Chapter Text
You knock tentatively on Seokjin’s bedroom door, half of you hoping he’ll answer and half of you hoping he won’t. Really, he doesn’t do either.
“Yah, what is it?” he yells, voice muffled by the door between you.
“It’s me, can I…can I come in?” you call back.
“Oh. (Y/N). Yeah, come in.”
You open the door, relieved.
Seokjin is slouching on the chaise lounge that sits across the end of his bed, game controller clutched in two hands, his fingers tapping away at the buttons even as he looks up to greet you.
“I thought you were Namjoon,” he says, “It’s my day off, I’m not talking about no work shit today.”
“Oh. No. Just me.”
“Just my little (Y/N),” he beams, using that half-teasing tone that would make Jungkook take a swing at him.
“Yeah.”
Your voice is flat, and he eyes you closer. “What’s going on?”
He has a sugar glider hooked onto one sleeve, either Eomuk or Odeng; you’d never tell Seokjin but you still don’t know how to tell them apart. His big pink hoodie is almost swallowing him up, which is saying something because Seokjin is a big guy.
“I’m having a bad day,” you say, voice small, and you hope he doesn’t pick up on it.
He does, though, because of course he does. The Switch controller is placed gently on the cushion beside him, and wordlessly, he goes over to his closet and starts rummaging around. He turns around a second later, holding a foil packet of snacks triumphantly.
“Why do you have snacks in your room?” you ask, before you can stop your mouth.
“Because sad people come in here and need snacks.”
“I’m not sad.”
Seokjin purses his lips in fake annoyance. “You just said you were!”
“Okay, but I’m not hungry.”
“Yah, let me do something nice. These ungrateful kids, I swear,” Seokjin grumbles, and shoves the snacks into your hands.
He sits back down on the chaise, but he scoots himself over to one side so that there’s a person-sized gap next to him. It’s a silent suggestion, welcoming but not pressuring, reassuring in that way that Seokjin has learned to be after raising a band full of stubborn boys.
Gingerly, you sit down next to him, the side of your leg pressing against the side of his. But Seokjin reaches over and pulls you so that you’re tucked into his side, your cheek pressed against his shoulder. He smells like oil and garlic and red pepper, like he’s just cooked something, and like the detergent that his hoodie was washed in last. You pop open the snacks, the sound of crinkling foil making Seokjin stretch out one hand expectantly. You hand him one of the little fried bites, and put one in your mouth, too.
“Jin?” you ask.
“Yeah?”
“…Do you own any Switch games besides Mario?”
“No, why?”
“You’re…really bad at this game,” you say, watching him die in Smash for the third time since you’ve been in the room. He’s only playing against the computer.
Seokjin throws down his controller again, dramatically. “YAH. I let you into my home and this is the thanks I get?!”
You laugh as he shakes his head, lamenting about his ungrateful friends and all the stress they add to his life.
“You’ll all be the death of me someday,” he swears.
But he’s still got one arm holding you against his side, so you think he’ll forgive you.