Jungkook puts on a black mesh shirt that leaves very little to the imagination. A pair of faded jeans with a demon’s face drawn on the right thigh, a black Maison Margiela jacket, and leather boots complete the look. His hair is loose, slicked back with just enough gel to give his mullet a wet effect. He looks stunning. And it’s definitely not the kind of outfit you wear to midnight mass.

Taehyung wants to scream at the thought of someone else laying their eyes—or worse, their hands—on him. He wants to claim him, to leave his scent on him by kissing him at the door before he walks out. But he knows for certain that would only irritate Jungkook.

So, he stays silent, pretending to be engrossed in a TV show where a YouTuber pays people money in exchange for public humiliation. He reads the Korean subtitles while Jungkook fiddles with his rings, slipping a few onto his fingers before walking back into the living room and standing in front of the couch.

For a brief, fleeting moment, Taehyung hopes Jungkook will say, “Get dressed. Come with me.”

Instead, Jungkook says, “Before I picked you up at the hospital yesterday, I prepared the guest room for you. While you were sleeping this morning, I moved your duffel bag in there. From now on, that’s your room.”

Taehyung stares at him, dumbfounded.
Before I picked you up at the hospital…
So he’d been planning to distance himself even before they slept together?
So, it wasn’t about something he’d done after sex… Jungkook had just remembered his original plan and slammed the big red button labeled ABORT MISSION.

It might seem sweet, even considerate, that Jungkook dedicated an entire room to him, a gesture meant to make him feel welcome, to give him privacy and his own space.

But Taehyung can’t help but think it’s actually because…

…No. He refuses to think about it. Not even for a second. If he starts imagining some hypothetical partner of Jungkook’s who might be jealous of Taehyung’s presence in the house, he’ll lose his mind. He has to resist indulging in these fantasies and remind himself that, whatever it is, it’s none of his business.

It doesn’t concern him.
They’re friends.
Just friends.

“Thanks,” he says. One single word. Mechanical. At that moment, a robot could’ve expressed more emotion than him.

“Good night, then,” Jungkook says, slipping his phone into his pocket and grabbing his car keys. A couple of minutes later, the front door closes, and Taehyung is alone. The silence crashes over him like a tidal wave. Hugging a couch cushion tightly, he buries his face into it. He feels weird. Terribly weird. Weirder than he’s ever felt before.

It’s as if his hormones have suddenly gone haywire, screaming in agonized chaos. He’s jealous. Insanely jealous.

He barely recognizes himself.

He grabs a bottle of water from the fridge and takes a few sips. He needs to calm down. He’s never felt like this before, and he has no idea why this part of his personality is suddenly surfacing. Him, of all people! The man who met Jungkook during a blindfolded threesome, one of the many carefree hookups that used to define his life. Where has that Taehyung gone? When did he disappear? He couldn’t say.

He brushes his teeth, does his skincare routine, and tries to distract himself in every possible way. When he finally enters the guest room, it feels like Jungkook has grounded him, though he has no idea what he’s being punished for—or if that’s even the case. All he knows is that lying in bed feels even worse than wandering aimlessly around the house. His thoughts and paranoia start to rise to the surface.

He wonders where Jungkook is.

What he’s doing.

Who he’s doing.

He picks up his phone and opens X. He knows he’s hit rock bottom when he types #Itaewon into the search bar, hoping to find a photo from some gay bar where Jungkook might be in the background—or maybe a selfie where he appears out of focus. Predictably, nothing comes up. What he does find is a ton of posts about fun nights out in Itaewon’s gay district and plenty of stunning human omegas and twinks showing off their tank tops and flat stomachs, ready to find someone to make them happy for the night. And Jungkook has so much happiness to offer.

Taehyung lies on his back and stares at the ceiling. No, he can’t take it. Not like this. This is all a terrible idea. A giant, awful mistake. He should just leave and go stay with his parents… but that would only put them, and himself, in danger. Maybe he should leave the city. Run off somewhere. He could go stay with his grandmother in Daegu.

…But in that town, homophobia runs rampant, and he’d only end up feeling even more depressed than he does in Seoul.

Maybe he should text Bogum…

No.

They haven’t spoken in ages, and using him yet again to get over Jungkook would be a truly shitty move. It wouldn’t be fair or respectful. Besides, he has no idea if Bogum is seeing someone right now.

Bogum would probably let him crash at his place.
They’d have sex, talk about their lives and troubles.
Then they’d have sex again.
But no orgasm could make Taehyung feel even a little bit better. He already knows that.

And yet… for some reason, the thought of having sex with another man suddenly disgusts him. It feels inconceivable. Plain wrong. Maybe it’s because of what happened with Miguk? That’s the only explanation that seems remotely plausible. What a joke, though—wanting to sleep with only one man, who clearly has no intention of sleeping only with him.

When he finally falls asleep, it’s well past midnight. He drifts off with the bedside lamp still on, but his sleep is restless and uneasy. He keeps feeling like everything is out of place: him, his presence in this house, Jungkook’s absence, their relationship. None of it feels right. If his life were a student’s essay, he’d grab a red pen and draw a giant circle around it all.

A noise wakes him.
A sound that makes him bolt upright in bed, heart pounding and senses on high alert.
Something metallic.
Something heavy.
Something that crashed loudly to the floor.

For a moment, all the blood seems to drain to his feet, leaving the rest of his body cold and paralyzed. Someone’s in the house. Someone, fuck.

Could it be Miguk?
Could he have found a way past the building’s security?
Maybe he told the guard he was a guest.
Maybe he killed the guard, stabbing him to death, and then made his way to Jungkook’s apartment.
But how did he get in?
Did he know the door code?
Did he steal a master key from the guard?

The questions flood Taehyung’s mind in a fevered, frantic swirl. It’s quiet now, but he knows. He knows he’s not alone in the apartment. And unless Jungkook decided to start throwing metal objects around in the middle of the night… it has to be someone else.

Taehyung gets out of bed, his legs trembling. Fuck.
If I’m going to die, he thinks, I’m not going to die a coward, in bed.

Despite his resolve, he feels a panic attack building in his chest. His breathing quickens, erratic. Miguk’s face flashes behind his closed eyes. Those cruel eyes. The arm thrusting forward with force. The blade plunging in. And then that same blade pulling out as Taehyung collapses to his knees, his life spilling out of him, warm and red.

He breaks into a cold sweat.
His legs lock.
Metal doors slam shut behind his eyelids.

If I’m going to die, he repeats to himself, if I’m going to die…

His hand closes around the doorknob.

He won’t be prey.
He won’t let his predator come to him.

That’s not how he wants to die.

And with that thought echoing in his mind, Taehyung opens the door to his room and steps out.