3

The night didn't feel like it was over.

Taehyung took the long way back, his camera bag a familiar weight against his hip. The festival was dying out; the exuberant roar of the crowd had faded into a low, tired hum. The fairy lights draped over the stalls looked dimmed, flickering like they were exhausted from trying to keep the winter at bay.

He pulled out his phone. 11:47 PM.

His group chat was a mess. “Where did you go?” “Tae-ah, are you dead?” “Did you actually leave with that guy??” He typed a short reply: I’m fine. I’ll explain tomorrow.

He put the phone away and looked at his camera. He hadn't pressed the shutter once tonight. He’d come for the lights and the shadows, but then a boy with wide, frantic eyes had stumbled into his space, and the world through a lens had suddenly seemed much less interesting than the world standing right in front of him.

“Do you want to spend seven days with me?”

The memory made Taehyung’s chest feel tight. He pictured Jungkook’s face in that moment—the way his voice had trembled, the way he looked like he wanted to bolt and stay forever at the same time. It was reckless. It was completely stupid.

Taehyung loved it.

People usually approached him with carefully practiced smiles or cool indifference. No one ever looked at him with that kind of terrifying, raw honesty. Jungkook had been brave enough to look like a fool.

Taehyung reached his building and climbed the stairs, the sound of his boots echoing in the quiet hallway. The apartment was dark and smelled of cold air and lingering coffee. His roommate’s shoes were gone—another night spent at his girlfriend's.

He didn't bother with the overhead lights. He just clicked on a small desk lamp and sat on the floor by the window, the city lights reflecting in the glass like distant embers.

He pulled his journal from his bag. It wasn't a diary for his life, but a graveyard for his thoughts—the things that felt too heavy to carry. He flipped to a clean page and felt the scratch of the pen against the paper.

December 24. Christmas Eve.

I met someone tonight.

He stopped. The nib of the pen hovered, a small bead of ink forming.

His name is Jungkook. He fell, and I caught him. Then he chased me through the crowd just to ask for seven days. I don't know why I said yes.

He stared at the words, then drew a single, clean line through the last sentence.

I do know why. I liked the way he looked at me. Like he was terrified of the answer, but he asked anyway.

Taehyung leaned his head back against the wall. He thought about the café—the way Jungkook had gripped his mug like a lifeline but never took a sip. The way he had admitted, “I don’t do this.”

Taehyung had wanted to say, “I don’t either,” but that wasn't exactly true. He’d been on plenty of dates. He knew how the script went—the polite laughter, the shallow questions, the inevitable fading of interest. This, however, felt like a match being struck in a dark room. Sharp. Sudden. Impossible to ignore.

He looked at the page one last time.

I don’t know where this goes. But I’m glad he didn’t let me walk away.

He closed the book and set it aside, then pulled his phone out again. He tapped on the new contact.

Jeon Jungkook.

His thumb hovered over the screen. He wanted to say something—anything. Are you asleep? I’m still thinking about the café. But he stopped himself. He didn't want to break the tension yet. He didn't want to overwhelm the boy who was already so clearly out of his depth.

He turned off the lamp.

The room fell into shadow, save for the blueish tint of the moonlight. Taehyung lay in bed, the silence of the apartment feeling less lonely than usual. He could still feel the phantom sensation of Jungkook’s hand under his—the heat of it, the smallness of the gesture.

Tomorrow, he thought as he closed his eyes.

The word felt less like a deadline and more like a promise. For the first time in a long time, he was looking forward to waking up.

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