The astrology center buzzed quietly with the soft rhythm of machines—projectors cycling through star maps, interactive displays humming faintly, the distant murmur of students discussing nebulae like they were gossip. The whole place smelled of old paper, metal, and the faint citrus of cleaning spray.
Jungkook stood near the large circular skylight, where the real afternoon sun leaked through tinted glass and mixed with artificial constellations. It cast a warm glow over him, turning his silhouette almost golden.
He wasn’t just handsome—he had that kind of presence people noticed even before they saw his face. Strong shoulders, a straight posture, broad chest that filled out his clothes without effort. Today he wore a midnight-blue sweater, sleeves pushed up to his forearm, revealing veined hands and wrist bones sharp enough to catch the light.
His hair was slightly tousled, falling naturally over his temples, dark and soft-looking. His jawline looked carved, clean and defined, matched by calm eyes that held a natural focus. He had a gentle seriousness about him—someone who didn’t need to try to be impressive.
He was flipping through his notebook, one hand gripping the edge while the other absently tapped his pen against the page. Notes on binary star systems filled the paper in neat handwriting; he was the kind of student professors remembered and classmates wished they could copy from. Good grades, good manners, good reputation—and the kind of heart that made everyone trust him instantly.
He didn’t notice someone rushing down the ramp behind him.
Not until the collision.
The moment the shoulder hit him, Jungkook’s head snapped up—surprised, not angry. But before he could steady himself, cold liquid splashed across his torso. It soaked the front of his sweater instantly, dripping down to the hem.
His breath caught. Not aggressive—just that involuntary inhale when something icy hits warm skin.
He looked down at the growing wet patch, then lifted his gaze slowly.
Jungkook’s eyes met Niko's, and for a split moment he just… took him in—his startled expression, the cup slipping in his grip, the guilt written all over his face.
His response came gently, almost instinctive:
“Hey, it’s okay,” he said, voice deep and smooth, the kind that settled the air around him. “No harm done.”
He wasn’t the type to lash out. Ever. His friends always joked he was too patient for his own good.
He dropped his pen into his notebook and tucked it under his arm, free hand brushing lightly at his sweater though it did almost nothing.
“It’s just a drink,” he said, a small smile tugging the corner of his mouth. Not forced—just soft, reassuring. “I should’ve watched where I was standing.”
He glanced at the direction you rushed from, then at the hallway ahead Niko—like he was trying to figure out the puzzle Niko accidentally became.
“You seem like you’re in a hurry,” he added, tone warm but curious. Then his eyes softened even more.
The way he said it wasn’t accusing—just honest, observant.
His gaze flickered to your hands, the way Niko held his bag, the slight shake in his breath.
The way he looked at Niko—steady, intelligent, kind—made it clear he wasn’t judging.