You hated Jungkook.
It wasn't the casual, "ugh, he's annoying" kind of hate. It was the eye-rolling, rage-inducing, "if I had a dollar for every time he made me want to scream, I'd buy an island just to never see his smug face again" kind of hate.
He was the school golden boy—track star, good grades, five minutes late to class yet never got in trouble. You? The top of the class, obsessed with neat notes and avoiding clowns like Jeon freaking Jungkook.
You two were like oil and water. Or worse—Pepsi and Mentos.
And now? You were stuck in detention with him. Alone. Because of an argument that exploded mid-assembly, resulting in a yelling match and a knocked-over mic stand.
"Nice going, Shakespeare," you muttered as he flopped into the seat beside yours.
He grinned. "You make detention sound romantic."
You narrowed your eyes. "Only thing romantic here is the tragic end I'm plotting for you."
He chuckled and slid a worksheet your way. "Want to copy my answers?"
"I'd rather chew a USB cable."
His laugh was soft this time. "You're lucky I find your rage cute."
Your pencil froze mid-sentence. Cute?
Nope. Not thinking about it.
Detention dragged.
Ten minutes in, Jungkook's pen died. He clicked it. Repeatedly. Loudly. On purpose.
"You're testing me," you snapped.
"And you're failing," he shot back.
But then your water bottle slipped, teetering off the desk—and before it could hit the floor, he caught it. One-handed. Reflexively.
His fingers brushed yours as he handed it back. Just a touch. Warm. Firm. His skin was calloused—probably from basketball or guitar or being illegally attractive.
"Reflexes. You impressed?" he asked, gaze locking with yours.
"No," you mumbled. "Just surprised you're useful."
But your cheeks betrayed you, burning red.
"Admit it," he whispered, leaning closer. "You don't actually hate me."
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me."
"I do hate you."
He smirked. "So why haven't you moved your hand?"
You looked down.
Your hand was still touching his.
You yanked it back. "That was an accident."
"Sure," he said, raising an eyebrow. "Call it what you want."
The following week, something shifted.
The bickering continued—but now there were pauses. Little silences where neither of you spoke, but everything buzzed.
He started passing you notes in class. Stupid doodles, sarcastic comments, little inside jokes. Once he slid you a sticky note with a tiny doodle of you pushing him off a cliff and wrote:
"Still think about me falling for you? "
You scribbled back:
"Only in my nightmares."
But you kept the note.
You also caught him staring during lunch. Not in a creepy way. In a "you just made a weird face while drinking your juice box and now I'm weirdly smiling about it" way.
And then came the field trip.
Rainy. Cold. Muddy.
You were stuck organizing supplies in the tent when Jungkook walked in—hair wet, hoodie soaked, and annoyingly attractive.
"You look like a wet dog," you said.
"You look like someone I want to hold hands with," he replied casually.
You blinked. "What?"
He shrugged. "Thought I'd try flirting instead of fighting."
You stared. He was being serious.
"N-no thanks," you stammered, flustered.
He grinned. "You sure?"
His hand inched toward yours. Your breath caught.
And then—he actually did it.
He laced his fingers through yours.
Warm. Gentle. Bold.
Your brain short-circuited. "What… what are you doing?"
"Just experimenting," he said. "To see if you'll let me."
You didn't pull away.
You couldn't.
It felt too right.
After the trip, everything changed.
He walked you to class. Waited outside the library when you studied late. Shared his hoodie when the A/C blasted too cold.
And yes—he held your hand. In secret. Behind bookshelves. Under the cafeteria table. While pretending to argue about math.
One day, as he leaned over your desk during a group project, his knuckles brushed your cheek. Soft. Deliberate.
"Your blush is showing," he whispered.
"S-shut up," you hissed, ducking your head.
He laughed, brushing a finger under your chin, lifting it gently. His eyes met yours.
"You like me," he said, almost in awe.
You shoved him away. "Do not."
But later that day, he found a sticky note tucked in his locker:
"Fine. Maybe I don't hate you all the time."
He showed up to your next class wearing the biggest, dumbest grin.
Then came the date.
He didn't take you to a movie or a fancy café. He took you to the arcade. Bright lights, candy machines, chaos—and somehow, exactly what you needed.
You beat him at air hockey. Twice. He insisted the puck was "rigged." You stole the last slice of pizza. He pouted and made you feed him a bite.
When you got cold, he draped his hoodie over your shoulders and didn't ask for it back.
And when you sat together on the bus ride home—hands linked under the seat, fingers tangled like puzzle pieces—you leaned your head on his shoulder.
He kissed your knuckles.
Soft. Shy. Real.
"Do you still hate me?" he whispered.
You smiled. "Only when you cheat at games."
He chuckled, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. "That's fair."
The first time he kissed you—really kissed you—it wasn't perfect. His nose bumped yours. You almost knocked over your water bottle (again). But when his hand cradled your jaw and his lips brushed yours—gentle at first, then deeper—it was like the rest of the world just… paused.
"You're seriously bad for my academic focus," you whispered against his lips.
"And you're the best thing to ever ruin my peace," he whispered back.
Now?
Now he holds your hand in public. Teases you when you get flustered. Still argues with you in class—but always with a wink.
You sit next to him on purpose. Share fries. Wear his hoodie even when it's not cold.
He leaves notes in your locker with horrible poetry and ends every one with "P.S. I still hate you (not really)."
He kisses your forehead in the hallway and says, "Just marking my enemy."
You shove him.
You love it.