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

Chapter 107: Mischief, Menace, and Moonlight 🔥

Hoseok's POV

The house is glowing.

Not metaphorically-though, yeah, that too-but actually glowing.

Like golden hour took one look at this place and said, Yes, this is my canvas.

Light slants through the massive windows, landing in warm pools on the hardwood floors, bouncing off glass frames, and draping itself across every surface like a lazy cat.

It halos over the kitchen counter, kisses the edges of Tae's sketchbook, wraps around Y/N noona's curls like it's in love with her.

It even makes Wacha's fur look expensive.

If love had a color, it would be this kind of gold-quiet, slow, and so sure of itself it doesn't need to announce its arrival.

The living room is a snapshot of peace.

Tae's curled up on the sectional between Yoongi hyung and noona, sketchbook open in his lap, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

His curls flop into his eyes, tongue poking out in concentration as he shades something in.

He's humming again-low and off-key, like he's the soundtrack to his own dreamscape.

Yoongi hyung, half-buried in a chunky throw blanket that looks like it cost more than my rent in college, is sipping something dark from a chipped mug.

Probably one of his rare collector mugs from some indie roastery in Daegu.

Probably black coffee that tastes like regret.

And Wacha-my nemesis-is stretched across Yoongi hyung's lap with the absolute authority of a cat who pays taxes and owns real estate.

Y/N noona sits behind Tae, chin propped on her arms, watching his fingers move like she's trying to memorize the exact shape of his joy.

Across the room, Jimin is crouched dramatically, one knee on the floor, the other raised like he's posing for a Renaissance portrait.

In his hand, a cat treat.
Before him, Wacha.

"You are majestic, my lady," he says, voice all velvet and theater.

"A goddess among peasants. I am but a humble servant to your whims."

Wacha blinks. Accepts the treat.
Flicks her tail in what could only be described as reluctant approval.

Jimin places a hand on his chest and sighs, eyes closing. "Truly, I have lived."

In the kitchen, Jin hyung turns to Joon with a wooden spoon held aloft like a weapon.

"Are you smelling this? This sauce-your sauce-smells like betrayal."

Namjoon blinks, confused. "It's garlic and basil."

"Exactly," Jin says, affronted.

"A betrayal of my taste buds. I expected drama. Suspense. A hint of trauma."

"Hyung, it's spaghetti."

"You wound me, Joonie."

I step through the front door with my hoodie pulled up, backpack slung over one shoulder, and the second I inhale-
The smell of roasted tomatoes and something citrusy hits me like a hug.

There's music playing-something soft and weird and beautiful, which could only mean Tae's playlist is on again.

The kind of music that makes you feel like a main character even if you're just buttering toast.

And just like that, all the stress I've been carrying-emails, edits, brand pitches, four overlapping project deadlines-melts at my feet like ice cream on asphalt.