Stigma Love's Algorithm [ A BTS x Reader Poly ]

Chapter 87: Plants, Pinkies & Paper Cranes

Taehyung's POV

The heat wrapped around me the moment I stepped into the greenhouse-soft, golden, and full of life. It clung to my skin, balmy and fragrant, thick with the scent of wet soil and citrus blossom.

The world outside was snowbound and silent, but in here, it felt like some sacred in-between place. A breath held between seasons.

A pocket of stillness carved just for this moment.

I took slow steps along the worn stone path between waist-high ferns and clusters of orchids that glistened under the misting system.

Lo-fi guitar hummed faintly through unseen speakers, mellow and almost reverent, the kind of sound that doesn't fill a room, just drapes over it like fog.

And me-I was pacing.

God, I must've circled that same monstera plant ten times already.

Its wide, fenestrated leaves shimmered with condensation, reaching toward the ceiling like it could escape the nervous energy I was radiating.

I ran my hands down my coat, smoothing non-existent wrinkles.

Checked my breath against my palm. Adjusted the gold clasp of my jacket collar. Ruffled my fringe, messed it up, fixed it again.

I hadn't felt this kind of electric anticipation since my first meeting with Yoongi hyung and Y/N Noona .

This wasn't just a meeting. It was him-Jungkook.

The Jungkook I'd watched for weeks in flashes and fragments-on livestreams, behind headphones, always half-shielded by a glowing screen and the murmurs of fandom mythos.

Everyone talked about him like he wasn't even real.

Like he was some esports specter. brilliant, untouchable, devastating in his playstyle, quiet in interviews, always with that calculating, unreadable stare.

But me? I'd listened closer.

I'd heard something in his voice during late-night streams watching it with Y/N noona, Yoongi Hyung, Jin hyung and Joon hyung.

The way he laughed at his own jokes, or said hyung so softly when replying to teammates.

There were edges in him that no one else seemed to notice. And I'd spent way too long wondering what those edges might feel like up close.

A breath. A step. A murmur of wind through the vents.

Then-
The door creaked.

I stopped breathing.

The wooden frame groaned slowly open, letting in a slice of white winter light and a gust of cold that kissed the floor with a shiver.

And there he was-silhouetted, head low, hoodie up. He hesitated on the threshold like he was deciding if this was real, or if maybe he could still vanish.