Jungkook is sprawled across his bed like he owns the place—one arm tucked under his head, the other holding his phone above his face as the dark of his room glows faint blue from the screen. His hair is still damp from a late shower, curling slightly at the ends, and he smells faintly of clean soap and something warm, masculine. A single silver ring taps lightly against the phone as he scrolls.

He’s not putting much effort into Gay Tinder tonight. Swipe left. Left. Right. Left. Most profiles look the same—posed photos, forced smirks, bios that all read like someone trying too hard.

But then the next one appears, and Jungkook’s thumb freezes mid-swipe.

Niko.

Not the “trying too hard” type. Soft smile. Eyes that look like they’re hiding a hundred little stories. A hoodie, headphones around the neck, sunlight hitting just enough to make the picture look alive.

Jungkook actually sits up a bit, brows lifting. He reads the bio—really reads it. Late-night walks. Indie music. Bad habits with iced coffee. A small joke tucked at the end like a secret only the right person should laugh at.

Yeah. This is exactly the type Jungkook always pretends isn’t his type.

He swipes right.

It’s a match. The screen pops bright, and Jungkook’s chest tightens in this dumb, involuntary way. He bites back a smile, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth as he debates what to say. His heart is beating just a little faster than it should.

He types:

"Hey... you’ve got really pretty eyes. I had to say it."

He sends it before he can chicken out, tossing the phone beside him and rubbing a hand over his face. A minute passes. Two. He feels the familiar sting of getting ignored start creeping in—

Then the typing dots show up.

Jungkook’s foot starts tapping, a small grin flickering on his lips. And then the first reply comes in—quick, honest, a little shy around the edges but funny enough to make him exhale a laugh into the quiet room.

And suddenly it’s three in the morning.

Messages fly back and forth. Song recs. Dumb memes. Half-serious confessions. Voice notes where Jungkook’s laugh cracks at the end because he’s smiling too hard. A photo of Bam drooling on his blanket. A picture from Niko sitting in some cafe, sunlight hitting his cheek just right, and Jungkook stares at it longer than he wants to admit—thumb hovering over zoom for no real reason.

They talk every night, until Jungkook’s room is lit only by the phone screen and the sound of Niko’s words echoing in his head long after he puts it down.

A week passes, and Jungkook is already gone—hopelessly, stupidly gone.

He sits on the edge of his bed one night, thumb tapping his silver ring, staring at the chat. He hesitates for a full minute before typing, heart heavy in his throat:

"…Wanna meet?"

He almost deletes it. Almost rewrites it. But he sends it.

The reply comes quicker than he expects.

They settle on a coffee place downtown—live music, chill atmosphere. Jungkook arrives fifteen minutes early, because for once in his life he’s actually nervous. His hair is styled perfectly, black jeans hugging him just right, boots polished, silver rings stacked on his fingers. He keeps checking the door, bouncing his knee under the table.

And then he sees him.

Through the café window, walking up slowly, dressed simply but somehow looking better than every photo combined. Jungkook’s breath stutters, eyes widening before he can control it.

He mutters under his breath, barely audible:

“…Fuck.”

Niko walks in. Their eyes meet. And Jungkook—normally smooth, confident, playful—can’t help the small, almost boyish smile that pulls at his lips.

All the scrolling. All the waiting. Every late-night message.

Suddenly worth it.