Saved || A Jungkook fanfic

2.

I couldn't move or even think clearly.

The sharp smell of alcohol and bile hit my nose, making my stomach churn. A few nearby partygoers caught sight of the scene, their faces twisting in disgust before they backed away. None of them offered to help—not that I expected them to. I didn't blame them.

Taehyung was sprawled across my lap, completely unconscious, with vomit streaked down the side of his face and soaking into my brand-new shirt. My hands trembled as I stared at the mess, denial washing over me like a tidal wave. For a moment, all I could do was sit there, frozen in a haze of frustration and disbelief.

But then anger kicked in.

Jaw tight, I braced my hands against his shoulders and shoved him off me with more force than I probably should have. His body hit the marble floor with a dull thud, and I didn't bother to check if he landed too hard. He deserved it.

Serves him right.

With a heavy huff, I pushed to my feet, the cold, sticky fabric of my shirt clinging to my skin. I scanned the room for the nearest bathroom, desperate to get away from the chaos and clean myself up.

As expected, people made sure to dodge out of my way as I stormed by, holding my shirt, once white now an unsettling red-brown color, as far away from my body as I could manage to avoid the nasty wet feeling. 

As I approached the nearest restroom I noticed a line forming down the long hall and whined, mentally cursing Taehyung and this party altogether at this point.

There has to be another bathroom in this huge ass house.

Lost in my personal party-pooper meltdown, I hadn't noticed anyone approaching until a light tap on my shoulder startled me. My breath hitched, and my hand reflexively flew to my chest—only to smear more of Taehyung's vomit across my fingers.

Great. Just perfect.

I glanced down at my hand in disbelief, the sticky mess worsening my already simmering frustration. When I finally turned to glare at the intruder, the sharp words on the tip of my tongue faltered.

It was him.

The stranger I'd convinced myself was just a figment of my imagination stood there, real and undeniable, with a presence that made the noisy party around us fade into a dull hum. His voice, smooth and unhurried, cut through the chaos like a melody, warm and rich.

"Hey, uh—sorry to scare you," he said, his tone careful, yet calm.

I blinked, caught off guard, unsure if my brain was playing tricks on me again. The moment stretched just a bit too long, and I realized I was staring—again, but this time while wiping my disgusting hand on a clean part of my soiled shirt.

He gestured vaguely toward my ruined shirt. "There's a bathroom upstairs. I can show you if you'd like."

For a second, I forgot about the sticky mess on my hand, my ruined shirt, and even the nauseating smell clinging to me. All I could focus on was the quiet confidence in his words, like he was offering me a lifeline I hadn't even realized I needed.

Thump thump. 

There goes my heart again; this time from his demanding appearance or my own complete and utter panic, I wasn't sure.

 I hesitated, my feet rooted to the floor as uncertainty gripped me. Think about all the girls in horror movies who follow strange guys—they always die! You're going to end up like the girl from Taken!

The loud thrum of my heart against my ribcage drowned out my spiraling thoughts, each beat urging me to make a decision. I could only manage a single, hesitant nod, my teeth catching my lower lip as his inviting smile sent an unwelcome warmth creeping up my face.