"Let's go out," Taehyung had declared, stretching like a Greek statue. "We need artistic stimulation."
Which meant: clubbing.
Jungkook arrived late, Sayuri glued to his side like an overly expensive accessory. Her lipstick was perfect. Her tone? Not so much.
"You seriously wore that jacket again?" she muttered at him as they entered.
"It's leather," Jungkook replied dully. "It's timeless."
Taehyung and Jimin exchanged a look across the booth. One of those bro, not this again kind of looks.
By the time the second song played, Sayuri was already rolling her eyes, whispering aggressively into Jungkook's ear. A waiter arrived with their drinks mid-argument, trying to set the tray down while the tension crackled between them.
"Seriously? You storm out every time we fight?" she hissed.
Jungkook muttered something and stood up. "Yeah. I'm going to smoke. Before I break something."
He left.
Sayuri sat back smugly, like she'd just won a power game. Jimin sipped his drink without looking at her. Taehyung, meanwhile, openly sneered.
Then—like fate actually had a sense of humor—she appeared.
Celine.
Sliding into the booth like she owned the club. Wearing black again. Hair tied up. That same signature chaos swirling around her like perfume.
Jimin choked on his drink.
Taehyung gasped. "The Goddess returns."
Celine blinked. "...Sorry?"
Taehyung leaned across the table with a wide grin, "Oh, you don't need to introduce yourself. We know who you are."
Celine raised an eyebrow. "Okaaay..."
Taehyung stood up dramatically. "I'm gonna grab a smoke with our boy before he punches a wall. Or her." He thumbed over to Sayuri, then turned to her with a syrupy-sweet tone. "Enjoy your table, darling. Try not to ruin anyone else's night."
Sayuri scoffed as he walked away.
Celine looked at her, then at Jimin, piecing things together fast. Her lips curled. "Ahhh. Ex, current, or inevitable disaster?"
"Inevitable disaster," Jimin replied without missing a beat.
Sayuri narrowed her eyes. "Who the hell are you?"
Celine turned to her, sugar in her voice, poison in her smile. "I'm the girl who made him forget you existed. For eight hours straight."
Sayuri blinked. Stood up. And left in a huff.
Jimin covered his mouth, trying not to choke on air.
"Still got it," Celine said, casually picking up a drink.
"You," Jimin said slowly, "are going to be the death of me."
She winked. "Then die fabulously."
Jimin didn't know how it happened exactly, but one minute he was explaining the emotional apocalypse that was Sayuri, and the next minute—Celine had him on the dancefloor again.
"She's Jungkook's girlfriend," he said, nearly yelling over the music. "And the most toxic, soul-sucking, manipulative chaos queen alive. He's been trying to leave her for a year and she keeps slithering back like a bad remix."
Celine made a face. "Oof. Red flag."
"She is the flag."
Jimin barely finished the sentence when she grabbed his hand and pulled him into the crowd.
And just like that—he was in hell again.
Lights flickered. Bass dropped. Her hips rolled.
Jimin's brain short-circuited.
Celine danced like she was setting the club on fire. One hand in the air, hair messy and glowing under the lights, dress clinging to her like second skin. Jimin didn't even try to resist—he just followed her rhythm like a moth hypnotized by the world's most dangerous flame.
Bodies pressed close. Her back met his chest. His hand ghosted along her waist.
She smirked without turning around. "Told you I'd kill you fabulously."
"Still a good way to go," he muttered into her ear.
And then—cue dramatic beat drop—Taehyung and Jungkook returned.
Taehyung blinked. "Bro... is that Jimin?"
Jungkook squinted. "Wait—is that her again?!"
Taehyung snapped his fingers. "YEP YEP AND YEP!"
"I leave for five minutes and Jimin's back in a situationship with a succubus," Jungkook muttered.
"Oh shut up," Taehyung snorted. "At least his succubus isn't your ex-girlfriend."
Jungkook raised a middle finger. "Current. Barely. Shut up."
They made their way to the edge of the dancefloor where Jimin and Celine were clearly in their own heady little world. Jungkook ran a hand through his hair.
"She looks like she's gonna ruin him."
"Yup," Taehyung said, sipping his drink. "And he's gonna let her. Look at his face. That's the 'destroy me' expression."
Back on the floor, Celine turned around to face Jimin. Their faces were close. Dangerously so.
"You still think I'm trouble?" she teased.
Jimin grinned. "I think you're a fucking hurricane."
She tilted her head. "And you still chasing the storm?"
"Hell yes."
She laughed. "Then don't blame me when you drown."
Before he could reply, she pulled him down by his collar—kissed him like the club was empty—and the crowd lost it. Phones out. Whistles. Cheers.
Taehyung turned to Jungkook. "He's so dramatic, I love him."
Jungkook nodded solemnly. "He's doomed. But he looks hot doing it."
***
The sun was barely up when Celine stepped out of Jimin's hotel suite like nothing happened.
Again.
Hair slightly tousled, lips glossed but smug, sunglasses on like she was hiding from paparazzi who didn't know they should be chasing her yet.
As she opened the door, she nearly bumped into Taehyung, who was just about to knock—with an iced americano in one hand and a breakfast sandwich in the other.
He blinked.
"Damn..." His eyes raked over her in disbelief, then toward the open crack of the door where the lights were still off. "You knocked my boy the hell out again."
Celine just smirked and snatched the iced americano from his hand. "Thanks, bestie."
"I—what?!" Taehyung blinked at his now empty hand. "Ma'am, that was mine."
"Tastes better now," she said with a wink, sipping it like it was victory. "Hydration after sin is important."
From inside the hotel, the sound of Jimin groaning into a pillow echoed faintly.
Taehyung laughed so hard he had to lean against the wall. "I swear to God, you're gonna give that man PTSD—and he's gonna beg for more."
Just then, Jungkook appeared—freshly showered, dressed in all black, silver chains layered just right, hair slicked into a mullet, and the kind of round glasses that made him look like a sinful librarian. He looked hot enough to be illegal before 8AM.
Celine lowered her sunglasses to properly assess him. "Well, damn. No wonder your ex is batshit crazy for you."
Jungkook raised an eyebrow. "Excuse me?"
She grinned. "Try leaving the country, lover boy. You might find someone who doesn't throw wine glasses or tantrums. Maybe the opposite."
Taehyung choked on laughter behind her.
Jungkook gave her a long, unimpressed look... and smirked. "And you're that 'someone'?"
"Oh God no," she laughed. "I'm worse."
With that, she strutted away—Taehyung still wheezing, Jungkook shaking his head in disbelief, and Jimin still probably dead in bed somewhere under his duvet like a man who'd been spiritually exorcised.
"She's unhinged," Jungkook muttered.
"She's iconic," Taehyung corrected.
Jimin woke up groggy, sore, and vaguely offended by how good the morning light looked streaming through his hotel suite windows. His neck? Ached. His thighs? Burning. His brain? Not functioning.
He groaned and turned his head—only to see the faint imprint of Celine's kiss left on his other pillow. Again.
Beside it, a note written in cherry-red pen:
"Had fun. Again. Also took your black hoodie. Again. Don't miss me too much. xoxo – C"
He blinked.
"...Not again."
Just as he was about to rise, his bedroom door burst open.
"YAH. GET UP."
Jungkook's voice tore through the hotel suite like a bomb. He stomped in, eyes wild, glasses abandoned somewhere in frustration, hair looking like it'd fought gravity and lost.
"We have a runway to attend in thirty minutes," he barked, sounding way too comfortable as a drill sergeant. "That's the only reason we're even in this godforsaken city."
"Don't yell," Jimin groaned into his pillow. "I think I broke a rib."
"Oh? So that's why you were dead to the world while a whole woman walked out with your dignity—and my coffee," Taehyung quipped, sauntering in with a croissant in hand and sunglasses he clearly didn't need indoors.
Jimin lifted his head, puffy-eyed and croaky, "Where is she?"
"Gone. Like your hoodie. AGAIN."
Taehyung pointed to the closet, where one sad hanger swung slightly, the ghost of betrayal creaking in the air.
30 MINUTES LATER
Paris Fashion Week. A storm of lights, silk, diamonds, and egos. The holy trinity of visuals—Jungkook in all-black sharpness, Taehyung draped in runway chaos that somehow made sense, and Jimin, the walking contradiction of angelic fragility and undeniable heat—took their front-row thrones.
Stylists had nearly gone feral dressing Jimin. His back bore battle scars—Taehyung teasingly called them "bed war trophies," while Jungkook offered to "blur them with holy water or Photoshop."
Still, the cameras flashed. Paparazzi zoomed. The trinity sat front row, silent and untouchable.
The lights dimmed.
The first beat of music dropped.
And the show began.
She walked out mid-show.
Minimalist. Effortless. Raw.
No shimmer, no theatrics—Celine wore a muted ivory dress that clung to her like a second skin. Her makeup was barely there, like the stylists had hesitated to touch her face. She didn't wear the dress. She was the dress. Soft. Crisp. Movement like liquid.
Her face? Stoic. Like she hadn't said the things she said. Like last night was just a blackout to erase.
But when her eyes locked with Jimin's for exactly three seconds, it was a slow, lethal punch to the chest.
She didn't flinch.
He didn't blink.
Jungkook, bored until then, lowered his sunglasses slightly and muttered, "Yo, that's the girl, isn't it?"
Taehyung stopped chewing his gum.
Cameras still flashed.
Fashion still walked.
But everything slowed for Jimin.
Because she was there. And her silence on the runway screamed louder than anything she ever said.