Heartbeat // JK

28- It's Perfect Until It's Not

The studio smelled like sweat and stage lights and something faintly citrusy — probably one of Hobi's essential oil sprays. The air was thick with leftover energy, but the music had finally stopped.

Someone had cut the speakers.
The chaos, too.

Only the buzz of fluorescent lights and a dozen overlapping voices remained — soft now, grounded in the kind of fatigue that comes only after hours of pouring everything out.

They'd run the set twice. Full out. No breaks.

Even watching had made my bones ache.

Now, they were sprawled around the rehearsal space in every possible position — Jimin flat on his back, arms out like he'd died dramatically; Jin perched on an amp eating what looked like a protein bar; Taehyung upside down on a couch for reasons no one questioned.

Yoongi had disappeared. Probably into a soundproof corner to recharge.

Jungkook sat next to me, legs stretched out, shirt clinging to him in all the wrong ways.

He handed me his water bottle without speaking.

I took a sip. Passed it back.

Our fingers brushed.

Namjoon exhaled — the kind of long, done-for-the-day breath that came from being responsible for seven chaos demons with too much adrenaline.

"Alright," he said, stretching his arms above his head.

"Let's get out of here before someone passes out or Taehyung finds a trampoline."

"I'm fine," Taehyung said from his inverted position.

"You're upside down."

"Perspective."

Namjoon ignored him, already packing up his notes.

"Let's head back to the hotel. Quick showers, clean shirts, then maybe dinner? We can order in. Or go somewhere close, if no one feels like being a hermit."

Jin groaned.

"I vote dinner in."

Jimin rolled over, eyes still closed.

"I vote death."

Hobi threw a towel at his face.

"You coming with us?" Jungkook murmured in my direction — low, meant just for me.

I nodded, slow.

"If that's okay."

He reached for my hand, laced our fingers like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"With me?" he said.

"It's always okay."

And just like that, the night stretched ahead — hazy, golden, unscripted.

But none of us knew what was waiting by the time we got back.

Not yet.

***

The van was cold, the kind that bites after a long sweat-soaked rehearsal — AC blasting like it hadn't realized the sun was down.

I sat between Jungkook and Taehyung in the very back row. Their legs sprawled into mine like boundaries were for people less exhausted.

Jungkook's thigh pressed warm against mine. Taehyung's head was on my shoulder. Somewhere up front, Jin and Hobi were arguing over dinner options like it was life or death.

Jimin was curled sideways in the seat ahead of us, one leg tucked up like a cat, cheek pressed to the cool window. Every few minutes, he'd glance back at me — not full-on staring, just quiet check-ins.

The way someone does when they're not sure if you're okay but don't want to make a thing of it.

Yoongi hadn't said a word since we left the studio. He'd claimed the seat directly behind the driver, AirPods in, cap pulled low. Classic stealth mode.

Namjoon was on a call with staff, low and fast in Korean. Even exhausted, he still sounded like the leader of a world tour.

The windows were tinted. The streets were dark. Los Angeles slid past like a quiet rumor.

I leaned into Jungkook's side, let my eyes drift shut. For a moment, everything felt far away — the deal, the pressure, the ticking clock back in New York.

Right now, it was just the hum of the van, the bass of Yoongi's music bleeding through his headphones, and the soft, steady rhythm of Jungkook tracing circles on the back of my hand.

I didn't want to let go.
Ever.

"Almost there," the driver said — calm, professional, in Korean.

I didn't catch the words, but the tone was clear. Familiar. Like this wasn't his first time driving global superstars through L.A. in the dark.

The van didn't take the main entrance — it peeled off to the back of the hotel, past the loading dock, through a narrow lane flanked by dumpsters and blank walls.

No press. No fans. No accidents.

Security was waiting. Two men in suits and earpieces, positioned by the staff elevator near the underground entrance. One glanced at the van, then gave a subtle nod before radioing something into his sleeve.

I sat up straighter.

The van slowed to a stop, and a second later, the door slid open.

Jungkook moved first, always with that same fluid awareness — hood up, mask ready, gaze scanning out of instinct. I followed, Taehyung behind me, then the rest in an unspoken order I was starting to learn.

No one talked.
Not out here.

Security fell in behind us, silent and smooth, just enough presence to clear the path, not enough to draw attention.

We moved fast through the back hall — all gray walls and beige carpet, the kind of service corridor that didn't appear on any brochure.

The elevator dinged.

We stepped inside.

No music. No mirrors. Just seven boys, a girl who wasn't supposed to be there, and the slowest moving lift in the city.

At the 12th floor, we stopped.

Security stepped out first, checked the hallway.

Clear.

Then Namjoon stepped out. Then Jin. One by one, we followed — quiet and relaxed, like we hadn't just danced ourselves into the ground four hours ago.

The hallway smelled faintly of vanilla and industrial cleaner.

Jungkook still had my hand.

And for a moment, everything was fine.

Until we turned the corner.
And saw her.

Standing by the hotel door.
In a hotel worker uniform.

A tray of nothing in her hands.

Blonde hair curled too neatly. Lipstick too perfect. Smile too sweet.

Emma.

My blood went cold.
She smiled, soft as syrup.

"What—no hug?"

A beat.

"I thought you'd miss me."