#while we're in a drought | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

dreamersparacosm · 12 days ago

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jeon jungkook - off the record (part five)

part five ; bergamot and cedar

warnings ; extreme alcohol consumption!

prompt ; in which you’re paired with your insufferably charming ex-academic rival turned coworker to cover a congressional scandal, and suddenly, professional boundaries becomes the only thing holding you two apart.

a/n ; WE ARE SOOOO BACK. and before i get screamed at, this is 12k words worth of longing. slowburn to the max. i truly do not think i could have made this anymore devastating if i wanted to. on the one hand, we have oc who might be the blindest bat in all the land, and then we have jungkook who is just ready for the taking. open. honest. unfortunately and undeniably obsessed. (and if you thought they were kissing in this chapter or the next two, ha. i laugh. i read emhen and lynn painter for a living, i live laugh love slowburns. but also more one shots coming your way to hold over while we're in this drought) there's a LOT going on in this chapter so read slow my pookies, rome wasn't built overnight. i shall be waiting patiently on the sidelines!!! (also be gentle i crashed out in @httpsincity's dms already about how i lowkey hate this but oopsie daisy.) ENJOY!

playlist here

series masterlist here

wc ; 12.1k

Tonight’s no longer about your comfy blanket fort and ice cream binge while watching Suits.

Regretfully, your night now involves you, in a swanky penthouse while surrounded by unwelcoming coworkers, chugging some fancy Chardonnay like it’s the elixir of social survival.

You enjoy being just another face in the crowd. It’s like joining an exclusive club where the only requirement is to take up space. You've spent countless hours trying to fit into places that had all the warmth of a refrigerator, but tonight, you’ve squeezed yourself into so many nooks and crannies that it's starting to feel like a pro sport.

Blending in has become so natural that you’re starting to welcome it.

Rihanna’s currently belting out something about not stopping the music, and honestly, who knows what else she’s saying at this point. You’re three sips into your wine and the world’s gone a little fuzzy around the edges.

Emma? Yeah, you’ve completely misplaced her in this vortex of comfy couch heaven. Seriously, this couch is like a supportive, heavenly embrace that’s saying, “Stay here, forget about the outside world!” And let’s be real, no one needs the outside world when you’ve got a plush throne and this kind of wine buzz.

You take another sip of your wine and it takes all of your might not to spit it back out when you watch Emma wrap an arm around Paul like she’s the man in the situation.

You mentally file that for Monday’s debrief where you’ll inevitably make fun of her for her poor choices.

The guest list for this afterparty is pretty bleak. There’s twenty other correspondents from different news outlets, all mingling under one roof, not one remotely worth speaking to for more than five minutes.

After reluctantly agreeing to attend, you had opted to take a solo Uber to the location Emma texted you. When you arrived, Jungkook was lounging by the entrance as if he had been existing solely for you to push through the heavy glass doors. Luckily, you noticed him before he noticed you — you credit that to how you secured your spot on the aforementioned couch.

Plus there’s also this lingering scent of his whiskey and his cedar-y cologne and his newfound love for vodka sodas making a home in your nostrils, and it’s making you incredibly lightheaded.

From a young age, you’ve always been hyper-vigilant, attuned to details that often go unnoticed by others. You caught things other people would let fly under their noses. A raised voice behind a closed door. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway at the wrong hour.

It’s mostly why journalism fits you like a second skin. Control disguised as curiosity. Authority masked as observation. There’s power in knowing more than you’re supposed to, tucking details into the fissures of your mind.

If you can anticipate the story, stay one step ahead, maybe everything else will stay in its place. Maybe you will too.

(That’s the illusion you like best. That if you’re the one asking the questions, no one can ask them of you.)

Sometimes though — rarely, frustratingly, devastatingly — you miss things.

Hence why you overlook the sound of Jungkook’s footsteps crossing the penthouse. Or the way he grins as he flops next to you on the couch you were deliberately occupying alone.

You refuse to give him the satisfaction of a glance. He’s already won more than enough of your time. You raise your wine glass to your lips tentatively, eyes wandering across the room, trying to find anything else to fixate on besides him.

But then your eye twitches slightly when you look down to your right. You see the clear liquid in a glass cup in his hand, lime wedge resting silently on the rim. Hm.

There’s a growing list of unhelpful facts about Jungkook that your brain seems determined to catalog. Are you prepping for a bar trivia night (category Jungkook for 500 points) that you don’t remember signing up for?

“What’s up with these vodka sodas you’re pawning off me?” You’re still not looking at him. He’s really leaned on this copycat act heavily tonight.

“What’s up with you ditching the crowd for this couch?” He shifts ever so slightly beside you, as if testing the couch for its comfort to understand why you could possibly be holed up here.

“I’m evolving.” You snort, finally turning to peer at him. You don’t know why you do it but you regret it upon impact. Your body isn’t entirely sure what it’s looking for.

The soft glow from the overhead lights the structure of his jaw. You never realized how strong it is; he could probably chop wood with that kind of bone. In his hand, his drink looks comically tiny compared to the rest of him.

His brown eyes meet yours trepidly. “Well,” he starts, lifting his glass in some form of solidarity. “If you’re wondering, I only switched to vodka so I could end my night on a high note. Whiskey makes me introspective after one too many.”

“Oh, right.” Your eyes hone in on the cheek scar he has. Seriously, is this dude part of a secret fight club you don’t know about? Where would he possibly obtain such a thing? “I doubt your definition of introspection is the same as mine.”

“Hm.” He hums thoughtfully. “You’re in a mood now.”

Well, the invitation to the afterparty you didn't want to attend and the fact that he’s sidled up beside you all comfy and cozy definitely isn't contributing positively to your mood.

You tip your head toward him, skull landing right on the back of the couch. “I’m in a penthouse with people I barely tolerate, watching Emma flirt with a man who listens to NPR and Joe Rogan unironically. Shoot me now or forever hold your peace.”

He fake shoots a gun at you with his two nimble fingers before settling back into comfortable silence. His shoulder skims yours briefly as he exhales, and your spine jolts a little at the contact. It’s not intentional, but it’s enough to make you wonder why your body always seems to notice his.

You take another lengthy sip of wine. You wonder if he’ll let you have a sip of the vodka soda in his hand. You’re not sure what persona you were trying to slip into when you poured yourself a glass of the buttery wine.

“Kinda starting to miss my whiskey though,” he says after another moment slips by. “But I guess this makes more sense tonight.”

Your brows furrow. Numerous sharp comments twitch on your tongue, some you want to say out loud and others you want to mash down. You were never really good at swallowing your words, though. “You switching it up for me?”

The look that flashes across his features is filled with amusement. “Obviously. Didn’t want to smell like a distillery when I inevitably ended up next to you.”

Your pulse skips awkwardly. Luckily you’re trained to recover quickly, even when someone says something you’re not expecting. “Oh,” you clack your tongue against the roof of your mouth. “So you planned on sitting here.”

“You weren’t saving this spot for me?”

Your eyes dart around the room frantically, like you’re searching for someone you can latch on to save you from the rest of the conversation. What was once your safe haven couch has now become that old plastic-covered couch in your grandparent’s living room they refuse to get rid of and no one sits in but them.

But when you size up your contenders, you realize your options are desolate. Between Emma and Paul, and Jenna and her husband, and Sana, who has now even found herself a companion, there’s no one to run and hide with. No one but Jungkook.

“In your dreams, Jeon.”

“In my dreams, you do way more than just save this spot for me,” he retorts confidently.

The man clearly doesn’t have a single crumb of dignity left.

With a roll of your eyes, you let another sip of your wine drip down your throat. “Okay.” You brush past his previous comment with nothing but a clearing of your throat. "What's your take on the night?”

He chuckles, shaking his head slightly. “Bleak.”

Funny, you think to yourself. You thought the same earlier.

“Very bleak indeed.”

“I think I had a better time two weeks ago when I was watching that intern from Reuters try to flirt with the CNN correspondent in the elevator than tonight.” He sighs upon the memory re-entering his brain.

You let out a short giggle before catching yourself, and his eyes angle themselves toward you at the sound. As if his eyes and your laugh were two opposite ends of a magnet.

“Are you sure she was flirting? I’m also privy to being forced to speak to annoying ass coworkers,” you tease.

“She probably was.” His eyes flick down to the fabric of your red dress that has bunched up at your hips slightly, then back to your own glazed-over ones.

There's a moment of silence that lingers long enough in the air that, under normal circumstances, would be awkward. But because it's you and Jungkook, you’re grateful for the fact his voice isn’t blaring in your ear for once. Gives you a second to avert your attention to Emma or the bar or the glass doors or literally anything else.

“I mean..” He breaks you out of your thoughts. “..at least she was trying.”

You hum in agreement. “Is that what this is? You trying?”

You want to kick yourself the moment it leaves your mouth. Why the fuck did you just say that? If it was him trying, you wouldn’t even want that anyway. In fact, you detest it and—

“Would it work if I was?”

Your body turns to his fully, wine and vodka and lemon drop clouding your thoughts, your judgment. It brings you inevitably closer to Jungkook, knee brushing his, and you do your best not to notice. “Depends on what you’re trying for.”

His lips twitch gently and you look away. You know that if you continue to look at him, continue to make eye contact with his lips or his cheek scar, you’re going to need to get up, walk right out those glass doors, and order the fastest Uber of all time.

“I’m just talking.” His fingers tap rhythmically against his glass. “Thought we were allowed to do that now.”

It feels like a pebble has lodged itself in your throat. You’ve spent years perfecting your craft, avoiding any and all signs of potential thawing. Because if you weren't fighting him, what were you doing?

Jungkook being tolerable — let alone, likeable — is not something you’ll allow tonight or possibly ever.

You glance down at your hands awkwardly. “Right. Talking.”

He leans forward until he’s in your line of vision again. You catch a whiff of his scent, the cologne that now apparently lives in the folds of your subconscious. It hits you that he knows exactly what he’s done, that he’s perfectly aware of the effect he has on you — albeit, little to none, but still present.

He opens his mouth like a fish out of water, pauses halfway, and snaps it back shut. There’s a look on his face you haven’t seen before. An anxious swarm of bees buzz in your throat, and the more he sits there silently, the worse they feel.

But then it’s as if he went through a full system reboot, screen turning back on in high-definition. “So, what would you be doing if you didn’t come here?” He leans back against the couch.

A puff of air falls from your lips as if to expel the taste of Jungkook’s cologne from your mouth. “I don’t know. Probably watching Netflix. I also just got this new charcoal face mask I want to try. You?”

He takes a small sip of his drink. “Rewatching Suits right now. I had it paused on Season 3, Episode 5. Fucking love Harvey.”

Your head whips to face him. You don’t know why the idea of him watching the same exact show as you matters (because it doesn’t. Everyone watches that show.) but your heart does some ridiculous thing in your chest. You ignore it to the best of your ability, placing a hand over your ribs as if it'll ease it.

“You would love Harvey,” you retort, rolling your eyes so far back they nearly roll across the floor and order another glass of wine.

He furrows his brows, eyes glinting like they always do when he senses a battle on the horizon. “Harvey’s the man, so I’m not gonna defend myself.”

“Harvey would be nothing without Donna,” you remind him, pointing a finger in the air.

“Well, you are forgetting that Donna is madly in love with him.” He points out, swirling his drink, like he’s been spending considerable time analyzing fictional workplace dynamics.

“Oh, so you’re saying that a woman can’t be successful without the motivation of love?” Your eyebrow arches. There is a logical fallacy in this argument and now you’re way too determined to prove him wrong.

His own competitive instincts flare to life. “No. I’m just saying, they are a package deal.”

“If that's what you want to call it.” You take a contemplative sip, nearing the stem of your glass. “Plus, I'm pretty sure he was the one in love with her. Power dynamic was completely reversed.”

He pauses. Clearly considers your perspective. Then goes completely rogue in a league of his own. “Isn’t that the crazy thing about love? I swear, you can never choose who you want. It’s always someone ridiculous. Poor Harvey.”

“Didn’t know I was talking to the love prophet,” you say, and there’s genuine amusement in your voice rather than normal tactical mockery.

“I know a thing or two about a thing or two.”

“Is Jungkook Jeon a secret hopeless romantic? Do you spend your days reading Emily Henry novels and praying for a long lost love to show up at your doorstep?” Your body reacts before your mind can, poking him in his ribcage playfully. The muscle is hard and barely budges against your finger. There’s also an image manifesting in your head of Jungkook with a girlfriend, and the flutter from earlier snakes its way back into your stomach.

“No, you clown.” The word slips out with enough endearment to make you laugh. You hardly notice it, but he pauses to watch the sound fall from your lips. “I just… know things. I know how to love someone.”

The statement hangs in the air like it’s supposed to be some sort of confession. Like it’s monumental news to know how to love someone, or to be in love. It’s the most normal thing you’ve heard, but you’re not entirely sure you ever thought Jungkook was capable of it.

“Oh, really?” You lean into him gently, his knee brushing against yours again for a millisecond.

“I do.” He lifts his chin confidently.

“Prove it,” you answer automatically, brain operating solely on auto-pilot.

“Huh?”

The challenge lands with the weight of a gauntlet at both your feet.

“Prove you can love someone.” Your eyes hold his. He has incredible eye contact, even after a night of drinking. Maybe this dude really is the love prophet.

“What do you mean?” he asks, sincerely confused.

“Here.” You gesture between you two with your near-empty glass, creating an invisible stage for whatever performance you’re about to request. His knee moves away from yours, and your heart tugs a little at the seams. “Compliment me. Be nice. I know that might be challenging for you and all, but I really want you to dig deep in that heart made of ice.”

“How is that supposed to—”

“Can’t back out now, Jeon.” You only use his last name when you’re serious, and he knows this. It’s been established since your very first debate in college. “I’m wilting over here.��

“I–” He starts, then stops, and for the first time since you’ve known him, Jungkook looks genuinely uncertain.

“Imagine,” you barrel on. “I just slipped into the ballroom. I look around, overwhelmed by all the beautiful people. And then — oh, wow, there you are. The love of my life.”

The way he’s looking at you right now tells you that maybe this was the most abysmal idea of all time. You’re never going to drink alcohol again.

You clasp your hands over your chest dramatically. “I waltz over and—”

“I like your dress,” he blurts out. “Makes your eyes look really fucking nice.”

It’s a crude compliment. Superficial, even. But it comes out like it escaped from his brain. Your entire body tenses up and your ears ring and the grip on your wine glass disappears completely.

The glass falls to the couch with the same effect as a pin dropping. The ballroom fades into irrelevant background white noise, and it’s just you and Jungkook, who apparently uses curse words in compliments and sends nerve-ending tingles to your spine these days.

“Thats, uh—” You cough a few times while you rack the entire dictionary in your mind to find words that suffice. “That’s one way to do it.”

“Is that not a compliment?” There’s confusion laced into the words, eyebrows furrowing anxiously.

“Only if you mean it,” you manage to get out. Your voice sounds like you just swallowed a vat of cement.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

The question comes out so simply and matter-of-factly, that it makes literally everything worse. As if he’s genuinely confused as to why anyone would offer you an insincere compliment.

“Okay.” He takes over the conversation, which you thank God for, because your journalistic self is no longer in the mood to speak. “Now you compliment me.”

“Nuh-uh.” You shake your head stubbornly, reaching for your wine glass on the couch only to realize it is still very much empty. You need more liquor if you’re going to sit here all night. “That’s not part of the agreement.”

“We have agreements now?” He arches an eyebrow.

“Shut up. I am not complimenting you.” But there’s something panicked in your tone. Returning his vulnerability terrifies you more than great white sharks do.

“C’mon, one thing about me.” He leans into you again. He needs to stop doing that before you pass out from a new medical emergency you’re coining as fragrance inhalation.

You scramble to come up with something, eyes darting across the room like players on a football field. “How about I hit you over the head with my glass instead?”

“Oneeeee, come on,” he coaxes.

“No.”

“Okay, so you’re saying you’re a virgin loser who doesn’t know how to compliment a man?”

He always knows which nerve to hit to provoke a response.

“You’re hardly a man,” you snort. “But alright.”

“One.” He holds up a singular finger.

“This goes against my morals, you know that right?” You’re practically squirming now. Being nice to him conflicts with a very fundamental aspect of your worldview.

“The universe will make an exception.” He wiggles his eyebrows tauntingly.

And then you freeze before alcohol makes a decision for you.

“You smell really good.”

You realize that somehow, in the space of this ridiculous conversation, this is the most honest you’ve been in a while.

Compliments about appearances are one thing, but noticing how he smells — yeah, he’s going to make fun of you for this until the apocalypse happens.

The smile that was once beaming on his face slides right off. It’s gone with so much ease that you start worrying you said something wrong, like maybe he uses the same cologne that his dead grandpa gave him. But there’s no retort, no bite-back, nothing but silence amongst a rush of noise that seems to dissipate into the background.

But then a smirk slowly grows on his features and the moment is gone as soon as it came. “Hmm, wanna sniff me?”

You kind of feel like you’ve been hit by a freight train. He tuts disapprovingly, and you can't understand why you're suddenly struck by the desire to drop to your knees and beg for forgiveness for praising his scent.

“Bitch, where’s your drink?”

Emma’s voice slices through the noise, startling you enough that your shoulders shake and the invisible thread tethering you to Jungkook snaps in half.

You jerk your head toward her, eyes wide like you’re a kid who got caught drawing dicks on a library book. She towers over you, cheeks a rosy glow, hair tousled, Paul in tow behind her like he’s some kind of accessory.

“I…I finished it?” Your voice is still scratchy from your unfortunate confession.

Emma eyes you suspiciously. “Finished it? And you didn’t get another one because..?”

Great question, Emma. Didn’t get another one because you were too busy getting complimented by your arch nemesis and then promptly inhaling him right after.

You shrug. It’s not actually that serious. “I’m not an alcoholic.”

“Mhm.” She smirks and plops down on the other side of you, pushing Paul to stand up beside her like he’s her bodyguard.

“Anyway, hiii,” she sing-songs to Jungkook, finally noticing his presence. “Still here?”

All Jungkook does is nod, an unreadable expression on his face. For a moment, he actually looks… confused? Scared? You can’t piece it together.

Emma turns back to you obliviously. “You know what you need?”

“To go home?”

She scowls. “More alcohol, dumbass.”

“Fuck no,” you reply instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Alcohol has been your worst enemy tonight. One more glass of it and who’s to say what you’ll do next?

“Yes,” she insists, standing up and struggling to pull you by the wrists like your bones are made of rocks. “You’re being way too chill tonight. It’s creeping me the fuck out. Come on.”

And then your feet are betraying you and propping you upright. You flatten out your red dress a little. Now that you think about it, the dress isn’t actually as uncomfortable as you thought it was. Maybe you’ll wear it again.

As you mobilize away from the couch, away from Jungkook without a single word, you shoot a final glance over your shoulder.

Jungkook’s sprawled out, fingers wrapped loosely around the glass, cufflinks rolled up and showing off those tattoos. His head tilts as he locks eyes with you.

Your heart stutters like a scratched CD.

Damn it.

You look away before you can do something stupid like walk back.

How many glasses of wine has it been?

Three? Four? Perhaps two too many, considering you’re now having an existential crisis about grapes.

How is wine even made? Like actually made? There’s something having to do with stomping, possibly. Feet? Is someone out there just… squishing grapes with their toes in a field and packaging it up for your consumption? That feels illegal. You should look into it on Monday.

Shaking your head, you try to orient yourself in space and time but that makes the room spin a little. Who let you drink this much?

Oh, right. Emma did. (And Jenna, but you’ll spare her tonight.)

The penthouse has completely transformed. Where was once a coffee table has now been turned into a makeshift dance floor in the middle of the open-plan living room. It truly has no business being a dance floor; it’s slippery and someone’s shoe was abandoned in the corner.

Fifteen people remain scattered around the room. Five others have gone missing entirely — two of those being Jenna and Greg, who you last saw doing tequila shots with a Senior Correspondent from New York times.

Blue Tie Guy even made an exit too. Left Emma and Paul in the dust. Now it’s just you, lingering near them like an unpaid chaperone.

A 2000s hit blares over the speakers that makes your chest fizzle with nostalgia. It might be JoJo, or early Rihanna. Either way, there’s synth and bass and you’re quite enjoying yourself.

But, whatever. Back to the wine. How does one ferment wi—

“What are you thinking about?”

Emma’s eyes peer at you expectantly, as if you’re on the cusp of some great big revelation you need to share with her.

“I’m thinking about wine.” You blink back at her, a stupid drunk smile on your face.

She nods at your words. “As one does.”

You babble on, having been given the green light by Emma. “Also, like, how it’s made. Is it fermented? Or do people step on grapes and hope for the best?”

“Probably both. Maybe that’s how we got rośe, it’s like foot juice but cuter.” Emma’s cheeks are flushed, lashes batting furiously as one does when they’re trying to fight the alcohol haze out of their eyesight. You would know because you’re also trying to do the same.

“Cheers to whoever invented that,” You raise your glass to hers and clink it softly.

She turns her body away from her newfound lover, leans into you with all the subtlety of a booming explosion. “Also I’m pretty sure Paul and I held hands four times tonight.”

“Oh, god.”

That’s the only two words you can find in your vernacular to respond.

“He’s kinda good at it.” Her lips curve upwards into a sheepish smile, like she’s talking about her crush from the playground.

“Holding hands?” you ask incredulously.

“Very good.” She shakes her head in agreement. “Was his friend nice to you?”

Sure, if you qualify nice as the most boring man you’ve ever had the displeasure of speaking to.

“He was okay. Not my type.” You wave her off with your free hand, because from what you know about Emma, feeding into her delusions will never end well for you.

“And what is your type, missy? I swear I’ll never know.” She pokes your side, toothfully grinning at you.

The thing is, you’re not entirely sure. You’re not a complete loser, despite all signs pointing to yes, she is a virgin who has never touched a man. You’ve had sex with finance boys, nerdy guys, the whole shebang. However, you’ve only ever had one boyfriend, and you’re certain that if Emma met him, she wouldn’t find any striking resemblance to you.

“Not blue tie guy, I’ll tell you that.” You snort.

That answer seems to suffice for her, because she turns around to entertain Paul and leave you to your never-ending thought spiral again.

What is your type?

You guess, if you're being truly honest with yourself, you want someone smart. Someone witty. Maybe someone who smells good. Or someone who remembers things about you. That’s important.

In a world that makes you scream to be heard, all you really want is someone to listen to your whispers.

Your eyes peek over at Emma, ready to resume your jokes about the wine industry or ask if she has any of those shrimp cocktails left in her bag, only to be met with sheer horror.

She’s now dancing with Paul.

They are fully slow dancing in the middle of a penthouse with 2000s throwbacks blaring in the background. Paul’s head is tilted like he’s trying to smell her shampoo. You might die.

You giggle in disbelief. What the fuck. This is your friend, your partner in crime in journalism. You’re going to lose her to a man who owns loafers with tassels.

You’re also a little too drunk to care properly.

The song changes, right in tune with Emma and Paul’s dancing. More RnB, less college frat party based in 2006. A Doja Cat and Jack Harlow song you only recognize because Spotify has been pushing it on you for weeks.

It’s a pretty sensual song for a work afterparty. Who approved this playlist? Was it Emma?

You sway a little on your feet. A half-drunk, eyes closed movement where your hips catch the rhythm. The stem of your wine glass dangles precariously between two fingers.

“Enjoying yourself?”

He really needs to stop creeping up on you like this.

Your eyes shock themselves back into awareness. Out of all the five people who had left, it seems that Jungkook was not one of them. He’s standing right in front of you, tattoos on full display and the top few buttons of his shirt undone. You can see a bit of the hardened muscle underneath.

And suddenly your brain no longer cares about the music. It only cares about your red dress, his woodsy scent that lives in the crevices of your mind, tangled knees and crude confessions that probably shouldn’t have happened.

He’s holding another vodka soda as if the first ten weren’t enough. His big brown eyes glimmer under the light, like honey.

Damnit.

“Not everything is about you, you know?” you retort quickly. You spin the stem of your glass to keep your hands busy.

“Never said it was.” His eyes drop to your glass briefly. “Looked like you were about to make out with that glass though.”

“It’s been more dependable than most men tonight,” you taunt, crossing your arms over your chest protectively.

“Still no prospects?” He stares right through you. He’s smiling, but something you don’t recognize in his eyes has shifted.

You raise an eyebrow. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Gonna go and tell them all I have cooties or something?”

“Cooties is juvenile.” He replies with mock seriousness, and his eyes are fonder now before delivering the world’s most diabolical statement of all time. “Chlamydia seems more likely.”

Your jaw drops in actual shock. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He chuckles lightly, then lets his gaze drift over your shoulder. His face morphs into sympathetic horror. “Have they been like this all night?”

You follow his line of sight to Emma and Paul who are still engaging in some kind of mating ritual you don’t recognize. They might as well have raw sex in front of you two. “Yeah. they have.”

“God, I’m sorry.” And he sounds like he means it.

“It’s okay,” you shrug. “I’ve been enjoying the little dance circle I created on my own. Extremely sophisticated choreography going on here.”

As if summoned by your words, the music gets louder, and more people drift to the emergency dance floor. Jungkook tugs his bottom lip between his teeth, as if pondering his words before letting them tumble out.

“Can I join this dance circle,” he asks tentatively, “or is it a really exclusive membership situation?”

You tap your chin, pretending to consider the offer. There’s pros and cons to both (although the cons are gruesome.) “Oof. Just closed applications. Terrible timing on your part.”

“Anything I can do to secure entry?” He half-smiles at you. Why is he fighting so hard to join this imaginary dance circle?

Never mind that — what the hell are you doing? You’re creating hoops for him to jump through just so he can dance with you at an afterparty you should’ve left from 30 minutes ago.

But then you remember a very specific afternoon in your Public Policy seminar where Professor Chen posed some stupid question about market inefficiencies, and Jungkook — Mr. Always Has The Answer, Jungkook — completely spazzed on the answer. You’d watched him stumble through his explanation, clear as day that he was guessing. You’d raised your hand promptly after, mostly because the correct answer was burning a hole through your brain and you couldn't stop yourself. Ten extra points on the midterm exam later, Jungkook didn’t even say great job.

“Hmm.” you pause dramatically. “Negative externality and information failures are both examples of…”

He glares at you in disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

“Entry fee is an entry fee, Jeon.” You cross your arms again around your chest. “Standards must be maintained.”

Jungkook stares at you like he’s trying to figure out whether you’ve completely lost your mind or if this is part of the tango you two have awkwardly been doing around each other all night.

“Market failures.”

Damn. You weren’t expecting him to know that.

“Professor Chen is rolling over in his bed right now.”

His grin expands triumphantly. “So about that dance circle membership…”

Over the beat of your heart hammering away in your chest, you can barely think about anything but the terrifying prospect that maybe, possibly you actually want him to join your ridiculous one-person dance party.

“You want it that bad?” you say, softly.

His eyes don’t waver from yours. “What’s wrong with that?”

Jungkook says it so plainly as if desire is the most casual thing in the world. Like he hasn’t spent years purposefully interrupting you at briefings, cutting your questions short, stealing your quotes.

But now he wants to dance with you.

“I can think of five reasons off the top of my head.”

“Alright, let's start with number one.” He responds with a twinkle behind his eyes.

“You’re so…” you trail off. The words are in there somewhere. You just can’t get them to come out without sounding like you care. “...weird”

He lifts his drink in your direction. “Guilty as charged.”

“So… “ You let yourself study him for a second. Under this light, his tattoos are a sharp contrast to the rest of his golden skin. His biceps strain underneath his shirt. His lips are flushed, plump and pink and pillowy. “if I let you into my elite dance circle.. what’s in it for me?”

“Your one person party becomes a two person party.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, complete with a shrug. “Is that not good enough?”

To mask the sensation building within you — something you would label as shyness, if that term didn’t seem so utterly absurd, a feeling that radiates warmth from your core — you put on a facade of indifference and say, “Probably not, but you’re lucky I’m drunk.”

“Incredibly lucky. You don't normally spend this much time with me by choice.”

He’s not wrong. Sober you would’ve ejected him from this conversation approximately four hours ago.

"Didn't know you were itching for my time, Jeon.” You try to joke, but your voice comes out a little warbled.

He opens his mouth as words are about to exit, but decides against it. You need to say thanks but no thanks and go do something sensible like eavesdrop on the correspondent from Politico that’s somehow still here.

Your hand tugs at your dress, and Jungkook’s eyes follow your movement. There’s a pause where you look at the expanse of the dance floor behind him and really think about it. Mull over your options. There’s still time for you to go home. Some new Rnb song comes on, and you wonder if anyone else notices how suggestive this whole setup is.

Your breath trips over itself as you look back up at him. Your options are pretty dull right now, but the wine in your hand makes your mind up for you.

“I don’t really… dance.” The two of you hover at the edge of the crowd. You move to stand next to him, eyeing the stragglers that are left. He looks over at you, peers down through his lashes. You’re searching for any excuse, a distraction, anything else.

“Neither do I.” He replies nonchalantly. “I was gonna sway slightly and hoped nobody noticed my lack of rhythm."

“So we're both frauds,” you laugh. “Two people who can’t dance. What could possibly go wrong?"

“Everything.” He responds without hesitation. “Absolutely everything.”

He places his drink on a nearby side table. For a guy who claims not to dance, he’s stepping into you with all the confidence of a professional.

There’s probably a few inches of space between you. Maybe more. But his eyes can’t seem to leave yours.

You pick up your previous motions; sway left, to right. His body echoes the movement. You feel vulnerable, laid bare, completely open in front of a man who is basically a stranger to you.

His shoulder brushes yours gently. You can feel the heat of him like a sunburn before it settles in. You want to press down and see just how hot it is.

“This is terrible.” Your lips press into a tight-lipped smile.

“Horrific,” he whispers back. You have to tip your head back to read his lips. You never realized how tall he really was when you were busy arguing with him.

You burst out into a fit of giggles. It’s all too much — the dancing, the music, him.

Wine is a liar. Wine is whispering that his body heat mingling with yours is completely fine. Wine, you’re beginning to suspect, might be the most dangerous wingwoman you’ve ever encountered.

Your limbs feel like they belong to someone else. Looser and lighter. And then somehow your body is drifting closer to him like a maelstrom of water lapping on top of a shore. In this crowded sea of people, it’s just you and Jungkook.

You need to look away from him. This is bad, bad, bad news. If you stand even a millimeter closer to him, you’ll be close enough to finally analyze the moles on his face that connect like constellations in the sky. So near that you could just reach out and grab one with your hand.

Nothing about this is funny anymore.

It’s not funny that your mind flips back to Rosalie, back to the DM, back to your eyes in the dress you’re wearing, back to his scent that envelops you like a warm hug. It’s not funny that Jungkook is running through your mind like a flashback reel.

And before you’re about to do something monumentally idiotic, like ask who that girl was that he’s interested in, the universe stops you.

Your feet entangle themselves mid-step, and you trip forward into his body. Broad arms wrap around you, propping you upright before you can fully land on the floor. Jungkook looks down at you, lips slightly parted. His hands are warm against your skin. Really warm. Like a human furnace wrapped around your biceps.

Jungkook hums softly, his breath brushing against your face. There’s hardly any space left between you now. You’ve lost any and all trains of thought.

Fuck. If he were anyone else but Jungkook…

“I should… go home.”

You absolutely should. You know this; it’s crystal-clear certain. You’ve been skating dangerously close to the edge of a cliff for the better part of the night, pretending the ground beneath your feet isn’t steadily crumbling away. This is exactly the point in the night when sensible intelligent people would extract themselves from whatever quicksand they’ve stumbled into.

You should go home before you do something irreversible, like admitting that the way he’s looking at you right now makes your entire nervous system go into overdrive.

“Yeah, maybe.” Jungkook says and fuck, it shouldn’t matter that he agrees with you. But it does.

Because somewhere in your wine-soaked brain, maybe you thought he would protest. That he’d give you some ridiculous reason why leaving is a bad idea.

You find yourself cataloguing the exact shade of brown in his eyes and wondering what would happen if you just… didn’t go home. If you stayed in this moment where the rest of the penthouse fades to black and the only thing that matters is the way he’s looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally figured out how to solve.

“Right. Well, I’m going to go home,” you say again because apparently once wasn’t enough. You don’t know who you’re trying to convince — you or him.

Jungkook shifts on his feet, and it seems like only then does he realize his hands are still on you. He snatches them back so quickly it almost stupefies you. “Yeah, totally. Makes sense.”

You both blink at each other like two actors stuck in a scene with no director.

“I’ll… walk you out,” he offers, lifting his shoulders, trying to play it casual. His hands slide back into his pockets, knuckles twitching slightly when they disappear into the fabric, and your stomach churns with the knowledge he’s just as off balance as you are.

You pretend to hesitate. “That’s not necessary.”

“I know,” he replies, already moving towards the glass doors. “But I’m still doing it.”

Something simple and stubborn has exited his mouth yet again. You want to hurl your shoe at him.

The walk to the exit is eerily domestic. He trails behind you, as if to make sure you won’t slip and slide on these floors again. Once you’re past the heavy doors, you pass the hallway where someone’s making out against the wall — you check twice to make sure it’s not Emma and Paul — and Jungkook doesn’t even laugh, which is alarming.

You glance behind you. “No commentary? I expected at least one snide remark.”

He huffs a laugh through his nose. “I thought about it.”

At the end of the hall is the coat check. You give your name and the attendant disappears into an inconspicuous room while you two stand there in silence. Again.

You pull your phone out of your handbag just to have something to do, thumb brushing over the screen like you're monitoring something urgent, when really all you’re doing is checking the weather in Cupertino.

You have absolutely nothing to say to him. Nothing.

Your entire vocabulary — curated over years of university, sharpened through interviews with politicians — has apparently decided to go on leave. It’s honestly hilarious in the most mortifying way possible.

Your career is built on the ability to extract meaningful quotes from unwilling subjects. The irony isn’t lost on you that you, someone who gets paid to ask the right questions at the right time, have been rendered speechless by someone who you could normally argue with for hours.

The attendant returns with your coats, and you take it, fumbling with the sleeves. Jungkook grabs his own. Together, you walk towards the elevator, the sound of your shoes echoing like punctuation marks between thoughts.

You punch the button a few times with your pointer finger. An awkward silence spreads between you two, punctured only by the sound of Jungkook clearing his throat.

“Okay, real question,” you say finally, eyes boring into the screen as you watch the elevator jump floors to come and save you. “Are you trying to be nice? Or is this part of some scheme where you're gonna reveal you stole my credit card and you’re gonna hold it hostage until I agree to say something nice about your reporting?”

Jungkook cracks a smile. You can hear it in his voice when he speaks. “No evil scheme. Maybe I wanted five more minutes in a world where you don’t hate me.”

“Oh.”

What else are you supposed to say to that?

The elevator dings and opens up in front of you. It feels like your stomach dropped somewhere to the vicinity of your feet.

Jungkook coughs loudly. “Well? You going in?”

Your feet finally get the hint and trudge into the elevator. Your heart’s pounding loud enough that if he got just a little closer you’re pretty sure he could hear it.

Time ticks like molasses in that tiny box as it transports you down 40 flights of stairs. You just want to get out as quickly as possible. There’s no telling what your mind will do next, and what damage it’s already done.

Beside you, Jungkook doesn’t say a word. He stands a few inches away, looking like he’s trying to remember what planet he’s on.

The warmth from the penthouse evaporates instantly when you step out of the elevator, nodding a farewell to the doorman. Goosebumps race down your arms as you push open the door, cool autumn air enveloping you. Your dress is criminally ill-equipped for this weather.

You mutter something under your breath about climate change.

Digging into your bag with numb fingers, you pull out your phone, typing in your address furiously. Every letter feels unnecessarily complicated after liquidating the bar.

“Everything okay?” he asks.

You try to lighten the mood. “Ordering my uber. Unless you were planning to carry me home on your back, in which case I’ll cancel it.”

Jungkook snorts. “I mean, I did a pretty intense back workout the other day.”

You tap the confirm button on your Uber. “Okay, Hercules. Let me know when you’re offering sleigh rides. I’ll knit you a red suit and attach a bow to my head.”

Uber arriving in 4 minutes.

You tuck your phone back into your bag. He stands there, looming over you like a guardian angel. “You good? You’ve gone very… pensive.”

“A man can’t think?” He fights back a smile.

“Dangerous pastime.”

“Funny. You’ve said that before.” His eyes squint at you.

“Yeah, because that was the time you decided to challenge Senator Jones about his own voting history without your notes in front of you.” You chuckle at the memory.

“Boldness is a virtue,” he says, lifting his chin.

“Getting eaten alive is a consequence.” There’s an ache in your head slowly starting to take form.

“I was on my best behavior tonight and somehow I still got roasted.” He huffs out a laugh.

“I know.” Your breath clouds the air between you. “It was very unsettling.”

“I’ll take that as a thank you.”

There’s a hum of traffic, the sound of Washington bustling, even at this late hour, in the distant background. You feel the cold all the way to your kneecaps.

You wish the ground would open up to swallow you whole.

Rocking back on your heels, you mumble, “You know you really don’t need to wait. You can go back inside, or.. home.”

“I’ll wait to make sure you don’t get kidnapped.” He’s completely deadpan when he says it.

“Very noble of you.”

“I read a book about feminism once. Felt wrong to leave you alone.” He kicks a pebble with his polished shoe.

You scoff, pulling your coat tighter around you. “If you believe in feminism, then you should leave me be to fend for myself.”

“You’re drunk, [Y/N]. I’m fine right here.” He responds sternly, and that shuts you up.

The stars twinkle overhead in the night sky. You’re close enough to the suburbs that you can count every one if you wanted.

A pair of headlights round the corner. Your heads both snap at the sound of the engine, your Uber slowing to a crawl as it pulls up to the curb. The driver leans across the front seat and waves over at you.

Jungkook moves closer, squints into the window like your bodyguard. “This yours?” He turns his head to you.

“No, I'm just getting into strangers' cars now,” you mock, feet shuffling in the direction of the backseat.

Your hand reaches the handle, barely grasping your fingers around it before you hear “[Y/N]?”

“What?” You pivot and face him. You didn’t really think there was anything left to say. Unless he thought of the world’s wittiest comeback to your last dig.

The light from the entrance of the building casts little shadows across his features. His hands are jammed into the pockets of his slacks.

“Just… don’t let this get to your head or anything,” he pauses, swallows, looks you up and down again for what you think might be the millionth time in the past five hours. “You looked really pretty tonight.”

Pretty?

Your brain short-circuits. A full screen crash, blue screen, Mac rainbow wheel of doom.

It doesn’t look like he’s trying to flirt with you. On the contrary, actually. It looks like he just wanted you to know.

Your pulse is climbing Mount Everest. The memory of his voice saying those words is already stitching itself into the fabric of your red dress.

You nod at him, a small smile playing upon your lips. Your fingers fumble for the handle and this time, you rip open the back door. Slipping inside, the door slams shut behind you.

The driver doesn’t speak as he drives away from the curb, from the penthouse, from the afterparty you should’ve never went to, from Jungkook.

You don’t dare look out the window to check if he’s still there.

The driver pulls up to the parking attendant, sharing a few words as you shakily open your phone up. Your heart rattles inside your chest like loose change in a vending machine.

But what if he’s still there? you think, what if he’s waiting for you like he always does outside of press rooms and briefings to catch you?

So your head turns slightly to look out the back window as the driver ends his exchange with the attendant.

Jungkook is still waiting at the curb. Still waiting for you.

Monday rolls around with the grace of a semi-truck reversing over your skull.

Somehow, you’re still nursing the hangover of the century. Your head is pounding like it’s been struck by a baseball bat, and your stomach is flip-flopping around the lone bite of a chocolate chip muffin you managed to eat earlier. In total, you probably scraped together about 4 hours of sleep all weekend. Even your teeth seem to throb in protest.

You also spent countless hours trying not to replay Jungkook calling you pretty in your head.

Which, to your dismay, you failed at. You replayed it… a lot.

What was that exactly? A prank? You’ve spent 48 hours cycling through every possible explanation except the one that might actually be true.

And now, as reparation, you’ve been dropped right back into the gladiator pit.

In the dingy interview room, your elbows dig into the arm of your chair, notes scattered like landmines in front of you.

You need to recalibrate. You’re not going to let some Friday night fluke ruin your Monday morning murder.

It’s been a week since you and Jungkook were in contact with Monroe, and even though you know exactly what angle you want to play, there’s still some residual anxiety bubbling inside you. You reread a paragraph you wrote a few days ago about Monroe’s version of the vote count night, highlighter cap tucked between your teeth.

You hardly notice the door creak open, halfway through scribbling your opener when a familiar sigh breaks through the air, followed by the thump of a human sitting in the chair next to you.

“Hey.”

You blink at your notebook like you’ve forgotten how to read. Against your better judgment, you crane your neck to look over at him.

He’s in a blue shirt with the collar unbuttoned, eyes sagging like he too, lost sleep over the things that were said Friday night. There’s a stupid half-smile on his face you want to wipe off.

Your body is not behaving. It’s doing that inconvenient swoop again, the one where the birds and the bees and the butterflies have some meetup in your stomach. You’re going to buy a shotgun and kill each one of them.

“Hi.” is all you really have to offer this morning.

“...How are you?” His leg shifts uncomfortably.

“Don’t do that.” you warn, dropping the pen into your notepad.

He lets out a soft chuckle, “That good of a Friday night?”

“I’m still hungover, Jeon.” You’re not lying. You’ve gone through three Liquid IV’s already in the past 3 hours.

He takes a quick scan over your body, and you shrivel a bit into your chair. “I can see that.”

“And I feel like I partially blacked out on Friday.” you continue on, “which was probably the only reason I tolerated you so much.”

“Tolerated?” He sounds borderline offended. It makes your skin prickle with joy.

“Let’s make one thing clear.” You meet his eyes that are expectantly waiting for yours.

“Which is…”

You pick up your pen and play with it to give your brain something to focus on other than his brown eyes that resemble chocolate chips from the muffin you had earlier. “That thing you said? The… compliment?”

Compliment, confession, insult… they’re all blending together like synonyms.

“Yeah?” He leans back in his chair like he’s settling in for a show,

“Let’s just forget it. We can’t start being too nice to each other.” Your pen presses too hard into the note paper, ink bleeding into the sheet.

“Why not? I liked soft you better.” Jungkook shifts more into you, like he’s trying to get a better look at your face. Like he’s trying to see the you from Friday.

“I am not soft.”

You’re about as soft as a brick in a cashmere sweater.

“You are. You’re actually super nice when you’re wine drunk.”

And then you’re thinking back to those infinite glasses of chardonnay, the dance that should’ve been awkward but wasn’t. His comment about your eyes in the red dress. Pretty.

You clear your throat and adjust yourself in your chair. “I am— did you not just hear me?”

“I did, but I’m enjoying how angry you’re getting over it.” His smile is all picturesque white teeth and twinkling eyes.

You groan, facepalming. Your voice comes out all muffled. “Why are you the way that you are?”

“Ask my mom.” He shrugs.

“Okay, just, enough. You heard what I said. Let’s go with that.” This conversation needs to end now before you have an aneurysm.

“Whatever you say, bestie.”

You’re going to kill him and it’s not even the afternoon yet.

Halfway through your retort — “first of all, you calling me bestie makes me want to rip my skin off” — the door swings open, both your heads swiveling like you’ve been caught passing notes in class.

The woman at the door, the one with the mysteriously timed week-long illness, saunters in. Monroe looks more like she was at an exclusive spa in the French Alps all week, not battling a severe strain of the flu. Her hair is done in a perfect blowout, neither a frizz or flyaway in sight, and she’s donning unnecessarily large black sunglasses.

“Monroe,” you greet. “Glad you’re feeling better.”

“Oh. Thank you.” she exhales, tugging her sunglasses off and folding them delicately between two fingers. “You know how it is. Some virus, probably something my trainer’s kid brought back from Aspen. I was a mess.”

You peer over at Jungkook, who meets your eye. A silent exchange of Aspen? Aspen.

“We managed,” he offers up with a smile. “Hope you’re back to a hundred percent.”

“Close enough.” She waves her hand like she’s chasing off a mosquito. “I’ve been living off bone broth and IV drips. I’m as good as new.”

You nod, biting the inside of your cheek. You had a bag of hot cheetos and a three-day migraine. Maybe you should’ve looked into bone broth.

Monroe lowers herself into the chair across from you two. She smoothes a hand down her silk blouse, placing her phone screen down on the table. “So,” she starts, “do you two have anything good for me?”

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth quirks up.

“I’ve got about a thousand questions,” Jungkook taps his ballpoint pen against his lap. “But I need you to actually answer honestly.”

“Is that not what I've been doing?” Monroe asks innocently.

You glance up from your notepad. “Yes, but… this is still off the record. We want the truth. The honest truth, before we go public.”

There’s a brief pause on her end. Irritation flashes across her face. Or maybe it’s amusement — it’s hard to tell with women like Monroe. She’s polished to the point of opacity.

“A hell of a demand from a junior correspondent,” she retorts cooly.

“Wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was worth it,” you say.

“At a certain point,” Jungkook adds casually, “we’d like to do these on the record.”

“As we agreed on,” you echo. Mark had made a very lucrative deal with you two. His end of the bargain needed to be held up.

“Hmph.” Monroe makes an indignant noise in response.

Your thumb brushes over the corner of your notepad. “If it’s alright with you, I’d like to go back to the very beginning this time.”

Her brows lift, but there’s not a wrinkle in sight. Her plastic surgeon is working overtime.

“Not the vote count night,” you clarify. “Before that.”

“Alright.” She’s visibly hesitant to your advances. Then again, she should’ve known what she signed up for when Mark sent two eager correspondents her way.

“So… when you two first met. What was that like?” you ask.

“That’s the angle you’re taking?” she snorts, delighted by your audacity.

“It is.” You cross one leg over the other, attempting to seem as nonchalant as you sound. But your pulse ticks behind your jaw. It’s always a gamble when you go off-script, and your opener had nothing to do with this whatsoever.

“Is this amateur hour?” She tosses her hair over her shoulder dramatically.

You snap your notepad shut. The sound recoils off the cream-colored walls. “Listen, public opinion right now isn't great. Without us, people think you’re just some money hungry cheater. If you want your story told, you’ll have to tell it right.”

She stares at you intently before pinching the bridge of her nose with her fingers. You can practically hear the thoughts in her head ping-ponging back and forth.

“You know,” Monroe remarks, “people always believe things without listening to both sides. I guess if you are listening to Delgado, you would think I'm some crazy obsessed woman.”

Oh. Oh. You’re getting somewhere.

“Are you not?” Jungkook asks, like that’s the most reasonable follow up in the world.

You shoot him a glare, but Monroe laughs loudly.

“No. I'm not. I’m normally very poised.” You imagine so. The woman probably spends her days hanging out with her personal trainer and delaying the aging process as much as possible.

“So, when you met him…” you press. You know you have her; her shoulders dip, her fingers toy with the hem of her skirt.

“Well,” Monroe sighs, “we met like most people do. We were at a retreat in Virginia. A policy weekend thing. I saw him in real life for the first time.. and, I don’t know. I’d heard murmurings of him, nothing good.”

“What did you hear about him?” you ask, flipping your notepad open, writing furiously.

She ticks off the words like items on a grocery list. “Arrogant. Obnoxious. Rich. Entitled. Do I need to go on?”

No, she doesn’t. Quite frankly, it sounds a lot like the man sitting next to you.

“Got it.” You scribble the words on your page. “So when you two were finally in the same room?”

“It was electric. He’s electric.” Her tone wavers a little as she recalls it, and the vulnerability takes you aback.

Your pen slows to a halt. “Really? This self-absorbed, entitled man?”

“Even the worst storms can light up a sky.”

That’s one way to describe a congressional sex scandal.

She hunches toward you both, like she’s about to impart vast amounts of wisdom. “Have you two ever met someone who, the minute you meet them, it feels like your whole world shifts? Like they were put on this planet to haunt you?”

You know about that in more ways than one.

“Maybe.” Jungkook says. You’re keenly aware of how claustrophobic this room suddenly feels.

Monroe nods triumphantly. “That was us. It took one look, one conversation, and I knew it was going to be like that.”

“Was it… like that? While you two were fraternizing?" Jungkook questions. The edge in his voice has gone dull.

She tosses her head back in laughter. “Definitely. He always had the upper hand, and I was chasing him while he dangled the carrot.”

A weird feeling settles in your stomach. You know what it’s like to chase, to want to matter to someone who doesn’t deserve it.

“That couldn’t have been easy,” you offer.

She exhales a slow breath. “You know, as a woman who’s incredibly intelligent, I’m used to men putting me down in rooms I’ve been made to feel like I don’t belong in. But with him, it was different. Like he wanted to hear what I had to say. I was important.”

Your pen stills again.

“So I chased him. I chased him until we couldn’t anymore.”

“So it wasn't one sided?” you ask without preamble.

She eyes you, lets her gaze drag along your figure. “You tell me.”

You hadn’t planned on answering honestly but something about the heat in the air, the sting of your half-sober Sunday still clinging to you makes you mutter, “I don’t think so”

Monroe points both manicured fingers at you like you’ve just won a game show. “Ding ding.”

“Women on the Hill are spectacles,” she says. Her stare pins you where you sit. “We’re all too smart for our own good, and sometimes we’re made to feel otherwise. Haven’t you ever felt like that?”

“I have.” you admit. “More than once.”

“I entangled myself with him because I was his equal. In the past, I’ve never been someone's equal before. Men adored me, sure. But they never matched me. I just wanted that for once.” Her bracelets clink softly as she gestures.

As you observe her, a wave of empathy washes over you. Each slight tremor in her voice reveals a vulnerability that calls out for compassion.

“I get it.” you say. The words taste sour on your tongue. “I’ve never had that.”

That earns you a sympathetic hum. “I’m sorry, dear. It’s exhilarating. When you find the man that loves your brain more than just you, you’ll understand why nothing else could ever work.”

Your laugh is stuck behind your ribs.

“The last and only boyfriend I ever had thought I was too smart. He said girls like me should be seen and not heard.” Your fingers tighten on your notepad.

And you don’t know when you ingested truth serum, but it flows out of you with ease. So easily that it makes you twitch in your chair when repeating the words out loud that have haunted you for years.

“What the fuck?” Jungkook blurts out incredulously, completely ignoring the audience in the room. It’s the first three words he’s said in minutes, and it punches through the room with force. His eyebrows are pulled taut, jaw tense. He blinks at you, like he’s trying to discern if he heard you right.

“What the fuck.” He repeats when you make no move to offer up a response or explanation. Not that you owe him one.

But you feel like you need to calm him down before he gets up and throws his chair across the room. “It was a joke,” you murmur. “He said it jokingly.”

“Oh,” Jungkook curses under his breath, then goes, “Hilarious. Real knee slapper.”

His jaw is still clenched so tightly you’re surprised it hasn’t cracked. His fingers flex on the armrest repeatedly.

Monroe’s eyes flicker between you both, intrigued. “Men are so fragile.”

Your pen tip presses an inky bruise into the paper.

“Now you see it,” she says, like she’s handing you a mirror. “Delgado enriched my mind.”

It’s a pretty sentence, a poignant reflection on the bittersweet reality of having someone unexpected love you for exactly who you are.

You flip a page in your notes. “Public opinion of you right now… is not great.”

“Oh?” One side of Monroe’s lips curl.

“They all think you did it for money.”

A humorless laugh escapes her. “That’s rich. I was never getting his money.”

You pause. Pen hovers above paper. “Then what did you want?”

“Him.”

There’s a desperate ache inside you that begs to be seen — not in fragments, not in convenience — but entirely.

“Have you seen what he’s been saying?” Jungkook switches his pen from his left to his right. It’s a beautiful shade of black. You’ve noticed his signature pens lying around rooms sometimes.

Monroe nods. “I have.”

“And?” He lets his pen fall to his lap.

“I can’t let it bother me. If I let every man rewrite my story, I’d never get out of bed.” She rolls her eyes.

“Well, I’d love to rewrite your story.” He props his elbow on the armrest, eyes twinkling the way all journalists do when they’ve been presented with the opportunity to write.

“We,” you correct. “We’d love to help rewrite it.”

There’s no way you’ll let him write this alone. This is your story as much as it is his.

“Right. Both of you.” Monroe bemuses, lips quirking.

We’d love to rewrite it.

We.

When the hell did that start happening?

Nine years ago, you had a boyfriend.

You didn’t necessarily want one. Didn’t go looking for it like most people did your age.

See, your plan was always this — college, job, and pay your parents back for everything they did for you. There was no line item for ‘boyfriend.’

Once, when you were too young to understand the logistics of the world, you had sketched out your life with the precision of an artist, every detail carefully outlined. A prestigious Ivy League university, a fulfilling career as a journalist, a charming home for your family — each element of your future unfolded like a well-rehearsed script. The house you envisioned was nestled just down the road from your parents, a lovely two-story home with three cozy bedrooms that danced in your dreams.

Even when you were ten, sharing a cramped bedroom with your family, you had determined that this would someday be your parents’. A token of gratitude for all their hard work, for everything they did to put food on the table.

Then came him — the soft-spoken classmate who unexpectedly wove himself into the fabric of your life during your senior year of high school. He was a gentle soul, effortlessly blending into the background of your AP English class. He drew little attention to himself amidst the bustling energy of teenage life.

And so you let your plan alter a little. You let yourself fall for someone to fulfill the void. You etched him into every crevice of your plan until there wasn’t a single part of it that didn’t include him.

Despite how easily he fit into it all, he made an effort to undo it. He pulled away at pieces of yourself until there was nothing left to give. He took and took and took.

And when you’re seventeen from a poor family that has had to make peace with owning nothing, you accept being taken from.

So when you walk out of the interview room after your time with Monroe is up, after spending an hour talking about a man who is taking more from her than he’s giving, you run. Speed down the hallway as quickly as you can.

When you turn the corner, leaning against the cold wall to ground yourself, a quick patter of footsteps follow you but you try to ignore it.

“Are you alright? You kinda ran out of there.”

Jungkook hides behind the wall, slightly out of breath, as if he too was maintaining your speed down the hall. His dark hair is tousled over his forehead.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You wave him off, hitching your bag higher on your shoulder. “Guess I’m still hungover.”

You attempt to laugh but it’s clear he doesn’t find that the least bit funny.

“I thought it might’ve been because of what you said in there.” His words land between you like a dropped match on dry grass.

“Huh?” You blink up at him.

“That thing you said.” He clears his throat. Looks up at the ceiling like it might have the answer on how to ask what he’s asking properly. “Was that true?”

You know exactly what he means. You’re just too busy trying to find an exit route from this hallway.

“What part?” you ask, because it buys you time. Maybe if you keep playing dumb, this whole conversation will dissolve and he’ll call you a dimwit so you can return to some sense of normalcy.

“About what your ex said to you?” he says, quieter. “That you should be seen and not heard?”

The memory has followed you into adulthood like a shadow that forgot to disappear at night.

“Jungkook, it’s fine.” You straighten your shoulders, looking down the empty hallway before looking back at him. “It was in the past. I don’t need you to pity me.”

“I’m not pitying you.”

“Sureeee.” You shift your weight onto your other foot. “Because this whole ‘intervention’ doesn’t feel at all like pity.”

“I’m not. I just… “ He struggles with the words for a second. “I just don’t think you should walk around thinking that he might be right.”

Hilarious, because that’s the exact thing you have been walking around thinking, ever since high school. Ever since someone looked at your ambition like it was a flaw, like being too intelligent made you less lovable.

“Trust me, I don’t.” You lie right through the skin of your teeth.

“Okay, good.” He pauses, eyes flicking from your chest that’s still heaving up to your mouth. “I wouldn’t have anyone to argue with if you started playing dumb for me.”

“I would never.” You push his shoulder playfully, hoping to blow out the fire behind his eyes. If anything, it just intensifies at your brief touch.

Your attention splits when you hear someone heaving down the hallway, and Jungkook’s eyes gaze behind your shoulder at the sound of a poor man dying.

When you turn, it’s Mark, who you actually forgot about a little after agreeing to write the piece on Monroe. You’re about to offer him an inhaler as he catches up to you, tie flung over his shoulder, bracing the wall for support, but he speaks before you can.

“I’ve been looking for you two everywhere.” he gasps, “You’re quite the runners, aren’t you?”

You meet Jungkook’s eyes for a second, barely containing your laughter.

“Did someone chase you down here or is this some kind of fitness challenge?” Jungkook folds his arms as if he also didn’t just run down a similar hallway.

Mark straightens, face blotchy. “I haven’t broken a sweat like that since the holiday party in 2019 when the heater combusted and it was like, a thousand degrees.”

Jungkook grins widely. “You okay, man? Need a defibrillator or something?"

“I need,” Mark pants, pointing between you both, “the two of you. That’s what I need. You’re not going to like it, but it’s urgent.”

Nothing good has ever followed a sentence like that.

“By all means, continue to ruin my day,” you mutter under your breath.

Mark pulls out his phone, ignoring your snide remark. “Delgado’s team just announced he’s holding a surprise press conference in Manhattan on Friday. Monroe’s team, in retaliation, is doing one Thursday morning.”

“Wait, so…” you deadpan.

“They’re going head to head, pretty much.” Mark turns his phone towards you, showcasing his calendar that is color-coded to a T. “In New York. They’re spinning this like it’s some truth tour.”

You have a feeling the truth won’t actually be told here.

“Listen, this could be huge. We need people in the room we can trust, people who know the case.”

Oh no. You know exactly where this is going.

Your hangover headache returns with a vengeance.

He must see it written in your face, because he goes, “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s all expenses paid.”

Your first instinct is to bolt. To fake a cough and say, “oh no, I think I have Monroe’s alleged flu.”

The last thing you need is a getaway to New York with Jungkook. You haven’t been in that city with him since graduation, when you took your respective seats as valedictorian and salutatorian. He tried to trip you as you were getting up to deliver your speech, but you dodged him in time.

Jenna leaps into your mind as if she’s always lurked in there. The promotion. Senior correspondent. The raise. The money you could use to buy your parents that home.

Mark keeps going, unaware of the war inside your brain. “Transporation is covered. Rooms covered. Media badges cleared for you. I can tryyy and squeeze you in the front row.”

Jungkook looks between you and Mark with an unreadable expression.

You have a promise to uphold to yourself — a vow you’ve been building your life around since you were old enough to know what the word ‘eviction’ meant.

“Fine. I’ll go.”

It surprises you when it leaves your mouth.

“Yeah,” Jungkook echoes. “Me too.”

Mark claps his hands together gleefully like you just agreed to be his groomsmen at his wedding. “Amazing. I’ll work on sending all details to your emails. God, you two are the best.”

He doesn't really say much more, spinning on his feet and clacking away on his phone already, whistling like he hasn’t put a dent on your weekend.

Your stomach knots itself into a bow, and you pray New York won’t take more from you than you have left to give.

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