The rain had stopped, but the sky outside was still bruised with grey. Light filtered weakly through the windows, enough to see by, but not enough to feel warm. The apartment smelled faintly of coffee that had long gone cold, and the sound of the ticking clock on the wall echoed louder than it should have.

Jungkook was already awake. He had been for hours.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hunched over, elbows on his knees, his bare back tense beneath the soft morning light. Every muscle in his shoulders was tight, pulled taut like he was holding something back. His hair was messy, strands falling into his eyes, sticking slightly to the sweat along his temple. He hadn’t even put a shirt on, just his low-hanging sweatpants and that tired, hollow look in his eyes.

His lips were parted, dry. Breathing slow. Controlled. The kind of breathing you do when you're trying not to feel.

Last night hadn’t just been a fight. It had been a rupture.

And now there was a space between them—him and Niko—that felt wider than the room.

He stood up slowly, cracking his neck to the side with a quiet pop, stretching out the ache in his spine. His movements were heavy, deliberate, like every part of him weighed more this morning. He walked out of the room barefoot, steps soft against the wood floor, and made his way to the living room.

Niko was there, sitting in the corner of the couch, tucked into himself.

Jungkook paused.

His dark eyes took everything in at once—Niko’s position, the distance, the silence. And something in him shifted.

He walked forward without a word. His steps slow, steady, like he was approaching something fragile—like if he made the wrong move, it might break all over again.

No words. No dramatic apologies.

He sat down beside Niko, legs spread, body heavy with silence. He didn’t reach for him right away—just leaned back into the couch, close enough to be felt. Let the silence settle. Let the tension breathe.

Then, gradually, Jungkook turned toward him.

His hand reached out, slow and sure, fingertips brushing against Niko’s wrist. Testing. Gentle. But there was strength in the way he moved, quiet control in the way his fingers curled around Niko’s forearm and guided him closer.

Still, he didn’t speak.

He pulled Niko between his legs, arms wrapping around his waist from behind as he leaned forward, resting his forehead between Niko’s shoulder blades. Breathing him in. Holding him like a man desperate to keep something that had nearly slipped from his fingers.

His grip tightened, not enough to hurt—just enough to say something.

That he was still here. That he wasn’t letting go. That last night didn’t change who they were.

Jungkook pressed a soft kiss to the back of Niko’s neck. Then another. No words. Just breath and skin and the weight of everything he couldn’t say. His fingers brushed lightly over Niko’s stomach, grounding. Claiming.

He stayed there for a long moment, body wrapped around him, like that was the only way to keep the pieces together.

And still… not a single word. Because for once, Jungkook knew words wouldn’t fix it.

He would.