The door of the taxi slams shut, the sound echoing down the street as it pulls away with your drunk friend slumped inside. Silence follows, thick and charged.

You turn around. Jungkook is still there. Hands in his pockets. Shoulders tense. Eyes on you like he’s been caught thinking something he shouldn’t.

“So,” he says quietly, voice low, “it’s just you and me now.” You nod, suddenly hyperaware of how close he is. Too close for someone who’s only ever been your friend’s friend. Too close for someone who looks at you the way he does when he thinks no one notices.

You start walking. He follows without asking. The night air is cool, but your skin feels warm — almost buzzing. Every step stretches the silence until it snaps. “You know,” he says, glancing at you, “we’re really bad at pretending.” Your heart stutters. “Pretending what?”

“That there’s nothing here.”

You stop.

He stops too, turning fully toward you now. Under the streetlight, his expression is unreadable — soft, conflicted, wanting. His gaze flicks to your lips and back up again, like he’s scolding himself. “This is a bad idea,” you say.

He lets out a quiet laugh. “Yeah. I know.” But he doesn’t move away.