.”

Yoongi’s lips press to his collarbone. “When’d you start again?”

“Last week. The night I saw you again.”

Yoongi doesn’t speak.

But his mouth says everything.

It moves lower, teeth barely grazing. His tongue flicks warm against skin. Jungkook arches. His hands grip at Yoongi’s shoulders, nails biting fabric, needing something to hold onto.

Yoongi lifts his head.

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

Jungkook looks up at him.

“I’m not going to.”

And then he kisses him again.

Open-mouthed. Breathless. Hungry.

Yoongi groans softly into it. His hands start to roam now, slow but not shy. Fingers skim under Jungkook’s shirt again, lifting it up inch by inch. Jungkook raises his arms to help him, eyes dark, lips parted.

When the shirt comes off, Yoongi pauses.

He looks.

Really looks.

And for a second, Jungkook wants to cover himself.

But Yoongi shakes his head.

“You’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Jungkook’s chest caves at the words. He swallows. Nods once. Pulls Yoongi back down.

Their mouths meet again, and this time, there’s no patience left.

Only need.

Only memory.

Only want.

Yoongi’s lips trail down Jungkook’s chest, slow and reverent. He kisses between ribs, the curve of his waist, the soft line that leads below.

Jungkook’s breath catches. His fingers tremble where they rest in Yoongi’s hair, brushing through the dark strands like he’s anchoring himself to something real. Something here.

Yoongi murmurs against his skin, voice low and rough.

“Tell me what you need.”

Jungkook’s throat works around a reply. He closes his eyes, swallows hard.

“I need to feel wanted,” he whispers. “I need you to want me again.”

Yoongi moves back up, kisses him fiercely. “I never stopped.”

His hands are everywhere now, palms dragging over Jungkook’s sides, his hips, his thighs. He settles between them like he belongs there, and maybe he always has.

Jungkook’s shorts come off next, slow and deliberate, like Yoongi’s peeling off the distance between them.

When he’s bare, Jungkook shivers, not from cold, but from being seen. From the way Yoongi’s eyes take him in like he’s both art and ache.

“You’re gorgeous,” Yoongi says, and there’s no performance in it. Just raw honesty. Like it hurts to look at him.

Jungkook sits up slightly, hands finding the hem of Yoongi’s shirt. He tugs.

“Off.”

Yoongi doesn’t make him ask twice. The shirt is gone, and then Jungkook’s palms are on bare skin, familiar and strange all at once. He remembers this chest. This curve of spine. These shoulders that once carried more than they could hold.

He touches them like he’s relearning a language he used to be fluent in.

Yoongi leans back down. Their mouths collide again, hot, messy, tongues brushing as they breathe each other in. Jungkook’s back arches when Yoongi’s hand slides down again, fingers curling around him, slow and sure.

Jungkook gasps, head tipping back.

“Still like that?” Yoongi asks, low and teasing.

Jungkook nods, breathless. “God. Yes.”

Yoongi strokes him carefully, watching his face, every twitch and stutter of breath. His own hips grind down slightly, their bare skin brushing, not enough, but close.

“Touch me too,” Yoongi murmurs.

Jungkook’s hand moves without thinking, slipping between them, wrapping around Yoongi. He’s already hard, already warm, and the groan that leaves his lips when Jungkook touches him goes straight to the pit of his stomach.

They move together, slow at first, messy with need and not quite knowing how to fit again. Their hands don’t stop. Their mouths don’t stop.

Jungkook bites at Yoongi’s bottom lip, then soothes it with his tongue.

“Want you inside,” he whispers, voice cracked with desire.

Yoongi’s eyes flutter shut. He stills. “Are you sure?”

Jungkook nods, urgent. “Yes. I want to feel you. All of you.”

Yoongi exhales shakily. “Okay. Yeah. Let me-” He pulls back, grabs his bag from beside the bed. Condoms. Lube. It’s all there like some part of him had hoped this would happen. Maybe not now. Maybe not ever. But still prepared.

Jungkook watches him with flushed cheeks and hungry eyes. The trust in his gaze floors Yoongi.

He takes his time.

Fingers firstslick and gentle, easing Jungkook open with whispered words and slow kisses. He watches his body twitch, hips rising into every curl and stretch. Jungkook gasps, whimpers, clings to him.

“Please,” he breathes.

Yoongi presses in slowly. Inches stretch like moments. Jungkook’s hand clutches his shoulder, nails digging in.

“Breathe,” Yoongi whispers. “Just breathe.”

Jungkook nods, jaw slack, eyes shut tight. When Yoongi’s fully inside, he doesn’t move. Just stays.

Lets them feel it.

Lets them remember.

“You still feel like home,” Yoongi says, and he means it.

Jungkook opens his eyes, wet lashes blinking.

“Then stay,” he says.

Yoongi kisses him as he moves.

Slow. Deep. Reverent. Every thrust is a promise he doesn’t know how to speak yet. Every moan, every gasp, every whispered name is a prayer for something they ruined and maybe could rebuild.

Jungkook wraps his legs around Yoongi’s waist and lets go.

Of the pain. Of the fear. Of everything they never said.

And in the quiet, he lets himself be loved again.

The pace changes.

Yoongi’s hips snap harder now, the rhythm no longer careful. Jungkook takes it with eyes wide, lips parted, moans catching behind teeth. Every thrust rocks him up the bed, his fingers clawing at Yoongi’s back like he’s trying to tear something open.

“More,” Jungkook gasps. “Harder. Please.”

Yoongi obeys.

His grip tightens around Jungkook’s thigh, lifting it higher, angling deeper. The slick slide of skin against skin grows louder, wetter. Their bodies meet in raw cadence, urgency taking the place of restraint.

“You’re so loud,” Yoongi mutters, but he sounds pleased.

Jungkook moans again in answer, not caring.

“Could never stay quiet for me,” Yoongi goes on, voice rough in his throat. “Even back then. Always needed the world to know who was inside you.”

“Yoongi-” Jungkook breathes, voice wrecked.

“That’s it. Say it again.”

“Yoongi.”

He slams into him, and Jungkook cries out, clinging tighter. The pleasure builds, sharp and punishing, coiling in his spine like it’s going to burn him alive.

Yoongi kisses his neck, teeth grazing skin, then bites down lightly. Jungkook’s back arches.

“I missed this,” Yoongi says. “Missed you. The sounds you make. The way you fall apart for me.”

His hand slides between them, wrapping around Jungkook again, stroking in time with the rhythm of his hips. Jungkook gasps, whimpers, curses. He’s close. Too close.

Yoongi knows. He speeds up. Drives into him with reckless want. The bed creaks. The headboard hits the wall. None of it matters.

“Let go,” Yoongi growls into his ear.

“Fuck,” Jungkook gasps, the word broken, barely there.

Then it hits.

His whole body trembles as he comes, spilling between them, moaning Yoongi’s name like a prayer he forgot how to stop saying. His muscles clench around Yoongi, who groans deep in his throat, pace stuttering.

“God- you feel so good-”

He doesn’t last long after that. A few more thrusts, desperate and erratic, and then he’s burying himself deep with a low, guttural sound as he comes inside the condom. His breath catches. His body shudders over Jungkook’s.

Silence crashes down.

Except for panting. Except for the tremble in Jungkook’s thighs. Except for the faint rustle of Yoongi collapsing beside him, arm dragging Jungkook close without thinking.

Neither speaks for a long time.

The afterglow settles slow. Sweat cools on skin. Their hearts thunder against each other’s ribs.

Finally, Yoongi’s voice breaks the quiet.

“I forgot how intense you are.”

Jungkook turns his head. “You remembered just fine.”

Yoongi chuckles softly. His hand finds Jungkook’s hair, brushing strands away from his damp forehead.

“I’m going to get a towel,” he says, eventually. “And water. And maybe tissues before this turns into something sticky and tragic.”

Jungkook hums, eyes closed. “Romantic.”

“Shut up.”

He leans in. Kisses Jungkook’s temple before slipping out of bed, wincing slightly as he moves. His body aches, not in a bad way. Just in that familiar, post-fuck reminder of what it means to be alive in someone else’s hands.

Jungkook watches him go.

His chest feels too full. His throat feels tight.

That wasn’t just sex. It never was with Yoongi.

And now he doesn’t know what comes next.

Yoongi returns with a towel slung over his shoulder and a bottle of water in each hand. He tosses one gently onto the bed beside Jungkook, who’s sprawled out like he’s just come back from war. Or from someplace softer and just as dangerous.

“Drink,” Yoongi says.

Jungkook opens his eyes. “Bossy.”

“You’ll thank me in five minutes when your legs still work.”

Jungkook sits up slowly, wincing at the ache. He takes the bottle, unscrews it, and drinks. His throat’s dry. Everything feels sore in a way he doesn’t hate.

Yoongi moves around him, wiping carefully at Jungkook’s stomach with the warm towel. Then his own. He doesn’t speak during it, and neither does Jungkook. There’s something too intimate in the silence, and neither of them is ready to look at it directly.

Once everything is clean and tossed into the laundry basket, Yoongi climbs back into bed. The sheets are rumpled and still smell like sex and skin and something sweeter underneath.

Jungkook lies down beside him, arm curled beneath his head. He stares at the ceiling.

Yoongi mirrors him.

Their fingers find each other somewhere in the middle. A light touch. Nothing locked. Just there.

“You okay?” Yoongi asks eventually.

Jungkook nods. “Tired. Sore. A little overwhelmed.”

Yoongi makes a soft sound of agreement. “Same.”

A beat of silence.

Then Jungkook says, “That wasn’t just fucking.”

Yoongi turns his head. Their eyes meet. “No. It wasn’t.”

Jungkook waits for him to elaborate. But he doesn’t.

So Jungkook speaks first. “I don’t regret it.”

“Good,” Yoongi says softly. “Neither do I.”

Another quiet moment stretches.

“But I don’t know what this is,” Jungkook admits.

“Me neither.”

Jungkook rolls onto his side, facing him fully now. “Are we doing this again? Like… again again?”

Yoongi watches him, expression unreadable. “Do you want to?”

Jungkook hesitates. “I want to want to.”

Yoongi doesn’t press. “Fair.”

They lie there, skin touching. Not lovers. Not strangers. Something else in between.

“Let’s not name it yet,” Yoongi says. “Let’s just… stay here. For now.”

Jungkook lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. “Okay.”

Yoongi pulls the blanket over them both. It’s warm. He’s warm. His body fits beside Jungkook’s like muscle memory.

Jungkook shifts closer, lets his head fall onto Yoongi’s chest. The beat beneath his ear is steady. Familiar.

“I forgot what this felt like,” he murmurs.

Yoongi’s fingers stroke his back. “Me too.”

“Did it always feel this big? This quiet?”

“Yeah. You just didn’t notice back then.”

Jungkook hums. “I notice now.”

The lamp stays on. Neither of them turns it off.

But when Jungkook drifts into sleep, heart full, mind restless, it’s with Yoongi’s arms around him.

And for the first time in a long time, the quiet feels like a beginning instead of an ending.

Jungkook wakes to the smell of coffee.

For a moment, he doesn’t remember. Just stretches under the sheets, sore and warm and vaguely content. Then his eyes drift to the empty side of the bed, still dented with the shape of Yoongi’s body, and everything clicks back into place.

Last night. All of it.

He sits up slowly. His hair’s a mess. There’s a faint ache in his hips, the satisfying kind that hums of something real. The room is quiet, except for the distant clink of a mug in the kitchen.

Jungkook finds his underwear on the floor, tugs them on, and pads out into the hallway.

Yoongi’s at the stove.

He’s wearing sweatpants and no shirt, his back to Jungkook. His shoulders are relaxed, posture loose, like this is something he’s done a hundred times before. Like he belongs in this space.

Jungkook leans against the doorway.

“Morning,” he says softly.

Yoongi glances over his shoulder. “Hey. You want coffee?”

“I thought I wasn’t allowed to touch your beans.”

“You’re not.” Yoongi turns back to the pot. “But I made you some anyway. Mine’s the strong one. Yours has milk.”

Jungkook steps into the kitchen. “You remembered how I take it.”

“I remember everything.” Yoongi hands him a mug without looking. “You always drank it sweet in the mornings and black at night.”

Jungkook sips. It’s exactly how he likes it. A little too hot, a little too kind.

They stand there in silence, leaning against opposite counters, sipping like this is a thing they do. Like it’s natural.

“Did you sleep okay?” Yoongi asks eventually.

Jungkook nods. “Better than I have in weeks.”

Yoongi’s smile is faint. “Me too.”

There’s a quiet beat before Jungkook adds, “It didn’t feel like a mistake.”

Yoongi looks up. “No. It didn’t.”

“But…”

“Yeah.” Yoongi exhales. “There’s always a ‘but,’ huh?”

Jungkook shrugs. “We don’t have to figure it out right now.”

“I know.”

They finish their coffee in silence.

After a while, Jungkook moves to the sink, rinsing his mug. He glances at the fridge, at the small magnets Yoongi’s collected from cities he never mentioned. There’s a photo tucked under one, a blurry shot of a cat Jungkook doesn’t recognize.

“New roommate?” he asks, nodding at it.

Yoongi follows his gaze. “Neighbor’s cat. She comes in sometimes. I leave the window cracked.”

“She’s cute.”

“She hates everyone. Except me.”

Jungkook grins. “Sounds about right.”

Yoongi watches him for a second. There’s something in his gaze that tugs.

“You don’t have to go,” he says.

“I know.”

“But if you do…”

“I know that too.”

Jungkook leans back against the counter. “I wasn’t planning to stay over. I didn’t bring anything.”

“I’ve got extra toothbrushes.”

“Of course you do.”

They smile at each other. Not quite lovers. Not just exes. Something else. Something tender.

Jungkook moves toward him, close enough to touch.

“Can I kiss you?”

Yoongi nods.

The kiss is slow. Morning-tasting. Familiar. When they part, neither says anything.

Eventually, Jungkook pulls away.

“I should shower,” he says.

“The water’s hot. Towels are clean.”

Jungkook hesitates. “You joining?”

Yoongi quirks a brow. “That a request?”

“Just a question.”

Yoongi steps forward, brushing fingers through Jungkook’s messy hair. “Let’s see how long you last without begging.”

Jungkook grins.

And just like that, the awkward edge softens.

They head to the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind them.

The bathroom fills with steam before either of them speaks.

Yoongi adjusts the water, testing it with his palm until it runs hot but not scalding. Jungkook stands by the sink, fingers resting on the edge, watching Yoongi with the quiet focus of someone still not used to having him like this again.

Yoongi glances over his shoulder. “You coming in, or are you just gonna stare at me until the water runs cold?”

Jungkook exhales a soft laugh, toes off his underwear, and steps forward.

They slide into the shower together.

The warmth hits immediately, water soaking skin, steam rising. It’s quiet, aside from the sound of water cascading over their bodies.

Yoongi reaches for the body wash.

“Turn around,” he says.

Jungkook does.

Yoongi lathers soap in his hands, then smooths it over Jungkook’s back. His fingers trail over muscle and skin, soft and deliberate. Jungkook leans into the touch without thinking.

It’s not sexual.

Not yet.

It’s reverent.

Yoongi washes him like he’s something to be forgiven. As if his body tells a story he wants to read all over again. He doesn’t rush, dragging suds along his arms, his shoulders, his hips. When his hands skim down Jungkook’s spine, Jungkook shivers.

“You’re so quiet,” Yoongi murmurs.

Jungkook swallows. “Just… feels nice.”

Yoongi hums. “You used to talk all the time.”

“I used to think I knew what to say.”

Yoongi doesn’t respond.

He rinses Jungkook off gently, letting the water carry soap away. Then Jungkook turns to face him. Their eyes meet in the steam.

Yoongi’s hands find his waist. “You okay?”

Jungkook nods. “Better than I should be.”

Yoongi brushes wet strands of hair from his forehead. “You always carried too much. Even when we were good.”

“You always left too fast.”

There’s no venom in it. Just truth.

Yoongi looks away. “I didn’t know how to stay without ruining things.”

Jungkook steps closer. “You ruined things by leaving.”

Yoongi’s breath stutters.

Their chests press together. Water runs between them. Jungkook tilts his head, forehead meeting Yoongi’s.

“I’m not saying this to fight,” he whispers.

“I know.”

“I’m saying it because I need to stop pretending none of it hurt.”

Yoongi closes his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Not just for leaving. For everything I didn’t say before I did.”

Jungkook’s fingers trace a wet line down Yoongi’s spine. He doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to.

They stand like that a while.

When the silence becomes too loud, Jungkook lifts Yoongi’s hand and presses a kiss to the inside of his wrist. A slow, damp touch that feels more like devotion than habit.

Yoongi breathes in sharp.

“You still want me?” he asks, voice barely above the sound of the shower.

Jungkook looks at him.

“I never stopped.”

Yoongi kisses him.

It’s slower than last night. Wet lips and steam and soft gasps. Their mouths move with care, hands sliding over each other’s bodies as if trying to memorize again.

Jungkook pins him gently to the tile, tongue licking into his mouth with practiced need. Yoongi moans against him, hips pressing forward, but neither of them is chasing anything more than closeness.

Not this time.

This is the kind of intimacy that lives between sex. The kind that makes space for tenderness. That says stay, even when no one speaks it aloud.

Eventually, they part.

Jungkook rests his cheek against Yoongi’s shoulder. “We’re not okay yet.”

“No,” Yoongi agrees. “But we’re better than yesterday.”

Jungkook nods. The water keeps falling. The heat sinks into his bones.

He lets it wash them clean.

For now.

Jungkook unlocks the door to his apartment just after noon.

The air is stale. Cold where Yoongi’s place was warm. He steps in, toes brushing against the welcome mat he forgot to replace. The walls look emptier than he remembers. Or maybe he’s just looking at them with different eyes.

The bed is untouched. His keys land on the table with a soft clatter. He stands in the center of the living room for a while, hands deep in the pockets of his hoodie, heart quiet in his chest.

Everything’s in its place. But he’s not.

He opens the fridge, stares at the shelves. Nothing appeals. He closes it again.

There’s a part of him that wants to text Yoongi. Something meaningless, like “made it back” or “thanks for the coffee.” But it feels hollow. Like dipping a toe into a tide that’s already swept him under.

Instead, he moves toward the bed, dropping into the covers without undressing. The sheets don’t smell like anything. He presses his face to the pillow anyway, wishing it did.

The thing about being alone, he thinks, is how easy it is to start imagining the other person into the room. How Yoongi’s voice could echo in the hallway if he let it. How his fingers could still ghost over Jungkook’s back if he stayed still long enough.

But he doesn’t want to imagine.

He wants.

Really wants.

So when the knock comes, Jungkook thinks for a moment he’s dreamed it.

But then it comes again.

He sits up slowly, blanket sliding off his shoulders. Pads to the door. No one else would come by. Not unannounced. Not without warning.

He opens it.

Yoongi stands there, damp from rain Jungkook didn’t know had started. His jacket’s half-zipped. His hair’s pushed back. There’s a small bag over his shoulder and a flicker of hesitation in his eyes.

“Hey,” Yoongi says.

Jungkook grips the doorknob tighter. “You forgot something?”

“No.”

“Then why are you-”

“I just-” Yoongi cuts himself off. Shifts the strap of the bag nervously. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Jungkook leans against the frame.

“I was fine.”

“I know,” Yoongi says. “You’re always fine. You make it look easy.”

Jungkook blinks.

Yoongi’s voice lowers. “But I’m not. I’m not fine, Jungkook. I wasn’t last night. I wasn’t this morning. And I’m not now.”

He pauses, exhales hard.

“So I figured I could either keep pretending that’s your fault. Or I could show up.”

The silence between them sharpens. Jungkook doesn’t look away.

“You showed up.”

Yoongi nods. “Yeah.”

Another pause. Then Jungkook steps aside.

“You coming in?”

Yoongi nods again, quieter this time.

He steps over the threshold, brushing past Jungkook in a warm wave. Their arms touch briefly. Neither pulls away.

As the door clicks shut, the room fills with something almost like peace. Not the soft kind. But the honest kind. The kind you earn.

Jungkook turns to face him. “You really brought a bag?”

“Didn’t want to assume. But I hoped.”

Jungkook almost smiles. “So what now?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Now we figure it out.”

Jungkook breathes in.

The air still smells like nothing. But now it doesn’t feel so empty.

Chapter Text

Jungkook wakes to the soft creak of his apartment walls and the hum of rain on the windows. It takes a moment to remember that he’s not alone.

Yoongi is still here.

His bag sits quietly beside the shoe rack. His jacket is draped over the arm of the couch. The scent of him lingers in the hallway, faintly familiar, like lavender soap and something more elusive. Something that used to mean comfort.

Jungkook pads out of the bedroom in bare feet. Yoongi is already awake, curled on the end of the couch with a cup of coffee, wearing the same hoodie Jungkook once left at his place over a year ago. The sleeves hang a little long on him now. He looks soft around the edges, but tired. Like he has not quite found the right way to be here yet.

Jungkook leans against the doorframe and says nothing.

Yoongi glances up. His smile is small. Almost cautious.

“Morning,” he says.

Jungkook nods, stepping further into the room. “You didn’t sleep?”

“A little.” Yoongi shrugs. “Your couch creaks. But it’s better than not being here.”

Jungkook takes that in without comment. Moves toward the kitchen. His hands fumble with the coffee pot, his fingers stiff from the chill in the air. The familiarity of the motions grounds him, but the presence at his back pulls him off balance.

He pours two cups. Offers one without asking how Yoongi takes it.

Yoongi accepts it with both hands. Their fingers brush, brief and accidental.

Jungkook exhales. “So… what now?”

Yoongi looks into his cup. “I was hoping you’d tell me.”

Silence again. But not the old kind. This one is more like a bridge waiting to be crossed.

Jungkook moves to the window. The rain outside slicks the glass in watery veins. The sky is a flat grey. His reflection is faint in the pane, Yoongi’s shape slightly behind him.

“You came here,” Jungkook says after a minute. “But you didn’t explain why you left.”

Yoongi nods slowly, the words landing with a quiet weight. “I didn’t think you’d want to know anymore.”

“That’s the problem, Yoongi. You never gave me the chance to want anything.”

Yoongi winces like the words sting. “You’re right.”

He sets the cup down on the table with deliberate care. “I left because I thought it was the only way to stop hurting you.”

Jungkook turns to face him. “You didn’t stop hurting me. You just hurt me differently.”

Yoongi looks away. His throat moves as he swallows. “I know.”

Jungkook’s hands tighten around his cup. “Was it all bad for you?”

“No,” Yoongi says instantly, voice raw. “It was never bad. That was the problem. It was too good. I didn’t know what to do with it.”

“That’s not an excuse.”

“It’s not.” Yoongi lifts his eyes. “It’s just the truth.”

Jungkook walks closer, slowly. The floor creaks under his feet. “You could have told me.”

“I didn’t know how. I didn’t even know how to tell myself.”

Jungkook stops a foot away. He’s close enough to see the exhaustion in Yoongi’s face. The guilt that lives in his eyes. The apology that still has no proper shape.

“You’ve been here one night,” Jungkook says, “and it already feels like I’m starting over again.”

Yoongi lifts his hand, hesitates, then lets it drop. “Do you want me to leave?”

Jungkook closes his eyes.

He sees the nights he spent pacing in this apartment, wondering what he did wrong. He remembers how quiet everything felt after Yoongi disappeared. The way his own skin felt too tight. He remembers craving touch, then recoiling from it. He remembers wanting to forget. And never managing to.

“No,” he says quietly. “But I don’t want to break again either.”

Yoongi nods. “I won’t promise I won’t make mistakes. But I’ll stay this time.”

Jungkook opens his eyes. “Then start talking. Not about what you felt. About what we were. What we are now. What you want.”

Yoongi sits back down slowly, hands clasped together. “Okay.”

And just like that, the storm outside shifts. Not stops. But slows. The rain begins to fall in a steadier rhythm, like it is waiting for them too.

Yoongi speaks slowly at first. Like the words are locked behind rusted gates.

“I didn’t leave because I stopped loving you,” he says. “I left because I didn’t think I could love you the right way. Not when everything inside me still felt unfinished.”

Jungkook stands in the middle of the living room, holding that sentence in his chest like it might splinter. “What does that even mean?”

Yoongi rubs a hand over his face. “I mean I didn’t know how to be with someone who made me feel seen. It scared the hell out of me. You scared me.”

Jungkook scoffs, bitter. “Because I loved you?”

“Yes.” The answer is soft. No hesitation. “Because you didn’t want to fix me. You just… loved me.”

Jungkook swallows. The words catch somewhere between his heart and throat. “So you ran.”

“I self-sabotaged,” Yoongi says. “It’s what I’ve always done.”

Jungkook leans against the table. He presses his palm to the wood. “You could’ve talked to me.”

“I know.”

“But you didn’t.”

Yoongi looks up. “I was weak.”

“No,” Jungkook says sharply. “You were afraid. But I was too. And I still stayed.”

There’s silence for a long beat. The sound of rain returns to the center of the room, gentle but relentless. Like it wants to say what they cannot.

Yoongi’s voice is low when it comes next. “Do you remember the night before I left?”

Jungkook’s lips part. He remembers all of it.

The way Yoongi had held him too tight. The way his hands had trembled when they’d undressed. How he had kissed Jungkook like it might be the last time. Jungkook had chalked it up to exhaustion. Had whispered I love you into the crook of Yoongi’s neck and felt him shiver, as if the words cut deeper than they were meant to.

“You said nothing that night,” Jungkook whispers. “You left me with no warning.”

“I thought saying goodbye would break me.”

“So you left me to break alone.”

Yoongi flinches. “I’m sorry.”

“That doesn’t fix it.”

“I know.”

There’s a pause, sharp with old wounds.

Jungkook presses a hand to his chest, like trying to contain the heat rising behind his ribs. “I waited months, you know. I kept thinking you’d walk back through the door.”

Yoongi stares at the floor. “I wanted to.”

“But you didn’t.”

“I couldn’t even look at myself,” he admits. “How could I face you?”

Jungkook’s eyes are glassy. He hates it. Hates how Yoongi still knows how to make him feel like this — raw and trembling. “Then why now?”

“Because I finally want to stop running.”

Yoongi lifts his gaze again. His eyes are red around the rims. There’s something real in them. Something quieter than begging. But louder than regret.

“I’ve been to therapy,” he says. “It’s not perfect. I’m still figuring shit out. But I’m not the same person who left you.”

“And what if I’m not the same person either?” Jungkook asks. “What if I don’t know how to let you back in?”

Yoongi’s smile is small. “Then I’ll wait.”

Jungkook breathes slowly, evenly. He sets his coffee down, untouched. Walks toward the couch where Yoongi sits. Stands in front of him with careful stillness.

“Why me?” he asks.

Yoongi tilts his head, confused.

“You’ve had time,” Jungkook says. “You’ve had space. You could’ve moved on. Found someone easier.”

Yoongi doesn’t flinch. “Because I still love you. And I never stopped wanting it to be you.”

Jungkook studies him. The curve of his mouth. The weight of his voice. The lines at the corners of his eyes that weren’t there before.

He doesn’t trust this easily. But Yoongi is here. And he said I’ll wait.

That counts for something.

He reaches out, fingers brushing the side of Yoongi’s face. “Then don’t just say it. Show me.”

Yoongi’s breath catches.

Jungkook steps back. “Stay the day. Let’s just see if we still know how to be in the same space.”

Yoongi rises. Nods. “Okay.”

And there, between silence and a held breath, something loosens. Something small, but real.

They are not healed. They are not whole.
But they are not pretending anymore.

And that might be enough for now.
Yoongi doesn’t leave. Not after breakfast, not after the slow reentry into something that almost feels like peace.

Jungkook doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t say much at all.

Instead, they fall into a rhythm. One that is careful. Unspoken. Like a dance neither of them rehearsed but both remember the steps to.

Yoongi helps clean the dishes. He’s quiet about it, sleeves rolled up, fingers rinsing the coffee mugs like they hold history instead of liquid. Jungkook dries, his towel slow on the rim of the plate, gaze lingering longer than it should.

There’s something absurd about the normalcy.

Yoongi hums under his breath, an old habit. Jungkook remembers that hum. Remembers hearing it through shared headphones, under flickering hallway lights, across the skin of his collarbone in the quiet after sex.

“I missed this,” Yoongi says without looking up.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow. “Washing dishes?”

Yoongi smirks. “You. In the morning. In your space.”

Jungkook folds the towel in half, deliberate. “You don’t get to romanticize it. You left this space.”

“I know,” Yoongi replies softly. “But I never stopped seeing it.”

Jungkook doesn’t know what to do with that.

He finishes drying the last mug. Sets it on the rack. Turns slowly.

Yoongi is watching him now, hands wet, shirt sticking a little to his forearms.

The air stills.

There’s nothing overt. No leaning. No touch.

But something presses between them. Something heavy and ancient. Something they’ve been circling for days now, maybe years.

Jungkook crosses the room. Each step is quiet. Intentional. He stops just in front of Yoongi, so close he can smell the citrus on his skin. His gaze drops to Yoongi’s lips, then rises again.

Yoongi doesn’t move.

“I don’t know if I forgive you,” Jungkook says.

“I don’t expect you to.”

“But I still want you,” he confesses, the words falling like a bruise, soft and aching. “I still want all of this.”

Yoongi’s breath stutters. “Then take it.”

Jungkook lifts his hand slowly. Presses his fingers to Yoongi’s jaw, tilts his face up like something sacred.

Yoongi lets out a breath like prayer.

The kiss doesn’t come yet. But the nearness does. The press of forehead against forehead. The shared warmth between them. The way Yoongi’s hands hover at Jungkook’s waist but don’t touch. Not yet.

“I don’t want this to be like before,” Jungkook murmurs.

“It won’t be,” Yoongi whispers. “I’m not him anymore.”

Jungkook closes his eyes. Feels it, the weight of history in their breaths, the crackling hush that builds between bodies aching for something more than comfort.

“I want to believe you,” he says. “Even if it makes me foolish.”

“You were never foolish,” Yoongi says. “You were brave.”

This time, Jungkook leans in.

Their mouths brush. Not a kiss. Just a taste. Just the ghost of what might come if they both stop pulling away.

Yoongi sighs into the touch. His lips part. But he does not press forward.

Jungkook opens his eyes.

“Don’t hold back,” he says.

Yoongi nods. His hands finally settle on Jungkook’s hips, firm but reverent.

This is not the rush of old passion. This is not need for the sake of forgetting.

This is the slow bloom of something still tender. Still wanting.

Jungkook pulls back first. His thumb lingers on Yoongi’s chin. “We’ve got time.”

Yoongi’s smile is faint but real. “Then let’s take it.”

And just like that, the tension eases. The thread between them does not snap. It stretches. Holds.

For the rest of the day, they move gently. Side by side. No labels. No promises.

But the space between them no longer feels haunted.

It feels lived in.
They don’t talk much after that.
The TV is on but muted.
Jungkook sits curled into the corner of the couch, legs pulled to his chest, eyes flicking to the screen, then to Yoongi.

Yoongi is beside him. Not touching. Just there. A presence more than a shape. His head tilted back against the cushion, lips parted in a near-sleep kind of stillness.

Jungkook watches the line of his throat. The small movement as Yoongi swallows.
Wants to kiss it.
Wants to sink into it until the quiet drowns them both.

He shifts. Not toward or away. Just to feel the movement of his own body.
Yoongi glances over. His eyes hold.

“You okay?” he asks.

Jungkook nods once. Then again. “I think I’m tired.”

Yoongi watches him. “Do you want me to leave?”

He could say yes. He could ask for space, retreat back into the comfort of distance.

But he doesn’t.

“Stay,” Jungkook says.

Yoongi nods. “Okay.”

Jungkook rises first. Pads into the bathroom, washes his face in silence, brushes his teeth like the routine might keep him grounded. The mirror shows his flushed cheeks. His trembling hands.

He’s nervous. Of what, he’s not sure.

When he steps out, Yoongi is still on the couch, phone in his lap, eyes cast low.

Jungkook doesn’t say anything. He just walks to the bedroom. Pauses in the doorway.

Yoongi follows a moment later, quiet steps across the floor.

Inside the room, the light is low. A warm lamp glows in the corner, softening the edges of everything.

Jungkook sits on the bed. Crosses his legs. Stares at the wall.

Yoongi leans against the doorframe.

There’s a long pause. Not heavy. Not awkward. Just filled with the weight of everything unsaid.

Jungkook turns his head.

“You can sleep here,” he says. “If you want.”

Yoongi’s voice is low. “Do you want that?”

Jungkook breathes out. “Yes.”

It’s enough.

Yoongi steps in, closing the door gently behind him. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t reach for anything. Just toes off his shoes, sets his phone down, and moves to the far side of the bed.

They lie down, not touching. Two bodies in parallel. Close enough to feel the warmth.

Jungkook shifts onto his side. Faces Yoongi.

Yoongi mirrors the motion.

Their eyes meet in the dark.

Jungkook’s voice comes soft. “I’ve missed this part the most.”

Yoongi’s brow lifts.

“Lying next to you,” Jungkook says. “Pretending the world stops here.”

Yoongi hums. “It still can.”

Jungkook reaches out, fingers brushing the blanket between them. “Can I touch you?”

The question comes out so gentle it barely lands.

Yoongi nods. “Please.”

Jungkook’s hand finds Yoongi’s. Fingers threading. It’s simple. Nothing electric. Just real.

Yoongi shifts closer. Their knees touch. Then thighs.

There’s no urgency in it. No desperation.

Just the way two people can move slowly into each other after too much time apart.

Jungkook’s other hand lifts. Finds the side of Yoongi’s face. He studies it in the half-light. Thumb brushing along the jaw.

Yoongi’s eyes flutter closed. His breath catches.

The kiss is nothing like the last time.

It’s not messy or fast. It’s not trying to prove something.

It’s slow. Certain.

Their lips meet like they’ve been here before. Like this is a room they’ve memorized. A language they both still speak.

Jungkook deepens it only slightly, hand sliding into Yoongi’s hair.

Yoongi sighs, his own hands rising to Jungkook’s waist.

There’s no rush.
Just the slow bloom of want.

Jungkook pulls back, just barely.

“We don’t have to,” he whispers.

Yoongi opens his eyes. “But I want to.”

Jungkook leans in again, kisses him softer this time. Less need. More promise.

And when their bodies move closer, when the covers shift and the heat builds, it isn’t about forgetting or escaping.

It’s about remembering.

About finding each other in the dark and realizing they were never truly lost.
The room is quiet except for their breath.

Jungkook lays on his side, knees brushing Yoongi’s, fingers still tangled in his hair. His lips hover close to Yoongi’s mouth, but he doesn’t kiss again right away.

He studies him instead.

Yoongi’s face is flushed, but he’s not shying away. Not hiding. Not the way he used to, when things were new and uncertain.

Jungkook’s voice is low. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I won’t,” Yoongi says. “But if I do, I’ll tell you.”

Jungkook nods, more to himself than anyone else.

Then his mouth finds Yoongi’s again.

This time, it lingers.

Tongue brushing gently. Breath syncing. A pause here, a press there. Each kiss like a note in a melody only they know.

Yoongi moves first — slow, measured — pulling Jungkook closer until their chests touch, heat building between them. His hand slips beneath the hem of Jungkook’s shirt. Just a palm on skin. No rush.

“You’re warm,” Yoongi whispers.

“So are you,” Jungkook replies.

Yoongi’s hand slides higher, fingers mapping ribs like territory he’s forgotten but wants to learn again. Jungkook lets him.

Their kiss deepens. Less air. More need.

Jungkook shifts, leg curling around Yoongi’s hip, bringing their bodies flush.

The friction is slow and purposeful. Not enough. Not yet.

Jungkook breaks the kiss only to pull back, breathing hard. His eyes are darker now, pupils blown wide.

“Do you want me?” he asks.

Yoongi answers without hesitation. “Always.”

Jungkook nods once, then sits up slowly. Peels his shirt off and tosses it to the side.

The light in the room catches his skin, turning him soft gold in the shadows. Yoongi stares like it’s the first time all over again.

“Come here,” Jungkook says.

Yoongi moves without question, rising to his knees, mouth brushing along Jungkook’s collarbone as his hands find the small of his back.

Clothes come off one by one. Pauses between each layer, like unwrapping something precious.

There’s no rushing. No clawing.

Just a slow reveal.

When they’re bare, Jungkook leans in again, mouth at Yoongi’s throat, fingers splayed across his chest. He kisses his way down. Over skin he used to know. Over scars and softness.

Yoongi shivers under him.

“I missed you like this,” Jungkook murmurs. “All of you.”

Yoongi cups his face. “Then take me. However you want.”

Jungkook breathes deep. Then nods.

He lays Yoongi back against the pillows, lips never far from his skin. His hands roam, slow and certain, over ribs, thighs, hips.

Yoongi arches into him.

The rhythm is unhurried. Every stroke, every kiss, every glance is full of memory.

Jungkook mouths at his neck again. “Let me learn you.”

Yoongi’s breath stutters. “I’m right here.”

And he is.

Fully.

No shields. No sharp edges. Just want.

Jungkook’s fingers trace the line of Yoongi’s stomach. His mouth follows. Every sound Yoongi makes feels earned. Every gasp, every twitch. It’s a language. One Jungkook still remembers how to speak.

And he plans to take his time with it.
Jungkook’s mouth moves lower.

Each kiss is a question. Each breath a promise. His hands rest on Yoongi’s thighs, thumbs brushing in slow, grounding circles. Yoongi parts his legs for him without a word.

Jungkook kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other. Light, warm, reverent.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers.

Yoongi exhales. “I want you. That’s all it is.”

Jungkook hums, presses another kiss just beside where Yoongi is already hard and wanting.

“I’ve thought about this,” Jungkook says. “About tasting you again.”

Yoongi’s breath hitches.

“Let me?” Jungkook asks, voice low.

“Yes,” Yoongi breathes, already lifting his hips.

Jungkook doesn’t tease for long. He wraps his mouth around him in one smooth motion, lips warm and wet, tongue pressing firm against the underside.

Yoongi groans deep in his chest, his hand flying to Jungkook’s hair, not to push or pull — just to anchor. To feel.

Jungkook sets a slow rhythm, unhurried. His tongue moves with purpose. He moans around him, sending vibrations through every nerve.

Yoongi’s thighs tremble, his head tipping back into the pillow.

“God, Jungkook,” he pants. “You still know… exactly how to—”

Jungkook pulls off with a quiet pop, mouth slick, eyes dark. “I could make you come just like this.”

Yoongi shudders. “You could. But I want to feel you.”

Jungkook leans up. Kisses his chest. His neck. His mouth. Deep and messy this time.

Then he whispers, “Do you want me to top?”

Yoongi nods, slow and sure. “Yeah.”

Jungkook kisses him again. “Condom?”

“Drawer. Bottom left.”

Jungkook rolls off the bed briefly, pads over and retrieves what they need. When he returns, Yoongi’s still sprawled out, flushed and beautiful, arms open like he’s waiting.

There’s something so open about him. So different from the man Jungkook remembers from before.

They kiss again, slower this time, as Jungkook slicks his fingers.

“Tell me if anything’s too much,” he murmurs.

Yoongi just reaches for him. “I trust you.”

Jungkook presses a kiss to his temple, then moves down again.

He works Yoongi open slowly. One finger, then two. Yoongi’s hips roll, breath caught somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

“You’re doing so good,” Jungkook says. “Feels good?”

Yoongi nods, eyes fluttering shut. “More than good.”

When Jungkook finally rolls the condom on, he pauses. Looks down at Yoongi, who’s watching him now.

“You’re sure?” he asks one more time.

Yoongi reaches for him. “I’ve never been more sure.”

So Jungkook lines himself up and presses in — slow and steady. He watches every twitch of Yoongi’s expression, every inhale, every parting of his lips.

Yoongi lets out a quiet moan. “Fuck… yeah…”

Jungkook stills when he’s fully inside, panting against Yoongi’s neck.

“God, you feel— I forgot how good this was,” he says.

Yoongi wraps his legs around him, pulling him closer. “Then don’t forget again.”

The rhythm starts slow. Deep. Jungkook rolls his hips, angled just right, watching the way Yoongi arches under him.

The room is all breath and skin and warmth.

Every movement is a reminder.

You were mine. You still are.

Jungkook presses their foreheads together, his pace unchanging.

“I missed you like this,” he whispers. “I missed being inside you.”

Yoongi’s fingers dig into Jungkook’s back. “Then don’t stop.”

And Jungkook doesn’t.

He fucks him slow. Thorough. With the kind of attention that says this is not just sex. It’s everything they couldn’t say. Everything they’re still trying to rebuild.

Yoongi comes first, gasping out Jungkook’s name as he spills across his stomach, body trembling beneath him.

Jungkook kisses him through it. Murmurs soft praise.

Then he thrusts a few more times, deep and purposeful, until he groans and stills, buried to the hilt, forehead against Yoongi’s shoulder.

Their breath is uneven. Their bodies a mess of sweat and touch and heat.

But it feels right.

It feels earned.
Jungkook doesn’t move right away.

Their breath fills the room. Shaky, uneven. Yoongi’s chest rises and falls under him, one arm lazily flung over Jungkook’s shoulder, the other resting palm-up beside his head like he’s already halfway to sleep.

Jungkook brushes his lips against Yoongi’s collarbone, barely a kiss. Just contact.

“You okay?” he whispers.

Yoongi hums. “Mmh. More than.”

“You sure?”

A nod. “You were perfect.”

Jungkook exhales slowly, lets his forehead rest against Yoongi’s skin. He feels warm. Loose. Like something tight has unknotted inside him and all that’s left is this strange, still quiet.

He eases out of him gently. Discards the condom and wipes them both clean with the towel he’d left on the nightstand earlier, half hoping they’d get to use it.

They had.

When he lies down again, Yoongi immediately curls into his side, one leg sliding between Jungkook’s, arm slung over his stomach.

It’s familiar.

But not the kind of familiar that hurts.

It’s the kind that makes you believe, maybe just for a moment, that you could do things differently this time.

Yoongi’s voice comes quiet. “You were really gentle with me.”

Jungkook tilts his head to look at him. “Of course I was.”

“I mean. I didn’t expect to feel so… safe. With you. Not after everything.”

Jungkook swallows. “I didn’t expect you to let me.”

Yoongi’s fingers play with the edge of the blanket. “I still love you, you know.”

The silence that follows isn’t sharp. It’s soft. Tentative.

Jungkook breathes in. “I know. I think I never really stopped.”

They lie there like that. Breathing each other in.

The weight of everything not said doesn’t feel as heavy now. It’s just there. A quiet part of the room, sitting beside them. No longer between them.

Yoongi turns his head slightly, rests his cheek against Jungkook’s chest. “Can I stay?”

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Just for tonight?”

A pause.

Then Jungkook wraps an arm around him, pulling him closer.

“As long as you want.”

Yoongi says nothing. But the way he exhales — slow, shaking — feels like something inside him just unclenched.

They don’t talk much more.

At some point, Jungkook reaches up and switches off the lamp, plunging the room into the kind of quiet that doesn’t ask for anything.

Yoongi falls asleep first. He always does.

Jungkook stays awake for a while, hand resting at the small of Yoongi’s back, thumb moving in soft arcs. He watches the ceiling, the curve of Yoongi’s nose, the mess of their clothes on the floor.

This could be the start of something. Or the memory of what they couldn’t keep.

But for now, it is enough.

For the first time in months, maybe longer, Jungkook doesn’t feel like he is falling.
The morning is soft when it comes.

Jungkook wakes slowly, blinking against the light slipping through the curtain. The room smells like sleep and skin, like warmth tucked between sweat and cotton sheets.

Yoongi is still there.

That’s the first thing Jungkook notices. That his arm is full of him. That Yoongi’s breath still brushes his collarbone. That the space beside him is not empty.

Not a dream. Not a memory.

Real.

He doesn’t move, afraid even shifting might break the spell. He stays like that, staring at the ceiling with his hand resting lightly on Yoongi’s back.

Minutes pass like that. Maybe more.

Then Yoongi stirs. Makes a soft sound in his throat. Shifts closer before his lashes flutter and his eyes open halfway.

“Morning,” Jungkook whispers.

Yoongi makes a noise, almost a groan, and buries his face in Jungkook’s chest. “Too early.”

Jungkook smiles. “It’s almost ten.”

Yoongi mumbles something incoherent, then lifts his head enough to look at him. His eyes are a little puffy, hair sticking up in wild directions. He’s never looked more endearing.

“You’re smiling,” he accuses.

“You drool in your sleep.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Jungkook says, grinning now. “It’s cute.”

Yoongi squints at him like he’s debating whether murder is a valid response, then sighs and drops his head back on Jungkook’s chest.

They lie in silence for a moment.

Then, softer, Yoongi asks, “So… what now?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away. He reaches up, brushing a lock of hair from Yoongi’s forehead. His thumb lingers there.

“We don’t have to decide everything today.”

Yoongi hums, considering that. “But we do have to talk.”

“Eventually,” Jungkook agrees.

Yoongi pulls back a little so he can see his face. “You think this was a mistake?”

“No.”

“Then what was it?”

Jungkook sighs. “It was us. Being honest. Wanting each other. Missing each other. Maybe it’s not simple, but it’s not nothing either.”

Yoongi looks at him for a long time. Then he leans in and presses a kiss to Jungkook’s shoulder. Not hungry. Not desperate. Just present.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” he says.

Jungkook’s breath catches. “Then stay.”

Yoongi nods, slow. “Okay.”

The word hangs in the air like a thread between them. Tied. Tense. But there.

Yoongi sits up, stretching until the blanket slips off his waist. Jungkook watches him move, sees the faint bruises on his hips from where he’d held him too tightly.

He reaches out, fingers brushing one mark gently.

“Sorry,” he murmurs.

Yoongi smiles, amused. “For what?”

“I didn’t mean to hold on so hard.”

Yoongi turns, climbing into his lap, legs on either side of Jungkook’s hips. He cups Jungkook’s face between his palms and kisses him once. Sweet. Final.

“You can hold on however you need,” he says.

Jungkook pulls him close again, arms wrapping around his waist. They sit there like that for a long while. Naked. Breathing.

Together.

—————

They stand in front of the door, the quiet room behind them still holding the heat of their skin and the ghost of their tangled breaths. The clothes they discarded lie crumpled on the floor and the chair, symbols of the night they just survived, or maybe the first night they ever truly lived.

Yoongi pulls a loose shirt over his head. His movements are slow, like he’s still carrying the weight of what happened between the sheets. He avoids Jungkook’s gaze, focusing on the small details around the room, the pattern of the curtain, the scratches on the wooden floor.

Jungkook buttons his jacket, feeling a mix of anticipation and something closer to dread. The outside world looms beyond that door. It’s loud. It’s real. It’s the place where they’ve always been afraid to meet.

“You want to tell anyone?” Jungkook asks softly. “Friends, family… whoever.”

Yoongi shrugs, the action heavy with unspoken meaning. “My friends don’t know you,” he says finally, voice low. “And maybe that’s for the best.”

Jungkook’s chest tightens. “What about my friends? What if they ask? What if someone finds out?”

Yoongi looks up then, eyes sharp and clear. “I don’t care what they think,” he says bluntly.

It’s not the answer Jungkook expected, but it’s the one he needed.

“You don’t care?” Jungkook repeats, his voice barely above a whisper. “Not even a little?”

Yoongi shrugs again, the barest hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “I care about what you think. That’s enough for me.”

Jungkook swallows the lump in his throat. There’s something raw in those words, something almost desperate. Maybe it’s a promise. Maybe it’s a beginning.

“Maybe we don’t have to explain,” Yoongi says after a moment, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from Jungkook’s face. “Maybe we just… are.”

Jungkook feels his heart slow, breath catch. “I’d like that,” he says quietly, the weight in his chest lifting a little.

Yoongi’s fingers linger on his cheek before they fall away. The silence between them stretches, comfortable and heavy all at once.

When they finally step outside, the city greets them with its familiar noise: cars honking, people shouting, the distant hum of life pressing forward.

The cold air bites at their cheeks, filling their lungs with something sharp and new. Jungkook shivers but doesn’t pull away when Yoongi slides his hand into his.

Their fingers interlace naturally, like they’ve been waiting to do that for a long time. Neither says it out loud, but the gesture carries a thousand unspoken promises.

Walking side by side, they move through the crowded streets without needing to explain who they are or what this means.

For once, the world feels like it can wait.

There’s a small coffee shop around the corner, its windows fogged and warm. Yoongi stops, pulling Jungkook inside without a word.

They find a corner booth, sit close. The noise outside fades into background static.

Jungkook watches Yoongi as he stirs his coffee absentmindedly, his eyes distant.

“You think it’ll be easier now?” Jungkook asks.

Yoongi shrugs again. “I don’t know. But it feels right.”

Jungkook reaches across the table, covers Yoongi’s hand with his own. “We’ll figure it out.”

Yoongi looks up, and there it is again, that flicker of something fragile and fierce, the same flicker Jungkook has been chasing.

He smiles, just a little, and squeezes Jungkook’s hand.

Maybe they don’t have to be perfect. Maybe they just have to keep choosing each other.

They return to the apartment later that day, not because they have to, but because they want to.

The door closes behind them with a soft click, shutting out the chaos of the city and the weight of expectation.

Jungkook leans against the door, breath heavy. Yoongi’s eyes find his immediately, a question lingering in their depths.

“Do you think we’re really ready?” Jungkook asks.

Yoongi steps forward, reaching out to cup Jungkook’s face in his hands. His thumb traces the curve of his jaw with a gentleness that makes Jungkook’s heart pulse.

“Ready doesn’t matter,” Yoongi says quietly. “What matters is that we keep trying. That we keep holding on to this … whatever ‘this’ is.”

Jungkook’s smile is shaky but genuine. He nods, feeling the truth in those words.

Yoongi pulls him closer, their foreheads touching. The air between them hums with things left unsaid: forgiveness, fear, hope.

Slowly, Yoongi’s lips meet Jungkook’s in a kiss that is neither rushed nor hesitant. It’s steady, sure, a promise made in the quiet.

Their hands explore familiar territory but with a newfound tenderness. The room grows warm with their shared heat.

Clothes fall away, skin pressed against skin, each touch a word in the story they’re writing together.

Yoongi leads, gentle but insistent, and Jungkook follows, open and eager.

There’s no need for words here. The quiet between them speaks volumes.

When it’s over, they lie tangled in the sheets, breathing in sync, hearts still racing.

Jungkook rests his head on Yoongi’s chest, listening to the steady thump of a heart that once was distant but now feels like home.

Yoongi’s fingers thread through Jungkook’s hair, a soft lullaby against the noise outside.

“Thank you,” Jungkook whispers.

“For what?”

“For not giving up.”

Yoongi smiles, a slow, tired smile. “I’m not finished yet.”

And maybe, that’s enough.

The night slips away, and with it the fear, the past, the wreckage.

All that remains is the quiet between them, fragile but real.

And the promise of morning.