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

Chapter 105: Seven Idiots and a Star

The curtains flutter gently against the balcony doors, their sheer fabric glowing in the light.

Beyond them, the wide terrace is bathed in soft morning haze, the scent of damp earth and faint salt air curling in through the crack we left open last night.

The bed - our ridiculous, obscene, monstrous bed that could easily fit a whole soccer team - looks like it's survived a storm.

Pillows tossed like casualties of a cuddle war. Blankets hanging halfway to the floor.

A crumpled tissue box sits abandoned in the corner, one lone tissue clinging to its edge like the last soldier standing.

Definitely Jungkook's doing. Kid cried at least twice when Jin wrapped Jimin into a hug and whispered, "Welcome home."

I smile, heart tugging painfully and sweetly all at once.

God. Last night had been... everything.

And this morning?

This morning feels like the breath you don't realize you've been holding finally slipping free.

Wacha, my glorious, judgmental queen of a cat, is perched regally on the backrest of the nearby sofa, surveying the wreckage of her kingdom with a disdainful flick of her tail.

Yeontan, Tae's tiny bear of chaos, is sprawled out like a small, snoring potato at the foot of the bed, his little paws twitching occasionally in sleep.

I stretch lazily, feeling the comforting weight of bodies pressed close.

Tae is curled up on my left, clutching a pillow like it contains the secrets of the universe, his face smushed against it, soft snores puffing into the air.

Yoongi's on my other side, half-buried under the mountain of blankets, only a mop of soft black hair visible, and the occasional grumpy grunt when someone shifts too loud.

Namjoon is draped over the bed's edge like a starfish, one hand hanging off limply, breathing slow and deep.

Hobi and Jungkook - who, despite not officially living with us yet, seem to basically reside here anyway - are tangled together on the rug.

Jungkook is facedown, arms thrown wide like he lost an epic battle with gravity.

Hobi is sprawled half-across his back, a soft, happy hum escaping him even in sleep.

And Jin oppa...

I hear him first - the sleepy shuffling sound of bare feet against the polished wood floors, the quiet clink of a mug.

I turn my head just enough to see him in the kitchen area.

Still in his pajama pants, hair a fluffy mess, wearing a shirt that reads KING OF CUDDLES in bold lettering across the chest.

Which, frankly, is both an accurate title and a terrifying warning.

He's muttering under his breath about coffee like it's a sacred, ancient ritual that could save or damn us all depending on how correctly he performs it.

I smile into the pillow, my heart so full it's ridiculous.

But... something's missing.

It hits me - not in a loud, screaming way, but in a soft, lingering ache.

A tiny empty space.

I sit up carefully, trying not to disturb the pile of warmth and limbs around me.

I scan the room again.

Blankets? Check.
Mugs? Check.
Crumpled tissues? Check.
Fluffy dictator Wacha? Double check.