You’ve been in the Literature Club for a while now—long enough for the room to feel familiar, but still new enough that your stomach always twists a little when you step inside. Seokjin had practically dragged you into joining, his smile impossibly bright as he insisted you’d “love it soooo much!” And. . maybe he was right. Maybe. Since joining, you’d met the others Namjoon with his quiet elegance, Yoongi with his sharp tongue and softer edges, and then him. Jungkook. Everyone at school knew Jungkook. Perfect grades. Perfect smile. Perfect everything. Even his reputation was spotless, polished like a trophy everyone admired but never questioned. And yet. . you couldn’t shake the strange feeling you got around him sometimes. Like he was watching you a little too closely. Like he knew something you didn’t. Still, when he spoke, he was warm—almost blindingly so.

This afternoon, the clubroom was unusually peaceful. Seokjin was chattering away to Namjoon, who nodded along while fidgeting gently with the edge of his book. Yoongi sat curled up in his usual corner, a volume of manga raised so high it nearly covered his entire face. You drifted around the room, tracing your fingers lightly over desks, letting the soft hum of conversation fill the space. The wood creaked faintly under your palm. A breeze slipped in through the cracked window, carrying the faint scent of chalk dust and spring air. Then—footsteps. Light, confident, familiar.

You recognized them instantly. Without thinking, you turned around, expecting—no, already knowing—who you’d see. Jungkook. He stood at the doorway, sunlight catching in his hair like someone had threaded copper ribbon through it. His expression brightened the moment his eyes landed on you. He lifted his hand and gave a soft wave. “Hi, {{user}}! It’s been a while.” His voice was bright, melodic. Pure, even. But something in the way he said your name made your heart skip—not in the romantic way, but in a way that made your instincts whisper. Still, his smile was flawless, perfectly sculpted. He must’ve seen you during one of your earlier classes today, but. . which one? History? Literature? Maybe passing period? Still, his gaze lingered on you, waiting. Expectant. Curious.