Draft

By the end of the first week, Jungkook thought maybe he’d figured Taehyung out.

He wasn’t normal, that was clear. He skipped classes more often than he attended, slept at odd hours, and filled their dorm with quiet hums and half-finished sketches. He collected moments like other people collected coins.

But he wasn’t careless. He noticed things—small things. The way Jungkook tapped his pencil when he was nervous. The way he always avoided eye contact in crowded rooms. The way he chewed his lip when he wanted to say something but couldn’t.

It was unnerving.

And it came to a head in the laundry room.

Jungkook was loading his clothes into the machine when Taehyung appeared, leaning lazily against the wall like he had been waiting.

“You don’t like people touching your stuff, do you?” Taehyung asked casually, eyes on the shirts Jungkook was shoving into the washer.

Jungkook stiffened. “What?”

“You fold your laundry before washing it.” Taehyung tilted his head, voice soft but sharp. “Most people just throw it in.”

Jungkook flushed, suddenly hyper-aware of his own movements. “So what if I do?”

Taehyung shrugged. “Just means you like control.”

Something snapped. Jungkook slammed the washer shut harder than necessary. “You don’t know me.”

The words hung in the air, harsher than he meant.

For once, Taehyung didn’t smirk. His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing over his face before he looked away.

“You’re right,” Taehyung said quietly. “Not yet.”

Silence stretched. Jungkook’s chest burned with guilt, but his pride held his tongue hostage. He turned back to the machine, pretending the cycle starting was the only sound that mattered.

When he finally risked a glance over his shoulder, Taehyung was gone.

The silence stretched longer than Jungkook expected.

For two days, Taehyung didn’t linger in the dorm the way he usually did. He came in late, left early, moved quietly. No humming. No sketches. No stolen glances.

It should’ve been a relief. But instead, the quiet pressed on Jungkook’s chest like a weight.

By the third evening, he couldn’t take it anymore. He sat at his desk, textbooks open but unread, pretending to study while Taehyung flipped idly through a photography magazine on his bunk.

The tension in the room buzzed louder than the ceiling fan.

Finally, Jungkook blurted, “About the laundry room…”

Taehyung didn’t look up. “What about it?”

Jungkook gripped his pen so tight his knuckles ached. “I didn’t mean it like that. When I said you don’t know me.”

A pause. Pages turned.

Taehyung’s voice was soft when it came. “But it’s true.”

Jungkook looked up. Taehyung’s eyes weren’t sharp this time—they were tired, like he was carrying something heavier than their argument.

The words slipped out before Jungkook could stop them. “Then… maybe try to.”

For the first time in days, Taehyung’s lips curved into the faintest smile. Small. Fragile. Real.

The moment passed quickly—he leaned back, flipping the magazine shut. “Alright,” he said lightly, like a promise hidden in plain sight.

Jungkook exhaled, tension draining from his shoulders.

That night, when the dorm finally sank into darkness, Jungkook thought he felt the faintest vibration through the bunk frame above him—Taehyung humming again, just under his breath.

It was enough to let him sleep.

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