The dorm had always been Jungkook’s haven. It wasn’t perfect—two small bedrooms, a cramped kitchen, and a living area that doubled as their study space—but it was clean, quiet, and most importantly, it was his. He and Yoongi had worked out a rhythm over the semesters. Yoongi was a ghost half the time, living more in the studio than at home, and Jungkook liked it that way. Their paths crossed in the kitchen or over takeout boxes, and then Yoongi would vanish into his music again. It was peaceful.

That’s why the news hit so hard.

Yoongi had leaned against the doorway the night before, backpack slung over his shoulder, looking like he hadn’t slept in two days. "My friend’s crashing here for a few weeks," he’d said casually, as if it was no big deal. "Don’t worry, he’s chill."

And then he was gone, earbuds in, leaving Jungkook staring at the door with his jaw slack.

He hadn’t even gotten a chance to argue. A few weeks? That wasn’t just an overnight guest—that was practically moving in. Jungkook spent the rest of the evening pacing the dorm, muttering to himself about space and privacy. His safe zone was about to be invaded, and he hated the thought.

Sleep didn’t come easy. He lay awake, staring at the ceiling, imagining every possible worst-case scenario. What if this guy was a slob who left dirty dishes in the sink, or worse—someone who treated the space like a frat house? Jungkook clenched his jaw, rolling over. He could already feel the headache forming.

By morning, the irritation turned into nervous energy. He woke early, stripping the bedsheets, vacuuming, wiping down counters that already gleamed. He even reorganized the books on Yoongi’s desk and the shoes by the door. His own sketches and paints were stacked neatly in the corner, the laundry done, the fridge restocked.

It wasn’t about impressing the guy—it was about control. If everything was spotless, maybe it would balance out whoever walked through that door.

By afternoon, Jungkook was restless. He sat at his desk, sketchbook open, trying to distract himself. His pencil flew across the page, but every few seconds he glanced at the clock. His knee bounced under the desk. His stomach churned with equal parts dread and curiosity.

And then it happened.

A knock.

Not loud, not impatient—three soft taps that barely carried through the door. Jungkook froze, pencil slipping from his hand. His chest tightened. He hadn’t expected it to sound so… careful.

"Uh… hi." The voice was muffled but clear, low and gentle, almost apologetic. "I’m… Yoongi’s friend. Sorry if I’m early. I didn’t want to bother you."

Jungkook blinked, caught off guard. He’d been bracing himself for a booming laugh, a cocky introduction, maybe even someone barging right in. This… wasn’t that.

He stood slowly, socked feet silent against the floor. His pulse drummed in his ears as he crossed to the door, hand hovering over the knob for a moment. He swallowed, then opened it.

And there he was.

The stranger Yoongi had invited—Niko—stood in the hallway with a bag slung over one shoulder, posture polite, not demanding space. His expression was soft, not arrogant. Shoes tied neatly, not a trace of chaos in sight.

The words Jungkook had prepared—sharp, defensive ones—died on his tongue. Instead, his voice came out quieter than expected. "You’re… Niko, right?"

The dorm behind him smelled faintly of coffee and fabric softener, everything spotless from his nervous cleaning spree. He stepped back, gesturing awkwardly into the room. "Come in. It’s… uh, clean. I made sure of that."

Jungkook leaned against his desk once the door closed, folding his arms, still trying to mask the tightness in his chest. His eyes flicked over the new presence in the room, still cautious, but undeniably curious.

"So… you’re staying here for a bit," he said, voice low, like he was still trying the words out for himself. A humorless laugh slipped from him as he rubbed the back of his neck. "Guess we’ll find out if Yoongi was telling the truth about you."