Heartbeat // JK

21- Borrowed Breath

I woke up to weight.

Not the kind that pins you down, but the kind that tells you you're not alone.

Jungkook's arm was slung heavy across my ribs, his palm resting just under my sternum like he'd been making sure I hadn't slipped out in the night. His breath was steady against the back of my neck, warm enough to tickle, slow enough to remind me he belonged to another timezone entirely.

For a minute, I didn't move. I just lay there, staring at the crack in my ceiling, memorizing the rhythm of his chest rising and falling against my spine. It didn't feel real. It felt borrowed, like a song I wasn't allowed to keep.

The clock on my nightstand blinked past eight. Every number felt like it was pushing me closer to noon — closer to the airport, closer to goodbye.

I shifted just slightly, and his grip tightened before I could slip away. He wasn't awake, not all the way, but his nose pressed into my hair and a low sound left his throat — half sigh, half warning. Like he already knew I was trying to run.

I swallowed hard. My throat ached like I'd been singing all night, even though I hadn't said a word.

By the time I eased myself out of bed, the room felt colder without him in it.

When I padded into the kitchen, he was already there — hoodie up, sleeves shoved to his elbows, barefoot on my too-cold floor. He'd dug through my cabinets, pulled out two mismatched mugs I never even used, and was pouring coffee like he'd lived here forever.

The sight made my chest seize.

"Morning," he said without looking up, his accent thicker with sleep.

I leaned against the doorway, arms folded tight. My body felt scraped hollow from the audition, from Emma, from the crash after adrenaline. But the only thing I could focus on was him standing in my kitchen, steam curling off the mugs like this was normal. Like we'd done this a hundred times before.

"Coffee?" He glanced at me finally, and his eyes softened in a way that made me want to collapse right there on the tile.

I nodded, my voice refusing to work.

He slid a mug toward me. My favorite one — chipped handle, faded paint. Of course he'd pick that.

I wrapped both hands around it, not for the heat but for something solid to hold. The warmth bled into my palms anyway, seeping up my arms, loosening something in my chest that had been wound too tight.

He leaned against the counter, one hip braced like he had nowhere else to be. I knew better. Every minute was borrowed. Every sip was closer to the end.

I tried to swallow the thought with the coffee, but it scorched my tongue and came back up as a cough.

Jungkook's brow knit immediately, his head tilting.

"Okay?"

I waved him off too fast, my laugh brittle.

"Fine. Just—hot."

His gaze stayed steady on me anyway, long enough that my skin prickled.

The silence stretched, heavy but not uncomfortable. My mind filled it the way it always did — with spirals, with panic, with the ache of knowing I'd have to let go of this too soon.

"I wish time would just stop," I muttered, hating how desperate it sounded.

His gaze softened, but he didn't speak right away. Just watched me, like he was memorizing the words.

When he finally answered, it was quiet, certain.

"Me too."

I set my mug down too hard, the clink sharp against the counter. My hands twisted together in my lap like I could wring the ache out of them.