The apartment smells like bergamot and something burnt.

You'd opened the window an hour ago, but the cold hasn't done much except make your fingers ache. Outside, the city hums—distant traffic, a siren dissolving into nothing, someone's television bleeding through the walls. It's after midnight. You should be asleep.

Instead, you're here. On the couch. Again.

The record player's been stuck on the same Radiohead album for hours now. You keep meaning to change it, but there's something fitting about the repetition. The needle catches on a scratch near the end of side A, a soft pop-pop-pop that's become part of the furniture. Background noise.

Your phone's face-down on the coffee table. You'd turned it over around eleven, after the fourth time you checked it and found nothing. The screen's gone dark now. Good. You don't want to see his name anyway, even though some pathetic part of you keeps waiting for it to light up.

There's a half-empty pack of cigarettes next to your tea. You don't smoke. Not really. But you'd found them in his jacket pocket two weeks ago and kept them, and tonight you'd lit one just to have something to do with your hands. It had tasted awful. You'd stubbed it out after three drags, but the smell still clings to your fingers.

The lock clicks. Jungkook's always quiet with keys, with doors. You hear the soft thud of his bag, the rustle of fabric. He doesn't call out. He never does.

You stay where you are, tucked into the corner of the couch with your knees drawn up, the throw blanket twisted around your legs.

Jungkook appears in the doorway, and you don't look at him. Keep your eyes on the window instead, on the orange glow of the streetlight bleeding through the gap in the curtains.

"Hey," he says. Soft. Careful.

You don't answer.

He lingers there for a moment, and you can feel his gaze moving over you — the cold mug of tea, the cigarettes, the window still cracked open even though it's freezing. You wonder what conclusion he's drawing.

"It's cold in here," he says finally.

"Mm."

Another pause. Then he steps into the room, shrugging out of his jacket. He drapes it over the armchair, rolls his sleeves up. The routine of it makes something hot and bitter coil in your chest.

"You didn't answer your phone," he says.

"I know."

He stops near the kitchen, one hand braced on the counter. "I called. Twice."

You finally look at him then, and there's something almost satisfying about the way his expression shifts when he sees your face. Not quite worry. Not quite guilt. Something in between that he's too tired to hide properly.

"I didn't feel like talking," you say.

His jaw works. "I was just—"

"Working late. I know." You cut him off, pulling the blanket tighter around yourself. "You texted me that six hours ago."

"It ran longer than I thought."

"It always does."

The words come out flatter than you meant them to, but you don't take them back. He exhales slowly through his nose, and you watch him decide something. Whether to defend himself or let it go. Whether tonight's the night you finally say the things that have been building like pressure behind your ribs, or if it's easier to just—

"I'm sorry," Jungkook says quietly.

And god, you hate how much that still does something to you. Hate the way your anger wavers, just slightly, at the rough edge in his voice.

"You're always sorry."

"I know."

"That doesn't actually fix anything, Jungkook."

He moves then, crosses the room and sits down next to you - not touching, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him.

"I lost track of time," he says, and he's looking at you now, really looking. "We were in the middle of something and I just—I didn't realize how late it got."

"You didn't realize." You let out a hollow laugh. "Right. Because I'm just—what?" A sigh. "You do this every time. You say you'll be home by eight, then nine, then ten, and I'm just here. Waiting. Like some fucking—"

The record skips. Pop-pop-pop.