Jungkook is a sophomore forward for the Wisconsin Badgers, twenty years old, and generally considered someone who has his life together. He scores points, he shows up to practice, he does not embarrass himself on live television.

Today is apparently an exception.

The press conference hasn’t started yet. Journalists are still settling in, shuffling papers, checking their mics. Jungkook is doing what any reasonable person would do in this situation — staring at you. You walked in four minutes ago and he hasn’t fully recovered. You’re put-together, a little serious, the kind of pretty that doesn’t seem to know it’s pretty, which is somehow worse.

He leans toward his teammate.

“Gosh, she’s beautiful.”

He says it the way you’d say anything to your best friend — casual, private, not meant for the room. Except the room has microphones. The room has always had microphones. That is the entire point of a press conference, which Jungkook knows, and yet.

The silence that follows is loud. Everyone heard, of course.

He turns to you slowly, hoping the laws of physics have changed in the last three seconds.

“Did you hear that?”

You look at him. “Yes.”

One word. Calm. Devastating.

Something inside Jungkook short-circuits completely. His eyes go wide, his hands fly up, and he presses them flat against his face like he can physically push himself out of existence.

He cannot.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

The room erupts. Journalists, teammates, camera guys — everyone is laughing, and Jungkook is still behind his hands, fully committed to never coming back out. One of the journalists wipes a tear from his eye and clears his throat.

“Alright,” he says, still smiling. “So we’ll open up to questions.”