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“We’ll probably have to sneak past Jin, though. I’m not sure how that’s going to—”
I love silly little moments behind the stages and how the team works with each other; Jungkook's audacity and everything in between. But also that little moment between OC & Jin as he reminds her that she's good and she matters to the team???? I love it so so so much you don't understand 😭🤍
“It’s not because of your skills,” he said. “It’s just because it’s you.”
Jungkook, for all his stupid ego, at least has it i him to be honest when it comes to this and it was so stupid the way i was curling into a ball trying to take all these in????? How the fuck did he hold back all those years being next to her and suddenly all this 😭😭 he's our resident simp and i love that for all of us
You were the one who snickered this time as you retrieved it, and, without any reluctance, put it back in your mouth. He forgot what breathing was and how it worked right after.
Just had to add this also because??? That's so intimate but silly in the same way and I meant this in the best way possible. It shows how comfortable they were deep down with each other still, and they're not kissing nor they are even touching each other, but it's there and it's still not something you would just do with anyone 🥹
sleepwalking ● 7 | jjk
pairing: jungkook x fem!reader
summary: due to unfortunate circumstances, you ended up managing your ex-boyfriend’s band. you thought you’ve both made peace with it, but suddenly he’s very eager to prove to you that first love never dies.
genre: rockstar!jungkook / exes to lovers
warnings: explicit language, suggestive themes, a ton and a half of mutual pining, SLOW BURN
words: 9k
read from the beginning ○ masterlist
chapter 7 ► my secrets are burning a hole through my heart
When Jungkook returned to his own bunk that night, he drew his curtains and spent the whole bus ride to Copenhagen plotting his next move, wishing he’d stayed next to you as you slept, and cursing his friends all at the same time.
He knew that, to Sid, it must have felt like Jungkook had already lost the bet. He’d admitted to being in love with you, and there couldn't be a bigger loss than the vulnerability that comes with having feelings—not to a loser like Sid, at least.
So, it was a matter of pride that first time in Prague, when Sid proposed the bet. Jungkook couldn’t have his friends think that, all these years later, he was still obsessed with you. Still down bad—very bad—for you.
And a casual date was supposed to prove that he was casual.
He wasn’t. God, there was casual, and there was him when he saw you, dressed up for the wedding, on the train.
He supposed it irked him, this realisation, this persistent, undying love. Not because he didn’t want to be in love with you—that was out of his control, he couldn’t help his feelings—but because this was supposed to mean that his friends had been right.
But he didn’t think they were right.
They treated his love for you like something to be embarrassed about. Something shameful, pathetic.
In reality, it was the opposite. The moments he’d shared with you over the past few days lingered in the corners of his mind, and it made him happy, and hopeful, and lucky, and full of positive adjectives that flooded his mind each time he remembered your smile after that cursed Backstreet Boys performance at the wedding.
And he knew he was different from his friends who only felt butterflies when they were hugging a bottle of Bacardi or sitting behind the wheel of a race car. But different didn’t mean worse.
That had been typical Sid, needing to prove that he was better. That he was superior precisely because he wasn’t in love with anyone.
And Tristan had realised at the bar earlier that the point he was really trying to make with this bet was that, yes, he was in love with you four years after you broke up. But it wasn’t pathetic, and it wasn’t shameful.
And he wasn’t inferior to Sid because of it.
He could make him lose this bet despite still being in love with you.
Which, Jungkook realised—as he rolled over on his back and exhaled so deeply, the covers fluttered around his bunk—was pathetic. It made sense to care about you, because, at least, you’d cared about him, too, once upon a time. But Sid, most likely, never did.
And yet Jungkook still wanted to make him crumble, purely because Sid went around playing games, manipulating people, and doing whatever the hell he wanted, and never—never—suffering any consequences of his actions.
In a way, Jungkook supposed, he deserved consequences, too. He almost expected inconveniences to begin striking him as payback for agreeing to Sid’s game. As karma.
He didn’t want that, and he was afraid these inconveniences would grow: a bird would crap on him, he’d forget the lyrics to his songs, fall off the stage, get hit by a bus on his way out of the venue—and, to top it off, you’d stop talking to him after learning about the bet.
No. No, that couldn’t happen. He wouldn’t let that happen.
He tried to reason with himself then: did he really care about his Katana that much?
But that didn’t work, because he knew he did.
He’d bought the bike with his first paycheck—actually, his sixth, because he wasn’t being paid much when Rated Riot first started out, and the bike, even damaged, cost a fortune. And he’d repaired it from the terrible condition it was in all by himself; the engine almost literally crumbled in his hands.
He was proud of it. He loved it. He did not want to lose it, not to anyone, and especially not to Sid and Jude: one of them would never shut up if Jungkook lost this bet, and the other one would probably forget about it after a few days, but the principle was the same.
This wouldn’t work, he had to keep the bike.
Then, he tried to find a way around the conditions that Sid had come up with: he clarified that both of you had to know that you were back together. That, unfortunately, eliminated the possibility of Jungkook making it seem like you were back together, even though you weren’t; not really.
But then there was the condition of not telling you about the bet. What if he asked someone else to tell you? He supposed that could work—unless it’d make everything much worse since you wouldn’t hear about it from him, and you’d be so mad, you’d stop talking to him anyway.
No, that was too risky; it wouldn’t work either.
Finally, he figured, he was going to have to win the bet fairly, because of the following reasons: a) he couldn’t find a way to cheat, at least not at this point; b) he simply couldn’t let Sid win, not when he already won everything, because people were too intimidated to stand up to him; c) he couldn’t lose his bike; and, most importantly, d) he really did want to get back together with you and shuddered at the thought of losing you.
The tour bus reached Copenhagen in the early hours of the afternoon.
Nearly everyone had plans for the day before the soundcheck – Taehyung and Luna had decided to see the Tivoli Gardens before you even reached Denmark, and Yoongi and Hoseok decided to be the third and the fourth wheel respectively.
Sid, Jude, and Minjun had, weirdly, split up. You weren’t aware of each of their whereabouts, but you knew Jungkook didn’t go with them, citing his reasoning as “couldn’t decide which one of them to go with”. You assumed he would eventually end up joining Taehyung and Luna, too.
Meanwhile, you stayed back to help the crew prepare for the show—you thought you had to, since you still felt guilty for getting drinks last night while everyone else stayed back to work.
Everyone looked overworked, yet insisted they were fine today. You sent a few of the staff members off to rest—they left the room, but you had a suspicion that they went to work elsewhere instead—and joined Seokjin in the empty venue.
The Rated Riot logo was already hoisted by the back of the stage. The lights on it still flickered when it was turned on; at certain points, it appeared as though the band’s name was “R-R-R-Rate it”. Not to mention, countless lightbulbs around the frame had shattered last night in Berlin, and made the logo look purposefully edgy—if you didn’t know why some of the bulbs weren’t working.
To solve this, the crew had strung fairy lights around the broken sign and curled some of the strings around the wall behind it, illuminating the dark backdrop of the stage. This accentuated the lettering and created a lightning bolt effect on the backdrop, even despite some of the lights not working.
You thought that, as soon as the crew fixed the flickering—they were working on it at the moment—you might actually like the logo better this way. Perhaps the roadies should be invited to the next concept meeting for the band.
However, you had to admit, you wouldn’t have stayed back if you’d known Seokjin would employ you to carry the equipment inside. You wanted to help, but not at the expense of your spine.
The venue for tonight wasn’t particularly big—none of them were, it’s why you loved Rated Riot’s gigs so much; all of them felt incredibly intimate—but the distance from the bus to the stage was a long one.
Now, Seokjin watched as you heaved the metal decorations with pitying eyes, yet did not offer his assistance – because he knew you would refuse, but also because he preferred to yell at people rather than to carry heavy things himself.
“Where am I putting this?” you huffed—not for the first time today; Seokjin insisted on supervising every piece of equipment individually instead of allowing you to drop everything wherever.
“This one can go anywhere,” he waved his hand around just as his phone started to ring in his hand. “I need to take th—hold on, not there!”
You blinked at him, already in the process of putting the metal frame down. “You said anywhere!”
“Anywhere but there!” he shouted as he picked up the call and turned his back to you, focusing on the conversation on his phone. “Yes? No! No. Really? No. Okay, yes.”
It was hard to tell if the conversation he was having was serious enough to ignore you, based on what you heard—but that was how phone conversations with him went; if you asked two questions at the same time, he’d only answer one and it was your responsibility to guess which one.
Deciding to just leave the metal frame anywhere—except where he initially said—and run out of here to help someone else before he could notice your absence, you strained to drag the decoration closer towards the stage. You attempted to lower it slowly, but your hands were nearly shaking at that point, and you ended up dropping it when it was a few inches off the ground. You barely managed to leap away from it as it landed with a clang far louder than was necessary.
Naturally, Seokjin turned around, displeased. Covering the speaker on his phone, he clicked his tongue.
“Please,” he said. “I appreciate your help, but don’t break anything. We’re already short on equipment after Berlin.”
“This weighs as much as I do,” you countered, straightening and immediately supporting your back with your hands as the bones somewhere cracked. You weren’t built for this. “And it’s metal. It’d break me before I could break it. Is this spot okay?”
“It’s fine. Could you bring out the mic stand, too, please? Thanks so much,” he said, and before you could react, he returned to his call. “I’m here. Yes. Mmhmm.”
Sighing as you attempted to stretch, you climbed up the stage steps and picked the microphone stand up from the nook by the exit to the changing area.
“Need some help?” a voice asked from the darkness behind you. You jumped so violently that you nearly tossed the stand in the direction the sound was coming from.
“Jesus,” you wheezed, clutching your chest as Jungkook came into the light from the hallway.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said and, not waiting for your response, took the stand from you and carried it to the middle of the stage.
“Thanks,” you said, watching him while you recovered. “Didn’t know you were here.”
“No problem,” he replied, lifting the stand to his height before placing it where he personally saw fit.
Seokjin could hardly complain—Jungkook was going to be the one who used the microphone, after all—and yet, as soon as he ended the call and turned around, he groaned loudly.
“No! Do you have any concept of what the middle of the stage is?” he yelled, approaching Jungkook, clearly determined to do this himself.
“I just thought it’d be better if—”
“It would not be better if,” Seokjin cut him off, climbing up the steps and grabbing the stand from him to place it in the right spot. “If it’s slightly to the left, then you’ll be knocking into Yoongi every time you lean back. If it’s to the right, then the same thing with Taehyung. Don’t even get me started on the stand being too far back, so you could successfully trip and fall into Hoseok’s drum set.”
Jungkook glanced at you—you closed your eyes and nodded, confirming that this lecture was a normal process of working with Seokjin—then looked back at the stage manager.
“I’m a real safety hazard in your eyes, aren’t I?” he joked.
“You are,” Seokjin replied completely seriously. Jungkook did a double-take as he’d already begun to turn to you again—to check if his little joke made you smile; it did. “Go now! It’s bad luck for the artist to see the stage before the concert.”
You snorted at this, while Jungkook frowned, confused by the logic—he was, technically, going to see the stage during the soundcheck—but he chose not to argue as he joined you at the back of the stage while Seokjin busied himself with repositioning the speakers at the front.
“Is he always like this?” Jungkook asked you in a concerned whisper as he glanced back over his shoulder. “I think I’ve only ever seen him laughing. This is a first for me.”
“Yeah, he’s stressed,” you explained. “Lots of back-to-back shows and all of the venues seem to have something wrong with them. At least, according to his standards.”
“Hmm,” he nodded. “What else can I do to help?”
You lifted your eyebrows at this, genuinely worried that he was entering a new stage of masochism. “Are you kidding? Get out of here while he’s not looking.”
“No, I can—I can help,” he said despite his confidence faltering at your words. Perhaps he really should really have been running for his life.
“No, you can’t,” you retorted, placing a hand on his shoulder as you guided him towards the hallway. “You still have to perform later tonight. I’ll help; you rest.”
Jungkook stopped walking and turned around—you didn’t react quickly enough and your hand brushed over his chest as you pulled it away, the tips of your fingers catching on the soft material of his corduroy jacket.
“Well, he’s not looking right now,” he said, peeking at Seokjin again. “Let’s both go.”
You shook your head. The moment had suddenly become so melodramatic, your next line should have been, ‘it’s too late for me, go on without me.’
Simply, you disagreed, “I can’t—”
“Just for a quick break,” he cut you off, an almost pleading tone in his voice. He took your hand—or tried to, but ended up grabbing your wrist—as he pulled you after him into the dark hallway, towards the changing room. “You deserve it.”
Despite being unable to resist—he wasn’t very rough, but he was very determined not to let you out of his grip—you still tried to protest, “you don’t know that.”
“I know you and I know you deserve that,” he shot back and opened the door into the inner hallway, waiting for you to go in and, after you paused, encouraging, “come on.”
You relented with an uncertain sigh as you walked through the door.
The two of you entered Rated Riot’s changing room—currently empty because everyone else was out in the city—and you were surprised to feel relieved to be here alone.
You’d been working ever since you reached the city over three hours ago, save for a little break when you went to grab some coffee from the deli across the street right after you arrived. You hadn’t even realised how tired and hungry you were now.
“Should we order some food, then?” you asked. “I thought you left with the rest of the guys, so I didn’t plan any meals at the venue.”
“Actually,” Jungkook said, grabbing his phone from where he’d left it on the make-up table, “why don’t we go out to eat? I saw a fast-food place across the street.”
You’d seen it too when you were getting drinks, but you weren’t sure if leaving right now was a good idea—you were here so you could help the crew, after all.
Then again, this was just lunch – you’d be back in an hour, maybe even less. The soundcheck wouldn’t begin until two hours later, so the rest of the team probably wouldn’t be back before then. And it wasn’t like you’d be abandoning the crew, either, since Seokjin had them all under strict control.
“I guess we can do that,” you said, checking the pockets of your oversized leather jacket—there were many of them, and you needed a minute. “I think I left my wallet on the bus, though. We have to stop by there.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “My treat.”
Following the trip to Paris—which was his treat, too, since he’d bought the train tickets with his personal money—you were quick to dismiss this offer.
“I can send you the money from my phone,” you decided, walking back to the door of the changing room. “We can go.”
Jungkook sighed, mumbling under his breath, “impossible to do anything nice for you.”
You turned around, not sure what you’d just heard. “Hmm?”
“Nothing, nothing,” he replied with a quick shake of his head and reached over to hold the door open for you.
“We’ll probably have to sneak past Jin, though. I’m not sure how that’s going to—”
“We’re going out to get food!” Jungkook called out as the two of you walked down the hallway towards the stage. You looked at him in horror. He asked, “anyone want anything?”
“I’m good,” Seokjin replied when he saw you emerge. You paused, ready to stop and explain why you were leaving, but Jungkook took your hand again, pulling you with him down the stage steps.
“Oh—we’ll see you later,” you shouted to Seokjin—who mumbled something and waved in your general direction—and then yanked your hand out of Jungkook’s grip. “You can’t keep doing that.”
“What?” he lifted his eyebrows, surprised by your abrupt hostility. “Offer people to buy them food?”
“You can’t just announce that we’re leaving,” you said as you two made your way towards the exit of the venue. “You may be able to come and go as you please, but I’m not entitled to freedom like that. I have to ask if people are going to be okay while I’m gone.”
“See, but if you ask, then you’re giving them reasons not to be okay,” Jungkook argued. “And if you just say you’re leaving, then they have no choice.”
You rolled your eyes. “Life is so very simple for you.”
“It is,” he replied with a grin as he opened the back door for you. “And, as long as you’re with me, I can make it simple for you, too.”
The fast-food place that you’d both seen turned out to be a small hamburger restaurant. When you and Jungkook entered, it was empty, save for the waiter by the cash register.
He greeted you in Danish and even after your greetings in English, he continued to ask you something in his native language. When you apologised for not understanding, his eyes doubled in size and, he, too, apologised for not realising you weren’t local.
You decided to take this as a compliment. You had felt out of place wherever you went; so very obviously foreign here. Not that anyone minded it, but there was something oddly embarrassing about being a tourist. Even if you were, technically, here for work.
The atmosphere inside the restaurant was nice and calming; mellow instrumental music played on the speakers and large windows faced the beautiful brick buildings across the empty street. Really, putting you in a good mood required almost no effort today, but this restaurant being empty still made your heart soar.
You and Jungkook took seats at a table by the window and hung your jackets on the backs of your chairs. You both took a moment to enjoy the view before you picked up the dark brown paper menus on the table.
There weren’t a lot of options, so you were quick to choose. And, because this was a very small restaurant, you assumed you’d have at least twenty good minutes of taking in the sights outside the window—especially the pair of collies that had escaped their owner and were currently chasing each other down the cobblestone street—before your food would be brought to you. But it reached you mere minutes later.
The burgers looked very appetising, although the portions were bigger than either of you expected; french fries were hanging off your plates.
Like complete tourists, you and Jungkook clinked your burgers together before taking your first bites. You looked at each other immediately once you got the first taste.
“Oh, this is so good,” you whined, your mouth full.
“Right?” Jungkook nodded in eager agreement as he took another bite, frowning deeply and shaking his head as if in disbelief—you knew him well enough to recognise this as a sign of satisfaction. “Easily top ten best burgers I’ve had in my life.”
“Definitely,” you agreed. “And to think there aren’t any people here? I’m in awe.”
“I know, right?” he said again as he continued to chew—far longer than was necessary because he refused to swallow until he gathered enough courage to comment casually enough, “I’m glad I got to try this with you.”
You looked up from your burger. The collies outside had tired and lied down on the pavement, giving their owner enough time to catch his hat in the wind and reach his dogs. You were not sure what the meaningful look in Jungkook’s eyes was supposed to imply.
“Because I know how to do the Heimlich?” you offered.
He blinked at this. He was expecting all sorts of different questions after he said that, but this wasn’t one of them.
“No,” he said, the corners of his lips curling into an involuntary smile. “But that’s a good thing to know.”
“I am also, of course, the expert on burgers,” you guessed then.
“It’s not because of your skills,” he said. “It’s just because it’s you.”
You took another bite and, as you chewed, you picked up a napkin to wipe your lips. You felt very self-conscious suddenly. And you needed a moment—for what, you didn’t know.
The dogs outside refused the leash, jumping around their owner, who cursed in, at least, three different languages; you could hear as much from inside.
“Okay, listen,” you said after a minute, “so, if there was never any ex,” you watched Jungkook cringe softly as you mentioned this, “what is wrong with you?”
The brutality of the question took him off-guard as he coughed in surprise, covering his mouth with his hand.
“What?” he asked through spasms of coughing. “Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“You’ve been acting weird since the tour started.”
He employed an aura of nonchalance as he countered, “how am I acting weird?”
“Well, for one, you forced me to go to Paris with you,” you reminded him.
“I don’t recall there being any forcing.”
“There was emotional forcing.”
He shook his head with a small roll of his eyes. “Fine. But that doesn’t prove that I’m acting weird.”
“Let’s say that’s true,” you said. “Then why are you here?
Jungkook put his burger down, wiping the crumbs on his hands with a napkin.
“Okay,” he said. “Now what is that supposed to mean? Can’t I be here?”
“Everyone else is sight-seeing,” you explained before the offence in his eyes could deepen. “Taehyung and Luna went to that theme park, and Yoongi and Hoseok tagged along. You know the one I mean.”
“Tivoli,” he said.
“Right,” you nodded. “Even your three musketeers went out. Why didn’t you go anywhere?”
“I’m sure they picked up some girls on their way, so they have enough company.”
You lifted your eyebrows at this; you could recall Sid and Jude chatting up girls at the concert last night in Berlin. “More girls? Your fans weren’t enough?”
Jungkook tsked. “Our fans have better taste.”
Your expression softened.
“Good point,” you said, returning your attention to your food. “Why didn’t you go to Tivoli then?”
“Because you weren’t going,” he replied so quickly, your eyes fluttered back to him.
Another long, heavy moment passed. You felt like you were in middle school again, the way you were tiptoeing on the edges of the topic that you were almost discussing.
“See, that’s weird,” you said as your gaze slid down his chest and then settled on the view outside of the restaurant window.
With the dogs gone, the street was completely empty and, somehow, this emptiness amplified the silence inside of the restaurant. The muzak changed according to the flow of your conversation; you could barely hear the instrumental beat anymore.
Jungkook understood your reasoning—he heard the implication in his own words—and he saw the way you began to avoid his gaze as soon as he admitted that he’d stayed back for you.
But you didn’t just look surprised, you looked almost frightened. Like he’d just told you he was thinking of proposing – either to you, or to this burger.
It shocked him because, while he expected resistance, he wasn’t expecting fear.
His question was genuine after he cleared his throat, “why is that weird?”
“Why would you not go if I’m not going?” you asked, repeating his previous statement with an incredulous scoff—like the very thought of him feeling this way was outrageous and you were astonished he didn’t see that.
Slowly, he shrugged one of his shoulders, afraid to move too much—as if you were a stray deer that had wandered a bit too close to the residential neighbourhood and he was a kid who’d just discovered you; one move that was too quick, and you’d run away in a blind panic.
“Because,” he said as an explanation.
You dared to look at him, encouraged—and angered—by the abrupt end of his sentence. “Because why?”
“I’d rather be here,” he said then.
He did not know how to navigate his way out of this one.
After everything that happened between the two of you in the past few days, you had, clearly, received some sort of signals that he’d been sending you—both consciously, and subconsciously. They weren’t exactly subtle, after all. And yet you were determined to draw your blinds shut and ignore every single one of them.
“Why?” you asked again, your patience wearing thin as you distracted yourself with the french fries.
“God,” he groaned, leaning back in his chair. Since he couldn’t just blurt out the truth about his feelings for you—but you looked like he’d just had, and he was horrified all over again—he had to use his favourite tactic of diverting your attention. “Do you need reasons for everything?”
“Not everything, but at least something,” you said. “You’re answering all of my questions with other questions.”
“Why do you even have questions?” he shot back. “Do you not enjoy my company?”
“You’re doing it again!” you accused, your hands rising on their own accord. “Seriously. What’s up? Are you nervous about the tour or something? I thought I made it clear that you could talk to me.”
Oh—this made him pause.
You thought he was doing this—again, what was he doing? Because it stopped seeming like flirting a long time ago—due to anxiety. You thought he was being evasive, and, therefore, weird around you.
Jungkook wasn’t sure if he could make this work in his favour and avoid lying at the same time.
“I just want to spend time with you,” he ended up saying, which was true. And because you kept your eyes on him after he said this, he felt confident enough to add, “we used to be close. I-I’d like that again.”
At that point, he thought he’d understand if you would get up and leave. He wasn’t sure if he would have followed; he didn’t think he had that right, not after he didn’t follow you the first time you left him. But you looked down to your plate and picked up another french fry, toying with it between your fingers.
He hadn’t proposed anything particularly awful—although he avoided saying ‘friends’ with such intensity that it only magnified the deeper implication of the word—yet he felt like a death row prisoner waiting to hear the date of his execution.
“Why now?” you asked, finally putting the fry in your mouth and biting into it.
The wait for your response had been excruciating. He needed to make you see that this was not a big deal.
“Why not?” he replied, his voice a tad too casual, showing just how hard he was trying to appear calm, to conceal the overtime his heart was working in his chest. “We’re on tour, so we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”
That sounded good in his head. But you looked at him in such a way that he thought he was about to hear that, despite overwhelming evidence in his favour, he was still going to be hanged in the town square.
“And after the tour ends?” you asked, setting the gallows up for him.
He thought about this for a moment and attempted to return to his usual nonchalance despite feeling sweaty all over.
“That’s not until two months later,” he said and realised, immediately, that this was the wrong answer.
He didn’t have enough time to correct himself before you scoffed again and asked, “so, why bother with a friendship if it won’t matter in two months?”
“That’s not what I wanted to say,” he retorted quickly. “Why would it not matter?”
You were the one who shrugged this time—the answer was obvious. “Did it matter before we came here?”
“It did,” he replied with complete certainty.
You looked away, but he saw the skepticism on your face and the way you hyper-focused on the street outside so as not to roll your eyes. “Oh, okay.”
“It did matter.”
Frowning at the offence in his voice, you returned your gaze to his face, trying to find the answers to the questions in your head. Especially this one: how could your relationship have mattered to him before the tour started?
“I don’t know what kind of a friendship you have with Sid and The Losers,” you said, “but in my experience, being friends with someone implies making an effort for them.”
“I was making an effort,” he continued to insist.
“Making an effort to get us both in trouble with the label.”
He knew that this was how you saw it—you were very clear about that each time he and his friends somehow managed to find themselves in an emergency—but he still didn’t think you were being fair.
“I always let you know where I am at the start of the night,” he defended.
“And I appreciate that—”
“Not just to inform you,” he continued. “It was always an open invitation.”
You brought your tongue over your lips as your eyes returned to your plate. You grabbed another fry, focusing on the salt on your tongue for a second.
The bell by the door rang, signalling the entrance of a new customer.
Nor you, nor Jungkook turned to look, feeling like your table by the window of the restaurant existed on a different plane of reality—a vacuum of sorts where only the two of you lived.
You could remember one instance when you had gotten the feeling—after one of Jungkook’s late-night texts with his location—that he’d sent it to you because he was subtly asking you to join him. You thought you had misunderstood.
You didn’t know how to feel now that you knew you hadn’t.
“I’m not asking to provoke you or to start an argument,” you spoke up, “but do you think that’s appropriate?”
That wasn’t a very good question, knowing that Jungkook was very liberal when it came to seeing things as appropriate—and he shrugged as soon as you asked this.
“Spending time outside of work?” he clarified. You nodded. He shrugged once more. “You hang out with Luna and Taehyung all the time. And Maggie. Why would it be different for us?”
It was a hilariously stupid question and you both knew it.
Keeping your eyes on his, you deadpanned, “right. Why would it?”
He fought back with just as much irony as he said, heated, “yeah. Exactly.”
Your gazes remained locked until your phone buzzed a few seconds later, the sound dull as it reverberated against the material of your jacket.
You twisted in your seat to get the device out of the pocket. While you did, Jungkook took another bite of his burger.
It was a text message from Jimin, who was typing in all caps to let you know that he and Namjoon had just arrived at the venue, and Seokjin—or, in Jimin’s panicked words, ‘SOEKEJIIN’—was in a frenzy so intense, he was either about to faint or force everyone around him to faint.
“It looks like I have to get back to work,” you said, sliding your phone back into the pocket of your jacket as you picked it up from the back of your chair. You missed the disappointment that descended on Jungkook’s face. With a sigh, you added, “I appreciate you trying to be friends with me, but—just—don’t do that because you feel like you have to, since we’re on tour. Or whatever other temporary reason you might—”
“It’s not because of temporary reasons,” he said as you stood up. He turned away when you looked at him, though, not wanting you to see his eyes in case Sid’s game was evident in them. He didn’t lie when he reiterated, “I mean that.”
“Okay,” you said, choosing not to argue even though your next words barely sounded like a compromise, “well, let’s wait and see. Maybe you’ll change your mind. I have to go, but finish your lunch and then I’ll see you after the—”
“I won’t change my mind.”
You paused again. “Okay. Well. You’ll understand why I’m going to need actions to support your words.”
“That’s what I’m doing,” he said. “We were having lunch together. Isn’t that a start?”
Clutching your jacket to yourself as you lingered by the table, you conceded hesitantly, “it’s a start…”
Encouraged by this, he threw his hands in the air before speaking.
“But you’re leaving me all by myself, so it does feel like I’m not getting the same treatment back,” he said, and it took you a second to catch the teasing glimmer in his eye. You’d almost forgotten how quick he was on his feet—which wasn’t always a good thing, because he used this to avoid uncomfortable topics. He questioned, “do you not want to be friends with me?”
You brought your teeth over your lower lip as you looked away. He knew you. He knew the intentional childishness would end up amusing you eventually—and he couldn’t help but feel proud when he saw your shoulders relax as you fought back a smile.
“I’d love to be friends with you,” you said. “And, as your friend, I have to make sure your band has a great performance tonight, so finish your food while I do my job. I’ll see you later.”
“Text me!” he shouted as you put your jacket on, already taking a step towards the door of the restaurant.
You turned back to look at him. “Text you? About what?”
“Anything. It’s what friends do.”
Laughing now, you pulled your phone out of your pocket just as it began to vibrate again.
“Eat,” you told him, “we’ll figure out how to be friends later.”
He nodded in response, even though he didn’t feel hungry anymore. He watched you walk out of the restaurant and run across the street, back to the venue. With a deep exhale, he picked up a fry that had fallen out of the pile on his plate and tossed it into his mouth.
He hadn’t fully grasped how serious you were when you said you didn’t believe in second chances. Perhaps he should have. In all the years that he’d known you, he’d never seen you restore a friendship with someone you’d stopped talking to.
You were the sort of person who stayed until the very last drop of your patience—and then some more. You weren’t someone who left easily, you endured. You had the highest tolerance threshold out of everyone he’d ever met. So, really, it was understandable why you didn’t believe in trying again.
Still, he was arrogant enough to consider himself different. To consider the two of you different.
Really, he had thought things were going well.
Until this moment here, that is. He hadn’t even done or said much today, but you were quick to determine that he had reached the line. And you were not going to let him cross it.
He’d assumed the line had gotten a bit further away. He thought he was allowed to say more to you, to be more personal about your relationship after your trip to Paris—the trip was fine, after all! You’d both had fun. But, now he was starting to think that, perhaps, the reason why the Paris trip went well was because, initially, you went on it thinking he had an ex that he wanted to get back together with.
You had thought you were, on some level, still doing your job—whether as his manager, or someone who’s known him for almost ten years now. Just having his back. Keeping him out of trouble.
You’d always been doing that, for as long as he could remember. You never even considered—he never made you consider—that there was more to it.
He knew now that he had thought about this all wrong. You assumed that he was joking around, participating in Sid’s pranks, not taking anything—not even you—seriously. And you were right, of course, but only in part.
Step One would be proving to you that he was serious.
Maybe you never believed in second chances because you were never shown that people deserved them. And he was determined to show you that he deserved it. To convince you that the two of you could be close again—so long as he could look past the bet and convince himself first.
After Rated Riot’s performance that night—which went by smoothly, of course, even though Yoongi tripped over a loose cable and forced Seokjin to spend the entirety of the encore cursing quietly under his breath—the members followed the tradition of going out to meet the fans. Meanwhile, you insisted on supervising the deconstruction of the stage, wanting—rather desperately—to avoid incidents similar to Berlin.
To be fair, calling it supervision was generous; all you did was repeatedly remind everyone to “take it slow” while taping boxes and holding doors. The roadies seemed to appreciate your input this time, although you couldn’t shake the feeling that these middle-aged men still only saw you as an eager six-year-old, who passionately wanted to be helpful.
You decided you were going to take it. At least, you were here and could witness all that was happening.
Eventually, you noticed that Seokjin had disappeared. You weren’t very concerned; he had so many things to look after that you figured there simply had to be something else that required his attention.
But here’s the thing about Seokjin – he was demanding, but he was also very caring. A manifestation of this was the plastic bowl, filled to the brim with lollipops, that he brought backstage when he returned fifteen minutes later.
“Here,” he announced. “I think we can all use this. Make sure all of you take some—but no more than five, so everyone has enough.”
You chuckled, assuming that this was more for a boost of morale than anything else, but you were soon surprised. It was almost funny, truly, how quickly every adult in the room leapt to the lollipop bowl.
Seokjin, in the meantime, made his way towards you. Three bright green, apple-flavoured lollipops were in his hand, and he pointed them at you.
“Hey,” he said. “This is for making you haul heavy things around the venue earlier.”
“That’s my job,” you replied, but took the suckers from him nonetheless. Apple was your favourite flavour.
“It’s not, though,” he disagreed. “You were here because you felt bad. You shouldn’t feel bad. What happened before was not your fault.”
Your smile was grateful and you reminded him, “it’s not yours, either.”
“I know that.” He exhaled somewhat sadly before continuing, “but that’s not as easy for me to say. The battens fell in Berlin, because the scissor lift got stuck on some middle setting, and the staff couldn’t reach properly. They had to unscrew the construction with their hands raised above their heads. I told them not to, but they insisted we were short on time. And I let them do it.”
You sighed, too. “If the schedule wasn’t so intense—”
“They would have probably still done it this way,” Seokjin finished. “They didn’t think anything would go wrong. That was just an excuse to get it over with faster.”
You’d heard a similar explanation yesterday when you were first called up after the incident – “we wanted to do this as fast as possible.”
Trying to brighten the mood, you said, “at least no one got hurt. And I’m sure it’s a lesson learned in any case.”
“It is. Because now you’re here, watching everything like a hawk,” he noted.
This surprised you—and Seokjin grinned at your raised eyebrows.
“It’s not like I can fire them if more things break,” you said.
“That’s the worst part,” he countered. He still had an entertained expression on his face, but something inside of him had softened. It was endearing how unaware you were of how much the staff here cared about you. He said, “they saw how distressed you were last night.”
You were still confused about the magnitude of your role here—the backstage crew didn’t respond directly to you. To be fair, even certain members of Rated Riot didn’t, even though they should have.
“Everyone who was here was distressed,” you said.
“True,” Seokjin nodded, “but they should have been; this was their job, and something went wrong. Meanwhile, your stress is just, sort of, collateral damage. They felt bad for upsetting you.”
You looked back at the staff behind you. Seeing these men—some large and scruffy, others tall and lanky, all of them intimidating in certain lighting—dismantle the stage construction while sucking on lollipops brought a smile to your face.
“I’m a little kid in their eyes,” you said then, “aren’t I?”
Seokjin had to be honest: despite his attempts to always be respectful, he, too, sometimes thought you were too young for the responsibilities of your job. You never proved him right, however, breezing through said responsibilities with an ease that he wouldn’t have expected from someone your age—he admired that.
“A little bit, yeah,” he admitted.
You snorted, but there were shadows of disappointment on your features that he was quick to notice. Sometimes you wondered if Seokjin had chosen stage management as an alternative to psychology.
“If it makes you feel better,” he said, “most of the people here treated me like a kid when we first met, too. And I’m older than some of the roadies. I guess I look very young.”
“What’d you do to make them respect you?” you asked.
“I started yelling.”
This got you to laugh. “Should I consider it?”
“I think that, sometimes, you should,” he replied. “They say that people shout when they don’t know enough words to whisper—or something like that—but I think differently. I think they shout because they care and they need others to care.”
“Hmm,” you turned your gaze away as various disagreements and full-blown arguments that you’d had in your life—most of them with the same person—flashed through your mind. “That… makes sense, I think.”
“Yeah, and besides,” Seokjin said, “yelling is fun. People pay attention to you. Sometimes they even fear you. I love it.”
You laughed again, even though you’d seen it yourself – new staff members tended to avoid Seokjin. Even you didn’t want to get in his way when he was setting the stage up.
But all of that was so he would get things done. And, once he did, he was easily the most entertaining person to be around—which meant a lot, considering you were literally on tour with rock artists right now.
“Maybe you should get on stage with Rated Riot one of these nights,” you teased, “that might satisfy your itch to be listened to.”
“You know what? I just might,” he played along, a grin spreading on his lips. Nodding at the candy in your hand, he said, “try the lollipops. We’re almost done here anyway.”
“Thank you,” you said. “Really. We wouldn’t be on tour if it weren’t for you.”
“There’s no ‘I’ in ‘team’,” he responded brightly. Then, he leaned closer to add in a teasing whisper, “but there is in ‘ass-kissing’.”
Your eyes widened as he snickered, pulling back and walking past you to help the crew carry the boxes outside. He looked at you over his shoulder, his expression cheerful.
“I meant what I said, you know!” you shouted after him.
“I know,” he called back. “I meant it, too. Go rest! This isn’t your responsibility.”
He picked up a box, propped it on his hip, and walked away before you could argue and offer your assistance anyway.
Figuring you might as well go and actually stop working for the day, you unwrapped one of the lollipops and made your way outside. The band was probably still having post-show drinks backstage, so you figured you could get a few minutes of quiet on the bus before everyone else returned.
Just as you exited the venue, however, you saw a white puff of smoke coming from somewhere on the side of the building. Popping the lollipop in your mouth, you stopped and waited for just a second, until the person bent down to shake the ash off the cigarette, and you recognized Jungkook’s profile.
Your legs brought you over to him before your mind could reconsider.
Rounding the corner, you asked, “should you be doing this?”
He flinched, not having expected you here, and it got you to smile. The two of you had a special way of sneaking up on each other today.
“Probably not,” he said, blowing smoke out. “Bad for my lungs, right?"
“So I hear.”
This was the first time the two of you were alone together, following the interrupted lunch earlier. Jungkook had wondered what it would be like now that he’d made his intentions clear—as clear as he could under the circumstances, at least. Now that he’d brought up the possibility of a friendship.
He had worried it would be weird or awkward. That he wouldn’t know how to prove himself to you, wouldn’t know what to say, or worse, that he would, but you would respond in the same cold, detached way as you had the first time in the restaurant.
But now that you were here, he didn’t feel different. He didn’t feel like he’d dropped a ground-breaking revelation—he knew he hadn’t, but your reaction begged otherwise—and he didn’t feel awkward.
He felt, he realised, like he’d been waiting for you to find him here. Like he knew you’d come, taking him off guard, appearing next to him from the shadows of the late night.
Taking another drag, he extended the cigarette towards you. Smoke passed his lips as he spoke, “want some?”
Hesitating for a moment, you gave your lollipop one last twirl against your tongue before you pulled it out of your mouth.
As you took the cigarette from him and placed it between your lips, you pointed the sucker at him and echoed, half-jokingly, “want some?”
He chuckled at this, but took the lollipop from you. Your question was a challenge—you asked because you didn’t think he’d agree—and he took you up on it immediately, putting the candy in his mouth.
You watched him toy with it, biting into the plastic stick lightly, and something seemed to short wire inside of you, shooting dangerous sparks in every which way. You wondered, for a passing moment, if your conversation at lunch could have triggered something long-forgotten inside of you, like the trip to Paris had.
When Jungkook closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall, the smoke you were supposed to exhale got caught in your throat.
Sighing deeply, he spoke, “haven’t done that in a while.”
Tilting your head to blow smoke out in a clumsy cough, you asked, “s-sucked on a lollipop? Or smoked?”
Twisting the sucker around his mouth for more flavour—aware, with every taste receptor on his tongue, that this was your taste—he replied, “shared a cigarette. Or candy.”
“Me neither.”
You took another drag and gave the cigarette back to him. He took it from you, his movements slow, and, in turn, he pulled out the lollipop, extending it back to you.
You were the one who snickered this time as you retrieved it, and, without any reluctance, put it back in your mouth. He forgot what breathing was and how it worked right after.
He wondered, his gaze frozen on your face, what the cigarettes and apple-flavoured lollipops tasted like on your lips. He wanted to find out, wanted to replace the candy in your mouth with his own tongue, wanted to—
He was forced to look away as the lit cigarette stung the tips of his fingers, ashes falling on his boots.
He shook it off and forced his eyes to stay on the ground beneath his feet.
“So,” you spoke, tapping the edge of the lollipop stick. “You ready to go back? The crew just finished up. If you hurry, you might still grab a few drinks backstage before it’s all gone.”
“I’d, uh…” his eyes were cast low. As soon as he put the cigarette back against his lips, he thought he’d begun to hallucinate—because, realistically, he shouldn’t have recognised the taste of your lip gloss, mixed with a faint taste of apples on the filter. Coughing, he stuttered, “I-I’d rather, um, stay here, actually.”
Suddenly awkward, you realised he may have been looking for a quiet minute by himself just as you had been, before you saw him. “Oh. I’m sorry I interrupted. I can—”
“No,” he stopped you. “I meant with you.”
You watched him exhale smoke and wondered, unexpectedly, what it meant for you if you craved a cigarette more than a lollipop. You never thought you had a nicotine addiction; really, you barely smoked.
Perhaps this was something different. A sort of latent chronic disease that you couldn’t shake no matter how much you tried—and you spent four years trying.
“Really?” you asked now, your chest light and your eyes glistening—in a dangerous, promising way. “Hiding behind a corner, sharing a cigarette like pre-teen delinquents?”
His eyes met yours as he took another drag. “Just the way I like it.”
“Alright,” you said, leaning your side against the wall next to him. You twirled the lollipop around in your mouth and he could almost feel the remaining ounces of restraint leave his body. “Let’s stay here, then.”
You were playing around, but there was a seriousness behind your words. You didn’t question him. You just stayed.
And he had to look away from you again.
He didn’t really understand why; this was so childish. He played along with your delinquent joke, but he wasn’t actually twelve—even if being with you did make him feel like a sixth-grader, discovering what having a crush was like for the first time.
“Tell you what,” he said, turning to his side to look at you. He lifted the cigarette; there was barely any of it left. “You can finish this off in exchange for the lollipop.”
You grinned. “Yeah? You liked the apple taste?”
You knew, he suspected. You had to know what you were doing to him; there was no way you wouldn’t notice how pathetically affected he was. All of Copenhagen could probably hear a faint thundering that came from inside of his chest.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “Something like that.”
“Okay.” You pulled the lollipop out of your mouth—and did it slowly, only strengthening his suspicion that you were doing this to him on purpose. Still, he felt his heart leap right to his throat and drop down to his feet when your lips pursed. “Although it’s hardly fair, since mine will last longer for you.”
You took his cigarette with your free hand and passed him the lollipop. The very tips of your fingers touched as you exchanged possessions, and, for a moment—which was so laced with electricity that the streetlamps around you seemed to flicker—Jungkook was worried that he wouldn’t manage to control himself, after all. That he would use this gentle, barely-there touch to hold you tighter. To throw the lollipop away, to kiss you, to never let go of you again.
Instead, he took half a step backwards—afraid of his impulses—and popped the candy into his mouth as quickly as he could. As if this way, he’d be less affected by your lingering taste on his tongue.
“Good,” he said. “It’s bad for your lungs, anyway.”
You snorted as you took one final drag before you reached dangerously close to the filter. Blowing smoke out, you leaned down to put the cigarette out against the pavement and walked away from him to throw the remains into the trashcan by the exit.
He opened his eyes to watch you return. You were smiling – not at him, but not away from him, either – and he wasn’t sure what he’d do next. He wasn’t sure what was going to happen—not tonight, not tomorrow, not in two weeks when the bet was supposed to end.
He had suggested a friendship today. He’d promised to himself to prove to you that he was worth it, that the two of you could be close again. That you could be friends.
But he had a pack full of cigarettes in the back pocket of his jeans; both of you could have had one of your own. Yet, he didn’t offer.
And you had two brand new lollipops from Seokjin in the pocket of your jacket. You could have given him one—but you didn’t offer, either.
Both of you chose not to mention this, aware—very vividly—that normal friends probably shouldn’t have enjoyed sharing candy and cigarettes so much.
So, Jungkook didn’t know anything at all. But with you here—as your gaze fell to his lips, he thought the flavour of the lollipop sharpened somehow, bringing shivers down his spine—he was thrilled to find out.
chapter title credits: bring me the horizon, “sleepwalking”
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