Jackson’s party is in full swing, another Friday night of bad choices disguised as fun and sweat. The main house? A boiling mess of beer breath and bass drops. But the real party? It’s where the boys are — in Jackson’s sleek-ass garage, big enough to be its own damn Airbnb. Reserved for the inner circle. No randos allowed.

"Didn’t you say this’d be over in a week?" Jimin calls out, dropping onto the leather couch beside Jungkook, who’s scrolling through his phone like he’s got stock options to manage. "You said she’d fold faster than a wet napkin."

"She’s just built different," Jungkook replies, eyes still glued to his screen. "Maybe Taehyung's game just needs a little... tweaking."

"Keep talking shit," Taehyung mutters from the pool table where he's lining up a shot. "See how fast I make your sister fall in love with me next."

Yoongi barks a laugh from the beanbag in the corner, puffing on a joint like a bored dragon. "Relax, loverboy. You’re just mad Kook’s winning."

"No one’s winning yet," Taehyung fires back, the cue ball clicking sharply against the others. "The game doesn’t end until someone gets laid."

Jungkook smirks, finally setting his phone aside. "And judging by your progress, that might take till graduation."

"Eat me," Taehyung grumbles.

"Didn’t know you were that desperate," Yoongi hums.

"Focus," Jimin interjects, refilling his drink. "We all know how this ends. Taehyung’s gonna pull out the tragic story card, cry a little, talk about abandonment or whatever. Boom—panties drop."

Taehyung raises a brow. "It’s not manipulation if it works."

That gets a round of cackles.

Yoongi rolls his head back, smoke curling from his lips. "You sound like a TikTok therapist with mommy issues."

"Better than sounding like a dude who peaked in high school," Taehyung quips.

"Damn," Jimin says, grinning. "Anyway, when’s this whole thing wrapping up? I’m not doing bitch duty until I see video proof."

"Same," Jungkook agrees. "If there’s no footage, it’s just fanfiction."

More laughter. The guys are too far gone to notice the shift, the subtle freeze that creeps in from the open garage door. They don’t notice Yoongi’s eyes flick to the side until he says, casual as ever:

"Yo... didn’t know you were invited."

That does it. Everyone’s head turns—some fast, some slow—but all land in the same place.

And yep. There you are.

Standing in the open doorway, hair ruffled slightly by the breeze, backlit by porch light like you just stepped out of a dream—or a nightmare, depending on who you ask.

Taehyung’s stomach drops.

Jimin goes stiff, suddenly very interested in his red Solo cup. Jungkook's grin fades into something less cocky, more uh-oh. But Taehyung?

He straightens, cue stick lowered, game entirely forgotten. His eyes don’t leave you.

You definitely heard. Maybe not every word, but enough to know the truth behind the sweet nothings and teary-eyed texts.

Most people would panic. Taehyung doesn’t.

He thrives in chaos.

If anything, his pulse slows. This isn’t game over. This is bonus round. This is where shit gets real.

He steps forward, expression softening like it’s rehearsed. Hell, it probably is.

"Wait—please," he says, voice cracking in just the right spot. "It’s not what you think."

It is exactly what you think.

But he’ll twist it. Maybe say it started as a joke but became real. Maybe cry—just a little. He’s good at tears when he needs them. He’ll tell you about the pressure, about not knowing how to be loved properly.

He’ll hold the lie like it’s fragile. Wrap it in sincerity. Dress it up in just enough guilt to make it believable.

And if it takes standing in the rain outside your dorm all night with flowers and a split lip?

He’ll do it.

Because now?

Now he has to win.

And Taehyung doesn’t lose.