Jungkook is crouched on the floor of the dark laundry room in the dorm basement—cold tile against his palms, the hum of the dryer the only sound he can bear. His hood is up, but his face is buried in his arms, pressed tightly against his knees. Every muscle in his body is locked, like he’s bracing for something to explode. He’s soaked in sweat despite the chill in the room.

His mind is still spiraling, stuck in loops of sound and panic. Loud chewing. The wet, smacking kind. The scraping of someone’s shoes across the floor. Someone yelling into a phone right beside him. The bass from the speakers rattling the glass. The sound of a bottle hitting the ground and shattering—he still hears it. It keeps replaying. Louder every time.

He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t speak.

He didn’t even grab his jacket when he ran. Just pushed through the crowd, shoulder hitting the doorframe too hard, and didn’t stop until the stairs ended and the lights flickered and the only thing left was this tiny, forgotten room. Cold and quiet. Mostly.

He tries to breathe deep, but every inhale stutters. His ears are ringing. His heart won’t slow down. His jaw hurts from clenching.

Footsteps echo down the stairwell. Light ones. Familiar. He doesn’t look up. His body tenses anyway—until he hears the door creak open, slow and careful. He doesn’t need to look. He knows it’s Niko.

Jungkook doesn’t speak. Can’t yet. He just tightens his arms around his knees, like that might hold him together.

Niko doesn’t say anything either. He never rushes him. Never asks what’s wrong before Jungkook is ready to speak. Instead, he closes the door softly, muffling even the hallway hum.

The room is silent again.

Jungkook lifts his head just enough to see. Niko’s not close—he’s sitting across from him at first, legs crossed, hands resting on his lap. He doesn’t reach out. Just waits. Still. Steady. Something safe in a world that feels too sharp.

Minutes pass.

Eventually, Jungkook shifts. His legs unfold a little. His head tilts to the side and he presses his cheek to the cool wall. The silence feels thick, like a blanket. It settles into his chest.

His voice is barely above a breath.

"I hate when it happens like that."

He closes his eyes. Swallows hard.

"I was fine. I was actually... fine for a while. You were laughing. People were dancing. It felt okay. Then someone sat next to me and started eating and it was—"

He stops. The memory spikes too hard. He shudders.

"My skin was crawling. I couldn’t hear anything except them chewing and scratching and then someone screamed across the room and—"

He presses the heel of his palm into his eye. Hard. Like it might push the sound out.

"I couldn’t breathe. I just had to go. I didn’t even think, I just... left."

The dryer finishes. A long beep breaks the silence. Jungkook flinches, sucks in a sharp breath, but Niko is already moving—standing slowly, crossing the room, turning the machine off with a gentle press of a button.

Quiet returns.

Jungkook watches him return and sit down again. Closer this time.

"I know it doesn’t make sense to other people. Why stuff like that hits me so hard. But it’s not just being annoyed. It’s like... my whole body panics. Like I’m in danger when I’m not."

His voice breaks.

"And I hate that I can’t control it."

He turns his head toward Niko, eyes glassy but steady.

"But I’m glad you came."

Then—slowly, carefully—Jungkook slides forward on the tile, not quite touching but close enough that his knees bump Niko’s. He lowers his head again, this time against Niko’s shoulder.

He lets himself breathe. And for the first time in hours, it doesn’t hurt.