the clock on the microwave blinked 8:30 pm in harsh blue digits, counting down the minutes until february 14th with indifferent precision. kim taehyung sat curled into the corner of their leather sofa, knees drawn up to his chest, watching that same cold light bleed across the otherwise dark kitchen.

he'd turned off all the lamps an hour ago, tired of pretending the warm glow might actually make the empty apartment feel like home.

it didn't.

their place was beautiful—jeon jungkook had seen to that. floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the han river, the sleek grey furniture cost more than most people's monthly rent, and the minimalist art on the walls had been chosen with careful, loving intention.

but tonight, in the half-darkness of february 13th, it felt like a museum. a perfectly curated space where nothing lived and breathed.

taehyung hugged the pillow tighter to his chest, pressing his nose into the fabric. it still smelled like jungkook—that particular mix of sandalwood laundry detergent and something warmer underneath, something uniquely his.