Jungkook’s fingers trace along his skin and stay there, and Yoongi’s breath hitches in response, catches in his throat. The touch is so soft, he could tell himself he was imagining it if it weren’t for the lingering warmth of fingertips against his bare skin, small and hidden. It’s an innocent slip, he knows, but the part of him that was trying to figure out a way to break the hold goes silent and still, eclipsed by the part of him figuring out how to stay like this.

How to get more.

“Cute,” he agrees softly. “And too handsome, aish. You’ll make the rest of us look bad.” It is the most casual way he can think of to tell the truth, better than confessing, than saying, I look at you and I can’t breathe. Better than simply saying beautiful. He’s not sure that’s a compliment Jungkook would even want, the word so traditionally feminine, but it’s true. Those perfect cheekbones, those soft pink lips, the long slope of his neck — everything about him is lovely, is beautiful.

Fuck, he’s so fucking lost.