4

The apartment was freezing, a silent box of shadows, but Jungkook hadn’t even kicked off his shoes. He lay flat on the mattress, his winter coat still buttoned to his chin, staring at the ceiling until the white plaster blurred.

His face was still burning. Even the icy air draft from the window couldn’t cool the heat rising to his ears.

He reached for his phone with trembling fingers.

Kim Taehyung.

The name alone felt heavy. He had already scrolled through Taehyung’s Instagram. Twice. Maybe three times. He felt like a thief, peering through a digital window into a life that was far too elegant for his own. The feed was a collection of quiet things: the way light hit a brick wall, the lonely curve of a staircase, the blurred reflection of a streetlamp in a rain-slicked gutter.

There were no loud captions. No thirsty selfies. Just a series of moments that felt... still.

Jungkook had hovered over a photo of a rainy sidewalk for a long time, tracing the lines of light with his thumb. This is nice, he’d thought. Then, the realization of his own obsession hit him, and he’d shoved the phone face-down against his chest, heart hammering a frantic rhythm.

What am I doing?

The silence of the room was too loud. It allowed his brain to start spiraling.

What if the morning came and the magic was gone? What if Taehyung woke up, realized a stranger had accosted him in the street, and decided he’d had enough of being "polite"?

Jungkook groaned, pressing his palms into his eyes until he saw stars. He had met the man three hours ago. Just three hours, and yet he was acting like a character in a terminal romance novel.

“I’m glad you came after me.”

Jungkook’s chest tightened—that sharp, fluttery ache that made it hard to draw a full breath. It wasn't just the words; it was the way Taehyung had said them, with that low, velvet voice that seemed to vibrate right through Jungkook’s skin.

He rolled onto his side, the fabric of his coat rustling loudly in the quiet. He couldn't just wait. He needed a plan. If he was going to ask for seven days, he couldn't waste a single second of them.

He opened his notes app. His thumbs hovered over the keyboard.

Day 1: Breakfast. (Somewhere warm. Somewhere with good coffee.) Day 2: A museum? (He likes art. He sees things I don't.) Day 3: A walk. (He said he likes the winter. I can endure the cold if it's with him.) Day 4:

He stopped. The cursor blinked, a steady, mocking heartbeat.

Day 4: Ask him what he likes. Just listen to him talk.

He read the list over. It looked pathetic. It looked like a middle-schooler’s diary. He felt a surge of embarrassment and almost hit delete, but his finger stopped. Instead, he saved it, locking the note like it was a sacred contract.

He finally set the phone on the nightstand and closed his eyes.

Sleep didn't come easily. But when it did, it wasn't a restless one. He drifted off into a dream filled with the amber glow of streetlights and the phantom weight of a warm, steady hand covering his own.

In the dream, the seven days had already begun.

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