Work Text:
Cotton
🫂
Your phone vibrates against the kitchen counter just as the kettle begins to hum.
You almost ignore it. It’s late, and most people who call you at this hour either need a favour or a distraction you don’t have the energy to give. But when you glance at the screen and see Jungkook’s name lit up on the display, you scramble instantly to answer it.
You always make time for him.
“Hey.”
At first, there’s only noise. Music spilling through a speaker, distant voices, and the faint echo of a microphone picking up movement. Then his familiar voice comes in, quieter than the background, slightly delayed like he’s deciding whether he should be talking at all.
“Are you busy?”
He doesn’t slur, not really, but his words are slower than usual, each one placed instead of spoken.
You turn the stove off without looking. “No. Where are you?”
There’s a small pause before he replies. “Home.”
You’re confused for half a second, until you hear the unmistakable instrumental of a karaoke track looping behind him. “The karaoke room?” you ask.
“Yeah.” He’s quiet for a moment, and you wait patiently, letting him go at his own pace. “I didn’t know who else to call.”
Your heart squeezes. “Are you alone?”
“No, I had some people here.” He exhales, long and tired. “Most of them left, but a couple are still downstairs I think. I told them I wanted to stay up here for a bit.”
You can picture it easily, the private karaoke room he had installed, the ambient lighting and the screen glowing in a space designed for fun that now feels too big for one person.
“Have you been drinking?” you ask gently.
He makes a soft sound that might be a laugh. “Yeah.”
“How much?”
He takes a moment before answering. “Just a few.”
That’s not a number, but it tells you what you need to know. You lean back against the counter and take a deep breath. “Alright, Kook,” you tell him. “−I’m coming over.”
“You don’t have to,” he says quickly, the words tumbling out before you finish the thought. “I just… I wanted to hear someone who knows me. The real me, you know. Not the me people are having fun with tonight.”
An ache hits you and you squeeze the phone in your hands. “I’m coming,” you repeat. “Just stay where you are, I’ll take a cab.”
“Okay.”
The line stays open for a second longer, neither of you speaking. You hear him shift, the faint clink of glass against the table, and the karaoke track restarting again and again without anyone singing.
Then someone’s voice drifts faintly through the phone from somewhere in the house. “Yah, Jungkook! You still alive up there?”
His voice changes instantly when he answers to a brighter, more automatic tone. “Yeah, I’m good!”
Jungkook lowers his voice again for you. “Text me when you’re close,” he says, and the call ends.
You compose yourself and get ready in record time, before grabbing your keys. The drive feels longer than it should. Although there isn’t too much night traffic, it feels like you have too much time to think. You’ve known Jungkook long enough to recognize the difference between tipsy Jungkook, and the one too many Jungkook −two entirely different concepts.
Tipsy Jungkook gets louder, more playful, sending you voice notes of him singing off-key or videos of him challenging someone to a game he’s already decided he’ll win. But tonight, he had spoken quietly, seemed almost distracted, and even asked if you were busy.
Your phone pings with a text when you turn onto his street. It’s Jungkook.
‘Let the gate know it’s you.’
You reply with a quick ‘Here’ and his security opens without delay.
The house is lit, but not too brightly. Warm light spills through the windows, shadows moving occasionally inside, giving proof that some of his friends are still there winding down. The staff member who opens the door greets you politely, already aware you’re expected.
“He’s upstairs,” she informs you. “In the karaoke room.”
You thank her quietly as you slip off your shoes. The house still carries the after-sound of a gathering and you hear voices somewhere distant, accompanied by a burst of laughter from the living area. Music from a different era plays in the background.
Upstairs, the hallway is dim and the karaoke room door is closed. Music leaks through it; an instrumental track looping, untouched. You knock once and wait for a moment.
Then you hear him, “Yeah?”
You push the door open. The room glows in blue and purple from the screen, and the microphones sit unused on the table. A couple of glasses sit near the edge, one empty, one half-finished. Jungkook’s leather jacket is draped over the back of the couch.
He’s sitting in the corner, hands loosely clasped together as he plays idly with his rings, staring at the screen like he had forgotten it was there. His hair is pushed back from his face from running his fingers through it too many times, and there’s a quiet heaviness in the way he holds himself, shoulders rounded forward instead of relaxed.
When you step inside, he looks up. For a moment, there’s no expression, just recognition slowly settling in, like his brain is catching up to the fact that you’re actually here. Then relief floods his features, followed by a small, visible release in his shoulders, the tension easing by a fraction.
“You came,” he says.
You close the door behind you, the music muffling into a distant hum. “Of course I did.”
He watches you walk closer, eyes following you the whole way like he’s making sure you won’t disappear if he looks away. When you sit beside him, the couch dips slightly under your weight, and you both sit in the silence.
Up close, you can smell the alcohol. His eyes are slightly reddened, and a tad unfocused around the edges. He isn’t inebriated enough to lose control, but he’s certainly had a good few − enough that whatever he’s been holding in isn’t packed away as tightly anymore.
“You okay?” you ask.
He lets out a breath through his nose. “I thought tonight would help.”
“With what?”
There’s a long pause.
“With feeling normal for a few hours.” His gaze drops to his hands. “They were all having fun,” he continues quietly. “Laughing, drinking and singing like idiots. I was trying, I really was.”
The karaoke track restarts again behind you, the opening notes looping for the fourth time since you’ve been here.
“I kept thinking,” he says, lowering his voice, “Why does it still feel like I’m working?”
You don’t answer right away because you know that feeling he’s talking about. Not the scale of it, or the weight of cameras, expectations and millions of eyes −but the kind of tired that comes from performing happiness when your energy ran out hours ago.
You lean back slightly into the couch, turning your body toward him without crowding him. “What made it feel like that?” you ask gently.
He shrugs, but it’s slow and heavy. “I don’t know. Everyone was being nice. They were relaxed. I invited them because I wanted that.” His hands rub together absentmindedly, like he’s trying to steel himself through the motion. “But every time I laughed, I kept thinking about how I looked doing it.”
His mouth presses into a thin line, and he looks at you with widened eyes.
“Is this too loud? Am I drinking too much? Should I stop? Should I sing? If I sing, is it weird if I’m good? If I’m not good, will someone record it?” He lets out a quiet breath. “I couldn’t turn it off.”
The karaoke track restarts again but neither of you reach for the remote.
“That sounds exhausting.”
He glances at you, almost surprised by how simple your response is. “It’s stupid,” he mutters.
“No, Kook. It’s not.”
His voice drops. “They can just be twenty-somethings. Messy, loud, dumb as they want −no one cares.” His eyes move back to the screen, but you can tell he’s not really seeing it. “If I’m messy, it’s a headline. If I’m quiet, people ask what’s wrong. If I go out, it’s news. If I stay in, it’s a rumour.”
He exhales, shoulders sinking further. “I just wanted one night where I didn’t think about any of that.”
The honesty in his voice is raw and unguarded now. Alcohol didn’t make him emotional, it simply lowered the walls enough for the truth to come out without being edited.
You study him for a moment. There’s something else layered under the frustration.
“Did something happen tonight?” you ask.
You notice a small hesitation, before he answers quietly. “Someone asked if I was going to sing my own songs.”
You wince internally.
“I know they didn’t mean anything,” he continues quickly. “They were excited, but everyone turned to look at me like it was a performance.” His jaw tightens. “So I sang something else, and they seemed happy enough watching that.”
He lets out a short breath that isn’t quite a laugh. “I couldn’t even be bad on purpose.”
Silence settles between you for a few seconds. Then you reach forward and finally grab the remote, stopping the looping track and the room goes quiet. Jungkook looks at you.
“You don’t have to be anything in here,” you say, holding his gaze. “Not good, not entertaining, you don’t even have to be impressive. You can just be tired.”
Something in his expression softens again, the tension around his eyes easing. “I am tired,” he admits.
“I know.”
For a moment, he just sits there, breathing more evenly than when you arrived. Then you hear his stomach growl loudly enough that neither of you can ignore it. Jungkook freezes, looking down like maybe the sound didn’t actually happen.
Your lips press together, fighting a smile. “Have you eaten?” you ask.
“I had a few snacks.”
“What kind of snacks?”
He thinks. “Some chips.”
You stare at him. “That’s not food.”
“I wasn’t hungry earlier.”
You stand up before he can protest. “I’m making you something.”
He looks up immediately. “You don’t have to do that.”
“You called me,” you say, already moving toward the door. “This is part of the service.”
That earns a small, tired smile. “I don’t even know what I have,” he says as you open the door.
“I do,” you answer. “You always have ramen. Everyone always has ramen.”
There’s a hum behind you. “Yeah, I guess.”
🫂
The kitchen is quiet compared to the rest of the house. Most of the lights downstairs are dimmed now, and the remaining guests are gathered somewhere farther away, their voices indistinct. No one stops you or questions why you’re here.
You move easily through the space having been here enough times to know where things are, assembling your ingredients methodically. Two packs of ramen, eggs, green onions from the fridge.
Perfect.
As the water begins to heat, you hear slow footsteps behind you, but you don’t turn right away because you know it’s him.
“You were supposed to stay upstairs,” you say.
“I didn’t want to be alone,” he says quietly.
You glance over your shoulder to see Jungkook leaning lightly against the doorway, hair falling forward again over his forehead in cute bangs. He looks less tense than he did in the karaoke room, but there’s still a quiet heaviness in his posture.
“Sit,” you tell him, nodding toward the counter stools.
He listens immediately, lowering himself onto one and resting his arms on the counter, watching you intently. The sound of boiling water fills the space.
“Thank you for coming, Y/N.”
You crack the eggs into the pot. “You don’t have to thank me for that.”
“Yeah, I do,” he insists. “I almost didn’t call.”
You glance over at him. “Why?”
His fingers trace the edge of the counter. “I didn’t want to ruin your night.”
You turn the heat down. “You didn’t ruin anything.”
Jungkook watches you add the seasoning and the green onions with careful movements made with care.
“Do you ever get tired of being the person I call when I’m like this?” he asks suddenly.
The question hangs in the kitchen longer than the steam rising from the pot. You turn the heat off before answering, giving yourself a second to make sure you say it without rushing. Then you face him.
“No,” you say.
His eyes search your face, like he’s checking for the version of that answer people give when they’re being polite.
You slide the ramen into a bowl, adding the egg carefully so it doesn’t break. “I don’t get tired of you needing me,” you continue. “I’d get tired if you stopped calling.” You set the bowl in front of him and hand him chopsticks. “Because that would mean you’re carrying everything alone.”
He looks down at the ramen instead of you. For a moment, he just stares at it, like the warmth coming off the bowl is something he has to adjust to.
“Eat,” you say firmly. “You need to get something inside you to soak up that booze.”
Jungkook’s face flushes. “I try not to need people too much,” he says quietly. “I don’t want to be a burden on anyone.”
“I know,” you tell him, leaning against the counter across from him. “You’re not a burden, Kook. You’re human.”
For a few seconds, the only sound is him blowing on the noodles before taking a bite, but the effect of your words is immediate. His shoulders drop just enough that you can see the tension leaving him bit by bit.
He begins to eat slowly at first, then a little faster, like his body is catching up to the fact that it’s actually hungry. Halfway through the bowl, he glances up.
“This is really good,” he says with a smile.
“It’s ramen,” you say.
“It’s good ramen.”
You smile back, it’s hard not to.
Jungkook keeps eating. There’s something about watching him sitting at his own kitchen counter at nearly midnight, eating like he hasn’t had a real meal all day. When he finishes about two-thirds of it, he slows again.
“Better?” you ask.
He nods, chewing down another mouthful. “Yeah,” he replies. “I didn’t realize how bad I felt until now.”
That doesn’t surprise you. Physical exhaustion always makes everything else heavier. You push a bottle of water toward him, and he drinks most of it without stopping.
“I don’t know how other people do it.”
“Do what?”
“Be normal.” His fingers tap lightly against the bowl. “Turn their brain off when they’re out. Not think about how they look, who’s watching, or what this moment might turn into later.” His mouth tightens slightly. “Even tonight, in my own house, I kept wondering if someone would post something or if I said something weird. Even whether I seemed tired.”
Jungkook gives a small, humourless breath. “I feel like I’m always monitoring myself, even when I’m supposed to be relaxing.”
You listen to him without interrupting, knowing it’s better out than in.
“I don’t remember the last time I went somewhere and didn’t think about tomorrow’s reaction,” he continues. “−Or how it’ll be interpreted.” His eyes drop to the counter. “Sometimes I feel like I’m watching myself live instead of actually living.”
You reach across the counter and nudge the empty part of the bowl slightly toward the sink, just to give your hands something to do while you choose your words.
“You know what I think?” you say after a moment. He looks up. “I think you’ve been trying to hide your real feelings because you don’t want to bother anyone.”
“Maybe.”
“You make music for people, show up for people and protect people’s image of you,” you explain. “Of course your brain doesn’t know how to turn off.”
He’s quiet, listening carefully.
“That doesn’t make you broken,” you add. “It just means no one ever taught you where the off switch is.”
“What if there isn’t one?”
You move around the counter and stand beside him, and he shifts slightly to make space without thinking.
“You don’t need an off switch,” you say. “You just need places where you don’t have to be on.”
You rest your hands lightly on the counter next to his. “This is one of those places.”
He looks at you and you see something fragile in his expression now, the kind when someone comes to a realisation.
“It feels like that,” he admits. “Can we go back upstairs?”
“To the karaoke room?”
He shakes his head. “I just don’t want to sit down there where everyone is,” he says. “But I don’t want to be alone either.”
You pick up his empty bowl. “Then you won’t be alone.”
He watches you rinse it, his posture already a little looser than when he followed you down.
As you turn off the kitchen light, he falls into step beside you automatically. Halfway up the stairs, he turns to you.
“Can you stay for a while, Y/N?”
“Of course,” you say without any hesitation.
By the time you reach the main floor again, the energy of the night has thinned out. There is no more music drifting from the other rooms, and you don’t hear any more laughter. There are only a few low voices somewhere near the living area.
Jungkook slows as you step into the open space, like he’s bracing himself to switch back into social mode. One of his friends looks up from the couch, notices you, then looks at him.
“Oh, you good?” the friend asks casually.
“Yeah,” Jungkook replies calmly. “I’m good.”
“Alright. We’re probably heading out soon anyway. It’s late.”
Another voice from the kitchen calls out, “I ordered a car already!”
A few minutes later, there’s the quiet shuffle of jackets being picked up, shoes being slid on and the sound of goodbyes as Jungkook walks them to the door. You watch the way he moves −polite, warm and attentive. Whatever edge he was carrying earlier has dulled.
When the door finally closes, Jungkook stands there for a second, hand still on the handle. As he turns back toward you, the difference is visible.
“They’re all gone?” you ask.
“Yeah.”
It’s just the two of you now as he walks toward the living room, then glances upstairs. “Do you want to go back to the karaoke room?” he asks.
“Do you want to?” you ask gently.
He thinks for a moment, then shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so,” he says. “Can we just sit somewhere normal?”
“Normal sounds good.”
You move to the living room and settle onto the couch. He turns off the remaining lights, leaving only a warm lamp near the corner. The house feels completely different now, quiet and private.
He sits beside you, leaning back into the couch, his head tips slightly toward you. “I let too much get to me tonight,” he says. “I shouldn’t have.”
“That happens.”
“I feel stupid for getting overwhelmed in my own house.”
You turn toward him. “You were hosting, that’s not the same as relaxing.”
He considers that. “I kept checking if everyone was having fun,” he admits. “If the food was enough or the music was good or if anyone looked bored.”
“When was the last time you went somewhere and didn’t feel responsible for how it went?”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again. “I don’t know,” he says. “I think I forgot how to just exist around people.”
“You exist around me all the time,” you point out.
He glances at you. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“You don’t react to me like I’m… me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You are you.”
He shakes his head, searching for the words. “You don’t watch me or wait for me to be interesting,” he explains. “With you, I don’t feel like I have to manage myself as much.”
You lean back into the couch beside him. “You don’t,” you say simply.
For a while, the two of you sit there, the quiet stretching comfortably. Then, slowly, he shifts again, his shoulder brushing yours lightly.
You don’t move away. A few seconds later, he lets a little more of his weight rest there.
“I think I’ve been tired for a long time,” he says wearily.
His breathing slows, his head tipping sideways carefully until it comes to rest against your shoulder. The way his body relaxes afterward tells you he’d been holding himself up for much longer than just tonight.
His weight settles gradually against you. At first it’s just his head on your shoulder, his breathing evening out, the tension leaving him in layers. Your own breathing becomes careful, so you don’t disturb whatever fragile calm he’s finally found.
A few minutes pass like that before his hand shifts absentmindedly, his fingers sliding across the couch between you until they graze yours and pause there. You let yours meet his and the moment you do, his hand closes around yours.
His thumb caresses across your knuckles, you feel his breathing get deeper, heavier with the edge of sleep.
“I’m really glad I called you.”
Jungkook’s voice is rough with exhaustion, his words slower, softened by alcohol and the long day behind him.
“I’m glad you did,” you answer gently.
“You always come,” he murmurs.
You don’t know what to say to that without making it heavier than it needs to be, so you squeeze his hand once.
“I’m always here,” you tell him.
His head shifts slightly against your shoulder, settling more comfortably. You think he’s drifting off. Then his voice comes again, words slipping out because he’s too tired to hold them back.
“I don’t say this enough−” he starts, the words uneven but honest. “But I don’t know what I would do without you, Y/N. When I’m with you, I don’t feel like I have to be anyone else.”
“That means a lot, Kook,” you say.
“I trust you the most.”
There’s a fragile openness in the way he says it, like a pure and unfiltered truth. His breathing catches slightly, like he’s hovering between sleep and waking.
Then, almost against your shoulder, he whispers, “I love you.”
Your heart stutters, because you know this moment isn’t about what comes next. This is the version of him that’s too tired to protect himself, the version that trusts you enough to fall apart a little.
So instead of speaking, you turn your head and rest your cheek lightly against his hair. Your free hand comes up to smooth the strands back from his forehead. His hand tightens on yours once more and a quiet exhale leaves him as if something inside him finally settled.
After that, his weight grows heavier against you and his breathing evens out completely.
He’s finally asleep.
You stay like that for a few minutes, just to be sure. His grip loosens slightly, but his hand doesn’t let go of yours entirely. Even in sleep, his fingers remain hooked around yours, like he’s still holding onto the one thing that made the night feel safe.
Carefully, you shift.
“Hey,” you murmur, just to move him without startling him. He makes a small sound, barely awake. “I’ve got you,” you whisper.
Slowly, you guide him to lean back against the couch. He goes easily, heavy with sleep, his head tilting toward you again as you ease him down. You slide a cushion under his head, adjusting it until his neck isn’t strained.
His hand searches once, briefly, and you place your hand back in his. Only then does he settle.
You sit beside him for a moment longer, your thumb moving lightly over his knuckles the way his had done on yours earlier. Up close, he looks younger like this. The constant awareness he carries is gone from his face, replaced by something natural and unguarded.
Gently, you reach for the edge of his jacket. “Let’s get you comfortable,” you say.
You ease his arm out first, slow and careful so you don’t wake him, and then the other. Jungkook stirs once but doesn’t open his eyes, his breathing staying deep and steady.
You fold the jacket and place it over the back of the couch. A throw blanket rests nearby which you shake out quietly and drape it over him, tucking it lightly around his shoulders and down his side.
He shifts under it, curling slightly toward where you’re sitting, instinctively seeking the warmth of you. You slide a little closer and let your hand rest gently against his hair again, stroking him with the same calming motion you’ve used before when he was too wired to sleep after long hours that bled into days.
He’s completely out now. For a long time, you sit there with him. Your hand stays in his hair, the other loosely held in his, his grip relaxed but still there. You don’t know what tomorrow will bring −whether he’ll remember everything he said or pretend he didn’t.
But that can wait. Right now, he’s sleeping and peaceful, and he isn’t carrying the weight of anyone else’s expectations.
Jungkook is safe with you.
You lean back into the couch, mindful not to pull your hand away. “I’m here,” you whisper, though he’s already asleep.
And after a while, with the steady rhythm of his breathing beside you, the quiet reaches you too.
🫂