seven dates to valentine's .ᐟ
date one — bean there, done that

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THE BEAN GRIND reeked of desperation and day-old coffee grounds.

Jungkook slouched at his usual window seat, the one with the wobbly leg that threatened to give out every time someone sneezed too hard.

His clipboard glared back at him, the words “7 Days of Forced Romance with Kim Taehyung” practically screaming in Comic Sans. Seven days.

Seven days with the human equivalent of a luxury car commercial—all sharp edges, icy stares, and enough arrogance to power the campus grid.

The guy who’d once reduced a first-year to a puddle of tears for grazing his Bentley with a soccer ball. The guy who—ugh.

Jungkook tugged at his fuzzy pink hoodie—his emotional support armor—as his ex’s voice slithered into his skull: “You’re not even worth the effort, Jungkook.”

He crushed the memory like a beer can. Whatever. He’d survived three years of student council budget meetings. He could handle one awkward coffee “date.” 

The café door banged open like a gunshot.

Every sleep-deprived head swiveled. 

Taehyung stood framed in the doorway, sunlight bouncing off his… three-piece suit. Navy, crisp, with a pocket square that screamed, “I hired a stylist to look effortlessly rich.” In a room full of sweatpants and last week’s eyeliner, he looked like a CEO who’d accidentally teleported into a dorm party. 

Jungkook’s brain blue-screened. A snort burst out of him—sharp, loud, unstoppable. Then he was wheezing, clutching his stomach, tears smearing his notes. “Oh my god. Y-You—,” he gasped, pointing at Taehyung’s cufflinks glinting under the fluorescent lights. “—you look like a LinkedIn profile pic threw up on you! Who wears a waistcoat to a coffee shop?!” 

Taehyung’s jaw tightened. He’d spent last night deep-diving YouTube tutorials (“How to Dress Casual But Hot”), vetoed six ties, and even ironed his socks. And here was Jungkook, laughing like he’d just witnessed the funniest TikTok fail comp. His ears burned. “I’m… respecting the occasion,” he muttered, perching on the rickety chair across from Jungkook. It groaned like it might collapse. 

“Respect?” Jungkook snorted, wiping his eyes. “This isn’t a TED Talk. Did your trust fund manager pick that outfit?” 

“I have class,” Taehyung shot back, instantly cringing. His voice had come out all sharp, like he was scolding a teammate for botching a pass.

Inside, his stomach was doing backflips.
Say something nice. Compliment his… He glanced at Jungkook’s hoodie, plastered with a huge Kuromi face. “…outfit.” 

Silence. 

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “Wow. Smooth. You rehearse that in the mirror?" Sighing he continued, "“So. You, uh… come here often?”

Taehyung blinked. “This is my first time.” 

“In a café? Ever?” 

“No! I mean—yes. I mean—” He fumbled, accidentally knocking over the sugar dispenser. Granulated sweet erupted. “I’m here now.” 

“Astute observation,” Jungkook deadpanned, watching Taehyung try to sweep the sugar into a napkin. The guy was sweating through his Armani suit. It’d be pathetic if it wasn’t so… weirdly endearing? No. Stop. He’s a jock. Jocks suck.

Another silence.

Taehyung’s phone buzzed. He flipped it over—a meme from Seokjin in the soccer group chat: a guy in a tuxedo at a Walmart, caption: When u accidentally wear your dad's closet.

He slammed it down, cheeks flaming. 

“So,” Jungkook drawled, slurping his iced coffee like it was the last liquid on earth. “Why’d you even sign up for this? Run out of fangirls to ghost?” 

Taehyung froze.

Why?

Because he’d fake-lost his student ID at Jungkook’s booth every Tuesday for a year just to hear him sigh, “Name?” in that bored, velvet tone.

Because he’d memorized Jungkook’s Thursday routine: 9 a.m. pilates, 11 a.m. student council rants in the quad, 3 p.m. snack break (always banana milk) and fries stolen from his friends' plates. Because he’d written—and deleted—27 drafts of a “hey :)” text.

But his mouth went rogue. “Tax write-offs.” 

Jungkook choked, coffee spraying across the table. “Excuse me?” 

“For—for my family’s charity foundation!” Taehyung blurted, scrubbing latte off his sleeve. “My dad said volunteering looks good for—” 

“So I’m a tax deduction?” Jungkook’s voice cracked. A girl at the next table choked on her matcha, pulling out her phone to Snapchat the drama. 

“No! It’s—community service. For the company’s… image.” 

“Right. Cool. Coolcoolcool.” Jungkook shoved back his chair, the legs screeching like a dying seagull. “Tell your dad’s PR team I want royalties.” 

“Wait—” Taehyung lunged up, elbow knocking his espresso everywhere. Brown liquid surged toward Jungkook’s beat-up Vans. 

But Jungkook was already halfway out the door, pink hoodie vanishing into the crowd. 

Taehyung collapsed into his seat, head thunking onto the sticky table.

Tax write-offs?

He’d rather get trampled by the entire soccer team.

Across the room, the barista hissed into her headset: “Abort mission, Table 4’s a warzone.”