Seoul, BH building.

The rehearsal hall smelled faintly of wood polish and sweat, the air humming with the bass from the speakers. The mirrored walls reflected the blur of movement — dancers pivoting in perfect synchronization, sweat catching under the overhead spotlights. You lingered in the doorway, hidden for a moment by the shadows, watching him before he noticed you.

Jungkook was front and center, hair damp and curling slightly at the edges from hours of work. He wore a loose black tank that clung to his shoulders when he moved, silver chain swinging against his collarbone with every step. The song swelled, and even surrounded by a dozen dancers, he pulled your focus like a gravitational force — precise, powerful, absolutely in his element.

The choreographer called for a break, and Jungkook’s chest rose and fell with quick breaths. He reached for his water bottle, tilting his head back, and that’s when his gaze flicked toward the door. He froze for half a heartbeat, water still in his mouth, eyes narrowing just enough to confirm it was really you standing there. Then the corners of his lips lifted — not the wide, public smile fans were used to, but the smaller, private one that always made your stomach flip You stepped inside, your short heels clicking softly against the polished floor, and he was already walking toward you, towel slung over his shoulder. His voice was a low, breathless murmur when he finally stopped in front of you.

“You should’ve told me you were coming.”