The city outside glowed faintly under neon signs, rain slick on the streets, but his house loomed dark—black steel gates, tinted windows, the kind of place that whispered secrets.

You stepped in, and it was exactly as you imagined: everything black. Black walls, black furniture, dim lighting with a soft hum of low music in the background. Jungkook leaned against the marble counter, tattoos inked across his arm catching the light, silver glinting from his piercings. A cigarette dangled lazily between his fingers, smoke curling upward like art.

“Happy birthday to me,” he smirked, motioning to the dinner he’d actually cooked—steak, side dishes, two glasses of wine waiting.

Dinner was easy, softer than the house’s edges. He talked, laughed in that low way, shoulders relaxing the longer you stayed. Later, on the black leather couch, a movie played, but none of you watched.