Chapter 9:The jealousy sting

The rehearsal studio buzzed with controlled chaos, the air thick with the scent of sweat and the thud of sneakers against hardwood. BTS was mid-tour prep, their latest track echoing off the mirrored walls, a pulsing beat that drove their movements. Jungkook, seventeen and lean, moved with precision—dark hair damp, eyes sharp, his voice cutting through the mix with a clarity that had grown stronger since debut. The stage was his proving ground, each step a testament to years of grit, but off it, he was quieter, a shadow watching the others with a guarded gaze.

Taehyung, eighteen and vibrant, danced beside him, his dark waves bouncing, a grin flashing as he spun through the choreography. His voice wove low and rich, a counterpoint to Jungkook’s highs, and his energy was infectious—Hoseok matching his flair, Jin laughing at his antics. He was the spark, the one who lit up every room, and Jungkook felt it, a warmth that had rooted deep since their trainee days. But today, that warmth twisted, a pang he couldn’t name as Taehyung veered off, twirling Jimin into an exaggerated dip mid-break.

Jimin giggled, small and bright, his hands gripping Taehyung’s shoulders as they stumbled, Taehyung’s laughter ringing out—deep, unrestrained, a sound that usually steadied Jungkook but now pricked at him. The others joined in, Namjoon clapping, Yoongi smirking, but Jungkook faltered, his step off-beat, his chest tightening. He reset, jaw clenched, focusing on the mirror—his reflection taut, eyes flickering to Taehyung and Jimin, now mock-waltzing across the floor.

“Focus, Jungkook-ah,” Hoseok called, playful, and Jungkook nodded, forcing a smile, but the sting lingered. Taehyung’s arm slung around Jimin’s neck, his grin wide as they collapsed into a heap, and Jungkook’s hands balled into fists, a heat creeping up his neck he didn’t understand. It wasn’t anger—not quite—but something sharper, something that made his sketchbook feel heavier in his bag, its pages full of Taehyung alone.

The choreographer called a break, and Jungkook grabbed his water, retreating to the corner, gulping it down to cool the burn. Taehyung bounded over, still laughing, his shoulder brushing Jimin’s as they approached. “You okay, Kookie?” he asked, voice light, wiping sweat from his brow. “You looked off out there.”

“Fine,” Jungkook mumbled, avoiding his eyes, the bottle creaking under his grip. Jimin tilted his head, curious. “You sure? You’re all quiet again.”

“He’s always quiet,” Taehyung teased, nudging Jungkook’s arm, but Jungkook pulled back, sharper than he meant, and Taehyung’s grin faltered. “What’s up?” he pressed, stepping closer, his warmth too close, too familiar.

“Nothing,” Jungkook said, too quick, turning away to adjust his bag, the sketchbook rustling inside. Taehyung’s hand hovered, then dropped, and Jimin chimed in, oblivious. “Leave him, Tae. He’s just tired. Right, Jungkook-ah?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook muttered, but his eyes flicked to Taehyung—his easy smile, the way he leaned into Jimin—and the pang sharpened, a jealous ache he couldn’t name. Taehyung shrugged, playful again, slinging an arm around Jimin as they wandered off, and Jungkook watched, the room’s noise fading to a dull hum.

Later, in the dorm, Jungkook sprawled on his bunk, sketchbook open, pencil scratching hard—too hard—over Taehyung’s face, smudging the lines. He drew him laughing, but Jimin crept in, a faint outline beside him, and Jungkook’s stomach twisted, erasing it with a rough swipe. The door creaked, and Taehyung stepped in, alone now, his grin softer. “Hey,” he said, flopping beside him, peering over. “Drawing me again?”

Jungkook slammed the book shut, face heating. “No,” he lied, shoving it aside, and Taehyung’s brow furrowed, curious. “You’ve been weird all day,” he said, leaning closer, his knee brushing Jungkook’s. “Tell me.”

“It’s nothing,” Jungkook said, voice tight, but Taehyung’s hand found his arm, warm and steady. “Liar,” he murmured, eyes searching, and Jungkook’s resolve cracked, the ache spilling out. “You’re always with Jimin,” he muttered, low, barely audible, and froze, realizing he’d said it aloud.

Taehyung blinked, then grinned, soft and knowing. “Jealous, Kookie?” he teased, but his hand stayed, squeezing once. Jungkook’s ears burned, and he pulled away, muttering, “Shut up,” but Taehyung laughed—warm, real—leaning back. “You’re my favorite, you know,” he said, casual, but his eyes held Jungkook’s, a quiet truth beneath the play. Jungkook’s heart thudded, the ache easing, and he nodded, small and shy, as Taehyung stretched out, close and steady, a tether in the storm.

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