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

Chapter 109: Post-Nap Meows & Human Feelings

Too wide. Too bright. Too much.
Like the sun trying to apologize for burning you.

I know what that kind of smile means.

The air tonight smells like lemon soap and leftover bulgogi. A little sweet, a little grounded. Like home. Like healing.

I finish wiping down the last counter while Joon rinses mugs (with my supervision) and Yoongi dries them wordlessly beside him, his hair still damp from his earlier shower.

We move like we've done this a hundred times-which we have.

There's comfort in repetition.
Comfort in knowing what to expect.

At the gaming room, Tae and Kook are somewhere deep into a boss fight on the living room floor, shouting things like "NO, USE THE POTION, THE GREEN ONE-NO THAT'S A FISH," while Yeontan snoozes contentedly across both their feet.

On the couch, Jimin is tucked neatly against Y/N's side, legs tangled, sharing a blanket and way too many knowing smirks for two people who swear they're "just relaxing."

Wacha is curled in Y/N's lap, purring like a vibrating threat.

Soft jazz hums from the Bluetooth speaker-something lo-fi and lazy, the kind of thing you put on when you want the night to stretch forever.

The lighting is golden.
Cozy.

The kind of lighting that makes everything and everyone look loved.

Eventually, I wander off-warm tea in hand-and find myself in the pool deck.

And somehow, Hoseok's already there.
Of course he is.

He's sprawled like a painting on the long outdoor couch, one arm over his eyes, the other hanging dramatically off the side like he's fainted from heartbreak in an opera.

I chuckle, settling into the armchair across from him. "Are you auditioning for a tragic musical, Hobes?"

He doesn't even flinch. "Just feeling my existential despair, hyung."

"Ah." I sip my tea. "Very sparkly of you."

He peeks one eye open, giving me a dry look. "Glitter despair is still despair."

"You're literally radiating confetti even while being sad. It's confusing. And mildly blinding."

He snorts. "You're just jealous of my dramatic flair."

"Always," I deadpan.

"What's the point of processing emotions if you can't do it with jazz hands?"

It's easy, this back-and-forth. It always has been.

There's a rhythm to being with Hobi that doesn't require sheet music.

We just know how to play off each other.
But tonight... something's different.

He exhales slowly, sinking deeper into the cushions. His hand rests against his stomach like he's holding something in.

Or holding something together.

I let the silence sit between us.
Stretch a little.

It's the kind of silence that invites honesty.

Hobi whispers, voice low, "I haven't felt like myself lately."

I look up. His eyes are still closed.
But the smile's gone. And suddenly he looks small.

Not weak-never that.
Just... tired.

"I don't know if I'm allowed to say that," he adds, softer, "when I'm supposed to be the one who lifts everyone up."