chapter 11: Practice room heat

The practice room was a furnace, a pulsing crucible of sound and sweat where BTS honed their craft for the looming tour. The mirrors lining the walls fogged with the heat of seven bodies in motion, condensation streaking the glass like tears, reflecting distorted glimpses of their relentless pace. The air hung thick—humid with exertion, sharp with the tang of effort—and the hardwood floor trembled under the thud of sneakers, the bassline of their latest track reverberating through the space. Jungkook moved through the choreography, seventeen and coiled with energy, his dark hair clinging to his brow in damp strands, sweat beading down his neck to soak his tank top. His voice echoed off the walls, strong and clear, cutting through the mix with a precision forged from years of grit, but his focus wavered, eyes flickering to Taehyung beside him, a distraction he couldn’t outrun.

He was Jeon Jungkook, the quiet force, the boy who’d traded sleep for perfection, whose voice and body had hardened into tools of his ambition. The stage was his proving ground, each performance a testament to the fire that drove him, but off it, he was softer—guarded, a shadow who watched more than he spoke. His sketchbook, tucked in his bag against the wall, held his secrets—pages of Taehyung’s face, a quiet obsession that grew sharper with every day. Here, in the sweat-drenched chaos, that obsession simmered, a heat he couldn’t name coiling in his gut as Taehyung danced too close, too alive.

Taehyung, eighteen and fluid, moved with a reckless grace that defied the room’s tension—dark waves bouncing with every spin, a grin flashing as he wove through the steps, his voice a deep thread that grounded the track’s highs. He was electric, a spark that lit the space—pushing the pace, his energy spilling over to Hoseok, who matched his flair with a laugh, and Jimin, who twirled under his nudge. Taehyung thrived in this heat, his presence magnetic, and Jungkook felt it—a pull that had rooted deep since their trainee days, a warmth that steadied him until it didn’t. Today, that warmth twisted, igniting something raw as Taehyung played, his teasing a flame Jungkook couldn’t dodge.

The choreographer barked a cue, and the group reset, falling into formation, but Taehyung veered off-script, darting close to Jungkook with a sly grin. “Keep up, Kookie,” he called, voice cutting through the bass, his hand brushing Jungkook’s waist as he spun away—a fleeting touch, light but deliberate, that sent a jolt through Jungkook’s nerves. His breath hitched, heat flaring where Taehyung’s fingers grazed, and he stumbled, his foot catching the beat too late. He caught himself, scowling, and reset his stance, jaw clenched tight. “Focus, hyung,” he shot back, voice rough, but Taehyung’s laugh rang out—low, taunting, a sound that sank into Jungkook’s bones and stoked the fire.

“You’re too serious,” Taehyung replied, circling back, his chest brushing Jungkook’s as the music pulsed on, their steps syncing despite the chaos. The others kept moving—Hoseok leading, Jin panting, Namjoon steady—but Jungkook froze, the proximity a spark that lit his skin. Taehyung’s breath was close, his grin sharp, and the room shrank—the mirrors, the music, the others—until it was just them, locked in a dance that felt less like practice and more like a dare. “Back off,” Jungkook muttered, pushing Taehyung’s shoulder, but his hand lingered, fingers curling against the damp fabric, and Taehyung grabbed his wrist, pulling him closer, their faces inches apart.

“Make me,” Taehyung teased, his voice a low rumble, breath hot against Jungkook’s cheek, and the challenge hung there, thick and electric. Jungkook’s pulse raced, a tangle of anger and something deeper twisting in his chest—want, maybe, or fear, he couldn’t tell. He shoved harder, breaking free, chest heaving as he stepped back, but Taehyung’s eyes held his, dark and daring, a glint that promised more. “You’re fun when you’re mad,” Taehyung said, stepping away, hands raised in mock surrender, but his grin stayed, sharp and unyielding, and Jungkook’s ears burned, turning to the mirror to hide the flush creeping up his neck.

The rehearsal dragged on, Taehyung’s teasing relentless—a brush of his arm here, a whispered jab there, his laughter weaving through the music like a thread Jungkook couldn’t cut. “Too slow, Kookie,” he’d murmur, darting past, or “Lighten up,” with a nudge that lingered too long, and Jungkook pushed back, their dance a tangle of tension and heat, every touch a jolt that seared his skin. The others noticed—Hoseok chuckling, “Play nice, you two,” Jimin smirking—but Taehyung didn’t stop, and Jungkook didn’t yield, their rhythm a battle and a bond, a line crossed they couldn’t uncross.

The choreographer called a break, and Jungkook retreated to the wall, grabbing his water bottle, gulping it down to cool the burn in his throat, his chest, his mind. Taehyung flopped beside him, sprawled out, sweat glistening on his brow, his grin softer now but no less dangerous. “You’re intense today,” he said, tilting his head, his knee brushing Jungkook’s as he stretched. “What’s with you?”

“Nothing,” Jungkook muttered, wiping his mouth, avoiding Taehyung’s gaze, but the lie felt thin, stretched taut by the heat still simmering between them. Taehyung hummed, skeptical, leaning closer, his shoulder pressing against Jungkook’s. “Liar,” he said, voice low, and his hand found Jungkook’s arm, squeezing once—a warm, firm press that steadied him and unraveled him all at once. “You’re mad at me,” he teased, but his eyes searched Jungkook’s, a question beneath the play, and Jungkook’s resolve cracked, the tension spilling over.

“You’re annoying,” he said, sharper than he meant, pulling away, but Taehyung’s laugh was soft, real, his hand lingering as he leaned back against the wall. “You like it,” he replied, casual, but his gaze held Jungkook’s, a quiet truth threading through the words, and Jungkook’s heart thudded, the ache sharpening into something he couldn’t deny. “Shut up,” he mumbled, turning away, but a smile tugged at his lips, small and reluctant, and Taehyung nudged him again, close and steady, a tether in the storm.

The break ended, and they fell back into the dance, Taehyung’s teasing dialed down but his presence still electric—every glance a spark, every brush a test. Jungkook matched him, their steps syncing tighter, a rhythm that felt like theirs alone, and when the music stopped, Taehyung clapped his back, hand lingering, warm and sure. “Good job, Kookie,” he said, soft, and Jungkook nodded, breathless, the heat staying long after the room cooled.

Later, alone in the dorm, Jungkook sprawled on his bunk, sketchbook open, pencil scratching hard—too hard—over Taehyung’s face. He drew him from today—sharp eyes, taunting grin, the curve of his hand on Jungkook’s wrist—and the lines blurred, smudged with frustration, desire, a tangle he couldn’t unravel. The practice room heat lingered, a memory etched into his skin, and he traced Taehyung’s jaw, the ache a quiet roar he couldn’t silence.

Taehyung’s voice drifted from the hall—laughing with Jin, carefree—and Jungkook closed the book, pressing it to his chest, the line they’d crossed burning bright in the dark. He lay back, staring at the ceiling, the tension a companion he couldn’t shake, a pull toward Taehyung that grew stronger, fiercer, with every step they took together. The dorm hummed around him, the night stretching thin, and Jungkook’s heart beat steady but heavy, caught in a dance he wasn’t ready to name.

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