3rd Year | Jeon Jungkook

4 • You. Me. Ceviche.

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Yoongi: You. Me. Ceviche. Now. You down?

Dahlia giggled as she typed one of her newest friends back, finding it cute how he was a foodie and giving him bonus friend points for keeping his promise to dine together.

Me: Yes. I'm down. Address. Please.

She had been so focused on her work that she hadn't even thought about eating. Now that the topic was in her mind, her stomach took it as its cue to remind her that she was hungry and it was well past time to eat. After grabbing her keys and stepping into her fuzzy slides, Dahlia headed toward his address, thankful that the apartments reserved for the upperclassmen were within walking distance.

It didn't take long for him to swing the door open and greet her with a warm smile. He quickly uncurled his long black tail from around his waist and wrapped her in a tight, friendly hug.

"Glad you could make it," he said, leading her inside. "I just dropped some tortilla chips in some oil so make yourself at home." He then dashed toward the kitchen where the energetic bubbling of a deep fryer could be heard.

"Thanks for inviting me," she called, giggling after he flashed a grin from behind the wall before tending to the food again.

Taking a look around, Dahlia found Yoongi's home to be cleaner than any male domicile she'd ever been invited into. The boldness of his comfy-looking black furniture was softened by minimalistic decor in muted shades of tan, cream, and the occasional grey. A couple of display shelves held CDs and movies, while a bookcase held a small library of good reads. All over the room were little splashes of greenery in the form of various small potted plants that all seemed to be thriving under his care.

"The TV remote is on the coffee table if you want to find something to watch," he called through his kitchen's pass-through window.

"Thank you," she said. After a moment of consideration, she decided to follow the sound of the bubbling oil and went into the kitchen instead.

He stood in front of the fryer with a paper towel-lined bowl, scooping freshly made tortilla chips into it. Looking at the spread he was preparing, her mouth began to water and her stomach protested being empty a second time.

"This looks so good," she said, eyeing the delicious-looking ceviche resting in a large wooden serving bowl.

"Thank you," he smiled, showing off the pointed fangs in his mouth. "It tastes as good as it looks."

"I don't doubt you at all," she said.

Anyone that went the extra mile by frying their own tortilla chips instead of buying the bagged variety from the store was a cook her stomach could put its trust in.

"Do you need help with anything?" She asked.

"Actually," he said, grabbing a sea salt grinder, "can you take the ceviche and the plates out to the table? I'm almost done."

Gladly obliging him, Dahlia took what he asked and went to the table she assumed he referenced, a glass top dining room table that was as tall as a breakfast bar. The table and its black wooden chairs sat under a small chandelier that gave the room a cozy, warm glow. On its surface waited a colorful garden salad and a small variety of salad dressings for them to choose from.

He emerged from the kitchen with more food in his hands, the cooling tortilla chips, a small bowl of diced mangoes, and a bottle of Cholula hot sauce tucked into the bend of his elbow. Just as he went to sit in the chair adjacent to her, he jumped back up.