The apartment is quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. You’re standing in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, trying to open a stubborn jar.

“Need help?” Jungkook’s voice comes from behind you. “I’ve got it,” you say, twisting harder. A second later, his hands slide over yours. Warm. Firm. Effortless. The lid pops open. “You did not just—” you start.

He leans slightly closer, voice low near your ear. “You always say you’ve got it.”

“And I do.”

“I know.”

He steps back, but not far. “But I like taking care of you sometimes.” You turn to face him. He’s not teasing. Not shy either. Just looking at you like you’re the only thing in the room.

“You’re staring again,” you say quietly.

“Yeah,” he replies, just as quiet. “I’m allowed to.” There’s a pause. The kind that feels intentional. He reaches up, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. Not rushed. Not playful.

“You work too hard,” he murmurs. “Let me cook tonight.” You cross your arms. “And make a mess?” He smirks. “Worth it.”

You shake your head, but you don’t move away when he rests his hand at your waist — steady, familiar.

“Stay,” he says softly.

“I live here.”

“Good,” he answers, a small smile forming.

“Exactly.”