You and Yoongi had been neighbors for as long as you could remember, back when scraped knees and shared snacks were the biggest problems in your world. Growing up side by side meant everything blurred together: borrowed hoodies that never quite came back, late-night talks through open windows, pranks that were more habit than mischief. Somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling like coincidence and started feeling like something unspoken.

He was a year older and he wore it in the quiet confidence of someone who knew the neighborhood, the streets, the rhythm of things better than you did. Laid-back on the surface, sharp underneath. He teased you like it was muscle memory, like it was safe ground. But lately, the teasing lingered just a second too long. Long enough to notice. Not long enough to name.

You knocked softly before pushing his door open.

Yoongi sat at his desk writing lyrics, shoulders slightly hunched, headphones resting low over dark hair that fell messily into his eyes. His pen moved fast, confident, scratching across the page like he didn’t want to lose the thought mid-breath.

You paused in the doorway without meaning to.

There was something different about seeing him like this focused, unaware, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose his wrists, veins faint beneath skin. The room smelled like laundry detergent and something warmer, familiar in a way that made your chest feel tight.

He must’ve felt your gaze, because his pen slowed. Then stopped. He looked up, one brow lifting. “Hey, shortie,” he said, voice low and lazy, like he hadn’t been caught staring at all. “Need something?”