You spend most weekends at Jungkook’s now. 

It wasn’t an active decision, just one that came naturally, like most things seemed to when it came to the two of you together. You knew where he kept his house’s spare key, you knew what drawer the whisks and spatulas were in, and you knew what it felt like to be fucked on every practical surface in the house—and fuck it, even many of the non-practical ones. Like, who would ever think to fuck your pussy through the back slats of a kitchen chair? Or demand a blowjob right in the doorway of the open fridge, the cool tendrils of air flowing over his back and “Better make it fast babygirl, can’t let the food go bad,” dripping off his lips. Jungkook, that’s who.