Like Fine Art | JEON JUNGKOOK

Chapter Nineteen: Texts

Tuesday morning air had that wet chill clinging to it, like the sky couldn't decide whether to drizzle or stay grey and moody. I pulled my jacket tighter around myself and walked with Nova, both of us quietly sipping takeaway coffees. We had studio first thing, and after being holed up in the flat since Saturday night, the cold air bit at my cheeks with a little too much enthusiasm.

I hadn't replied to Jungkook's text. He'd asked if I wanted to walk to class together. I'd seen it. Stared at it. Read it six times. Then put my phone face down and left the flat earlier than usual just to avoid running into him.

It wasn't because I didn't want to see him. I did—more than I wanted to admit. But I didn't know how to act. What to say. What that kiss even meant. And I hated not knowing. Hated feeling like the floor beneath my feet wasn't quite stable anymore.

Nova, bless her, was oblivious. She was talking about some guy in her critical theory lecture who had challenged their lecturer to a debate about whether Instagram was a legitimate art platform.

"And I swear to god," she said, gesturing with her coffee cup, "this man had a whole PowerPoint prepped on his phone. Like, actual slides. He was ready."

I laughed, maybe a little too forcefully. "That's commitment."

"No, that's psychotic," she replied, grinning.

We walked into the studio just as a few others were trickling in. The usual smell of paint and turpentine welcomed us, and the low hum of conversation buzzed through the space. I took my usual spot near the back by the windows, setting down my bag and pulling out my sketchbook.

Jungkook wasn't here yet.

I tried not to glance at the door every few seconds. Tried to focus on the prep for our next piece—something to do with mixed media and personal identity. Very on-brand for second year.

Nova was rambling about whether to use textile scraps or magazine cutouts when I heard the door click open.

And there he was.

Late. Hoodie pulled over his dark hair, bag slung over his shoulder. His eyes scanned the room and landed right on me.

I looked down at my sketchbook instantly, acting like I hadn't noticed him. Which was so stupid because of course I noticed him. My entire nervous system noticed him.

"Morning," he said, breezing past Nova and me like nothing had happened. Like he hadn't kissed me on my sofa and left me spiralling for three days.

Nova mumbled a greeting in return, not even looking up from her doodles. I didn't say anything.

Jungkook settled a few stools away, unpacking his things with maddening calm. My skin prickled. I forced myself to scribble something—anything—onto the page. A nose. A badly drawn eyebrow.

"Hey," he said a few minutes later, voice low, directed only at me.

I looked up.

He was watching me with those annoyingly deep, unreadable eyes. Like he knew I'd been avoiding him. Like he was just waiting for me to crack.

"Did you get my message?"

"Yeah," I said, throat dry. "Sorry. I left early."

He nodded slowly, lips pressing into a line. "Right. Cool."

The awkward tension settled between us like dust.

Our professor clapped their hands, drawing everyone's attention, and the rest of the morning passed in a blur of materials and direction. But even as I cut and pasted and layered textures onto my canvas, I felt his presence like gravity. He didn't talk much, just worked silently. Every so often, I'd catch him glancing over.