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

Chapter 109: Post-Nap Meows & Human Feelings

And shit.
I think I believe him.

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You ever get so overwhelmed by a person that your whole body feels like it's holding its breath?

That's what sitting next to Jimin does.

Even after he's wandered off to cuddle up between Jungkook and Hobi on the massive couch pile like a smug little cat who just knocked over every book on your shelf and winked, I'm still sitting at the piano like a malfunctioning security camera.

My fingers haven't moved.
Wacha hasn't either.

She just stares at me, judgmental and knowing.
She knows I'm gone.

The others have started drifting off now. The usual bedtime chaos.

Tae and Kook are currently trying to coax Yeontan into his tiny pajamas (he has three outfits, don't ask), while Jin hyung yells in the background about how "Tannie deserves organic fleece, not this polyester garbage."

Y/N is curled into Joon's side on the main couch, whispering and giggling every few seconds-her feet tucked into Jin hyung's lap like she owns all of them, which, let's be honest, she does.

Jin hyung is pretending to be annoyed, but every time she squeezes his calf, his whole face goes soft and fond and whipped beyond salvation.

Joon presses a sleepy kiss to her hair, murmuring something about "bookstore dates" and "you're still my favorite chaos gremlin."

Hobi's tucked under three blankets like a burrito, using Jimin's thigh as a pillow, and Kook is somewhere between lying across Hobi and Tae like a human bridge and reaching over to grab snacks with octopus arms.

Every once in a while, someone yells something dumb.

"Jungkook, stop feeding Yeontan chips."

"Wacha's on my blanket and I'm scared to move her."

"Who took the last peach jelly?"

"Namjoon, your documentary's still playing. The comet's been orbiting the screen for 45 minutes."

It's loud, chaotic, filled with warmth and crumbs and limbs everywhere.

It's a mess.
It's mine.

But the second the lights go off-
the second it's just dim lamp glow, moonlight, and soft breathing-

That's when the ache hits.
That quiet thing.

That ache that feels like something good is trying to grow in your chest too fast and your ribs don't know how to hold it.

So I do the only thing I know how to do with feelings that don't fit in words.

I write them.

It's Midnight, and the house is asleep.

I slip out from the mountain of blankets, careful not to disturb the mess of arms and legs sprawled around me.

Wacha follows me with her eyes as I pass.
She blinks slowly like a guardian of secrets.
I nod back. She's on night watch now.

I head back to the piano.
Barefoot. Hoodie loose.
Hair a mess.

The world is hushed, like someone's draped a velvet blanket over the night.

Only moonlight spills across the hardwood floor, painting long silver lines through the studio.

I sit down.
Breathe.

Then-without planning-my fingers start to move.

Slow at first.
Testing. Feeling.

Then more certain.