Chapter 7: the sketchbook secret

The dorm was a rare pocket of stillness, a brief reprieve in the storm of their post-debut lives. The afternoon sun slanted through the window, casting golden bars across the worn hardwood, the air heavy with the scent of rain lingering from a morning shower. Jungkook sat on his bunk, seventeen and weary, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he hunched over his sketchbook. The chaos of schedules—rehearsals, radio shows, fan signs—had carved shadows under his gaze, but here, in this quiet corner, he could breathe. His pencil moved in steady strokes, tracing lines that had become instinct—sharp jaw, soft smile, eyes that crinkled at the edges. Taehyung’s face took shape on the page, a secret he’d drawn too many times to count, a tether to something he couldn’t name.

He was Jeon Jungkook, the quiet one, the boy who poured his soul into every performance, who carried ambition like a second skin. His voice had steadied, his frame hardened, but beneath it lingered a fragility—a need to capture what mattered when words failed. The sketchbook was his sanctuary, its pages a gallery of moments—stages, cities, Taehyung—etched in graphite and memory. He shaded the curve of Taehyung’s grin, lost in the rhythm, the dorm’s hum fading to a distant drone—Hoseok’s music from the kitchen, Jin’s laughter down the hall.

Taehyung had been out all morning, filming a segment with Jimin, his absence a quiet ache Jungkook refused to acknowledge. Eighteen now, Taehyung was a force—dark waves styled for the cameras, a boxy grin that lit up screens, a voice that wove through their songs with soulful depth. He was the spark, the one who thrived in the spotlight, his warmth a constant in Jungkook’s orbit. But lately, that warmth felt stretched thin, shared with the world, and Jungkook found himself tracing it here, in pencil and shadow, where it was still his.

The door creaked, shattering the silence, and Jungkook’s pencil skidded, a dark streak marring Taehyung’s cheek. He looked up, heart lurching, as Taehyung stepped in, jacket slung over his shoulder, hair mussed from the wind. “Hey, Kookie,” he said, voice bright, kicking off his shoes. “Miss me?” His grin was teasing, but his eyes caught the light, sharp and curious, and Jungkook fumbled, slamming the sketchbook shut.

“N-no,” Jungkook stammered, shoving it under his pillow, face heating. “You’re back early.” His hands fidgeted, smoothing the blanket, but Taehyung’s gaze zeroed in, a glint of mischief sparking. “What’s that?” he asked, dropping his bag and crossing the room in three quick strides.

“Nothing,” Jungkook said, too fast, but Taehyung was relentless, leaning over the bunk, his knee sinking into the mattress. “Liar,” he teased, reaching for the pillow, and Jungkook lunged, grabbing his wrist. “Hyung, don’t—”

Too late. Taehyung tugged free, snatching the sketchbook with a triumphant grin, and flipped it open before Jungkook could stop him. His laughter died as he landed on the page—his own face staring back, captured in meticulous detail, soft and real. The room stilled, the air thickening, and Jungkook’s stomach dropped, heat flooding his cheeks. “I—it’s not—” he started, voice cracking, but Taehyung’s eyes flicked up, wide and unreadable.

“Me again?” he asked, soft, almost a whisper, holding Jungkook’s gaze. The teasing was gone, replaced by something heavier, something that made Jungkook’s pulse race. He scrambled for words, throat tight. “It’s just… practice,” he mumbled, looking away, his hands clenching the blanket. “Doesn’t mean anything.”

Taehyung didn’t reply, flipping back—page after page of him, rough sketches from trainee days, careful portraits from quieter nights. His fingers traced one, a ramyeon-stained corner, and a slow smile curved his lips, soft and knowing. “You’re good at this,” he said, voice low, settling onto the bunk beside Jungkook, close enough that their shoulders brushed. “Really good.”

Jungkook’s ears burned, the compliment sinking deep. “It’s nothing,” he muttered, reaching for the book, but Taehyung held it firm, turning to face him. “Why me, though?” he asked, gentle but firm, his knee pressing against Jungkook’s. “You draw me a lot.”

The question hung there, heavy and bare, and Jungkook’s mind spun, grasping for an answer that wasn’t the truth. “You’re… around,” he said finally, voice barely above a whisper, staring at his hands. “In my head.” The confession slipped out, raw and unguarded, and he froze, waiting for the laugh, the tease.

It didn’t come. Taehyung’s hand found his, fingers curling over Jungkook’s, warm and steady. “Good,” he said, so soft it hurt, squeezing once. “’Cause you’re in mine too.” His grin returned, small and real, and Jungkook’s breath hitched, meeting his eyes—dark, searching, closer than they’d ever been.

For a moment, they sat there, the sketchbook open between them, the dorm’s hum a distant echo. Taehyung’s thumb brushed Jungkook’s knuckles, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through him, and Jungkook didn’t pull away, couldn’t. “You’re weird,” he muttered, voice shaky, and Taehyung laughed—low, warm, filling the space.

“Says the guy drawing me like a stalker,” he teased, but he didn’t let go, his hand lingering as he leaned back, stretching out on the bunk. “Keep it up, Kookie. I like being your muse.” His tone was light, but his eyes held Jungkook’s, a quiet challenge, a promise unspoken.

Jungkook ducked his head, heart thudding, and tugged the sketchbook free, clutching it to his chest. “Shut up,” he mumbled, but a smile tugged at his lips, small and real. Taehyung grinned, sprawling out, his arm brushing Jungkook’s as he settled in. The tension eased, but the air stayed charged, a thread tightening between them—fragile, new, undeniable.

Outside, the rain had stopped, the sun sinking low, and the dorm hummed on. Jungkook flipped the book open later, alone, tracing Taehyung’s face again, the warmth of his words lingering like a shadow he couldn’t shake.

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