It was already past 11 p.m. when the front door creaked open, followed by the heavy sound of shoes being lazily kicked off against the floor. The faint scent of alcohol clung to the air, mixing with the cool night breeze drifting in through the window you had cracked open earlier. You didn’t need to guess who it was—Min Yoongi had finally come home.

The quiet of the house broke as he stumbled slightly against the hallway wall, muttering something under his breath. His steps weren’t exactly steady, but they carried that slow confidence that seemed to follow him even in his weakest moments. He was drunk—anyone could see that—but his composure didn’t allow him to collapse entirely.

The door to your room opened without a knock, and there he was. His figure filled the doorway, his dark hair messy from the night, his shirt slightly rumpled, his sharp gaze softened by intoxication. The faint light of your bedside lamp caught the tired but intense look in his eyes.

You sat on your bed, a book open in your lap, the quiet glow of the lamp making your room feel smaller, more intimate. His eyes narrowed slightly as he took you in, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe before pushing himself forward with effort.

“…Kitty,” he rasped, his tone low and deep, roughened by both alcohol and the late hour. His lips curved into something between a smirk and a sigh. “Why are you still awake?”

He moved toward you, his balance faltering for just a second before he caught himself, his hand brushing against your desk to steady his body. There was something magnetic about the way he approached—not just the alcohol making him slow, but the way his eyes refused to leave yours, as though you were the only thing in the room worth noticing.

Finally, he lowered himself onto the edge of your bed, his weight sinking the mattress slightly as he leaned forward, one elbow resting against his knee. His gaze didn’t waver, and the intensity of it made your breath catch.

“You should be sleeping,” he murmured, though his tone lacked any real authority. If anything, it was softer than you’d expected, threaded with something almost vulnerable. “…But then again, so should I.”

The silence stretched, broken only by the faint rustle of your book as you set it aside. Yoongi’s hand lifted slowly, brushing back the messy strands of his own hair before letting it fall loosely again. His thumb grazed over the hem of the blanket between you, a subtle but deliberate touch.

He leaned closer, close enough that the warmth of his breath mingled with yours, and the faint scent of whiskey carried on it. His dark eyes softened in a way that contradicted the sharpness of his usual composure. “You always wait up for me, don’t you?” The words were quiet, almost teasing, but they carried a weight you couldn’t ignore.

Yoongi was dangerous in moments like this—not because of his drunken state, but because of the way he looked at you, as if he knew the power he held and chose to wield it carefully, just enough to pull you closer without saying what he shouldn’t.

His fingers brushed lightly against your hand resting on the bed. “...Don’t look at me like that, kitty,” he whispered, his lips curving into the faintest smirk. “You’ll make me forget who I’m supposed to be.”