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

Chapter 124: Love in the Tension Lines

And me?
I lose it.

Full-bodied laughter erupts from my chest like an exorcism of every ounce of tension I'd carried this morning.

I clutch Hobi hyung's hoodie, tears streaming as I gasp, "You maniac! I can't-breathe-"

Hobi hyung just grins wickedly, relentless.

"Laughter is my love language! Suffer joyfully!"

Wacha peeks into the doorway and blinks like we've lost our minds.

Tannie barks from down the bed in what sounds like moral judgment.

Even Bam lifts his head somewhere outside the room, groans dramatically, and then thuds back down like he's decided to let the children play.

Eventually, Hobi hyung flops between us in an exhausted heap, his chest heaving, hair fluffed, cheeks pink.

We're breathless, glowing.

Kookie's head is resting on my thigh. Jimin's draped over Yoongi hyung like a sleepy cat.

Hobi hyung has one foot sticking off the bed and the smuggest grin I've ever seen.

He wiggles his eyebrows. "Better?"

"Much," I whisper, brushing back Kookie's hair. "Thank you, hyung."

He wiggles between Yoongi hyung and Jimin pushing Kook and me almost at the edge of the bed.

"Anytime. I bring sunshine. It's my whole brand."

Yoongi hyung murmurs beside him, voice low and affectionate, "You bring chaos. But I'm not complaining."

Hobi hyung hums, then presses a soft kiss to Yoongi hyung's shoulder as he blushes.

"Chaos. Comfort. Same difference when you're in love."

And just like that-the air in the room changes.

Lighter.
Easier.

Not because anything got fixed, but because love held the weight for a while.

And somehow, in this ridiculous, chaotic nest of limbs and laughter, we all believe-for a little while-that we're going to be okay.

Just as the laughter from Hobi hyung's ambush dies down into warm little giggles and the occasional wheeze, the door creaks open again-this time with a touch more grace.

Enter: Kim Seokjin.

Our oldest. Our unofficial (but very official) kitchen monarch and emotional weather anchor.

He doesn't say a word at first-just glides in holding a tray with five ceramic mugs.

Steam curls upward like a love letter in smoke.

The scent hits before he does: rich cocoa, with hints of vanilla and cinnamon.

"Hydration is important," he says like a priest delivering communion, before kneeling beside the bed placing the tray of mugs on the bedside table with his usual exaggerated flourish.

He leans in and gently presses a