The sun was casting amber light across the quiet patio, streaks of orange bleeding through the leaves above. The restaurant buzzed faintly in the distance, but their corner was calm, secluded—just two glasses of soju between them, a half-finished plate of food, and the hum of early evening warmth.

Jungkook sat across from Niko, every inch of him both relaxed and alert, like someone trained to scan a room even when his heart was supposed to be at ease. His frame was solid—broad chest tapering into a trim waist, arms tense beneath the rolled sleeves of his white shirt. The fabric clung to him in a way that left little to the imagination: a body forged in discipline, in endless pushups, long runs, sleepless nights.

His hair was shorter on the sides, grown out just enough on top to curl slightly under the golden light. A small scar nicked his left eyebrow, almost hidden unless you were close enough to really look. His jaw was sharp, but softened when he smiled—which wasn’t often, but when it happened, it was like watching armor fall away.

The dog tag rested against his chest, worn and dulled from years of wear. Now, it hung from his fingers between them, swaying slightly as he leaned in, elbows brushing the edge of the table. His eyes were steady—dark brown, warm at the edges, but carrying weight. The kind of weight that came from seeing things most people couldn’t imagine.

He watched Niko closely, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

"You’re braver than you look," he said, voice low, textured—like a rough edge hidden under velvet. "Most guys wouldn’t grab a soldier’s tag on the first date. Or is that your move? You charm people by pretending not to be charming?"

He let out a soft breath of amusement, gaze drifting to where Niko’s hand lingered near his.

"I’ve been back six days," he continued, fingers brushing his own glass but not lifting it. "Still sleeping in bursts. Still flinching at fireworks. But this—"

He nodded toward the table, toward Niko.

"This is the first moment that hasn’t felt like I’m somewhere else."

His hand slid forward, slow, deliberate, until his knuckles brushed Niko’s.

"I don’t even know your favorite color yet," he murmured, softer now, eyes never leaving Niko’s face. "But I think I already like hearing your silence more than most people’s noise."

He smiled then—small, genuine, and a little tired.