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

Chapter 109: Post-Nap Meows & Human Feelings

I sigh.
Here we go.

Love is messy. Loud. Chaotic. Unreasonable.

It is dropped treats and tangled limbs and late-night piano songs and long stares over pillow forts.

It is a house full of idiots who kiss too much and talk too loud and never let me nap in peace.

It is mine. And unfortunately Tannie's.
I wouldn't trade them for anyone else.

Except salmon.

Prrrrrrr.

_________________________

Yoongi's POV

Look.
I was fine.

I was at the piano, doing what I do best-minding my own damn business, pretending not to listen while absolutely listening to everything going on in the room.

Tae and Jungkook were yelling about pillows like the fate of the universe depended on it.

Wacha was loafing nearby like she pays rent.

Namjoon was trying to convince everyone to watch something deeply boring again.

Y/N was making those little happy noises she makes when she's snuggled under three blankets and watching her soulmates be idiots.

I was fine.

And then Park Jimin happened.
Like a glitter bomb with abs.
Again.

He walks over like he owns the floor.

That stupid smug little bounce in his step. That 'I know I'm hot and also the problem' energy.

I can feel him before I see him-because of course I can.

And then he does it.
He sits down.
Right next to me.

No warning.
No 'Hey, can I join you?'

Just swoop-hip to hip, no space, like we've done this a hundred times.

Wacha, who had taken up residence on the other side of the bench like the furry dictator she is, barely twitches.

She's seen this horror story unfold before.

Jimin leans in.
Leans in.

His stupid chin rests on my shoulder.
Light. Casual.

Like we didn't just skip five stages of intimacy.

And then-"Mmm. You smell nice. And you're warm."

Excuse me?!

My brain short-circuits.
Gone. Just static.

I don't even breathe for a second.

Hands? Frozen mid-air.
Hovering above the keys like they're expecting divine intervention.

Spine? Straight as a steel rod.

Heart? Pounding like I'm fifteen and someone just called me cute behind the bike shed.

I don't move away.

I should.
I tell myself I should.

I whisper it like a threat.
Move, Min Yoongi.

Be normal. Set boundaries.
Reclaim dignity.

But I don't.
Because I can't.

Because he's right there, and he smells like citrus and danger and everything soft I pretend I don't want.

Across the room, Tae is watching us like it's the season finale of a K-drama, chin on Yeontan like a prop.

Kook is cackling into a pillow like he just witnessed a crime.