Knock knock, Baby! || JJK

-41-

Jungkook's POV

My skull feels like it's been split open with an axe.

The first thing I register when consciousness drags me out of a black, dreamless sleep is the throbbing in my head. It pounds against my temples, behind my eyes, in rhythm with my sluggish heartbeat. My tongue is sandpaper, my throat dry as if I've swallowed an entire desert. Even breathing hurts.

"Sh!t," I groan, rolling over, squeezing my eyes shut against the sunlight bleeding through the blinds. It's cruel, how bright the morning is, how loud the world feels even when there's nothing but silence in the room. My body feels heavy, my limbs weighed down like someone poured cement into me while I was sleeping.

I don't remember falling asleep. I don't even remember how we got home.

Bits and pieces come back in flashes, like the flicker of broken film: Y/n's laugh echoing too loud in the bar, her fingers clutching my sleeve in the cab, the sound of her voice slurring words that made my chest twist. The taste of something sweet on my lips that wasn't beer.

My stomach lurches violently at the memory, both from nausea and something sharper—fear, maybe.

I push myself up on my elbows, moving slowly so the room doesn't spin too fast. My body screams in protest anyway. Every muscle aches like I've run a marathon, though I know I did nothing but stumble around like an idiot.

Hangovers are nothing new. I've had plenty of nights that ended in disaster, mornings that started with regret. But this feels different. Heavier.

Because last night wasn't just a night of reckless drinking. Last night was Y/n.

I drag my hands down my face, trying to force my thoughts into order through the haze. Images return whether I want them to or not. Y/n's flushed cheeks under the bar's dim lights, her voice lowering when she admitted she sometimes wanted to kiss me. The way my heart had stopped in my chest because fuck—hadn't I been thinking the same thing for months?

I remember the way it felt when she said it out loud. Like the floor gave out under me. Like I didn't have a choice but to close the distance.

And then... god. The kiss.

I wince, groaning again. My stomach twists as the memory plays itself out: too much teeth, too sloppy, our laughter spilling into each other's mouths, my hands clumsy on her waist. It wasn't graceful or movie-perfect. It was chaos. But it was ours.

And I liked it.

That's what scares me the most.

Because I wasn't supposed to. This whole thing—our living situation, raising Munhee—it was already complicated enough. We drew lines early on, rules we thought would keep us from falling into something dangerous. Fake dating, playing house—it was supposed to be just that. Fake. Temporary.

But somewhere between sleepless nights, baby bottles, grocery runs, and laughing at 2 a.m. in the living room when Munhee wouldn't stop crying, I stopped seeing it as fake.

I liked the way she held him like he was hers. I liked the way she teased me when I couldn't figure out the baby formula instructions. I liked the way the apartment felt warmer with her in it, like the walls themselves were less lonely.

And last night proved what I'd been ignoring. I don't just like it. I like her.

The thought sends another wave of nausea through me—not just from the alcohol, but from panic. Because what the hell am I supposed to do with that?