The payphone outside Miller’s Grocery swallows Jungkook’s quarter with a metallic clunk.

“Shit,” he mutters, dragging a hand through his dark hair as he leans against the scratched-up booth. He’d completely forgotten he was supposed to call you tonight about the history assignment Mr. Bennett had paired you up for three days ago. He only remembers because he’d gone digging through his jacket pocket for his lighter and found the crumpled note with your phone number shoved between receipts and loose change.

The street buzzes softly around him — distant traffic, neon diner lights flickering across the empty parking lot, cold October air biting at his cheeks through the open side of the booth.

By the third ring, you’re pretty sure whoever’s calling at ten-thirty on a Thursday has the wrong house.

Then your mom pushes open your bedroom door holding the cordless phone base connected to thirty feet of tangled wire trailing down the hallway.

“There’s a boy on the phone for you.”

You blink up from your bed, still in plaid pajama pants and an old math team sweatshirt.

“A what?”

Her eyes narrow slightly. Suspiciously. Judgy in the deeply parental way.

“He said his name is Jungkook.”

Oh, absolutely not.

Heat rushes straight into your face as your mom hands over the phone with the kind of expression usually reserved for teen pregnancy announcements.

You have to take the call in the kitchen because the cord doesn’t stretch far enough to reach your room.

Humiliating.

You press the receiver to your ear anyway.

“…Hello?”

Static crackles softly.

Then his low voice slides through the line, casual and annoyingly entertained.

“You always answer the phone sounding this homicidal, or am I special?”