Chapter 4: The Mismatched Mug Incident

Jungkook took his coffee seriously. Black. No sugar. No cream. No bullshit.

He also had a designated mug—white ceramic, rim chipped just enough to feel familiar in his grip. It was painted with an abstract crow in messy ink strokes, a birthday gift from Hoseok that somehow hadn’t shattered in the chaos of campus life.

So when he trudged into the kitchen on a groggy Wednesday morning and found his mug in Taehyung’s hand—brimming with caramel latte and foam art of all things—he stopped dead in his socks.

“That’s my mug,” Jungkook said.

Taehyung looked up from where he was lounging on the couch, sipping like he owned the world. “Hmm?”

“My. Mug.”

Taehyung blinked lazily, lids uneven as always—one monolid, one double. “This one?”

Jungkook nodded stiffly.

Taehyung turned the mug in his hand. “Didn’t see your name on it.”

“It has a crow on it.”

Taehyung shrugged. “Could be a really angry pigeon.”

Jungkook stepped forward, arms crossed over his oversized sweatshirt. “Why my mug? We have, like, twelve.”

“I like the shape,” Taehyung said easily. “Fits my hand.”

Jungkook narrowed his eyes. “Return it.”

Taehyung took a long, exaggerated sip. “Can’t. It’s full.”

“Taehyung—”

“I’ll wash it after, I swear. No harm done.”

“There is harm. Emotional harm.”

Taehyung chuckled, head lolling back. “You’re so dramatic in the morning.”

“You’re lucky I don’t poison the sugar.”

“I don’t use sugar.”

“Then the foam.”

Taehyung’s smile turned lazy. “Mmm. Want to taste it? It’s sweet.”

Jungkook’s brain short-circuited.

For a few seconds, he stood frozen—half-murderous, half-mortified. Then he spun on his heel and marched back toward their dorm room, muttering about "chaotic business majors and their grubby, latte-loving fingers."

Behind him, Taehyung laughed.

Later that afternoon, Jungkook sat cross-legged in the art building, sleeves pulled over his hands, sketchbook open. He was halfway through shading a pair of fingers—long, graceful, familiar—when Jimin flopped down next to him with a giant bubble tea and an even bigger grin.

“You’re drawing Taehyung again,” Jimin said without preamble.

“I am not.”

“You are. That’s his hand.”

Jungkook looked down. Okay. Fine. Maybe it was Taehyung’s hand. And maybe the shading on the knuckles was just a little too loving. And maybe he’d referenced it from the time Taehyung had been leaning over his bed, casually holding an apple like a Renaissance painting.

“I draw hands a lot,” Jungkook muttered.

“You draw his hands a lot.”

Jungkook sighed. “You’re annoying.”

Jimin leaned against him, all warm cheek and knowing hums. “Just admit it. You like him.”

Jungkook didn’t respond.

Jimin offered a sip of his drink. Jungkook took it without looking.

That evening, Jungkook returned to Room 304 to find it suspiciously quiet. No jazz. No phone calls on speaker. No Taehyung dancing while folding laundry in boxers.

Instead, Taehyung was seated at his desk, headphones on, typing furiously. He wore wireframe glasses tonight, hair tied back in a loose bun. His jaw was set, posture sharp, and even in the dim desk light he looked like he belonged on the cover of some ridiculously expensive fashion magazine.

Jungkook stood by the door, caught for a second too long.

Taehyung didn’t notice.

Or maybe he did, but pretended not to.

Jungkook dropped his bag by his bed and climbed up onto the top bunk. He wasn’t tired, but he didn’t know how else to escape the tension swirling around them lately.

“You mad about the mug?” Taehyung asked after a while.

Jungkook stared at the ceiling. “You drink like a raccoon.”

Taehyung chuckled. “And you label inanimate objects like they’re your children.”

“I just like knowing something is mine.”

Silence for a few beats.

Then Taehyung said, voice quieter, “Do you think people are like that too?”

Jungkook blinked. “What?”

“Like… do we ever belong to someone? Or is everything just temporary?”

Jungkook’s throat tightened. That was not the kind of question you asked when someone was lying alone in the dark, surrounded by overthinking and poorly hidden feelings.

“I think… you belong where you feel safe,” Jungkook said finally.

Below him, Taehyung didn’t speak for a long time.

Then: “That’s a nice answer.”

By Friday, the mug was back on the kitchen shelf, freshly washed and placed right where Jungkook left it.

He didn’t comment.

But when he poured his coffee, he found a sticky note tucked inside.

Coffee this Sunday? Just us.

—T

Jungkook stared at it, heat prickling the back of his neck.

He folded the note neatly, slid it into his sketchbook, and took a sip.

Vanilla cedar still clung to the rim.

And somehow, it didn’t taste so bad anymore.