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

Chapter 117: Versions of A Home

Even when it stings a little.

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Gabriel is annoyingly good at what he does.
I mean it.

The man walks into Hobi's studio this morning like he's clocking in at his second home-tape measure already slung around his neck, blueprint tube in one hand, clipboard in the other.

His sleeves rolled up, hair pushed back, and that same easygoing grin like he just walked out of a beach cafe commercial.

"Hoseok," he says brightly, stepping into the studio space with a wave, "your sound issue? I think I cracked it."

I raise an eyebrow from where I'm tightening a shelf bracket. "That fast?"

He shrugs. "Just needed to play with density and positioning. Sound bleed's a matter of math and material. Check this out."

He unrolls a new sketch and sets it down between us on the long table. It's clean, minimalist, and-dammit-clever.

He's designed a double-insulated sound baffle system using angled inner panels and adjustable foam densities that basically eats echo.

It would divide Hobi and Jungkook's adjacent spaces without boxing them in.

Hobi could record vocals at full power, and Kook could still stream in peace. It's genius.

Even Namjoon, who's usually the one being the genius, leans in over his shoulder and murmurs, "That's... clever."

Gab grins like a student who's pleased the headmaster.

Hobi, who's been standing a few feet back the whole time, nods slowly.

"That would... actually fix everything."

"Great," Gab says easily.

He's helpful. Efficient. Friendly.
And I kind of want to push him into a pillow fort and leave him there.

The day ticks by in blurts of motion.

We move from measuring walls to lifting frames. Gab starts mapping the ceiling grid in chalk.

Y/N flits in and out with cold barley tea and snacks, sleeves rolled up, hair tied loosely-soft tendrils falling around her temples.

She leans over to check something with Gab-smiling, nodding, laughing at some old joke-I feel it.

That tug.
A ridiculous, irrational knot in my chest.

I know better. I trust her. I love her.

But the way he looks at her-like he's known her across a thousand lifetimes?

Like he's seen her runny-nosed and braced-up and still adores her?

Yeah.
That gets me.

At some point, we're adjusting ceiling spacing.

I'm up on the step ladder, holding a leveler over the beam with one hand and squinting at the chalk line with the other.

Gab is below, stabilizing the ladder.

"Didn't think I'd be spending my Saturday measuring ceiling beams in a house full of soulmates," he says with a grin, steadying the base as I shift the leveler above.

I glance down. "Didn't think I'd let a stranger touch my crown molding, yet here we are."

He laughs. "Fair. But I promise I know what I'm doing. I've built weirder."

"Oh yeah?" I ask, adjusting the chalk line. "Like what?"

"Floating treehouse co-working pod. Don't ask."