Chapter Text
Hoseok’s café looked different after hours—warmer somehow, like the espresso machine had exhaled all day until the walls smelled faintly of roasted beans and sugar. The front shutters were half-pulled; street-lamp light sliced in at an angle, dust motes dancing lazily in the beam. Hoseok had dragged two low tables together and declared the place officially “closed to the public, open to the degenerates,” which meant the everyone sprawled wherever they liked. Jin perched on a stool that gave him strategic access to the leftover pastries, Namjoon claimed the far end of a bench with a quiet nod, Yoongi flitted between counter and table refilling mugs, and Taehyung—of course—commanded the conversation from dead center, bright eyes and bright hands flying everywhere at once.
Jungkook sat slightly off to one side, back pressed to a brick pillar, fingers wrapped around a paper cup that had long gone lukewarm. He watched the group through curls of steam that weren’t really there anymore, letting the veil of almost-heat blur the edges of everyone’s movement. Better to look busy, contemplative, mysterious—whatever mask kept people from noticing he mostly listened.
“Hoseok, you’re sure the milk in that fridge hasn’t evolved sentience?” Jin called, tapping the lid of his latte like he expected it to explode.
Hoseok didn’t glance up from polishing a espresso cup. “Expiration dates are capitalistic suggestions, not commands.” His tone was serene. The espresso cup gleamed.
Taehyung cackled, leaning forward so his forearms bracketed the pushed-together tables. “Well if Jin sprouts a second head we’ll name it after you. I’ll sculpt its bust—limited edition, two-for-one sale.”
Jimin, curled cross-legged on the floor by Taehyung’s chair, laughed so hard he snorted, then tried to pass it off as a cough when Jin shot him a look. Taehyung absently dropped a hand to Jimin’s nape, thumb stroking the fine hairs there; Jimin’s shoulders loosened on a sigh that barely made sound. The touch was casual, proprietary, kind. It landed on Jungkook’s chest like a stone skipping water, quick ripples he pretended not to feel.
Yoongi reappeared, pressing a fresh mug into Jungkook’s hand—chamomile, if the soft floral hit was anything to go by. “You looked empty,” he murmured. “Can’t have that.”
“Thanks.” Jungkook managed a small smile. Service was Yoongi’s love language; refusing felt like kicking a puppy. Besides, warm porcelain gave his fingers something to do other than twitch. He took a sip—too hot, but pain grounded him in his skin.
Conversation meandered to weekend plans. Namjoon, in his inexhaustible deadpan, announced he’d be teaching a self-defense workshop for teen switches at the community gym. Hoseok promised to stop by and film “the world-famous Namjoon Side-Step” for blackmail purposes. Jin detailed a catering gig so meticulously even the garnish had a timeline. Taehyung described the installation he was finishing—mirror panels, LED strips, audience reflections turning into ink blots. “Dr. Jekyll vibes,” he said, eyes shining. “People confront themselves whether they want to or not.”
Jimin puffed out his cheeks. “That’s deep, hyung.”
“It’s art,” Taehyung replied, mock-solemn. Then, wicked grin. “Speaking of confronting ourselves—Jimin, how’s that track coming? The one with the bassline that sounds like a drunk bee?”
“Amazing,” Jimin declared, undeterred. “The drunk bee is a creative choice.”
Taehyung tugged gently on Jimin’s ear. “Drunk bee … or drunk producer?”
“Same difference.” Jimin squirmed, but there was delight in every movement, like he wanted to be caught.
Jungkook watched, heart thumping an irregular pattern. He tried to catalogue the subtle tells—how Jimin tipped his chin just enough for Taehyung to maintain the hold; how Taehyung’s teasing never veered sharp because Jimin’s grin said I trust you. The whole city could read that body language and guess their dynamics without asking, but no one would because etiquette said you pretended not to notice.
He set the mug down, flexing hands to disperse the ache rising up his arms. Too much staring, man. Quit while you’re behind.
“You’re quiet tonight,” Yoongi said, sliding onto the nearest stool. “Writing lyrics in your head?”
“Just watching the circus.” A safer joke than I’m trying not to drown in feelings. “Someone’s got to document the moment Jin turns green from deadly milk.”
Yoongi laughed. “If anyone could out-stubborn food poisoning, it’s him.”
Across the tables, Jin snapped his fingers. “Yoongi hyung, are those blueberry scones still edible? Hoseok claims they are, but we know his standards.”
Hoseok raised an eyebrow. “My standards are higher than your voice when you’re angry.”
Taehyung hooted; Jimin wheezed. Jin brandished a teaspoon like a tiny, shiny sword. Namjoon laid a hand on Jin’s shoulder—two fingers, light pressure. Jin settled immediately, the teaspoon lowering as if on remote control. No fuss, no words. Normal in a society where roles were oxygen.
And normal—Jungkook reminded himself—for friends to respect boundaries. He could appreciate the choreography without envying the dancers. Right?
Time blurred pleasantly until someone glanced at the wall clock and cursed. The subway icon had long ago flipped to red; last trains gone.
“Ah, hell,” Hoseok muttered, fishing for his phone. “Taxi surge pricing is brutal after midnight.”
“I’ve got crash space,” Yoongi offered, breezy. “Sofa converts, plus futons. Could do a sleepover—traditional pillow-fight optional.”
Hoseok shrugged. “Better than bankrupting myself.”
“Same,” Jungkook said before he thought about it. Better than facing the empty apartment and the silence screaming at him. He added, “If it’s not trouble.”
Yoongi beamed. “Never.”
Namjoon nodded once—a way of saying he’d automatically help carry bags. Jin looked torn—germaphobe instincts warring with thrift—but finally sighed. “Fine, but I’m not using your mystery scented laundry detergent, hyung.”
“It’s lavender,” Yoongi protested. “You’re allergic to fun.”
While they debated linens, Taehyung slung on his coat. He tugged Jimin’s hoodie hood up, smoothing the fabric over messy curls. “We’ll head home,” he announced. “Our place is a ten-minute walk.”
Jimin glanced at Jungkook, flashed a quick grin—soft, fond, wholly oblivious. “Good night, Kookie. Don’t let Hoseok hog all the blankets.”
Jungkook tried to return the smile; it wobbled. “No promises.”
Taehyung caught Jimin by the belt loop, steering him toward the door with gentle insistence. As they left, Taehyung’s hand slid to the small of Jimin’s back—barely there, but Jimin’s shoulders loosened like a marionette with strings suddenly slack. The door swung shut behind them, bell jingling once, twice, then silence.
A bright, bubble-shaped silence. In its echo, Jungkook felt something slip sideways inside his ribs, like a heart finding the wrong pocket.
Jin clapped. “All right, romantics gone, let’s scavenge pastries and flee before Hoseok starts charging overnight rent.”
Hoseok sniffed. “You can pay in compliments.”
Namjoon collected mugs. Yoongi herded people toward the exit, keys jangling. Jungkook shrugged on his jacket, tucking hands into pockets so no one would see them tremble.
Outside, night air smelled of exhaust, wet concrete, distant seaweed soup from a 24-hour diner down the block. Yoongi rallied his little troop toward the main road, talking about bus schedules and futon dimensions. Jungkook walked a step behind, listening to Jin bicker with Hoseok over who got the spare toothbrush. Their words washed over him without meaning.
Up ahead, two figures under a streetlight—Taehyung leaning close, Jimin’s laughter bright, their heads almost touching. The ache wasn’t new, but it was sharper tonight, honed by warmth and chamomile and the memory of Taehyung’s hand stroking Jimin’s nape. He inhaled slow, exhaled slower, focused on the chill slicing his lungs.
Just friends. Still breathing. Tomorrow’s another day.
And if friendship meant watching the people you loved walk home together without you—well, at least the city lights were pretty.
He stuffed that thought deep, stepped into Yoongi’s orbit, and let the night carry him forward.
Morning pooled through the blinds in thin, uneven stripes, dust motes blinking in and out of light like faulty pixels. Jungkook surfaced to the hush-busy rhythm of a kitchen already in motion—metal tapping ceramic, a wooden spoon thumping the rim of a bowl, Yoongi humming something bright and off-key. His spine protested the futon but the protest was mild, a small, familiar complaint he could file under physical noise and ignore.
Across the living room Jin knelt beside a stack of blankets, folding each one with the grim focus of a man defusing bombs. Hoseok dozed on the couch, quilt cocooning everything but one socked foot. Namjoon occupied a patch of floorboard near the balcony, lowering and lifting in slow push-ups that made the building seem to breathe with him. And Yoongi—apron on backwards, spatula in hand—conducted the stove like an orchestra, coaxing omelets into neat crescents.
Jungkook sat up, ran a hand through sleep-matted hair, and felt crackles of static cling. He should move, offer help, but movement meant acknowledgment; acknowledgment invited conversation; conversation risked spilling things he was trying to keep folded small. Better to observe another minute.
Yoongi caught the shift of posture and brightened. “Perfect timing. Breakfast is landing in three, two—” He flipped an omelet with a flourish. “One. Coffee?”
“Always.” Jungkook pushed to his feet, felt joints click back into alignment. He crossed to the kitchenette, accepted a mug already filled—black, no sugar. Yoongi’s memory for preferences was alarming in its accuracy.
“Careful, it’s magma.” Yoongi wiped the spatula on a towel, then addressed the room: “Heads-up, our center’s dom program just got a shiny upgrade—new grounding suite with heated floors. Namjoon, Jin, Jungkook, you should swing by for a trial. It’s basically an onsen for your frontal lobe.”
Namjoon grunted appreciative acknowledgement mid-push-up. Jin didn’t look up from blanket-origami but asked, “Do they let snacks in? I refuse to ground without sustenance.”
Yoongi laughed. “We can negotiate trail mix privileges.”
Hoseok cracked one eye, voice muffled by quilt. “And for switches? Please tell me you finally installed the nap pods.”
“Nap pods, meditation swings, weighted-blanket lounge.” Yoongi’s grin widened. “I’m heading that program now—promotion paperwork finally went through.”
Hoseok offered an approving thumbs-up before resuming hibernation.
Jungkook sipped coffee that was, as advertised, near-lava. Yoongi’s invitation landed oddly—a note ever so slightly off-key. Heated floors sounded great, but why steer him toward a dom suite? Maybe Yoongi was just lumping him in with the others out of habit. Best not to overthink.
The breakfast choreography resumed. Omelets slid onto plates: egg-white for Namjoon, full-yolk for the rest. Jin abandoned blanket duty to critique Yoongi’s plating, Hoseok padded over in oversized slippers to steal sautéed peppers straight from the pan, Namjoon poured a steady line of coffee refills without being asked. It was ordinary, domestic—soothing in its predictability.
They gathered around the low table. Conversation eddied from weekend schedules to half-remembered memes. At one point Jin poked Yoongi’s bicep and demanded the secret to “stuffing optimism into every muscle fiber,” while Hoseok launched a sleepy monologue about existential laziness and the merits of horizontal living. Namjoon’s responses never exceeded five words but always landed like period marks—full-stop, settled.
Yoongi, sliding a plate toward Jungkook, circled back to his pitch. “Seriously, Kook, heated floors. And if you ever want to experiment with the switch suite—zero judgment. It’s my baby project, so I’ll treat you like royalty.”
The fork paused halfway to Jungkook’s mouth. There it was again—that tiny dissonance: switch suite. A sensible offer—Yoongi knew everybody’s designations, surely—but the way he’d grouped him with the dom trial first felt… accidental? Whatever. He smoothed his expression.
“I’ll think about it,” he said, carefully neutral.
Jin pointed his fork at Jungkook. “You should. Overexerted dom energy knots the shoulders faster than bad posture.” He rolled one himself for demonstration. “Taehyung skips decompression for two days and turns into a statue.”
“Statue with opinions,” Hoseok muttered.
Jungkook nodded along, noncommittal. Shoulders, statues—sure. He chewed and debated whether correcting assumptions counted as picking a fight before nine a.m. It didn’t feel necessary; they’d known each other for years. Surely they’d seen him in contexts that clarified everything. Surely.
Yoongi shifted subjects with a clap. “Okay, logistics: Hoseok, you need a ride to the café?”
“Nah, bus is fine. Blanket burrito transferable.”
“Jin, ingredient run?”
“Supplier’s dropping off at ten. I left them a terrifying voicemail last night; they’ll be early.”
“Namjoon?”
“Gym.”
Yoongi fired finger-guns. “Productive adults. Jungkook, you heading straight to your session?”
“Yeah. Noon slot.” He drained his mug, welcomed the slight burn.
The table soon devolved into the chaos of departure: Hoseok scavenging dry shampoo, Jin sealing leftovers in Tupperware that materialized from his tote, Namjoon folding futons with silent efficiency. Yoongi shoved fruit containers into everybody’s hands—citrus for immunity, berries for antioxidants—and fussed until even Jin relented.
At the door Yoongi planted a firm hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. “Invitation’s open. First session on me if you come by.”
Jungkook mustered a small grin. “Heated floors, right. Tempting.”
“Not a sales pitch, just care.”
“I know.” And he did; Yoongi’s sincerity radiated like ambient heat. The discomfort wasn’t Yoongi—it was the tiny pebble of wrongness in Jungkook’s shoe, an irritant he couldn’t quite locate.
Good-byes echoed down the stairwell—Hoseok’s sing-song farewell, Jin’s reminder about Tupperware returns, Namjoon’s quiet “later.” Jungkook lingered to knot his scarf, keenly aware of the hush that settled once doors clicked shut.
Yoongi wiped a perfectly clean counter. “You sure you’re okay? You seem… tight around the edges.”
“Late-night caffeine.” He rotated a wrist in a shrug. “I’ll be fine after the clinic.”
Yoongi studied him a heartbeat too long, then nodded. “Text if you need anything.”
“Will do.” Jungkook stepped into the corridor, backpack strap creaking as he adjusted it across his shoulder. The apartment door closed behind him with a padded thud, and suddenly the building’s stairwell felt refrigerated. He descended four flights, each step a metronome.
Outside, city air tasted of exhaust and early-morning soup stock from a corner restaurant already simmering bones. He zipped his jacket to the chin, catching the wool of his scarf in the teeth, and pointed his boots toward the subway.
Fifteen minutes to the clinic—enough time to let thoughts crawl out of their hiding places:
Yoongi’s assumption about dom grounding.
Jin’s casual comment about overexerted doms.
No one blinking when Yoongi lumped him with Namjoon and Jin.
Maybe he’d misremembered past conversations. Maybe everyone was just making shorthand guesses, and shorthand became gospel over years. He exhaled, watched the breath ghost away. Not worth spiraling; the session would iron him flat, refill the places that felt hollow.
His phone buzzed—work reminder for tonight’s recording slot. Another pocket of routine waiting to buoy him. Keep moving, keep adhering to schedule; feelings could slot themselves quietly into unscheduled margins.
He crossed at the light, earbuds in but no music playing, and let the city’s heartbeat carry him toward reset.
The wellness clinic sat quietly between a florist and a dry cleaner, its exterior unassuming by design. Frosted windows filtered the light, pale lettering across the sign simply read: GROUNDED – Dynamic Wellness & Regulation.
Jungkook stepped inside and let the warmth wrap around him. It wasn’t just the temperature, though that helped—it was the texture of the place. Soft edges. Rounded furniture. Muted tones. No music playing, just the hush of circulating air and the quiet drip of a small indoor fountain. Eucalyptus and lavender hung faint in the air. The front desk was flanked by ferns, and the receptionist—someone he vaguely remembered from previous visits—greeted him with a practiced, gentle smile.
“Hey, welcome back. You’re with Hajoon today, right?”
He nodded, unwinding his scarf. “Yeah. Noon slot.”
“Perfect. He’s just finishing up. Do you want to fill this out while you wait?”
She handed him a familiar tablet. He took it without needing to look.
The check-in questions never changed:
- Energy levels? Low-moderate.
- Emotional clarity? Mostly clear.
- Body tension? Shoulders, jaw, lower back.
- Current preferred expression?
- Frequency of expression in past 30 days?
That last one made him pause, thumb hovering for a second before he tapped it in. Once. It was true. Not enough to throw him out of alignment, but just enough to start feeling the pull.
He added a note in the optional comment field: Switch. Sub regulation preferred at this time.
It wasn’t for clarification—his file already had that. It was just a habit. A reminder. His dynamic wasn’t a box to check. It moved, depending on the week, the context, the person. But when left to his own instincts—when no one was steering him, no one expecting anything—he usually landed here.
He returned the tablet and took a seat by the window. The waiting room was quiet, though not empty. A couple others sat scattered through the space, each in their own pocket of stillness. One was reading something on a tablet, legs crossed neatly, eyes calm. Another rubbed a thumb slowly along the edge of a water bottle. No one spoke. No one stared. That was the rule. Dynamics weren’t declared unless invited.
Jungkook sat back, letting his spine settle into the shape of the chair, not quite slouched but not alert either. This wasn’t about fixing something. He wasn’t unraveling. He was just here to recalibrate—to check in with himself the way some people went for a long run or saw their chiropractor. This was his version of that. Quiet, steady, essential.
Hajoon stepped into the room a few minutes later and gave a small nod, his presence quiet but grounded. Jungkook stood, following him down the hall past softly lit rooms and etched glass panels that gave only hints of what was inside.
The session room smelled faintly of cedar and linen. The mat was already laid out at the center, and the rope—neatly bundled and set to one side—looked familiar.
Hajoon waited until the door clicked softly closed before speaking.
“Anything new since last time?”
“Not really,” Jungkook said. “It’s been a while, but I’ve been good. Just… time to reset.”
“You have a preferred structure today?”
“Minimal verbal. I’d rather follow than talk.”
Hajoon nodded, already reaching for the tray. “Any grounding elements?”
“Rope. And a little pressure if I start drifting.”
“Got it.”
Jungkook removed his shoes, tucked them neatly against the wall. His jacket followed, then his sweater—folded and set on the nearby bench. Barefoot in a soft black base layer, he stepped onto the mat and slowly lowered himself to his knees. It wasn’t dramatic. Not performative. Just ease. Familiar motion. The kind of settling that lived in his bones.
“Take your time,” Hajoon said behind him. “No rush.”
He closed his eyes and let his weight pull downward. Hands resting loose on his thighs, his breath began to slow.
Hajoon approached with quiet steps. The first touch—light at the curve of his shoulder—was more of a question than a command. Jungkook stayed still, the answer clear.
The rope was warm in the room’s ambient air. It wrapped slow around his arms and upper chest, crisscrossing in soft, careful lines that pressed—not to restrict, but to steady. His breathing lengthened, his body settling into the structure, not braced against it but leaning in.
“You’re holding tension here,” Hajoon murmured, adjusting a knot near his scapula. “Let your shoulders drop.”
He did.
The next few minutes slipped by without clocks. Hajoon guided with the bare minimum—gentle corrections, grounding touch, a few steadying words that fell into the background of the space. The restraints weren’t tight. They weren’t meant to bind. They just reminded him where he was, what direction gravity flowed.
A hand cupped the back of his neck once, gently coaxing him forward until his forehead met the mat.
“Good,” Hajoon said. “That’s very good.”
It wasn’t about giving up control. It wasn’t about being overpowered. It was about release. About letting the pressure drain out of his jaw, his shoulders, his spine. About being allowed to respond instead of initiate. About knowing he could stay here, like this, and nothing would be asked of him.
No choices. No leading. No roles to define. Just breath, warmth, and stillness.
Eventually, the rope came off in reverse—unwound with the same care, the same pace. His arms felt weightless after, like they hadn’t realized how long they’d been holding him up.
He stayed kneeling until Hajoon tapped lightly on the floor beside him.
“Water?”
Jungkook nodded.
Hajoon handed him the bottle, waited while he drank. “That was a smooth drop. Not too deep. No drift.”
“I didn’t need to go far,” he said, voice quiet but steady. “Just enough.”
“Good.” A pause. “You maintaining regularly outside of sessions?”
“Mostly. Been a little too busy to balance both ends, but I’m not feeling out of alignment. Just wanted to get ahead of it.”
Hajoon gave a small smile. “Smart. A lot of switches let it go too long thinking they’re fine.”
“I used to,” Jungkook admitted. “Not anymore.”
He stood slowly, stretching out his legs before moving to gather his things. The ache in his back was gone. His mind didn’t feel foggy or stretched thin. Just… settled.
At the front desk, the receptionist greeted him again with a fresh energy bar and a soft, familiar smile. “Hajoon said you were solid today.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Felt like I needed it.”
She handed over his metrics printout without comment. “Next session?”
“I’ll check my schedule, but probably next week.”
“Sounds good. Take care, okay?”
“You too.”
Outside, the world hadn’t changed. Buses still hissed past. The clouds still hung low and gray above the street. But his body felt warmer in his coat than it had on the way in. The cold didn’t settle as deep.
He checked his phone: forty minutes until his evening studio shift. Enough time to stop at home, shower, maybe eat something.
The podcast studio sat on the third floor of a nondescript building tucked behind a row of noodle shops and one suspiciously trendy dog café. Jungkook let himself in with a soft beep of his ID, shouldered the door closed behind him, and shook the last remnants of summer rain from his hoodie. The inside of the building always smelled faintly of espresso and foam insulation—cozy if not slightly industrial—and he liked it better than anywhere else he’d ever worked. Not too loud. Not too crowded. Just enough buzz to keep things moving.
He passed the reception desk with a small nod to the assistant—new, probably a college intern based on her earbuds and the sticker-covered laptop—and made his way toward Studio B, the smaller of the two recording rooms. Less space, lower ceilings, better acoustics. He liked that part. The insulation panels were so thick you could hear your own heartbeat if you sat still enough.
The light outside the booth was still red.
He wasn’t late.
Inside the control room, Han Harin was already seated at the desk beside the mixer, sipping something from a can and scrolling through notes on her tablet. She looked up when he walked in, dark hair piled in a messy bun, thick-rimmed glasses balanced on the bridge of her nose.
“There he is,” she said. “Mr. Steady Hands.”
“I don’t even drink coffee,” Jungkook lied, slipping his backpack off his shoulder.
“Exactly why I trust you more than any of these degenerates. You tell the most obvious lies.”
He gave her a half-smile and settled behind the mixer, fingers moving through their usual pre-session checks: power levels, line inputs, waveform calibration. All familiar. All comforting. Audio was one of the few things in his life that made immediate, predictable sense.
“Dojin and Yunho are finishing their intro in Studio A,” Harin said, tapping her pen against the screen. “We’ve got Jinah and Sujin for this one. Fifteen-minute warm-up, hour runtime. If we run long, cut them.”
“Noted.”
“You get any food?”
“Protein bar.”
“Jungkook-ah.”
He didn’t answer, just leaned forward to adjust the gain on mic three. Harin sighed, but let it go.
The recording light in Studio B flicked from red to green.
A few minutes later, the hosts arrived—first Jinah, tall and breezy, her tote bag slung over one shoulder like a fashion statement, and then Sujin, twenty-something and overconfident, in a matching tracksuit and too-white sneakers. Both waved as they entered, Jinah calling a cheerful “Hey, Kook!” through the glass.
He nodded in return and flipped on their channels.
Inside the booth, Jinah unwrapped a mint and tucked her hair behind one ear. Sujin cracked open a bottle of sparkling water and leaned toward the mic with all the ease of someone used to hearing his own voice bounce back with perfect EQ.
“Welcome to ‘Power Play,’” Jinah began, her tone bright, polished. “Your favorite not-so-guilty pleasure podcast, where we talk dynamics, dealbreakers, and dating drama with zero filter.”
Sujin jumped in immediately. “I’m Sujin, your resident instigator.”
“And I’m Jinah, your voice of reason, apparently.”
A laugh track stinger played—preloaded, loud enough to rattle the booth’s glass. Jungkook dialed it down slightly, tweaking the levels as they kept going.
“So before we dive into this week’s submissions,” Jinah said, “we wanted to talk about something that came up at brunch last weekend…”
“Oh my god,” Sujin cut in, grinning. “If you ask someone their dynamic within five minutes of meeting them, is that rude?”
“Yes,” Jinah said, already laughing.
“But what if you can just tell?”
“You think you can tell.”
“I can!” Sujin said, pointing dramatically at her. “You’re a dom.”
Jinah choked on her mint. “Excuse me?”
“Big dom energy.”
She rolled her eyes. “You say that every time I wear heels.”
“And I’m never wrong.”
Jungkook adjusted the compression on Sujin’s mic to smooth the highs. The guy talked with his whole chest, even when he was being ridiculous.
“And what if someone’s a switch?” Jinah asked. “Then what do you do, genius?”
“Flip a coin?”
Jungkook didn’t flinch, exactly, but his hands did still over the soundboard for just a beat too long. He exhaled slowly and turned one of the dials half a notch.
It wasn’t personal. These podcasts were always half-theatrics, half-day-drunk logic dressed up as discourse. He was just here to make it sound clean.
But still.
He didn’t think about his own designation much during work. That was the point, really. At the studio, he was the guy who made everyone sound smarter than they were. Who cut out the awkward pauses and the wine-drunk stutters. The role came with a kind of anonymity, one he’d always been comfortable in.
He liked hearing people talk. Liked smoothing out their jagged edges and letting the best parts shine. Even when those best parts were occasionally—aggressively—uninformed.
“They should really just print designations on ID cards,” Sujin said, reclining in his chair now, dangerously close to clipping the mic. “Like blood types.”
Jinah groaned. “We’re gonna get canceled.”
“Cancel culture is fake!”
“Don’t say that.”
“I’m joking!”
Jungkook didn’t look up from the mixer, but he could see Harin shift slightly beside him, glancing over the show notes with a raised brow.
“Let them dig their own grave,” she murmured. “At least it’ll sound good.”
The episode hit its halfway point with a chime and a cheerful plug for next week’s topic. Jinah flipped her notes to the back page while Sujin launched into a story about “accidentally domming someone” on a second date. Jungkook stayed focused on the board—his hands adjusting levels and timing with a smooth, practiced rhythm. His thoughts stayed somewhere else entirely.
Next to him, Harin nudged his arm. “You’re getting a text.”
He glanced down at his phone.
[Taehyung 5:42 PM]
attached photo
Look at this little brat 😤
[Jimin 5:42 PM]
I am literally innocent
[Hoseok 5:43 PM]
Liar
[Yoongi 5:43 PM]
😇
[Jin 5:43 PM]
We all saw you biting his hand
[Taehyung 5:43 PM]
He liked it 🥰
[Jimin 5:44 PM]
My boyfriend is so mean to me
[Taehyung 5:44 PM]
Uou love it 💋
The image followed a second later.
Taehyung and Jimin, crammed together on the couch in someone’s living room—probably Hoseok’s, judging by the soft green throw pillows. Taehyung had one arm hooked lazily around Jimin’s neck, his fingers tangled in the collar of Jimin’s sweatshirt. Jimin was turned toward him, laughing with his whole body, that soft, instinctive kind of laugh that made his eyes scrunch up at the corners. Taehyung was smiling too, not looking at the camera—just at him.
They looked good together.
They always had.
Jungkook locked his phone, but the image stayed with him. In his stomach. In his throat. Heavy in a way he couldn’t blink away.
He was happy for them. Of course he was.
They’d been together for a while now—official since winter, though anyone paying attention could’ve seen it long before that. Taehyung always touching first, and Jimin always leaning in. The way they spoke in shared glances and half-jokes, how Taehyung would switch into that firm, quiet tone when Jimin was bratting too hard, and Jimin would soften immediately, eyes bright with something close to awe.
It was beautiful.
It was unbearable.
He wasn’t confused. Wasn’t waiting for something to change. He knew what it was. Had known for longer than he liked to admit.
He was in love with them.
Not just one of them—both.
Taehyung with his endless energy and razor-sharp focus. Jimin with his chaos and sweetness, his heat and honesty. Together they were impossible. Apart, they were just as dangerous.
And none of it belonged to him.
Inside the booth, the hosts were still talking. He barely heard them until one sentence cut through the fog.
“Honestly, I think switches should date each other. Like, it just makes more sense.”
Sujin again.
Jinah hesitated. “Why do you say that?”
“Because otherwise it’s like—what are you actually bringing to the table? You wanna dom sometimes, sub sometimes, fine, but that doesn’t work if your partner needs consistency. It's just… not reliable.”
Jinah spoke again, more cautious. “I think that’s kind of a narrow way to look at it…”
But Sujin kept going. “I mean, it’s fine for play. But I wouldn’t trust a switch long term. You never really know where you stand.”
Harin shot him a look. “Do you want me to flag that section?”
“No,” Jungkook said. “Leave it.”
“Kook—”
“They’ll want it in.”
She hesitated. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” He tapped the cue button. “Just thinking.”
She didn’t push. She never did.
The conversation drifted into something softer, the hosts laughing about a failed play scene one of them had witnessed at a party. Jinah mentioned safewords again. Sujin called himself a “consent enthusiast” like he thought he’d invented the phrase.
Jungkook kept his eyes on the board. His breathing even. His expression blank.
He knew where he stood.
And it wasn’t with them.