Chapter Text
The housing office looked like the waiting room of a dentist’s office if the dentist also specialized in crushing dreams.
“Are you absolutely sure this is a mistake?” asked the secretary for the third time, her tone flat, fingers clacking across a yellowing keyboard.
“I don’t even know what a ‘co-ed artist co-housing collective’ is,” I said, clutching my messenger bag like it might teleport me out of there if I squeezed hard enough. “I just wanted a single dorm room and quiet neighbors.”
She raised a brow. “You signed up for the artist residence.”
“I didn’t.”
“Well…” She tapped a few keys. “Your best friend did. Says here, ‘Y/N L/N, exceptional people skills, good with chaos, very tolerant of loud music. Excellent vibes.’”
I blinked. “That sounds like Mina. She's my best friend. And a menace.”
“Well, unless you want to risk being moved to off-campus temporary housing with no air conditioning and… raccoons,” she said, giving me a look that somehow felt like a challenge, “your spot is sealed. You’ll be living at 11 Greenberry Lane. With…”
She squinted at her screen.
“…Kim Namjoon, Kim Seokjin, Min Yoongi, Jung Hoseok, Park Jimin, Kim Taehyung, and Jeon Jungkook.”
She rattled off the names like a grocery list of dangerously attractive problems.
“Seven guys?” I croaked.
“Seven very successful, extremely attractive male artists, yes,” she said, nonchalantly. “You’ll have your own room. But everything else is shared. Bathroom, kitchen, laundry, emotional damage. You’ll figure it out.”
By the time I arrived at Greenberry Lane, I had rehearsed exactly what I’d say. I’d calmly explain the mistake. I’d ask to sleep on the couch until things got sorted out. I’d not get distracted by good looks or charming personalities.
Then the door opened, and all logic promptly threw itself into traffic.
Standing in the doorway was a very shirtless Kim Taehyung, toothbrush dangling from his mouth, black boxers and wild curls completing the look of someone who had no idea how devastating he was.
He blinked at me. “Are you the pizza?”
“No.”
“Oh. Are you lost?”
“No again.”
“...Do you want to be the pizza?”
I stared at him.
He grinned and stepped back. “Come in. Namjoon said we were getting a new roommate. No one said you’d be this cute.”
I stepped inside on autopilot, suddenly regretting everything, including the outfit I thought was effortlessly casual but now felt like a cry for help.
The place smelled like coffee, acrylic paint, and male ego. The living room was a disaster zone of open sketchbooks, tangled wires, and half-eaten cereal bowls. Music blared from somewhere in the house—was that someone rapping to a beat made entirely out of door creaks?
Then came Namjoon.
“Hey,” he said, appearing from around the corner with glasses slipping down his nose and a calculus textbook in one hand. “You must be Y/N. Welcome to the asylum.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“You’re gonna want to hide your laundry detergent,” he added seriously. “Jungkook drinks it when he’s sleep-deprived.”
“...What.”
A loud crash from the kitchen cut off my existential spiral.
“YOONGI HYUNG! THE RAMEN’S FIGHTING BACK!”
Another voice: “That’s because it’s boiling, dumbass!”
“I THINK IT’S SENTIENT!”
I turned to Namjoon. “Can I still opt for the raccoons?”
He laughed. “Too late. You’ve entered the chaos vortex. Come meet the rest.”
The introductions were a blur of noise, arms, and chaotic energy.
Jin shook my hand like we were on a cooking show. “I’m the oldest, the best-looking, and also the best cook. If anyone tries to poison you with convenience store sushi, it wasn’t me.”
Yoongi waved from under a blanket on the couch. “Wake me only for emergencies. Or if someone insults my mixtape.”
J-Hope did an actual spin move into the room, nearly knocking over a lamp. “I’m Hobi! If you need energy, hugs, or someone to scream with during finals, I’m your guy.”
Jimin appeared in a literal cloud of floral body spray. “If you ever want to borrow clothes, I’m a size flirt.”
Jungkook was perched on the kitchen counter, surrounded by empty Monster cans. “I’m the youngest, but emotionally the oldest.”
“No, you’re not,” said Yoongi, muffled from under his blanket.
Kook shrugged. “Debatable.”
Taehyung walked past again, this time shirtless and holding a saxophone. “Can you play any instruments? Or do you just break hearts?”
I blinked.
I’d been there ten minutes and already felt like I was living inside a sitcom with no exit button.
Dinner that night was an improvised ramen buffet because “Jin cooked but forgot he was cooking,” which led to two slightly-charred pots, a frantic fire alarm reset by Namjoon, and Hoseok dramatically fanning the smoke detector with a BTS poster.
We sat around the dining table—if you could call it that, considering it was two desks pushed together and covered in doodles—and the boys took turns asking invasive, unnecessary, and absolutely ridiculous questions.
“If you had to kiss one of us to stop the world from ending, who would it be?” Jimin asked, nudging me with his elbow.
“Do I get to pick who starts the apocalypse?” I countered.
“I like her,” said Yoongi, mouth full of noodles.
“What’s your blood type?” asked Taehyung, dead serious.
“I… don’t know.”
He gasped. “That’s so mysterious.”
“She’s not a vampire,” said Jin.
“You don’t know that,” added Jungkook.
Namjoon turned to me. “So… what made you choose to live with seven guys?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “It was an accident. My best friend applied for me.”
They all stared.
Then—simultaneously—every single one of them said: “Mina.”
“You know her?” I asked, surprised.
“She sold me a painting made of lipstick and glitter for 50 bucks,” said Jimin.
“She called me ‘emotionally constipated’ in public,” muttered Yoongi.
“She’s the reason Jungkook got banned from the student center for dancing on a vending machine,” Namjoon said.
“So… you do know her,” I confirmed.
Jungkook nodded solemnly. “She’s a legend.”