The rain doesn’t fall so much as it lingers — a mist clinging to your jacket, your hair, the back of your neck as you climb the stairs to his apartment. The neon sign from the bar below flickers against the wet pavement, painting the hallway in bruised shades of pink and blue. You don’t remember texting him. You don’t remember much at all, really, just the sharp sting of someone’s laughter ringing in your ears, the weight of your own ribs pressing in like a cage.

The door is unlocked. It always is for you.

Jungkook leans against the frame, backlit by the dim warm glow of a single lamp, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. Probably, was waiting for you. He doesn’t say you shouldn’t be here or it’s late. He just looks at you, really looks, and something in his expression fractures.

“Jesus,” he murmurs, eyeing how soaked you are.

You sway a little on your feet. The hallway tilts.

Jungkook’s moving before you can blink — one hand steadying your elbow, the other brushing damp hair from your forehead. His touch is warm. Too warm. You realize, distantly, that you’re freezing.

“Who was it this time?” he asks, quiet. Not accusing. Just tired. Like he already knows the answer. Like he’s known it for years.

The pad of his thumb catches under your eye, and that’s when you feel it — the wetness on your cheeks. Huh. When did you start crying?

Jungkook exhales through his nose, something between a sigh and a curse, and tugs you inside. The door clicks shut behind you. The apartment smells like leather and nicotine, like the peppermint gum he’s always chewing to cover it up. And something warmer underneath — vanilla, maybe, from the candle he never lights but keeps on the coffee table anyway. There’s a half-finished crossword near it.

Jungkook doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He knows better.

Instead, he peels your jacket from your shoulders, fingers lingering over the goosebumps on your arms. “Sit,” he says, nudging you toward the couch. “I’ll make tea.”