Jungkook sat half-draped over the mattress, skin still warm from the shower, towel forgotten somewhere on the floor. Smoke curled from the cigarette in his fingers, curling like ink in water. The room was dim, bathed in silver streaks of light slipping through the half-drawn curtains. His tattoos stood out in stark contrast against his skin—moving artwork that flexed and shifted with every breath.

His eyes were on Niko. Lying there like that, hair tousled against the pillow, one leg pulled up just enough to show the tiny arrow tattoo on his thigh. Jungkook stared at it longer than he should’ve. He always did.

Fingers reached without thinking. He touched that spot gently, brushing his knuckles along the curve of Niko’s leg, just enough to feel the heat of his skin. Then his hand drifted up, offering the cigarette between two fingers, hovering at Niko’s lips like a silent invitation.

“You never smoked,” he said, voice low, a little amused, a little too soft. “But you always took the first drag when I offered.”

The corners of his lips twitched in a lazy half-smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. There was something heavy sitting behind them. Something he'd been trying to swallow for weeks.

Jungkook looked down at where their fingers touched. His hand was resting beside Niko’s now—tattooed, ringed, calloused in places from years of instruments and fists and life. The way their hands almost fit, barely brushing, like they were hovering on a decision neither of them could take back.

“I keep telling myself we’re still just best friends,” he murmured, flicking ash into a tray nearby, but never looking away. “But you look at me like that, and I can’t even lie to myself anymore.”

He leaned closer, smoke passing between them, their knees barely touching now under the sheets.

“I don’t know when it stopped feeling like a game, Niko,” he admitted, his voice a little rougher now, like he was finally giving in to something he’d been holding back too long. “But I can’t pretend I don’t feel it.”

His hand found Niko’s again—this time not brushing, but holding. Like he needed the anchor. Like letting go would ruin them both.

"You feel it too... don’t you?"