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

Chapter 126: Soft Wars and Silent Codes🔥

Y/N's POV

Sunlight is absolutely showing off this morning, slanting through my half-covered office windows like it knows it's starring in a lifestyle blog shoot.

The air smells like fresh plans and old wood, and my soon-to-be home office looks like a paint store had a very artistic meltdown.

Sketches are strewn across the floor, blueprints unfurl like scrolls of destiny, and paint swatches are scattered everywhere like the floor is playing emotional roulette.

And there we are: me and Gabriel, sitting cross-legged on this brand-new rug that still smells like packaging and Pinterest goals.

Color samples are fanned between us, and my mocha-dawn pick is being disrespected.

Gabriel holds up a swatch of lavender-gray like it's the Holy Grail.

"Okay, Tabby, but if you paint the whole thing this beige, it's going to look like the inside of a potato," he says, totally serious.

I gasp-mock gasp, obviously. "Excuse you. This is not beige. This is mocha dawn. It's soft. It's romantic. It's cinematic trauma recovery chic."

He raises an eyebrow, not buying it, and I raise one right back like we're in some HGTV showdown.

He grins. "Right. Mocha dawn. Sounds like a coffee order and an indie band."

"Exactly. It's on trend and emotionally grounded," I shoot back, giving my swatch a loving pat like I'm defending a tiny square-shaped child.

The banter melts into nostalgia the way it always does with Gabriel.

We start digging through memory boxes like the sentimental hoarders we are-back to high school art battles, late-night set builds for drama club, and that one rainy evening when we tried to construct a cardboard castle for a school musical and ended up drenched, laughing, and covered in glue.

"Remember when you swore your architectural taping job would hold during curtain call?" I say, smirking.

"It did hold," he argues, throwing his arms out defensively.

"Well... technically. It wobbled."

"You said, and I quote, 'This is structurally sound unless someone breathes aggressively.'"

I laugh, pressing a paint swatch to my chest like I'm about to do a dramatic reading.

"But you nailed your line," he says, chuckling.

"'To love and lend an ear.' We screamed like idiots. I think Ms. Hernandez actually cried."

A warm, honeyed ache rises in my chest.

I remember it so clearly-me in a glittery dress made of recycled confetti, Gabriel's ridiculous raincoat, the two of us proud and chaotic and 85% glue stick.

I glance at him, this piece of my past who knows my weirdest high school obsessions and how I used to name all my markers.

There's something comforting about this, about us like this.

And still, as I hold up the mocha dawn swatch again, something in me softens.

Because yeah, Gabriel's been part of my blueprint for a long time.

But the rest of my palette-the mess, the magic, the belonging-it lives just down the hall.

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Jungkook's POV