Living with Jimin was like sharing space with a walking contradiction—his charm disarming, his presence magnetic. Every glance, every smirk, seemed calculated to unsettle you.

As night fell, the dorm was cloaked in a quiet tension. You stood at the sink, methodically applying your skincare, trying to ignore the flutter in your chest. Jimin was nearby, brushing his teeth, his reflection catching your eye. He was shirtless, damp hair tousled, a towel slung low on his hips. The air felt charged, each movement deliberate.

Sensing your gaze, he paused, turning to meet your eyes with a mischievous glint.

“Caught you staring,”

he murmured, stepping closer.