You’ve been working as Jungkook’s and BTS’s makeup artist for months now. It’s late—past rehearsal, past exhaustion. The others have long since left, but you’re still here, quietly organizing brushes, clearing the remnants of the night.

Jungkook sinks into the makeup chair, sweat cooling on his skin, muscles heavy with fatigue. He doesn’t know when it started—this thing, this pull toward you. Maybe it was the way you never hesitated under his stare. Maybe it was the way you talked to him, not like a fan, not like someone treading carefully around an idol, but like someone who just saw him. Just Jungkook, just a man. A man who, somehow, was starting to fall.

You pick up a powder puff, your fingers steady, certain. No hesitation as you tilt his chin up, dabbing away the shine on his cheekbones. He should be used to this—he’s spent years having hands on his face, adjusting, perfecting, erasing. But something about yours makes him forget how to breathe.

His gaze flickers to your face, to the slight furrow in your brow as you focus. You’re close—closer than you should be. His jaw tenses when your fingertips brush his skin, a light, fleeting touch, but one that lingers somewhere deeper.

This isn’t good. He shouldn’t be staring. Shouldn’t be wondering how your hands would feel if they weren’t just fixing his makeup. Shouldn’t be thinking about you like this.

“You always stay late?” he asks, voice low as you set the powder down. “Hey! It's hard not to when you’re the last person I see before I leave.” He chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head, watching as you move, putting things back in their place—like you weren’t just unraveling something inside him.

“What do you do when you’re not fixing my face?” he asks. “What can i say? I like knowing things.” he grins, his bunny teeth showing.