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igwb · 3 months ago

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Snow Flower.

"when the world turns beautifully white, i'll spread those fading colors with you."

pairing: kim taehyung x oc

genre: first love au; angst + fluff

summary: when we’re faced with the weight of a future that feels uncertain, we often try to grasp onto the past, wishing for what we once had, but the reality is—taehyung had no choice but to focus on the present. his time was slipping away, each moment feeling like it could be the last, and yet, he longed for nothing more than to share what little time he had left with you.

word count: 27K (one shot)

warnings: taehyung has a brain tumor, the pain of losing a loved one too soon, mentions of; illness, grief, loss, blood, emotionally cheating & sad ending (i keep torturing myself) and basically a lot of tears

playlist: snow flower, forever winter, the view between villages

The heat of the coffee spreads across your tongue, just on the edge of burning—hot enough to sting, yet comforting in a way that anchors you to the moment. Outside, the crisp autumn air stirs the golden leaves, sending them drifting from the branches like delicate fragments of time. You watch them fall, mesmerized. You’ve always loved this sight. It speaks of change, of renewal—of something ending so that something else, something beautiful, can begin.

Soon, the gentle chill of autumn will sharpen into the unforgiving cold of winter. Then, after what feels like an eternity, spring will return, as it always does. A cycle of endings and beginnings.

You lift your cup for another sip, seeking just a few more seconds of stillness—but before the warmth can reach your lips, the sharp beeping of your pager cuts through the quiet.

Reality pulls you back in. The sterile scent of antiseptic, the rhythmic hum of machines, the hurried footsteps in the hallways—all of it rushes back, reminding you where you are. There is no time to linger in fleeting moments. Duty calls.

You hastily wipe away the coffee that has seeped into the fabric of your blouse, sighing as you push open the door and step out of the quiet room. The moment your foot crosses the threshold, the world outside rushes back to meet you—chaotic, urgent, relentless.

People move past you in hurried strides, their faces painted with emotions too vast to contain. Some are crying, shoulders shaking with silent grief. Others are laughing, relief spilling from their lips in nervous bursts. And then there are those caught somewhere in between, laughter and tears intertwining as if unsure which one to lean into.

Hospitals are strange places—an intersection of every possible human emotion, all condensed within the same sterile walls. For every person receiving good news, another is hearing the worst. For every minor injury, there is a life-altering diagnosis. Some will walk out of here with nothing more than a cast and a prescription; others will never leave at all.

Each story is different. Each life, precious. And yet, in this space where time feels suspended between hope and despair, the world keeps moving forward.

The sound of your name pulls you back to the present, shaking you from your thoughts. You turn just as your colleague comes into view—dyed blond hair, though at this point, you wonder how it’s still holding on after so many bleach sessions. It always amuses you, how he manages to pull off such bright colors—sometimes pink, sometimes blue—in a place so often drenched in monotony.

Park Jimin is the kind of person who brings warmth into spaces like this, a reminder of why you do what you do. His presence alone makes the hospital feel a little less cold, a little less heavy. He is a contrast to the quiet suffering that lingers in the air, a reminder that your job is not just about science and medicine—it’s about hope. About making people believe, even when the odds are stacked against them. Some can be saved. Some can’t. But that doesn’t mean you stop trying.

“Time for my break,” he sighs, already shrugging off his blouse with the weariness of someone who has seen too much in too little time.

“Rough morning?” you ask, slipping your hands into your coat pockets, fingers fidgeting with the small objects inside—an unconscious habit.

Jimin plops himself onto a chair meant for patients, limbs sprawled out in a way that seems almost comical. It’s a funny sight—one of the best nurses you know, looking like he’s the one who needs saving. A quiet reminder that even the strongest among you sometimes need a moment to breathe.

“A kid came in because he didn’t want to go to school, so he broke his own ankle,” Jimin says, shaking his head. “Another one came just for diarrhea.”

You try not to laugh, biting down on your lip. Sometimes, it’s better to laugh—better to find humor in the little things, to let yourself breathe, even in a place like this.

But then, his voice shifts, quieter now, almost fragile.

“And…” He looks down at his white sterile sneakers, the brightness of them suddenly dull against the cold hospital floor. His blond bangs fall slightly over his eyes, shielding them from view. “A guy my age… diagnosed with a brain tumor.”

Your smile fades instantly. For the first time, you see him without the usual light in his expression. His normally vibrant presence feels dimmed, his bright hair no longer making his face pop like it usually does. Instead, it looks like a curtain he’s trying to hide behind.

Jimin isn’t the one suffering, and yet, he carries the weight of it. He’s the one who’s supposed to be strong, the one who’s supposed to bring comfort. But right now, in this moment, he’s just human. Just someone trying to process the unfairness of it all.

“How bad is it?” you ask, lowering yourself onto the same stiff beige chair, no longer caring that it was meant for patients.

Jimin sighs, running a shaky hand through his blond hair. “Like… three months? Five at best.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head as if the movement alone could push back the tears threatening to spill.

Your chest tightens. For the patient, yes—but also for Jimin. You know what kind of person he is, how deeply he feels. And of course, hearing that someone his age, someone with their whole life ahead of them, is now living on borrowed time… it’s enough to break even the coldest heart.

“That guy could be me,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

Then he turns to you, eyes searching yours, grounding you before you can spiral too far into the cruel unpredictability of life.

“Hey.”

“Yeah, Jimin?”

He hesitates, his fingers gripping the fabric of his scrubs, knuckles white. Then, in a voice laced with shame—shame for something that shouldn’t even be shameful—he asks, “Would you mind if… I don’t know. If I transfer his file to you? It hurts so bad.”

And you understand.

For the first time in his career, Jimin needs to step back—not because he doesn’t care, but because he cares too much. Because this time, the weight of it is too personal, too raw. And though his request is spoken with hesitation, with guilt, you see it for what it is. Not weakness. Not failure.

Just humanity.

You nod without hesitation, hoping it will bring him even the smallest bit of relief. Hoping that, if nothing else, handing over the case will make his heart feel a little lighter—if only because he won’t have to see the patient’s face every day, won’t have to be reminded of how cruel fate can be.

“Of course, I will,” you say, placing a reassuring hand on his stiff shoulder. “Now go take your break, and don’t worry about me. I’ll do a good job, Park!” You try to sound lighthearted, playful even, slipping into the same role he so often takes—the one who makes things a little easier to bear.

Jimin finally stands, stretching before bouncing on his feet in an exaggerated motion. Then, just like that, he puts on his best smile—the one that makes his eyes crinkle shut, that turns his entire face into something radiant. For a moment, he looks like himself again.

“I owe you for this. What about drinks tonight?”

“I can’t tonight,” you reply with a small shake of your head, already bracing for his dramatic reaction. As expected, he groans, rolling his eyes in exaggerated annoyance.

“Wife duty,” you add, grinning as you raise your left hand slightly, letting the bright diamond on your ring finger catch the light. Shiny. New. Beautiful. A tangible reminder of the love you chose.

Jimin clicks his tongue but smiles anyway—because your happiness is real, undeniable, the kind that makes even cynics believe in love. “That bastard is lucky,” he says, though his voice holds no resentment, only fondness. Then, as if unable to help himself, he smirks. “Tell Minsu I said hi—and that he’ll have to lend me his wife sometime.” He winks before disappearing into the break room, a mischievous glint still lingering in his eyes.

And just like that, the moment of heaviness passes. At least for now.

You make your way to the counter, fingers tapping lightly against the surface as you wait for Ms. Han to hand over your patient list for the day. She shuffles through some files before passing you three thick sheets of paper.

“That’s all?” you ask, giving them a quick glance. Routine treatments. Checkups. Basic things. Things you can handle without much thought.

“Well…” She swallows, then lowers her voice. “The last one is a bit tough. Jimin didn’t—”

“The patient with the brain tumor?” you interrupt gently.

She nods, confirming what you already knew. Your eyes skim over the last page, taking in the details as quickly as possible. 27 years old. Diagnosed today.

“He doesn’t want treatment,” Jihyun murmurs, staring at the bouquet on the counter rather than meeting your eyes. The flowers are vibrant, a gift from her boyfriend, their colors standing out against the stark white of the hospital walls. You’ve always thought hospital hallways were too lifeless, too sterile. It makes you glad the flowers are there—small bursts of color in a place that so often feels drained of it.

“Okay,” you say, slipping the papers under your arm. “I’ll go see him. Thanks, Jihyun.”

She nods, but her expression remains troubled as you turn away. You understand why. A patient refusing treatment is never easy. But something tells you—this one will be even harder.

You move through your rounds smoothly, tending to the first two patients with quiet efficiency. Seeing them improve—even just a little—fills you with something warm, something close to pride. The relief in their eyes, the way they talk more freely about anything and everything, makes your heart feel lighter. You answer them with genuine enjoyment, hoping that even the smallest conversation can brighten their day. Hoping that, for just a moment, they forget where they are.

But now, it’s time for the last patient.

You glance down at the room number. 136.

The hallway suddenly feels longer, the earlier lightness fading with every step. It has always been difficult—this part. Facing someone whose fate has already been written in cruel, unchangeable ink. No matter how many times you’ve done this, no matter how many names and faces have passed through your hands, it never gets easier. Because at the end of it all, they’re not just patients. They’re people. Someone. Someone’s life.

As you reach the door, your eyes flick toward the glass window that looks into the room. The curtains are wide open. Unusual. Most patients in his position prefer to shut themselves away, closing the blinds so no one can see them—so no one can pity them.

Inside, a man sits with his back to the door, gazing out the window. His posture is relaxed, almost too still, as if he’s trying to commit the view to memory.

You take a deep breath, flexing your fingers before curling them into fists, willing them to stop trembling. Then, swallowing down the strange unease settling in your chest, you lift your hand and knock gently on the door.

“Come in,” a deep voice calls out, almost sing-song, light in a way that feels at odds with where you are.

You swallow, closing your fingers over the doorknob before pushing the door open. Don’t think too much. That’s what you tell yourself. He’s just a patient. A 27-year-old man in a hospital room. Someone you need to help. Not someone with death looming over him.

“Hi, I’m—” But the words die in your throat.

The man in front of you turns, and suddenly, the world tilts.

The same boxy grin. The same caramel skin. The same thick eyebrows framing big, soulful chocolate eyes—the kind that always smiled, even before his lips did. A sculpted smile. A face you could never mistake.

Your breath catches. “Taehyung?”

He doesn’t look surprised. If anything, his grin widens, eyes crinkling at the corners like he was expecting this. Like he’s been waiting.

And just like that, something shifts in your chest. Not from stress. Not from anticipation.

But from something older. Something that had been buried—forgotten, maybe.

Something only he could bring back.

You look down at the papers in your hands, desperate—begging—to see another name written there. Something different. Something that would make this less real.

But the letters blur together, your fingers trembling so violently that the pages crinkle under your grip. Focus. Read. Breathe. But your mind refuses to obey.

“Woah, so you really work here!”

His voice is light, almost amused, as he bounces slightly on the bed, letting out a small laugh.

You can’t mirror it. Can’t match his strange, detached ease. Because to you, this isn’t nothing. This is the world drowning you alive.

Your eyes dart around the room, searching—praying—for someone else to be here. The real patient. The real man with the brain tumor.

Because it can’t be Taehyung.

Not him.

“Where is he?” you breathe, your voice barely audible.

Taehyung tilts his head, confused. “Who?”

Your gaze lands on his backpack in the corner, and your stomach drops. The keychains. Bright, mismatched, a collection of weird little things that only he would own.

It is him.

“The…” You try to gesture with your hands, unable—unwilling—to say the words.

Taehyung hums in understanding, looking around the room as if following your frantic search. Then, without hesitation, he answers, his voice still so damn casual.

“The unlucky guy with a brain tumor?”

And then you look at him—really look at him. The boxy grin is still there, but now you see it for what it is. A mask. And beneath it, his eyes are hollow. His cheeks are damp.

He knows.

And in that moment, so do you.

“I am,” he says.

And your mind goes completely, utterly blank.

Spring had just begun, and everything felt alive.

The flowers blossomed on the trees, their bright colors dancing in the light breeze, and the air was soft against your bare arms. The sun, warm and gentle, kissed your skin just right, filling you with a sense of peace.

It was your favorite season—the start of something good. The fresh promise of a new beginning, just like the flowers that slowly unfurled their petals, reaching toward the sun.

Your hands were full of books—so many books, stacked high, pressing into your arms as you made your way down the path. Every sound was muffled by the music blasting through your earbuds, the rhythm of the song vibrating through your bones. Your parents always warned you about it, how the sound would damage your hearing and leave you deaf too young. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

But the greatest mistake you made that day wasn’t turning the volume up too high, or carrying too many books because you were too lazy to make multiple trips. It wasn’t even losing track of time as you let the music consume you.

It was stopping right there in the middle of the path.

You closed your eyes, lifted your face to the sun, and let it warm you completely. The moment was pure bliss. You couldn’t help but smile, feeling the weight of the world melt away in that quiet, peaceful moment.

But as soon as you did, your foot caught on something, your body teetering for a second before you fell back, the books flying from your hands and joining you on the ground with a soft thud.

“Shit, are you okay?”

The first thing you see is the shadow of someone blocking the sun, and then you’re met with the face of a stranger. His wide eyes, hidden behind thick glasses, are filled with concern and something else—guilt, maybe? His mouth hangs open as though he’s already expecting to be yelled at, yet he quickly offers his hand without hesitation.

“I do,” you say, grabbing his hand. His fingers, slim and warm, wrap around yours, pulling you up gently. His movements are quick, almost frantic, as he crouches down to gather your scattered books.

“I’m really sorry,” he says in a rush, his voice bubbling with sincerity. “I was running late and I was running like an idiot.” His gaze darts between you and the floor. “I should have been more careful.”

You feel your cheeks flush, the heat creeping up as you watch him struggle to collect the books, his clumsy hands almost dropping them in the process. He asks where you’re headed, offering to walk with you as an apology.

“It’s my fault,” you admit, avoiding his gaze but not his words. “It wasn’t the best idea to stop in the middle of the hallway.”

He laughs softly, the sound light and carefree, almost childlike. “Guess we both have our faults in this!” he says, nearly dropping a book as he fumbles with the stack. You quickly catch it, your fingers brushing his.

“God, I’m clumsy,” he mutters, shaking his head with an embarrassed grin before focusing on following you down the hall.

The walk feels oddly natural, and before you know it, you find yourselves standing in front of your classroom. He hands back your books, his eyes slightly less frantic now, though still carrying a bit of that nervous energy.

“My name is Kim Taehyung, by the way,” he says, his voice a little quieter now, like he’s not sure if he should still be talking. “It’s my first day here.”

Before you can say anything, he’s already on his way, running off with his backpack swinging wildly behind him, the keychains clinking noisily with every step.

But the sound of them fading into the distance isn’t the only thing lingering in the air. You feel it too—your heart, hanging loosely, caught somewhere between surprise and something new.

And just like that, Kim Taehyung became spring to you. A new beginning. Something fresh. Something beautiful.

You feel terrible. Guilty.

Guilty for something that isn’t yours to control, for something you can’t even decide. But the guilt is there, eating at you from the inside out, because you had to run to the nearest bathroom to escape him. To escape yourself.

You’re shaking as you lean over the sink, and the contents of your stomach spill out violently, until there’s nothing left but bile, a sour reminder of everything you’ve been avoiding. The thought of facing him. Of being by his side during this. It churns in your stomach, makes it twist and burn. You can’t breathe. You can’t breathe because the thought of it is suffocating.

The memories of him flood in—the way you used to walk beside him, holding his hand, kissing his cheek shyly in the hallways. It used to feel so natural. So right. So easy.

But now? You’re not sure if you can even look at him.

You take a shaky breath and lift your eyes to the mirror, staring at your reflection, and it’s a version of yourself you don’t recognize. The eyes staring back at you are dull, haunted, and the weight of everything feels like it’s pressing down on your chest.

You splash cold water on your face, the coolness doing little to erase the taste of vomit still lingering in your mouth. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. Nothing can erase the deep ache in your heart.

You try to calm your racing thoughts, but the pain stays. It’s like a shadow, stretching over every part of you. A wound that just keeps growing.

You hear the soft knock on the door, followed by the sound you never thought you’d hear in this moment—his voice. It’s gentle, laced with concern, the same voice that once made you smile without thinking.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry I followed you—”

A pang of guilt hits you immediately.

“I’m okay. I’m okay, I swear,” you respond quickly, your voice muffled through the door, but firm enough to mask the cracks in it. It’s not his place to care now. Not when it’s him—him—the one who needs help. You should be the one to care, to hold it together for him. But this isn’t that simple. Not anymore.

You close your eyes, pressing your forehead against the cool tile, willing your heart to steady, trying to ignore the tightness in your chest.

Taehyung—the most caring, selfless person you’ve ever met, even when he’s the one with a stupid brain tumor, even when he’s the one who should be cared for, not the other way around. He’s the one standing outside the door, waiting for you to say everything’s fine, even when you know it isn’t.

Even when it never will be again.

You slip your white coat back on, pulling it tight around your shoulders as if the fabric could somehow shield you from everything that’s swirling in your mind. It feels like a silly thought, but you cling to it anyway. Maybe the coat will help you focus. Maybe it’ll give you back the sense of control you’re desperately seeking, even if just for a moment.

You take a deep breath, letting the cold, sterile air fill your lungs. Then, you step outside of the bathroom, your heart racing again as you make your way back to him.

“Sorry to have run off like that,” you say, your voice shaky but steady enough to sound convincing. “It was very unprofessional of me,” you add, and you don’t trust your own words—don’t believe them—but you push them out anyway. “Really needed to… pee.”

You can hear how forced it sounds, but you can’t stop yourself. You want him to believe it. You want him to believe that the reason you ran away wasn’t because of him—because you were scared.

If he notices your red eyes, your disheveled state, he doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t question you. Instead, he just smiles—childishly, like he always does—his eyes crinkling with that carefree joy that you’ve always loved about him. Even at 27, he still found humor in the smallest things, like this moment.

It’s a silly smile, but it works. It works because for a brief second, you’re reminded of everything that felt normal between you two. And somehow, despite the knot in your stomach, you manage to smile back.

You walk silently beside him, the sounds of your shoes echoing in the hallway. His words are light, almost playful, as he talks about his diagnosis in a way that doesn’t quite match the gravity of the situation. “It’s weird to see me there, right?” he asks with that typical, innocent smile of his. But his smile feels out of place now, like it’s masking something deeper.

You nod, not trusting your own voice to speak, afraid that if you say something wrong, it’ll all fall apart. You’re thankful when he continues, his words somehow more carefree than you know they should be.

“I never thought it would happen to me. Guess I’m unlucky!” he laughs, that laugh bouncing off the sterile walls. And you wonder—does he really understand? Does he know what he’s facing, what the doctor’s words meant when they told him three months, five if he’s lucky?

You don’t think he does, at least not in the way that you do. Not in the way that every part of you feels the weight of those words crushing down on you.

“Taehyung,” you stop in your tracks, a hand reaching out to grab the sleeve of his beige sweater. You can feel the tension in your chest, the tightness that’s been building up since you first saw him. “They told me you don’t want treatments,” you say, your voice shaky, but you push on. “Why?”

He pauses, glancing around at the other patients, the ones moving about in their own little world, all of them wrapped in their own battles. You see the way his eyes flit around, like he’s looking for an escape. He doesn’t want to say it, you can tell. But he does anyway, his voice quieter now.

“I want to live normally,” he says, the words hanging in the air, heavy with meaning. “Not like someone who…” He stumbles, his voice faltering for a second, but he pushes through. “If I have one year or less, I want to make the best of it. Not being dependent on stupid pills.”

His words hit you harder than you expect. You watch as his smile falters, the cracks in his bravado starting to show. He’s trying so hard to stay strong, to keep that carefree front, but you can see the rawness in his eyes.

You want to scream, tell him he’s wrong. That the treatments, even if they don’t work miracles, could give him more time. And you wonder, as you stand there, if there’s anything left you can do to save him.

“At least I know you,” Taehyung says with that smile of his—the kind that always seemed to light up any room. And for a moment, you almost forget. You almost forget what he’s really here for, what’s really happening to him, because in his smile, you can see all the memories of who he used to be. The carefree boy you once knew. The boy who made you laugh so hard your stomach ached, the boy who could always find the light, even in the darkest moments.

You want to protect that smile. You want to shield it from the reality that is creeping closer every day. But you can’t. You can’t hide from what’s real, and the truth is—you’ve never been more terrified.

But the fear is nothing compared to the weight of your decision. You take a deep breath, swallowing the lump that’s formed in your throat. You’re not just here to help him as a nurse, not just to monitor his condition or make sure his pain is controlled. You’re here because he needs someone to walk beside him through this.

The files that Jimin gave you, they weren’t just a piece of paper. They weren’t just cold, sterile facts about his condition. They were a sign. A sign that you were meant to be more than just the nurse in charge of his care. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was a twist of life’s cruel sense of humor. But whatever it was, you couldn’t walk away from it.

You couldn’t walk away from him.

“I don’t want to be alone in this,” he whispers, almost to himself. “I don’t think I could do it.”

His voice falters, softer now, a noticeable tremor threading through every word he speaks. His smile slowly fades away, replaced by an expression of raw fear and vulnerability that cuts deep into your heart. He knows what’s happening to him—he isn’t blind to the reality of his situation. He may be young, just a boy in the grand scheme of life, but he’s wise enough to see that this fight isn’t one he can win. He isn’t dumb, just a young man trying desperately to hold onto hope, hiding the weight of his pain behind the most beautiful, effortless smile that once filled the room with light.

“I’m so scared,” he whispers, his voice barely audible, and he tucks his face behind his dark, curly bangs, as though trying to disappear from it all. His words catch in his throat. “I don’t want to die.” The vulnerability in his voice cracks you wide open, and then, almost as if he couldn’t bear to look at you any longer, he breathes your name, followed by a quiet sob, sniffing back the tears that refuse to be contained.

In that instant, there’s no hesitation. Not a second of doubt. You don’t even have to think about it. Without a moment’s hesitation, you step forward, wrapping your arms around him as though it’s the only thing you know how to do. His body is trembling, his chest rising and falling with ragged breaths. The hallway feels distant and empty, but none of that matters right now. All that matters is him—his pain, his fear, and the promise you need to make.

“You’re not alone, Tae,” you murmur, your voice low and steady, just for him. “I’ll be with you. I promise.”

And as you hold him, the weight of the promise settles in. You realize that while you can’t change what’s happening, you can offer him something—your presence, your unwavering support, the kind of comfort that transcends words. This moment, fleeting as it may be, becomes a promise of solidarity, a bond neither time nor illness can sever.

You felt like a hypocrite. You, of all people, knew better than this. You were the one who always reminded your patients and their families to trust the doctors, to avoid searching for answers in random corners of the internet. And yet here you were, scrolling through endless websites, looking for some sort of comfort in articles that didn’t know the first thing about the reality of brain tumors. You were desperately seeking something—anything—that could make this nightmare feel less real. But all you found was more uncertainty, more fear, and the cruel reminder that there were no easy answers.

Frustrated, you threw your phone onto the sofa with a groan, feeling utterly helpless. You were a professional, you told yourself. You were supposed to be strong, level-headed, and yet tonight you felt like a fraud.

“What happened?” Minsu’s voice broke through your haze, his breath warm as he leaned over your shoulder, his face nuzzling into the crook of your neck. The weight of his presence was grounding, but it only made you feel worse. You hadn’t even looked at him since you came home. The night you’d planned, the night that was supposed to be just the two of you, had slipped away from you. The second you stepped through the door, Taehyung’s face had taken over your mind, and there was no room left for anything else. Not even your husband.

You sighed, deeply, feeling the guilt weigh heavily on your chest. You should’ve been present for Minsu. You should’ve been with him, but instead, you were consumed by Taehyung’s pain, his fear, and the crushing weight of your own helplessness.

“I had a rough day,” you finally admitted, the words slipping out without thinking. If you couldn’t share this with Minsu, who could you share it with? You knew he would understand. You knew he’d listen, even if he didn’t fully comprehend the depths of your emotions. But tonight, you needed someone who cared. You needed someone who could hold you, even if just for a moment, so you didn’t feel like you were drowning in this mess of conflicting emotions.

Minsu’s words hit you harder than you expected. “You always have rough days at the hospital. You sure you still love it?” It wasn’t that he meant any harm, but the way he phrased it, so casual and unthinking, made your heart ache. It felt like he was questioning your passion, your calling, and suddenly you were defensive, like he didn’t understand.

Could he think you didn’t love what you did? That you didn’t love being there, that you didn’t care for your patients with everything you had?

No, you loved it. Every minute of it. Even the difficult, gut-wrenching moments when you felt helpless and broken. You couldn’t imagine a life without it, without being a nurse, without being beside someone like Taehyung in his time of need.

You felt the words bubbling up inside you before you could stop them, and you spat out, “It happened. I would get through it.” The tone was sharper than you intended, and you immediately regretted it. But the words were out, and you couldn’t take them back.

Minsu’s expression softened, but the hurt in his eyes was clear. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he said, letting out a frustrated sigh. “Maybe we could go to the cinema tonight, right? Just the two of us. A little distraction?”

But you couldn’t accept it. Not tonight. Not when your mind was overwhelmed with everything. You were running on empty, emotionally drained, and you couldn’t fake your way through it. “I’m tired,” you muttered, not meeting his eyes, and walked toward the bedroom. You could feel the weight of your emotions beginning to overwhelm you—frustration, guilt, fear, everything swirling together in a messy cocktail you couldn’t push aside.

Your phone vibrated softly against the bedside table, breaking through the haze of your thoughts. You barely opened your eyes, the exhaustion weighing on you, yet sleep refused to come. You picked up your phone and saw an unknown number had sent a message. You furrowed your brows in confusion, but your heart skipped a beat when you saw the selfie that followed.

It was a close-up of his face. His eyes, deep brown and full of warmth, stared back at you from the screen. The mole on his nose caught your attention immediately, familiar and comforting. His face was messy, his hair slightly askew, but it was the perfect snapshot of him—messy, goofy, and utterly Taehyung.

You giggled softly, a schoolgirl-like giggle, at the silly selfie. It made your heart flutter, the warmth of his presence in the image feeling like a small glimpse of the past. But before you knew it, the smile faltered. A tear slipped down your cheek, uninvited, and soon you were a mess of silent sobs. The laughter that had bubbled up in you just moments ago was now replaced by an overwhelming ache deep in your chest.

You hadn’t wanted to think about it, about what lay ahead because it hurt too much. But how could you not? How could you not look at that goofy, happy face, the eyes that held so much life, and not think about the cruel reality?

His smile, his laugh, the way he lit up a room—how could you imagine a world without that?

Because even though you hadn’t seen him in years, you knew he was still out there, somewhere. Living his life, chasing his dreams, following the rhythm of his heart and the desires of his beautiful soul. And somehow, knowing that his heart was still beating, still full of life, even for someone else, was enough to soothe the ache that lingered in your chest.

It was better than imagining a world where that kind heart, the one that had always been so full of warmth, wasn’t beating at all.

Tonight, your dreams were only about him. The kind of dreams where everything felt so vivid—his laughter, his smile, the warmth in his eyes. He was alive, his heart still beating, and you both were together, just like you used to be.

But then, as the night deepened, the dreams twisted into something darker. His smile began to fade, his laughter drowned in an eerie silence. His eyes, once full of life, became hollow, and you couldn’t stop the feeling that time was running out.

And that’s when the nightmares started. The night felt endless, a cruel loop between the love you remembered and the loss you dreaded, as if your mind couldn’t decide whether to remember or to forget.

As you walked to the hospital, you tried to steel yourself a little more than yesterday, hoping for a better day. You knew it was all about taking it one step at a time, but the weight of everything still sat heavy on your chest. As you rounded the corner, your gaze caught something unexpected—Taehyung, sitting on the bench outside the hospital entrance.

Your breath caught for a second, and you couldn’t help but smile. He was bathed in sunlight, his caramel skin glowing under the morning rays. It was almost as if the sun always followed him, and you couldn’t help but think back to the first time you’d seen him—how it had always felt like a sign whenever the sun seemed to shine a little brighter around him. His attention was focused on the small notebook in his lap, and his pen moved gently, doodling patterns you couldn’t quite make out from this distance.

You took a breath, your heart lightening just by seeing him. It was strange how one person could do that. You checked your phone to make sure you had time before your shift started, and when you saw that you did, you made your way toward him without a second thought.

“What are you drawing, Van Gogh?” you asked with a teasing smile as you sat beside him, leaning over just enough to peer at the pages of his notebook.

He glanced up, his eyes bright, though his focus quickly returned to his sketch. “The trees,” he said, pointing to the large trees standing tall before you both. “They look majestic,” he added, as if he was in awe of their simple grandeur. Leaves were scattered around the ground, signaling that fall had begun to settle in.

“I think I want to be a tree in another life,” he mused, almost too casually, as he traced the lines of his doodles.

You burst into a laugh, the sound light and easy, filling the space between you. “A tree?” you repeated, the words slipping out of your mouth before you could stop them. “When you could be a tiger or a bear? Something cool like that?”

He gave a soft shake of his head, his curls tumbling over his forehead as his bangs swayed out of the way, revealing his deep brown eyes more clearly. “Definitely not a tiger,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “I’m more of a bear guy.” His voice dropped into a more playful tone, as if this was a deeply important decision. “But being a tree is just… so cool. You can live for thousands of years. You don’t have to plan everything because you have all the time in the world.”

His words hit you unexpectedly, the weight of them sinking deeper than you thought possible. It was such a simple statement, yet it left you thinking.

Taehyung smiled at you, his expression softening as though you’d understood a part of his mind that most people wouldn’t have even noticed. That was the thing about him: he had a way of seeing things from angles most people never considered. What others would call an ordinary tree, he saw as a symbol of calm, of timelessness. His mind always surprised you with how deeply he thought about even the simplest things.

“You’ve always had a way of seeing the world differently,” you added, feeling a quiet admiration for him. “It’s like you find meaning in everything.”

He shrugged casually, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips. “I guess I just like to think there’s more to life than just what’s in front of us. You know?” He glanced up at you, his smile widening as he leaned back into the bench. “Plus, trees are cool. They don’t rush.”

He adds the final touches to his drawing, a soft smile playing on his lips as he studies the page. With a small sigh, he closes his notebook and glances over at you, his eyes shifting to your left hand.

“What’s his name, by the way?” he asks casually, as if the question is the most natural thing in the world, his attention now focused on the colorful stickers decorating his notebook. Some were peeling at the edges, faded from time, while others were bright and new, perfectly placed. It was clear—his notebook was more than just a tool for drawing; it was an extension of himself, filled with fragments of his heart, his mind, his life.

He nudges your hand slightly with his chin, his gaze falling on the ring again, and the question feels less like curiosity and more like a gentle reminder of something. “The one who managed to make you want to marry him,” he says with a soft chuckle, almost nostalgically. He remembers the days when you would laugh off any mention of weddings, teasing him about how you’d never buy into the whole marriage idea.

“Oh,” you respond, your gaze drifting down to the ring, momentarily lost in its reflection as the sun dances off the diamonds. But for some reason, it doesn’t shine as brightly as it used to. The way the light catches Taehyung’s skin seems to be a more dazzling sight, something far more captivating than the material in your hand.

You clear your throat, trying to pull yourself back into the conversation. “Choi Minsu,” you say quietly, your voice almost a whisper. “He’s my husband,” you add, but it’s as if the words are harder to say than they should be. You don’t understand why, but a sudden pang of guilt fills your chest, almost as though you’re betraying something you shouldn’t be, just by saying his name aloud.

There’s a long pause between you two as the words hang in the air. Taehyung’s eyes search your face, though he doesn’t press for more, sensing the tension you didn’t want to admit was there. Instead, he smiles softly, his usual lightheartedness fading just a bit.

“Choi Minsu,” he repeats the name, testing the way it feels on his tongue, but there’s no judgment, only acceptance. “He’s lucky. He gets to marry you.”

Taehyung’s chuckle fills the air, light and playful, but there’s a glimmer of something deeper in his eyes as he looks at your wedding ring. “You know, seeing that you work here wasn’t surprising at all, but seeing you with a wedding ring—now that caught me off guard,” he laughs, shaking his head.

You force a smile, but inside, it feels like a crack has formed. You and Taehyung had once shared an understanding, a deep connection that went beyond words. He had always been the one who understood you in a way that no one else did. Back then, you had never seen yourself walking down the aisle, wearing a ring, or subscribing to the traditional idea of love. Love, for you, had always been more than just a symbol. It was in the way you felt when you were with him, in the quiet moments, the laughter, the unspoken bond. A ring on your finger never felt necessary to prove how deeply you cared. Not when it was Taehyung—when it was him, no symbol could ever capture the depth of your feelings.

But now, here you were. Married. To someone else.

Shaking yourself from your thoughts, you try to deflect the tension and lighten the mood, offering a soft laugh as you glance at him. “And I’m surprised you don’t have a ring. You always used to love that stuff,” you tease, wanting to move past the uncomfortable space between you and to remind him of the carefree, dream-filled conversations you used to have.

He raises an eyebrow, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, though it’s a little dimmer than it used to be. His smile doesn’t have the same carefree energy that once lit up his face. Instead, it’s tinged with something more somber, more reflective. “Yeah, maybe I did,” he says, his voice quieter now. He shifts his gaze downward, his finger absentmindedly tapping his pencil against his temple, the rhythm slow, almost as if he’s trying to process something inside his own mind. “But, you know… sometimes things just don’t turn out the way you expect. Guess I’m not the kind of guy who chases fairy tales after all.”

He shrugs lightly, but the heaviness in his words lingers in the air. His eyes flicker to the ground, and you follow his gaze, not wanting to see the vulnerability in his face. Then he taps his pencil again, this time with a slight irony. “I mean, look at me. I’m a ticking bomb,” he adds, the words blunt but wrapped in that dry humor of his, referring to his brain tumor without flinching.

You promised yourself you’d be stronger today. That you wouldn’t let it get to you. You take a deep breath, fighting to steady your voice as you speak. “I like to believe in fairy tales now,” you begin, your words soft, almost tentative. You force a small smile, the kind you know is only half genuine, but it’s all you can muster. “That everything will end perfectly,” you continue, but even as you say the words, you can hear the tremble in your voice. It betrays you, cracks the façade you’ve been desperately trying to hold up.

“I used to think that too,” he continues, his gaze moves beyond you, to the trees he had been drawing earlier. A gentle breeze stirs the branches, and for a brief moment, the world feels suspended in time. “I was always focused on the ending, thinking that if I just waited long enough, things would fall into place. But… maybe that’s not how it works.”

He takes a breath, his shoulders rising and falling slowly. His eyes flicker back to you, locking on with an intensity that makes your chest tighten. “Maybe life isn’t about waiting for the perfect ending,” he adds quietly. “Maybe it’s about making the best of the time you have even when you know it’s limited.”

The words hang in the air, like the sound of wind through the trees—quiet, but undeniable. The weight of them presses into your heart. He was right, wasn’t he? Life wasn’t about waiting for everything to line up perfectly, for some happily-ever-after to fall into place. It was about being present in the here and now, embracing the fleeting moments, even when they were fragile, even when they were tainted by the harsh reality of time running out.

“I should go, work is calling me,” you say, breaking the silence. You feel the tug of duty, knowing that you can’t stay with him for long, even if you wanted to.

He immediately nods, the movement almost mechanical, like he’d been anticipating the moment you would have to leave. “I should go too,” he replies, the smile he offers barely reaching his eyes. “I have an appointment. I don’t know, they want to check something, like somehow it would change overnight,” he chuckles dryly. His words are a sad attempt to mask the reality of what he’s facing, the tests, the unknowns, the countdown ticking inside him.

You both stand up, your footsteps syncing as you make your way toward the hospital’s main entrance, the hallway ahead a familiar path. Same destination, but your roles have shifted in an unspoken way. He’s walking to an appointment, to the uncertainty of what the tests might reveal, and you’re walking toward your shift—your work, your patients, your responsibilities. But in that moment, despite the difference in where you were going, you both carried the same heavy burden.

“Can I ask you something?” Taehyung’s voice breaks the silence, unsure, hesitant, like he’s afraid to burden you with another question. “You can say no if you want, of course. I don’t even know why I’m asking—”

“Yes, Taehyung? Tell me,” you urge, offering him a reassuring smile, letting him know that it’s okay to speak his mind, to ask whatever it is that’s weighing on him. You can see the thoughts swirling behind his eyes, his mind already spiraling into “what ifs,” but you want him to know that you’re here, that you’re listening.

He takes a deep breath before continuing, his voice quieter now, tinged with vulnerability. “Would you mind being there during the appointment? I really don’t like all of that stuff,” he says, referring to the cold, sterile white hallways and the medical staff that often feel like strangers in their white coats. He makes a gesture with his hand, indicating the whole clinical environment—the place that has become so familiar, yet so alien to him.

You pause for a moment, looking into his eyes, seeing the uncertainty and fear beneath the humor he tried to hide behind. You don’t hesitate. You know your answer before he even finishes asking. “I will be there,” you confirm softly, the words carrying a promise, a sense of unwavering support.

He smiles, a little more genuine this time. He moves toward the patient chair and settles down, his posture stiff but trying to remain calm as you walk away to change into your scrubs.

You run through the hallways, each step echoing in the sterile silence, the long corridor seeming endless as you hurry toward Taehyung’s appointment. You hate how drawn out the walk feels, how it stretches your nerves taut as you try to make up for lost time.

Before leaving, you’d asked Jimin to cover for you, asking him to check on your patients without hesitation. He didn’t ask questions, only gave you that reassuring smile of his—something that, in this moment, felt like a lifeline. You couldn’t help but be brief with him when he asked about Taehyung. You spoke of him like any other patient, glossing over the things that made Taehyung different. The truth, the emotions, the weight of knowing him personally, all those things you couldn’t say out loud. If Jimin knew what had happened between you and Taehyung, that he was more than just a patient to you, that the lines between professionalism and personal connection had blurred, you knew he would feel guilty. He would question whether he had done the right thing by giving you Taehyung’s file, and you couldn’t let him carry that.

By the time you open the door to the room, you’re already out of breath. Your gaze immediately finds Dr. Jung, the best neurosurgeon in the city. You’re thankful it’s him handling Taehyung’s case.

As you enter, you try to force a professional smile, but it’s hard when the familiar face you want to see most is right in front of you. Taehyung’s eyes flicker toward you almost immediately, and his signature boxy grin spreads across his face. It’s the same grin that has always made your heart flutter, the same one that used to melt away all of your worries, even in the toughest of times. But now, it feels bittersweet, like a smile that’s hiding something deeper beneath.

You stand behind Dr. Jung’s chair, forcing yourself to focus, to remain calm and composed. You can’t let your emotions overwhelm you, not now. But as you glance at the screen in front of the doctor, a knot tightens in your stomach. You can see the results—Taehyung’s condition—and the numbers on the screen only confirm what you already know. The reality of his diagnosis is undeniable.

You clear your throat, trying to steady your breath as you look at Dr. Jung, then back at Taehyung, before focusing on the x-ray once more. The image of Taehyung’s brain, with those three ominous, small but present masses within it, seems to weigh down on your chest. Each of the balls on the scan felt like a ticking clock—something you couldn’t ignore, no matter how badly you wanted to.

“So, Mr. Kim,” Dr. Jung begins, his voice shaky but professional, trying his best to sound detached from the devastating reality you see in front of you. “The imaging results show a few noticeable masses in your brain, three lesions in total, which are consistent with a diagnosis of a form of brain cancer, aggressive, and unfortunately, given its location and size, it’s going to be challenging to treat.”

You glance quickly at Taehyung’s face, looking for some reaction, some sign that he’s not fully processing what you’re saying, that this isn’t real, that he’ll get better somehow. But his face has already shifted into something else—something resigned. His eyes, though still bright, seem distant, and you can see the subtle change in his demeanor as the words settle in.

Dr. Jung steps in to continue, his voice steady and calm, though you know he’s trying to gauge the situation with every word. “We’ll have to discuss treatment options soon, Mr. Kim. We could try a combination of surgery, radiation, and chemotherapy.” His tone is clinical, compassionate, but you can feel the weight of every word.

Taehyung shakes his head, exhaling through his nose before his gaze finds yours over Dr. Jung’s shoulder. He smiles—soft, warm, familiar. But right now, it only makes your chest tighten unbearably. You quickly avert your eyes, scanning the room as if the framed certificates on the wall or the stack of patient files could distract you from the sting of tears welling up, threatening to blur your vision.

His voice pulls you back. “How long?” he asks, shifting forward in his seat, his hands clasped together like he’s bracing himself. “I mean, how long do you even give me?” He lets out a hollow chuckle, shaking his head. “I’ve read five months if I’m lucky. Three if not. A year, if I feel like lying to myself. And—” he scoffs, his lips curling into something bitter, “some website even said two days.”

Your eyebrows knit together. You want to scold him for looking up his condition online, tell him how unreliable and terrifyingly misleading those sources can be—but you don’t. Because you did the same thing last night, didn’t you? Sat in the dark with your phone screen burning into your retinas, scrolling through every possible prognosis, searching for something—anything—that could contradict the truth you already knew.

Taehyung sighs, his fingers drumming restlessly against the edge of the desk. “So just tell me,” he says, his voice quieter now, like he’s tired. Like carrying this question has already drained him. “I don’t want to hear about treatments that’ll make me feel worse than I already do.”

And that—that—is what shatters you. The way he says it. Because you’ve spent so much time thinking about what he’s going through, about the medical facts, the test results, the harsh reality of it all. But hearing him admit it makes your heart drop to your stomach.

Dr. Jung hesitates. “It’s hard to say—”

“I’m sure it’s not,” Taehyung cuts in, sharper than before. There’s frustration there, anger even, but it fizzles out as fast as it came. His shoulders sink, his head falling into his hands like he’s lost a battle only he knew he was fighting.

You move instinctively, stepping behind him, your hands finding his shoulders. A grounding touch, a silent reassurance. I’m here.

“Mr. Kim,” you say, forcing your voice into something steady, professional, even though every part of you is crumbling inside. “Are you feeling okay?”

He doesn’t answer. And then, before anyone can say another word, a single drop of blood escapes his nose, staining the surface of Dr. Jung’s desk. He wipes it away with the back of his hand, as if it’s nothing. As if it doesn’t send a fresh wave of panic coursing through you.

His voice drops to something almost fragile. “Just tell me. Please.”

Dr. Jung sighs, his fingers tapping against the file in front of him before he straightens in his chair. He hands you a tissue without a word—an unspoken instruction to wipe away the blood. Then he meets Taehyung’s gaze, his own eyes heavy with something that almost resembles guilt.

“Three months,” he says finally. “That’s the best I can offer.”

Silence.

And then—Taehyung exhales, long and slow. His lips press together, his jaw tightening for a moment before he lets out a small, humorless laugh.

“Three months,” he repeats, rolling the words over his tongue. Like he’s trying to make sense of them. Like he’s testing their weight.

Your hands tighten slightly on his shoulders. Because three months isn’t enough. It’s not even close.

Taehyung tilts his head slightly, studying you with an expression that’s both expectant and uncertain. “That’s enough time to do a lot of things, right?” his voice is light, but his eyes—his eyes are searching, needing something from you. Agreement? Reassurance? Hope?

You nod, though the movement feels weak, hollow. You don’t trust yourself to speak because you know if you do, your voice might betray you.

He watches you for a second longer before turning back to Dr. Jung, inhaling deeply as he forces a grin that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Alright then, Doc. Guess I should start making a bucket list.” His tone is playful, almost careless, but you hear the weight beneath it. The resignation.

Dr. Jung nods solemnly and begins explaining something—options, procedures, maybe just medical advice—but the words become nothing more than background noise. Your mind shuts down, the details slipping past you like water through your fingers.

Your focus is locked on the crumpled tissue in your hands, now stained dark red. Taehyung’s blood. A small, tangible piece of his suffering. A cruel, undeniable reminder of the war his body is waging against him.

You barely register the end of their conversation until Taehyung shifts beside you, rising to his feet. “Thanks, Doc. I’ll see you around,” he says, casual, as if he were just leaving a routine check-up instead of carrying the weight of an expiration date.

You move to follow him, your steps automatically falling in line with his, but Dr. Jung’s voice stops you in your tracks.

He calls your name gently, carefully. “Can we talk?”

You hesitate, glancing at Taehyung, but he only smiles, waving a hand dismissively. “I’ll be by the coffee machines. Take your time.”

You nod, watching as he walks away, his figure disappearing down the too-bright hallway.

Then, slowly, you turn back to Dr. Jung, bracing yourself for whatever he’s about to say.

Dr. Jung leans back against his desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp as he studies you. “You know him, don’t you?”

You school your features into something neutral, something professional. “He’s my patient,” you answer, but he only scoffs, shaking his head.

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice is calm, but there’s an edge of knowing to it, like he’s already put the pieces together. “You know him personally. I can see it in the way you look at him, the way you’re here. Who is he to you, miss?”

The question makes you pause.

Who is Taehyung to you?

Once, the answer would have come easily, instinctively. He was everything. The love of your life. Your best friend. The person who made the world feel lighter, warmer. You would have said it with certainty, with the kind of reckless confidence only youth allows.

But now? Now, the words feel heavier, tangled in the years you’ve spent apart.

You exhale, settling on something simpler, something safer. “A friend,” you say, though it doesn’t feel like enough.

Dr. Jung watches you for a moment, like he’s deciding whether to push further, but then he nods. “Well, take care of your friend, then,” he says, walking back to his chair. His voice softens just slightly. “Be there for him. And I need you to be fully aware of his condition.”

You swallow hard, nodding, even as your heart sinks. “I will.”

With a quick bow, you leave Dr. Jung’s office, but the weight of his words lingers in your chest. You shake it off as best you can because right now, there’s only one thing you want—to see Taehyung. To make sure he’s still there.

As soon as you step into the hallway, your eyes search for him, and relief floods through you when you spot him standing by the coffee machines, two cups in his hands. His posture is relaxed, his expression unreadable, but there’s something oddly comforting about the sight of him waiting there.

“Coffee?” you tease, laughing as you approach.

He takes a small sip, his face immediately twisting in disgust.

“You don’t even like coffee, Tae,” you remind him, shaking your head as you accept the cup he offers you. The warmth seeps into your fingers, grounding you. The simple gesture, the familiarity of it, tugs at something deep inside you. A memory of him wrinkling his nose at the bitter smell, of him teasing you for your obsession with it, of endless conversations where he tried—and failed—to understand why you loved it so much.

Some things never change.

Taehyung lets out a dramatic groan, his whole body shuddering. “God, that’s awful. It tastes like pee and Red Bull mixed together.”

You burst out laughing, taking a long sip of your own cup. “And yet you’re still drinking it.”

He pulls a face, staring down at the offending drink like it personally betrayed him. “I don’t know. Just figured I should drink one before I die.”

Your smile falters. Just for a second. But Taehyung doesn’t seem to notice. He scoffs, shaking his head. “Wanted to see why you liked them so much.”

Your fingers tighten around the cup. There’s something lighthearted about his words, but beneath the teasing, there’s an unspoken truth, a quiet confession that hits deeper than it should.

You swallow past the lump in your throat, forcing your voice to stay steady. “And? Do you get it now?”

He makes a show of considering, rolling his lips together before taking another tentative sip. Immediately, his whole face scrunches up.

“Nope. Still disgusting,” he announces, sticking his tongue out in exaggerated distaste. “You have terrible taste, honestly.”

You roll your eyes, nudging his arm. “And yet you’re still drinking it.”

Taehyung shrugs, lifting the cup in a half-hearted toast before taking another reluctant sip. “Guess I just wanted to understand a piece of you again.”

The words settle between you, heavier than they should be. Your chest tightens.

A piece of you.

“You know, I haven’t changed much,” you say, hiding behind the rim of your cup as you take another sip, hoping the bitterness will drown out the emotions creeping up your throat.

Taehyung scoffs, tilting his head as he studies you. “You’re married,” he points out, raising an eyebrow like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s a pretty big change.”

You exhale, lowering your cup just enough to meet his gaze, but his expression is unreadable. He leans casually against the machine, but there’s a weight behind his words, something lingering between you both.

“And it’s been, what? Seven years since we’ve seen each other?” he continues, voice light, but there’s something else beneath it. “You had to change.”

You swallow, his words pressing against you like an unspoken truth you don’t know how to hold. Seven years. It sounds like a lifetime when he says it out loud.

You force a small smile, hoping to shift the mood, to steer the conversation somewhere safer. “Still the same as you can see. Same obsession with coffee,” you say, raising your cup as if it proves your point.

Taehyung huffs a small laugh, shaking his head. “Some things never change, huh?”

“Guess not.”

But even as you say it, you both know it’s not entirely true.

It was one of those afternoons where time seemed to stretch endlessly, the golden warmth of early autumn wrapping around you like a soft embrace. You sat across from Taehyung at the worn wooden picnic table outside your high school, watching as he sketched, lost in his own world.

His pencil moved effortlessly across the page, bringing to life the landscape around you—the towering trees swaying in the breeze, the distant outline of the school building, the way the sunlight filtered through the leaves, casting shadows on the ground. He had a way of seeing the world that fascinated you, capturing even the smallest details with an almost careless ease, as if it was second nature to him.

“You’re going to make a career out of this one day,” you murmured, resting your chin on your arms as you studied his work. “I can’t wait to buy your art.”

He didn’t look up, just let out a soft chuckle, the corners of his lips twitching into a small smile.

You’d known Taehyung for five months now—long enough to watch spring fade into summer, and summer melt into the crisp edges of autumn. Long enough to realize that, despite the depth in his art, he never thought too much about the future.

You were always planning ahead, certain of what you wanted—to be a nurse, to help people, to have a path laid out in front of you. Taehyung, on the other hand, seemed to exist purely in the present. He never worried about where he would be in five years. He’d just shrug and say, I don’t know. I’ll see when I get there.

Sometimes, you envied him for that.

“Come on, draw me,” you said suddenly, sitting up straighter. You lifted your chin, placing your hands delicately under it, gazing off into the distance as if you were deep in thought. “Like one of your French girls.”

Taehyung snorted, finally looking up at you. His blond hair—something that had shocked you when he first dyed it—peeked out from under his red backward cap. He had always been so particular about his hair, claiming he’d never dye it because he loved how healthy it was. But one day, without warning, he showed up blond, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And, of course, it suited him.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said, shaking his head. “You know I don’t draw people. And quoting my favorite movie won’t work,” he says, raising an eyebrow at you, a knowing smirk playing on his lips.

You pouted. “Why not? You’d do a great job.”

“I just don’t.”

You frowned, tilting your head. “That’s not a real answer.”

Taehyung hesitated for a moment, his pencil pausing against the page. He glanced down at his sketchbook, then back at you.

“Because I don’t want to get them wrong,” he said finally, his voice quiet but sincere. “Because my drawings won’t ever do justice to the human beauty,” he added, his gaze flickering toward you as he nodded gently. You felt your heart skip a beat, your cheeks flushing with heat. Did he just call you beautiful?

You immediately shook your head, trying to dismiss the thought. He said human beauty, not you. But somewhere deep inside, you couldn’t help but want to believe that maybe, just maybe, you were included in that sweeping statement.

“I don’t want to capture one emotion in a single drawing. I hate having to put someone on hold, to freeze them in time,” he continued, his voice soft but resolute. Your mind clung to every word, drinking them in like water after a long drought.

His thoughts, the way he expressed them so effortlessly, were a masterpiece in themselves. You found yourself mesmerized, captivated by the depth of his mind, the sincerity in his voice. And the way the sun bathed him in a golden glow behind him, casting a halo around his figure—he looked like a fucking angel.

“Ugh,” you groan, dropping your head onto the table, wincing when it hits a little harder than you intended. The dull throb spreads through your skull, but you don’t care, trying to hide the way your heart feels heavier as the days go by. “Sometimes I wish I could stay young forever,” you mumble, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

You feel the lightness of his laugh before you even register it, the sound of him chuckling, unbothered by the casual way you let your mind spill out of your mouth. It’s like a weight off your chest, hearing him laugh.

“You’re missing out on everything if you stay seventeen your whole life,” he says, his voice warm and filled with that familiar playfulness, as he turns to the next page in his sketchbook, his pencil already in motion as his eyes find something new to capture.

“Missing on gray hair? Wrinkles?” you tease, lifting your head just enough to glance at him, a smirk tugging at your lips.

He shakes his head, tapping his pencil gently on the top of your head. “No, dummy,” he says softly, his voice still teasing but with something more sincere behind it. “You’re missing out on life, the beauty of it. The beauty of growing old. Some people don’t have that luck. I think it’s beautiful,” he says, lost in the simplicity of his thoughts, eyes focused on the butterfly he’s drawing.

You realize, in the silence that follows, that it’s at this exact moment you fall in love with him. No grand gesture, no dramatic declaration, just him, in all his simplicity, speaking with the quiet wisdom of someone who knows more about life than most people ever will.

Each memory hits you with the same quiet weight, much like how your coffee settles deep in your stomach, lingering longer than you’d like. Lately, your thoughts have been drifting back to the simpler times you shared with Taehyung before everything—before the illness, before the fear and the uncertainty. You long for those moments when being with him felt enough. When everything was uncomplicated, when laughter was endless, and love was just easy.

You catch sight of him in the hallway as you finish up your shift. He’s sitting in a chair, as usual, his sketchbook open in his lap. His pencil moves in fluid strokes as he sketches, lost in his own world. It’s strange, how quickly he’s become a fixture here at the hospital, his weekly visits now a regular part of your life. Three weeks have passed since Dr. Jung gave him that devastating news—the kind of news that you couldn’t bear to think about, but Taehyung? He takes it in stride. He remains unchanged, almost untouched by the gravity of it all. It’s like he’s found a way to make peace with the darkness, to see beauty in places where others would only see pain.

You make your way to him, tossing your empty coffee cup into the bin, exhaustion weighing on your shoulders, but the pull of being with him is stronger. No matter how long the day has been, no matter how heavy your thoughts are, you’re always ready to be with him.

“Hello, my dear Vante,” you say, a playful smile tugging at your lips as you approach him. You love that nickname, the one you created for him—a mix of his name and Van Gogh, because his art needed its own identity, something as unique as he was. Vante. It suited him, and you liked how it felt to call him that.

You lean over to peek into his sketchbook, but the moment you do, he quickly snaps it closed, his face flushing slightly as he clears his throat. It’s a small, fleeting moment, but the sudden defensiveness catches you off guard.

“Hey, can’t I see your masterpiece now?” you tease, putting a hand over your heart, pretending to be shocked, your mouth dropping open in playful disbelief.

The air between you shifts, a strange tension curling in your chest. You didn’t expect the feeling of disappointment to settle in, but it does. This small, insignificant thing—him not letting you see his drawing—is somehow more than that. It feels like a subtle wall being put up between you. Maybe it’s nothing, maybe it’s just your imagination, but you can’t shake the feeling that this time, for some reason, he’s keeping something from you.

It makes you sad. Maybe more than you’d like to admit.

“It’s nothing, don’t worry,” Taehyung says quickly, trying to brush off the tension as he stuffs his sketchbook into his backpack, replacing it with a crumpled sheet of paper.

“Come on. Read this,” he adds, handing it to you with a nonchalant smile, though there’s an unmistakable flicker of something unreadable in his eyes.

You take the sheet, your fingers brushing against the wrinkled edges, and you can’t help but feel the weight of it before even reading the words. You glance at the paper and see Taehyung’s messy handwriting scrawled across it: Kim Taehyung’s Bucket List!

Your heart tightens, a lump forming in your throat as you read the words. There’s a strange chill creeping over you as you realize what you’re holding. The list. His list. The one thing he had decided to write down for the future, the future he’d never thought he’d have to plan for. You see him chuckling quietly, clearly amused by your shock, but you can’t shake the feeling of heaviness settling in your chest.

For someone who used to scoff at the idea of planning, who always lived in the moment, who had no care for anything beyond what was right in front of him—Taehyung, this carefree soul, had made a list. A bucket list. And that fact alone made your heart ache.

He didn’t have a choice, did he?

The knowledge that time was no longer his ally.

“There’s some things I can do alone, but there are things I really want to do with you,” Taehyung admits, biting his lip slightly as he throws you that signature boxy grin.

You raise an eyebrow, glancing down at the paper again as you scoff. “Eating four jajangmyeon by yourself in one hour?” you read aloud, your voice laced with a mix of disbelief and amusement. Some of the items on the list were crossed out, others highlighted in bright neon, like they were top-tier priorities. “Seriously, Taehyung?”

He shrugs, a playful glint in his eyes. “What? I want to try!” he defends himself, snatching the paper back from your hands. “It’s a challenge! Besides, I figured, if I’m going to do something wild before… you know… I should at least make it interesting.”

You shake your head, your heart aching in ways you can’t fully express. But before you can even comment further, he holds up the paper again, his face lighting up with excitement as he points to something else.

“Look, I wrote that too,” he says, his fingers tracing over the next line of the list.

Taehyung’s words spill out in a rush, his voice confident as he lists off his bucket list with such enthusiasm that you can barely keep up. He doesn’t give you any time to comment, his eyes flicking to the paper in his hands as he reads through everything in a blur. The speed at which he lists each item almost feels like a race—he’s determined to get it all out, as if the time to do it all is somehow slipping away faster than he can keep track.

You hear snippets, some simple, others daring. “A snow fight,” he says with a grin, clearly imagining the fun of it. “Start a flash mob in the middle of a crowded street,” he adds, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Learn how to crochet,” he continues, almost too casually as though he’s always wanted to make a blanket or something.

Then there are the bigger, wilder ones that make you blink in disbelief. “Bungee jumping,” he says, a playful tone in his voice, but you know there’s a part of him that’s dead serious. “Drink a liter of coffee in one sitting,” he smirks as if that might actually be a fun challenge, despite the obvious health risks. And then, almost like it’s nothing, “Climb Hallasan.”

You can’t help but laugh at the randomness of it all. But at the same time, your heart sinks a little, realizing that these are the things he wants to experience before time runs out. Things that, despite his usual carefree attitude, now carry so much weight.

You try to catch your breath, not sure whether to laugh or cry. He’s talking about living life to the fullest, but each word feels like a fleeting moment, something that’s both incredibly precious and terrifying.

He finishes his list with a flourish, his eyes still scanning the paper before looking back up at you with that infectious grin of his. You don’t have to say anything for him to know that his list has left you speechless.

“So, what do you think?” he asks, his grin widening as he waits for your response. He doesn’t seem to notice the tightness in your chest, or maybe he’s just pretending not to see it. Either way, it’s clear that he’s still the same Taehyung—bold, reckless, and impossibly charming.

“I can definitely help you check off a thing or two,” you confessed, your voice quiet but filled with a warmth that lingered despite the cool autumn air that pressed against your skin. October was slipping by quickly, and soon the first snowflakes would start to fall, marking the beginning of a harsh but beautiful season. The chill in the evening made you hug your arms tighter around your chest, but it wasn’t just the cold that had you pulling inward. Your heart ached, a familiar heaviness pressing down on your chest, and you fought the urge to let the tears that had been threatening to spill finally escape.

Taehyung, oblivious to your inner turmoil, grinned brightly. “Nice. Maybe we can start with jajangmyeon, then?” he suggested, his voice light, his eyes sparkling with a glimmer of hope.

You nodded, offering a weak smile in return, but just as you opened your mouth to speak, the familiar vibration of your phone broke the moment. You glanced down at the screen and immediately felt a pang of guilt. Minsu.

You hesitated before biting your lip, a familiar sense of unease creeping over you. But as if sensing the shift in your mood, Taehyung leaned closer, his curiosity piqued.

“Oh, is that him?” he asked, a teasing lilt in his voice. Before you could even respond, he swiped the phone from your hand, his expression playful as he squinted at the screen. “Let me see him.”

You watched as Taehyung focused intently on the photo, and a small lump formed in your throat. It was a picture from your honeymoon, a candid moment where Minsu was sitting outside, the soft glow of the sunset casting a warm, golden light on his face. He looked peaceful, content. The kind of beauty that made you want to hold onto that moment forever, to keep it in your heart, preserved against the ever-changing tides of time.

Taehyung didn’t say anything right away, his eyes still on the photo, his face unreadable. You could feel the weight of his silence, the unspoken questions swirling between you two. But he didn’t press for answers, just nodded and handed the phone back, his eyes now fixed on the ground.

“It’s a nice picture,” he said quietly, a shift in his tone. He didn’t seem angry or jealous, but there was something in his voice that hinted at a deeper emotion, something he wasn’t saying.

“I should go home. On Thursdays, we usually watch movies and—” You cut yourself off, feeling a twinge of guilt as you realized how much you didn’t want to share the details of your evening with Minsu, not when Taehyung was standing right there. It wasn’t that you were ashamed of your life outside of him, but the weight of the unspoken history between you and Taehyung made it difficult to mention.

But Taehyung only nodded, his movements smooth as he folded the paper with the list of his dreams and tucked it into his back pocket. His smile was still there, but there was something else in his eyes—a quiet understanding, perhaps. “No, no. It’s fine, of course it’s fine. Another time then?” He said it with hope, a flicker of brightness in his voice, the kind of optimism that made your heart ache. Without thinking, you nodded and agreed.

You gave him a small wave, a half-hearted smile, before turning to walk away, the sound of your footsteps growing fainter as you put distance between yourself and Taehyung. Once you were far enough from him, away from the hospital’s bright lights and the weight of your emotions, you finally let go. The tears you had been holding in for so long fell freely, rolling down your cheeks as you tried to swallow the grief that was consuming you.

The sight of Taehyung, so hopeful and full of life, lingered in your mind, but what hurt most were the words from his bucket list.

Getting married.

The words stood out to you on the crumpled piece of paper, written in Taehyung’s messy handwriting. At first, they were crossed out, then rewritten, as if he was unsure of whether it was even a dream worth holding on to anymore. Yet, there it was, clear and undeniable. He wanted it—just not enough to let go of his doubts. And as you read those words, your stomach twisted with an ache you couldn’t quite name.

Marriage.

It was a word you had once despised. Something that felt suffocating, distant, and foreign to you. Yet it was something Taehyung had always talked about with a quiet longing, something he dreamed of. And now, you found yourself in the thick of it, married to Minsu. You had taken the step, and now it seemed impossible to untangle the truth of it all.

The irony didn’t escape you. You had lived the thing Taehyung had always wanted, and yet he was left with nothing but the idea of it—written in the corner of a bucket list that seemed too fragile to hold such a wish. But there was another sting, a deeper one, when you thought about it: marriage was once something you had imagined you’d only experience with Taehyung. He had always been the one you pictured standing at your side for such a commitment. It was his name that had been written in your mind long before Minsu’s, and it was his future you envisioned, entwined with yours.

But now, here you were—feeling the weight of the life you had chosen with someone else while Taehyung, the one person who had once been everything to you, was being left out of that equation entirely.

It was Saturday, and for once, you had a day off—a rare moment of respite that you had desperately needed. The past two weeks had felt like a blur of constant motion. Work had consumed you: the long hours at the hospital, the endless rounds with patients, and the seemingly never-ending responsibilities that came with being a nurse. In between, there was Taehyung. Every day, you found yourself with him, trying to balance the time you spent together, knowing that it was limited. And yet, there was Minsu—your husband—who deserved your attention too.

It wasn’t like you were doing anything wrong, at least not in your heart. You weren’t cheating. You would never cheat. But there was a certain feeling, a sense of guilt, that always clung to you whenever you left for Taehyung. The late nights, the rushed moments you spent with him, and the way your heart felt lighter every time you saw him—it all made you feel like you were betraying something, even if you weren’t.

As you were tying your shoes, ready to leave for another day with Taehyung, you heard Minsu’s voice from the living room. “Where are you going?” he asked, his tone casual, but you could feel the weight behind the question. He had asked it so many times before, but today, it felt different.

You froze, caught off guard by the question. You hated lying to Minsu, but the truth was something you couldn’t bear to explain—not yet, not in the way you would have to. Taehyung had sent you a picture of a dyed bottle, asking for help, and of course, you had agreed to go. But how could you explain that to Minsu without making it seem like something it wasn’t? How could you tell him that you were going to Taehyung’s house to help him with something that seemed so trivial in the grand scheme of things but meant everything to both of you?

It wasn’t like you wanted to hide it from Minsu, but the reality of it—of everything—was crushing. The truth was too raw, too complicated. How could you explain that what you shared with Taehyung wasn’t something simple, that it wasn’t just about helping him with a project or passing the time? How could you explain that you needed him in your life, even if it was just in small moments like this, before it was too late?

You took a deep breath, forcing a smile as you stood up. “I’m just going to help a friend with something. It won’t take long,” you said, your voice a little too light, too casual, even to your own ears.

Minsu raised an eyebrow, clearly not entirely convinced. But instead of pressing further, he just nodded. “Okay, just don’t stay out too late,” he said, the concern in his voice unspoken, but clear.

You nodded quickly, slipping out the door, feeling the familiar pang of guilt in your chest as you left. The weight of your actions, the secret you were keeping, pressed down on you with every step you took towards Taehyung. But despite the guilt, there was something else, something far stronger, that kept you moving forward—something that told you, even if it wasn’t right, even if it didn’t make sense, you had to be there for him.

Taehyung’s text arrived with his address, and a mix of excitement and nerves twisted in your stomach. You’d been imagining this moment, picturing what his place would look like—the space he lived in, surrounded by the things he loved. Taehyung was never one for minimalism. He was a living canvas, always surrounded by chaos and color, with things that didn’t always seem to belong together but somehow made perfect sense when they were with him. You imagined his apartment would be a reflection of that—lively, colorful, and a bit wild.

You weren’t disappointed when you walked through the door. His apartment was everything you had envisioned and more. The clutter, the vibrancy, the artful chaos—it was all there. But there was something different. Something you weren’t expecting.

As you stepped inside, you noticed it right away. There were post-its scattered everywhere. Yellow ones, stuck on walls, on tables, on shelves. You didn’t think much of it at first, assuming it was just another one of his quirks. But as your eyes traced the notes, you realized there was something more to them. They weren’t just reminders of random things—shopping lists, to-do lists, or inspirational quotes. They were everywhere, carefully placed, almost as if he was trying to remind himself of something important.

The realization hit you. It wasn’t just the usual clutter Taehyung had always surrounded himself with. It wasn’t just his creative, free-spirited energy that filled the room. The post-its, the notes, were a reminder. A reminder that Taehyung was trying to hold onto something—anything—that could keep him grounded.

Each note you read was simple, but they spoke volumes. “Don’t forget to call Mom,” one said. “Remember to buy more paint,” another. But these weren’t just trivial things. They were his attempts at holding onto memories, things that had been slipping away. His need to remind himself of the little things that made up his world—things that could easily fade in the midst of everything else he was battling.

You felt your chest tighten. It hit you all at once—how real this was. How Taehyung was facing something you couldn’t even imagine. His mind, the one thing that had always been as vibrant as the world he lived in, was beginning to betray him. The tumor, the thing he had been fighting, was taking pieces of him away. And those post-its were his way of holding on, his way of trying to preserve the memories, the moments, the little things that made him, him.

You couldn’t help but feel a sense of helplessness. There was nothing you could do to stop it, nothing you could do to protect him from losing himself to this illness. But as you looked around his apartment—his chaotic, beautiful space—you realized that Taehyung wasn’t giving up. He was fighting with everything he had, even in the small, simple ways. And you admired him for it.

Taehyung came back into the room, his hands full of supplies for his latest spontaneous project—dyeing his hair. He handed you a towel and a bottle of dye, and your eyes instantly widened as you looked at the color.

“Blue?” you almost exclaimed, unable to imagine Taehyung with such a bold hair color. But even though it seemed like such a drastic change, you knew he’d somehow make it work. He always did.

“I wanna have blue hair before I die,” he said with a shrug, flashing you that familiar grin. “I think it’ll look cool, and I don’t know, it feels like something I need to do.” He took the towel from your hands, wrapping it around his shoulders like he had done it a thousand times before. “Also, it’ll make me look less sad,” he added, chuckling softly.

You found yourself smiling at his attempt to make light of things, even though you knew that was just his way of coping. “You’re beautiful with dark hair, though,” you said, your hands already reaching for the gloves as you began to prepare.

“I can pull off every color,” he replied, cocky as ever, but there was a spark of humor in his voice. Then, he broke into one of his signature laughs. “I mean, come on, I am that beautiful.”

You chuckled, shaking your head as you started mixing the dye. “I remember how you totally rocked that blonde look back in high school,” you said, your fingers working methodically. You could almost see it in your mind—his blonde hair, messy and wild, just like him.

He rolled his eyes, a playful grin tugging at his lips. “How could I forget? It was so ugly though. But I kinda liked it. It was like, what was I even thinking?” He laughed again, the sound light and carefree.

You smiled as you worked, focusing on the task at hand, but the conversation was familiar, comforting. It was one of those moments where everything felt right, even if you both knew there was something deeper at play.

“It haunts me for days now that I think about it,” Taehyung continues, his voice softer now, as if the memory was genuinely bothering him. “I had blonde hair when we first started dating, and those pictures… they traumatize me. How could you even say yes?” He scoffs, shaking his head, but the movement is small, careful, trying not to mess up the delicate process of you applying the dye to his hair.

You can’t help but smile at the memory. That moment, when Taehyung asked you out so unexpectedly. He had looked so silly, so shy, and you could see the nervous excitement in his eyes. How could you have said no? You wanted it for so long, and none of his hair changes—blonde, dark, or even blue—would have ever changed a thing. Taehyung was still Taehyung, the person you couldn’t help but fall for over and over again.

“You still have those pictures?” you ask, your voice light, teasing. You keep your eyes focused on his hair, but your mind drifts back to those early days—the awkwardness, the excitement, the feeling that maybe, just maybe, everything was finally falling into place.

“Of course I did,” he admits quietly, his gaze dropping to his hands resting in his lap as you apply the last bit of dye to his hair. “I always loved to live in the present, but somehow those memories of you, us… I couldn’t let them stay in the past,” he says, his voice soft but heavy with something unspoken.

You pause for a moment, your hands stilling as his words settle between you, heavy with nostalgia and something deeper. You glance up at him, noticing the way his fingers are absently fidgeting, a nervous energy in them despite the calmness of the moment.

You feel the weight of guilt pressing down on you. Because, even though you still remember those days with Taehyung—the laughter, the endless summer nights, the feeling that nothing could separate you—you couldn’t say the same. You couldn’t tell him that you still held onto those memories like treasures locked away in a chest.

When you moved in with Minsu, you threw it all away. The pictures, the notes, the small things that reminded you of Taehyung—those souvenirs from a love that once felt so real. It wasn’t an easy decision. You cried for hours after. You mourned the loss of what was, even as you tried to embrace the future. But you had to. You couldn’t continue living with the ghosts of someone else’s love while trying to build a life with Minsu. You couldn’t let the past have such a hold over you. It wasn’t fair to him, and it wasn’t fair to you.

The strangest part was that, despite everything, a part of you knew it wasn’t really over. Maybe it was always that lingering feeling before you met Minsu—that the story with Taehyung wasn’t finished. That somewhere, there was an unfinished chapter, one that had ended not with bitterness or shouting, but simply with two people parting ways, growing apart as life moved them in different directions. There had been no tragic ending, just distance. No finality, just time that stretched too long without either of you taking the steps to reunite.

But life went on, and so did you. You moved forward, and you convinced yourself that it was time to let go. It was only two years—two beautiful years that felt like a lifetime—and you had spent more time with Minsu than with Taehyung in the end. But somehow, no matter how many years had passed, a small part of you always wondered if Taehyung felt the same way. If he had ever thought about what you both had, or if he had moved on just as easily as you’d been forced to.

You could still feel the echo of him in your chest. Taehyung had never been just a fleeting part of your past. His absence left a gap that had never quite been filled.

“Come on, Tae, I want to see the results!” you shout, knocking repeatedly on the bathroom door, eager to see the result of his spontaneous decision to dye his hair. He insisted on keeping it a surprise, promising he’d handle the washing process himself. And now, you could hear the familiar sounds of him rushing, objects clattering, and his usual clumsiness filling the air.

“I’m coming, I’m coming!” His voice comes from behind the door, hurried and full of excitement, just like it always is when he’s about to show off something new.

But as seconds turn into minutes, your excitement starts to shift into concern. “Is it that bad?” you ask, pressing your ear to the door, hoping for some sort of reassuring response.

“I—no…” His voice falters, quieter than before. A strange tightness forms in your chest, a sense of unease creeping in, and you can’t help but feel like something’s not right.

And then the door opens. Taehyung stands there, his usual grin absent, replaced by a pained expression. His hands are pressed against his nose, blood seeping between his fingers.

“Sorry, I—”

The sight of him immediately shifts your focus. Forget his hair. You can’t even see it clearly now, not when his hands are gripping his head so tightly, like he’s trying to hold it together. The playful, carefree Taehyung you know so well is gone, replaced by someone struggling with the weight of pain that’s too much to bear on his own. The worry that hits you is overwhelming, and your heart races as you move toward him without a second thought.

“Hey, hey, come here,” you whisper urgently, gripping his shoulders despite the blood that stains your t-shirt. The sight of him in pain makes your breath catch, but you don’t care. You guide him gently toward the sofa, sitting him down as carefully as you can.

“Let me help you,” you whisper, your hands steadying his head. It’s like his body’s trying to reject everything, but you’re not going to let him go through it alone.

Before you can even process what’s happening, everything around you starts to blur. Your mind, trained to keep calm in emergencies, starts to shut down, every instinct telling you to stay composed, but nothing feels real anymore. Everything you’ve learned during those years of study, to keep your head in the moment, to stay detached from emotion, feels like it’s slipping away.

Taehyung suddenly doubles over, his hands gripping his stomach. He doesn’t even have time to warn you. A loud, gasping sound escapes his lips, and before you can react, he throws up onto the carpet, the strain of the headache causing his body to betray him. His breathing is ragged, uneven, like each breath causes him more pain than the last. You want to reach out, to hold him, to somehow ease the agony that’s taking over his body, but it feels like nothing you do can help.

You feel helpless. Utterly useless.

If only you could take even a fraction of his pain, make it your own, so he wouldn’t have to feel it. You would bear it for him, without hesitation. Someone like Taehyung, someone who should always be the one to bring warmth and laughter into a room, shouldn’t have to experience this.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him this broken. The sight is almost unbearable. You knew, of course, about his condition. You knew about the tumor, but seeing it, feeling its weight on him so visibly, it’s an entirely different kind of heartbreak.

He struggles to open his mouth, to say anything, but his body betrays him. You can see it in his eyes, that desperate desire to apologize, to explain that he’s fine, that this isn’t his fault, even though you know deep down it’s not something he can control. He’s terrified, and yet he doesn’t even have the strength to voice it, his body trembling uncontrollably.

You don’t think. You just act. Instinct takes over as you grab his shoulders, guiding him into a fetal position, your hands steadying him as his body stays stiff, unresponsive. It’s as if his body has forgotten how to follow his commands. His limbs are limp, and for a split second, you feel a rush of panic—the feeling that maybe you won’t be able to help him. You’ve studied this. You’ve seen worse. But right now, everything feels so foreign.

You’re a good nurse. You know you are. But in that moment, all the procedures, all the steps you’ve memorized, all the rules you’ve been trained on—they slip away from you, leaving you in a haze of uncertainty. Why can’t you remember what to do? Why does it feel like you’re failing him when he needs you most?

But then, slowly, gradually, Taehyung’s body begins to relax. His breathing steadies, his shoulders lower as the tension releases, piece by piece. He closes his eyes, his face still pale but no longer contorted with pain. It’s a small relief, but it’s something.

“Taehyung… stay with me,” you whisper, your voice shaky, but firm. You need him to hear you, to stay conscious. “Focus on me, okay? Just breathe. You’re doing fine. I’m here, I’m right here.”

Your hands don’t leave his shoulders, feeling the slight tremors beneath his skin, holding him close, making sure he knows you’re there. It feels like a long time before he finally opens his eyes again, blinking slowly, but he’s with you. He’s fighting through it, and that’s all you need to know right now.

You lost track of time, the hours slipping by in a blur. Long enough to clean up the mess that had happened, long enough for the sun to sink lower in the sky, casting an orange glow through the windows. Taehyung was still asleep on the couch, his breathing shallow and quiet. You couldn’t help but check on him constantly, watching the rise and fall of his chest, unable to shake the feeling that something might change, something might happen in the next moment. It was almost compulsive, like if you didn’t keep an eye on him, if you didn’t pay attention to every little detail, something might go terribly wrong. If he could see you now, so frantic, he’d probably laugh at how anxious you were, but the thought was fleeting—he was too weak to care.

His head rested gently in your lap, the weight of it grounding you in this moment. You ran your fingers through his hair, the once-dark strands now an unexpected blue. It was a strange sight, but somehow it felt right, like this was part of him. His hair, his spirit, his essence. It made you smile despite the tears that kept streaming down your face. You had cried so much you thought you might never stop. You should’ve been strong, you should’ve been the one taking care of him, but instead, you felt helpless.

Your phone was buzzing incessantly, and you could guess who it was—Minsu. He was probably wondering where you were, if you were alright. But you didn’t know how to answer him. How could you explain where you were, how could you explain the turmoil inside you when you were so scared, when Taehyung needed you more than ever? You couldn’t leave him. Not now. Not when he was hurting this much.

Then, you heard his voice. It was faint, weak, but it cut through the silence like a knife. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, barely audible. You immediately wiped your tears, forcing a smile on your face even though your heart was breaking into pieces. You didn’t want him to feel guilty for what had happened, not when he was already in so much pain.

“It happens sometimes. It hurts so much,” he whispered, his words trembling. His eyes remained closed, his body barely able to move, his face too tired to turn toward you.

You swallowed hard, fighting back your own grief as you tried to keep your voice steady. “How often does it happen lately?” you asked, your voice sounding more confident than you felt, but you needed to know. You needed the answers, even though they made the situation feel even more real, even more overwhelming. Your mind, trained in medicine, was already processing what he was saying, trying to piece everything together to figure out just how bad things were.

“Thrice a week,” he answered with a dry laugh that held no humor, “Twice on a good one.”

His attempt to joke felt hollow, but you managed to smile, a tight, painful smile. The numbers lingered in your head. Three times a week. Twice on a good week. That wasn’t good. You knew that. The severity of the situation was undeniable.

You try to keep your voice steady, even though it feels like the weight of the world is on your shoulders. “Medications can make it less painful,” you offer again, your words sounding hollow even to yourself.

But then, Taehyung shifts. Slowly, carefully, his body turning until his face is pressed against your lap, his eyes still closed. You can feel his breath, shallow but steady, as he tries to find comfort in your presence.

“It will kill me less slowly?” he asks, his voice laced with irony. There’s a bitter edge to his words, and it cuts straight through you. “I’ll die anyways. In two months precisely.” He exhales, the weight of his own reality settling between you both. His eyes close, hiding the tears that you know are there, but the tremble in his voice betrays him.

It hits you like a physical blow. You want to say no—you want to tell him that it’s not over, that he can fight, that maybe there’s still time, still hope. You want to convince him to keep pushing, to keep believing in a future.

But you can’t. You can’t betray him like that, not now. Not when you know the truth. As much as you want to offer him comfort, to wrap him in hope, you can’t give him something that isn’t real.

It’s the hardest thing you’ve ever had to do—sitting there, watching him cling to the little bit of strength he has left, and knowing that no matter how hard you wish for it, the clock is ticking.

You’re trained to help, to heal, to give people the best chance they have. But you also know when to stop pretending. You can’t lie to him, not as a nurse, not as his friend, and certainly not as the person who once shared his heart.

It’s terrible.

The silence between you both feels unbearable, like the world has paused, holding its breath. You want to reassure him, to tell him everything will be okay, that this is just a bump in the road. But those words, they’re false hope. And false hope would break him even more. It would shatter the last pieces of him that are still fighting.

You don’t say anything. You just sit there, hand gently running through his hair, trying to offer him comfort in the only way you can. You can’t lie, but maybe, just maybe, you can be there. Be there for him in these final moments, even if that’s all you can do.

“It’s my favorite time of the year,” he murmurs, his head resting comfortably on your lap as you both sit on the old wooden bench outside your high school.

The bench has seen better days—worn down by time, the changing seasons, and countless students who once sat where you are now. You’ve watched it transform through the years: vibrant and full of life in the spring, warm and familiar in the golden hues of autumn. But in winter, it’s something else entirely. The world around you is still, coated in soft white, making everything feel untouched, almost magical.

Your breath curls in the cold air as you tighten the thick scarf around your neck. Your cheeks are flushed from the biting wind, and your beanie is pulled low over your forehead, probably making you look ridiculous. But you don’t care—because Taehyung looks just the same.

His hair is back to black now, hidden beneath a white beanie that matches yours. His oversized coat engulfs him, making him look even cozier, and you remember how insistent he was about you both wearing matching outfits.

Taehyung has always been that kind of lover—not the kind who overdoes grand gestures, not the type to shout his feelings to the world, but someone who loves in quiet, meaningful ways. He doesn’t need the world to know, just you. Just the two of you, wrapped in the stillness of winter, in a moment that feels like it could last forever.

“I wish I could freeze the world in winter,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he closes his eyes. His breath comes out in soft puffs of white against the cold air, and you can’t help but smile at how peaceful he looks.

Without thinking, you bring your gloved hands to his cheeks, cupping his face gently to warm him. His skin is cold beneath your touch, but the moment he feels the heat from your palms, his lips curl into a lazy smile. His face, framed between your hands, makes him look impossibly soft—his sharp features melting into something almost childlike.

He giggles, the sound light and unguarded, and you can feel his breath against your fingers.

“You’re such a bear,” you tease, tilting your head as you watch him, the corners of your lips quirking up.

Taehyung scrunches his nose in response, nuzzling further into your warmth. “A cute one, right?” he asks, eyes flickering open to meet yours, playful and expectant.

You roll your eyes but let out a laugh, your thumbs unconsciously brushing against his skin. “The cutest,” you admit, and he grins like he just won the lottery.

As you look at him—his cheeks flushed from the cold, eyes gleaming under the soft winter sky—you realize that maybe, just maybe, you were starting to love winter as much as he did.

Because in moments like this, winter wasn’t just a season. It was the way Taehyung’s voice softened when he talked about the snow, the way he leaned into your touch without hesitation, the way time seemed to slow down whenever you were together.

For a moment, it was easy to forget.

To forget the looming uncertainty of what came after high school, the inevitable paths that would pull you in different directions. To forget that promises made under falling snow weren’t always ones that could be kept.

Right now, none of that mattered.

You force yourself out of your daze as you step inside the hospital, pushing away the memories threatening to consume you. Now wasn’t the time. You needed to focus, to keep your mind sharp. But ever since that day at Taehyung’s apartment—since seeing him again—it had been impossible not to think about the past. Your past with him.

A sudden shout jolts you back to reality.

“We need help! Someone!”

The urgency in the voice sends a chill down your spine. You barely have time to process before you see Jimin rushing past you, his expression tight with focus as he sprints down the hallway.

Your heart pounds in your chest. It was always intense to witness moments like this—to see the staff moving with practiced urgency, to feel the weight of life and death in the air. But there’s no room for hesitation.

Without a second thought, you rush forward, falling into step with the team. It doesn’t matter that your shift hasn’t started yet. Someone needs help, and that’s all that matters.

The first thing you see is a woman kneeling in front of someone, panic written all over her face. And then, just beyond her, a glimpse of blue hair sprawled across the floor.

Your breath catches in your throat.

Taehyung.

His body is shaking violently, his limbs jerking uncontrollably as a thin trail of bile glistens at the corner of his mouth. A seizure.

Your feet feel rooted to the ground. Your mind registers everything—the rapid movement of Jimin and the other staff members as they spring into action, the controlled chaos of the emergency response—but you can’t move.

You’ve seen patients in this state before, but this is different. This is Taehyung.

You hear Jimin shout your name, his voice sharp with urgency, but it feels like it’s coming from a distant place, muffled by the overwhelming panic in your chest. His eyes meet yours, and for a brief second, you see that same mix of concern and helplessness that you’ve seen too many times. It’s painful, seeing him this way, knowing he’s been trying to put distance between himself and Taehyung.

“Bring a saline perfusion!” Jimin orders, his voice steady despite the storm in his eyes. It snaps you back into action.

Without hesitation, you dart past him, your heart pounding in your throat as you rush to find the saline drip. Every second feels like an eternity, and even though you know Taehyung is in the best hands possible, you can’t shake the overwhelming sense of helplessness. You wish you could be there, right next to him, doing more than just grabbing medical supplies. But you know you’re needed here—your training, your experience, this is where you can help the most.

As you grab the saline, your fingers shaking slightly, you fight back the urge to look back at Taehyung. You don’t want to see him like this anymore. Not like this. But you know you’ll have to face it. You’ll have to face everything, because he’s not going anywhere.

As you return, the sight of Taehyung on the stretcher hits you like a punch to the gut. His body still trembles uncontrollably, his face pale, eyes shut tightly as if he’s trying to escape the pain. Jimin doesn’t waste a second, quickly grabbing the saline perfusion from your hands, expertly connecting it and ensuring there are no air bubbles. His movements are swift, practiced, but you can see the tension in his jaw, the worry that flickers in his eyes whenever he glances down at Taehyung.

Without saying a word, you instinctively move to the side of the stretcher, your hands trembling slightly as you take hold of it. You help guide Taehyung down the hallway, your mind racing. It’s like the world has narrowed down to this single, agonizing moment. Every breath he takes, every second that passes, feels heavier, and you try to steady yourself.

You lead the stretcher into a nearby room, carefully maneuvering it towards an empty bed. The usual hospital room smells and sounds blur around you—monitors beeping, doctors shouting orders—but you barely register them. All that matters right now is getting Taehyung stable.

Jimin stands by the side, his gaze never leaving Taehyung’s face as he adjusts the saline, checking his vitals. There’s a sense of urgency, but a quiet professionalism to Jimin’s movements. You can’t help but glance at Taehyung, the blue hair still sticking out under the hospital lighting, a cruel reminder of how quickly things can change.

“Stay with him,” Jimin says, not needing to ask. It’s a command wrapped in a request, and without a word, you nod.

Taehyung’s eyes flutter open slowly, his gaze confused as he takes in his surroundings. The sterile white walls, the beeping of machines in the background, the IV drip connected to his arm—everything is unfamiliar to him, disorienting. He blinks, trying to make sense of it all, his breath shallow as he scans the room.

It feels like the world is moving in slow motion, and for a second, time seems to freeze as you stand there, just watching him, waiting for any sign that he’s okay. His eyes finally land on you, and there’s a flicker of recognition. For a moment, his expression is one of bewilderment, but then it softens.

A quiet sigh escapes his lips as he exhales in relief, and you realize how much weight has been lifted from your chest. You hadn’t even known you were holding your breath until now. His gaze holds yours, and for a brief moment, it feels like you’re back in that small, quiet world you had with him before everything became complicated. Before the weight of reality set in.

You force a smile, though it feels like the weight of the world is pressing down on you. You try to make it look effortless, as if you’re holding yourself together for him—for Taehyung. But the truth is, you’re not. Inside, you’re trembling. Your heart is racing, and the last thing you want is for him to see you unravel.

The moment you glance over at Jimin through the glass doors, you feel a strange sense of relief, as if his familiar presence might anchor you, even if just for a moment. In the chaos of everything that’s happening with Taehyung, it was comforting to see someone who understood, someone you could rely on. You couldn’t shake the unease you felt when you were alone with Taehyung. Every word you wanted to say felt like it might break the delicate thread of control you were clinging to.

“I’ll be back,” you manage to say, your voice sounding steadier than it feels as you step away from the room.

Jimin, arms crossed tightly across his chest, stands by the glass, his gaze fixed on Taehyung. There’s a pause, and then he speaks, his voice a low whisper, almost as if admitting something he doesn’t want to acknowledge. “It was so scary.” The vulnerability in his voice takes you by surprise, and for a brief moment, you see that even someone as experienced as Jimin can feel fear in the face of uncertainty.

It’s easy for others to say that nurses need to be strong, that they need to stay composed at all times. But in that moment, you both knew the unspoken truth: it’s okay to be scared.

You place a hand on his shoulder, offering a quiet reassurance, though you’re just as shaken inside. “You did well, Jimin.” Your voice feels raw, and you swallow the lump in your throat. “I honestly couldn’t even move.”

Jimin shifts uncomfortably, his gaze falling to the floor before he looks back toward the room, almost unwilling to make eye contact. “Speaking of that…” His words trail off as he bites his lip, the silence stretching between you both. “I’ve never seen you like that before.”

Jimin doesn’t say anything right away. He just holds you, his hand firm on your shoulder, his other arm wrapping around you when he sees the first tear slip down your cheek. You hate crying—especially here, especially now—but there’s something about the way Jimin asks, something about the way he looks at you that makes it impossible to keep it in any longer.

“What are you hiding from me?” he asks again, voice softer this time, like he already knows the answer but wants to hear it from you.

You try to steady yourself, inhaling deeply, but it doesn’t help. The weight in your chest has been sitting there for days, weeks even, ever since Taehyung walked back into your life. You don’t know why you fought so hard to keep it all in—to not talk to anyone about it, not even Minsu. Maybe because saying it out loud would make it all too real.

“I met him in high school,” you whisper, voice shaking despite your best efforts. You swallow hard, forcing yourself to continue. “We fell in love. And we haven’t seen each other since.”

“And now he’s here,” he murmurs, finishing the thought for you.

You nod. “And now he’s here.” Dying. And you don’t know how to handle it.

Jimin sighs, running a hand through his hair, his expression conflicted. “God, you should’ve told me. I would—”

“Jimin,” you cut him off, shaking your head. “You don’t know how grateful I am to be beside him. It’s just… so hard. It hurts.”

You glance through the glass, your eyes finding Taehyung. He’s staring out the window, lost in thought. At least his room has a good view—the hospital park stretches out beyond the glass, and a tall tree stands right in front of it. You hope it brings him some kind of peace.

Jimin follows your gaze, his jaw tightening. “I don’t know how to say this, but… they might want to keep him here,” he says carefully. “Maybe even put him in a medically induced coma. Just so he won’t have to suffer through this if he stays conscious.”

You inhale sharply, his words hitting you like a punch to the gut.

“No one deserves to go like that,” Jimin adds, voice laced with pain. He looks back at Taehyung for a moment, then turns away, like the sight of him is too much to bear.

Neither of you say anything for a while. The weight of reality is suffocating.

“Maybe you should take care of him,” Jimin says suddenly. “Somewhere else. Anywhere but here.”

You frown, not understanding. “Jimin, what are you saying?”

He exhales sharply, frustration evident in the way he rakes a hand through his hair. “I’m just saying that… fuck, I don’t want that guy spending his last days in a hospital. He deserves more than this.” His voice is firmer now, conviction bleeding into every word.

You swallow hard, the weight of his suggestion settling into your chest. The thought of taking Taehyung away, of giving him a place where he could live—not just exist—feels impossible. And yet, the idea of him wasting away in a sterile room, surrounded by beeping machines and white walls, is unbearable.

Could you really do it? Could you give him that?

Jimin sees the hesitation in your eyes. “Just think about it,” he says, softer this time. “He deserves better.”

Minsu,

I’m so sorry for what I’m doing. Please believe me when I say this isn’t me giving up on us—on you. I never could. I never will. But I understand if you don’t see it that way right now, if you’re hurt or confused or even angry. I just need some time. Please, let me have that. When I come back, I’ll explain everything. And I hope you’ll understand.

I love you.

You stared at the note for a long time before finally placing it on the kitchen counter, the weight of your actions sinking into your chest like stones. It wasn’t enough. No piece of paper, no carefully chosen words could make up for the fact that you were leaving.

It wasn’t fair to Minsu. It wasn’t fair to you either.

But there was no time to dwell on that. No time to sit with the guilt. Because when your mind is pulled in every direction, when your heart is split between past and present, sometimes all you can do is act.

So you did.

The drive to the hospital was quiet, the silence thick with your own thoughts. Doubts crept in—was this really the right thing to do? Would Minsu forgive you? Would you forgive yourself?

But the moment you pulled up in front of the hospital and saw Taehyung sitting outside, all those questions faded into the background.

He looked small beneath the weight of his oversized hoodie, his blue hair catching the golden light of the setting sun. He shouldn’t have been outside in the cold, but there he was, waiting. And the instant he spotted your car, his face lit up.

Despite everything—despite the pain, despite the exhaustion dragging at his body—he smiled.

And in that moment, for the first time since making your decision, you felt something close to certainty.

You were exactly where you needed to be.

“Hey, Tae,” you call out, shutting the car door behind you and making your way toward him.

Taehyung looks up, a surprised grin spreading across his face as he takes a step closer. “No way. Since when do you drive?” He eyes your car like he’s some kind of automotive expert, tilting his head in mock curiosity. “I never thought I’d see the day.”

You let out a small chuckle, shaking your head. “It’s not that surprising.”

“Trust me, it is,” he teases before his gaze flickers back to the hospital doors. “Didn’t know you were working today.”

“I’m not,” you reply simply, stepping past him and heading toward the entrance.

Taehyung follows without hesitation, his hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. “So what, you just choose to be here? You must be a masochist, because if I had the choice, I’d be anywhere but this place.” His voice is light, laced with humor, but there’s an underlying exhaustion to it.

As you both walk through the corridors, he nods and smiles at a few passing nurses and patients. The sight of it makes your chest tighten. It’s not that Taehyung had friends here, not in the way that truly mattered. No, it was more like he had found people—fragments of companionship in a place where loneliness was inevitable.

That was just who he was. Even in the most difficult places, he found a way to connect, to weave himself into the world around him. It was a survival instinct, a way to keep himself from slipping too far into the darkness of his reality.

Since being hospitalized two weeks ago, he had latched onto whatever familiarity he could find. He exchanged jokes with nurses who had seen him at his worst, shared quiet conversations with patients who understood the unspoken weight of being sick. It was his way of pretending everything was okay.

But you could see through it. The way his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, the way his movements were just a little slower than before. He was tired.

And yet, he still smiled.

You let out a quiet breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “I’m here for you,” you say softly.

For the first time, Taehyung falters. His steps slow, and he turns to look at you fully, like he’s searching for something in your expression.

Then, after a beat, he exhales a small chuckle, the corners of his lips tugging upward. “Well, damn,” he murmurs, shaking his head. “Guess that means I’m special.”

He says it playfully, but you both already know.

He always has been.

“And you’re leaving that place too,” you announce with a bright smile, watching as Taehyung’s chocolate-brown eyes widen in shock.

His lips part slightly, his breath catching. “I… I can’t,” he stammers. “They want to keep me there in case I have another seizure. They told me it could be fatal if I’m not at the hospital when it happens.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” you counter, your voice filled with conviction. Then, gripping his shoulders firmly, you make him look at you—really look at you. You want him to see the determination in your eyes, the certainty in your smile. If he can’t believe in himself, then at least he can believe in you.

“Guess what?” you continue, lifting a small folded sheet of paper between your fingers. “If you’re leaving, I’m leaving too.”

His jaw drops. His hands fly up to your shoulders, mirroring your own gesture, as if he needs to physically hold onto you to ground himself. “Wait, what?” His voice rises slightly, filled with disbelief. “Are you resigning?”

His expression is priceless—eyes wide, mouth slightly agape, making him look almost like a child who just heard the most unbelievable news.

You chuckle softly, nodding. “That’s exactly what I’m doing.”

For the first time in a long time, you see something shift in his eyes—not just surprise, but something deeper. Hope.

It wasn’t like you were resigning forever—no, you could never truly leave the hospital. It was more like taking a few months off, a pause, a stolen fragment of time just for you and Taehyung. A chance to be there, fully and completely, in a way that the sterile walls of the hospital would never allow.

You were relieved when your superiors didn’t argue, didn’t question your decision. They only nodded, offered you a small, understanding smile, and told you to focus on him. Because, in the end, everyone knew there was only one possible outcome.

One where, eventually, you would return to work.

And one where Taehyung would leave this world.

You just hoped—with everything in you—that when that time came, he would leave it happy.

“You still have that bucket list of yours?” you ask, raising an eyebrow at him.

Taehyung grins. “Of course I do. It’s in my room,” he says, pointing upward as if his hospital room was floating right above you.

“Perfect. Go grab it, pack a bag, and meet me outside,” you say, the excitement bubbling in your chest as you watch him sprint toward the elevators.

As you turn toward the office to hand in your leave request, you run into Jimin. He’s standing in the hallway, arms crossed, a knowing smile playing on his lips.

“When will you be back?” he asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.

“I don’t know,” you admit. “I hope not too soon.” Because leaving too soon would mean the inevitable was closer than you wanted it to be.

Jimin chuckles, but his eyes betray something deeper—understanding, sadness, maybe even a bit of hope. “Then I don’t ever want to see you here again.” His voice is light, but the weight of what he means lingers between you.

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “He’s a nice guy, you know,” Jimin adds, his gaze flickering away for a moment, lost in thought. “We talked a little.”

“He is,” you agree. And for the first time in a long while, despite everything, you feel a little bit lighter.

As you walk toward your car, you spot Taehyung already waiting, his backpack slung over his shoulders, jingling slightly from the numerous keychains attached to it. His arms are stacked with notebooks, likely filled with memories, sketches, or maybe even unfinished dreams.

“Okay, where are we going?” he asks, his excitement barely contained. If he had the energy, you’re sure he’d be bouncing on his feet.

You smirk, nodding toward the passenger seat. “I don’t know. You tell me. What’s on your bucket list again?”

He throws his bag into the car and slides into his seat, flipping through one of his notebooks. “A lot. But with this weather…” His gaze drifts to the window, watching as the wind howls through the streets, shaking the bare trees. The sky is heavy, and soon, snow will start to fall.

You tap your fingers on the wheel, a playful glint in your eyes. “So? Have you never wanted to go to the beach in the snow?”

He turns to you, blinking, before his face lights up with pure, childlike joy. “Hell yeah! I want that!” He claps his hands together, his grin infectious, you feel warmth bloom in your chest.

You shift gears, pulling onto the road. “Then let’s go.”

Taehyung slept through the entire journey. At first, he had fought hard to stay awake, doing everything in his power to entertain you—spouting random facts, curating a playlist of songs that reminded him of you, and scribbling into his notebooks. Every time you tried to sneak a glance at what he was drawing, he would immediately pull it away, laughing as he insisted, “It’s not worthy enough for your eyes.”

But eventually, exhaustion won over, and his eyelids fluttered shut. His breathing evened out, his features soft and relaxed. You kept stealing glances at him, taking in the peacefulness of his face. Even if he looked tired, he hadn’t once complained. You could only hope that if he ever felt truly unwell, he’d tell you.

As you finally pull up in front of the beach, the waves stretching out endlessly before you, you hesitate for a few moments before reaching over to wake him.

“Taehyung?” you call softly, but he only shifts, turning his head further into the seat. You bite back a laugh.

“Kim Taehyung?” you try again, a teasing lilt in your voice. “There’s a cute Pomeranian running on the beach.”

His reaction is instant. His eyes snap open, head turning toward the window, scanning the shoreline for the tiny fluff ball. When he finds nothing, he rolls his eyes, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

“Such a liar,” he mutters, shaking his head. But he’s smiling as he unbuckles his seatbelt and steps out of the car.

You let out a small breath of relief. He still loves Pomeranians. He still remembers that silly dream he once shared with you—that by the time he turned thirty, he’d own one because he believed it would make him look like a hot thirty-year-old man. You had laughed back then, nodding in agreement.

And now, watching him stand on the beach, hair tousled by the cold ocean breeze, you silently hope that by some miracle, he’ll get to have that dream come true.

You take a deep breath as the cold wind sweeps over you, the soft crunch of sand beneath your boots reminding you of the rare stillness that’s enveloping this moment. Taehyung walks ahead, his figure almost swallowed by his oversized beige coat, his beanie pulling down low to cover his blue hair. From behind, even just the silhouette of him feels beautiful—like an abstract masterpiece, blending perfectly with the waves and the sky. He’s always been beautiful, but in this light, in this moment, there’s a peacefulness about him that makes your heart ache.

You shake your head, trying to snap yourself back to reality. But before you can fully catch your breath, the familiar vibration of your phone pulls you from your thoughts. You glance down at the screen to see Minsu’s name flashing across the display. A pang of guilt hits your chest, sharp and uncomfortable. You had left without saying more than a hasty note. You hadn’t explained why, or what had gotten into you. And it hurt, because part of you knew you owed him that much.

But another part of you—the selfish part, the one that craved these fleeting moments with Taehyung—wanted this to be just for the two of you. One last moment to remember how you used to be. One last memory of what you once had.

“You’re prince charming?” Taehyung’s voice breaks through your thoughts, soft and teasing. He glances at your phone with a knowing smile, and the way he looks at you isn’t full of jealousy or anger. No, it’s a little more complicated than that. There’s a gratitude in his expression, an understanding that you’re here with him now, and that’s all that matters.

“Yeah,” you respond quietly, your eyes focused on the waves crashing against the shore. The ocean roars, but to you, it sounds like nothing more than background noise, drowned out by the loud pounding of your own thoughts. The cold wind bites at your cheeks, but with Taehyung next to you, it doesn’t feel like anything more than a reminder that you’re alive. Together, in this moment.

“Does he know?” Taehyung asks, his voice laced with a quiet humor. “That you’re here with your ex?” He chuckles, and there’s no malice behind the words—only a touch of curiosity, and maybe a little bit of amusement.

You turn your head to face him, unsure how to answer. His chocolate eyes are watching you, warm despite the chill in the air. It’s hard to articulate the complicated mess inside you. “He doesn’t know,” you admit, voice soft, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know if I’m ready to tell him everything yet.”

He reaches out, brushing his fingers against yours, his touch a silent comfort. And for a moment, the future—the responsibilities, the unanswered questions, the pain of everything you’ve left behind—feels far away. It feels like it can wait. Just a little while longer.

Taehyung’s grip tightens around your hand as if he’s holding on to the very last thread of something beautiful amidst the chaos.

“I don’t think we would ever cross paths if it wasn’t for that,” he says again, his voice quieter this time. It’s not just a casual observation, but a confession of sorts—one that carries the weight of everything that has led to this moment. You understand him completely, more than you can express. Fate had a way of pulling the two of you together in the most twisted of ways, through pain, sickness, and heartache, but somehow, it had given you both this sliver of happiness.

You wish you could tell him you didn’t need the brain tumor to meet him. That you would’ve found each other no matter what. But it wouldn’t be true, would it? The thought lingers, unspoken, between you both.

“Don’t say that,” you mutter, voice almost defensive as you tighten your fingers around his, instinctively pulling him closer. The action feels right—like you were meant to hold him this way, not just for the moment, but for every moment you’ve missed.

His chuckle fades into something softer, something more sincere. “Why? Because you think I’ll jinx it?” he teases lightly, but there’s a trace of vulnerability in his eyes now, the playful smile failing to mask the exhaustion that lingers just beneath the surface.

You hesitate, then finally look up into his eyes. “Because it’s not just the tumor. It’s us. And I don’t want you to think that something so awful gave us the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”

For a moment, you both just stand there, hands still entwined, the weight of your words hanging between you, mingling with the salty sea air.

Taehyung doesn’t say anything for a while, and you think maybe you’ve broken him a little with your honesty. But then, he lifts his head slightly, his smile reappearing—genuine and soft.

“You always know exactly what to say to make everything feel better,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing over your hand. “I guess that’s what you do to me… make everything feel a little bit lighter.”

You watch as Taehyung lowers himself onto the sand, his face contorting in a playful grimace as he rubs his legs. “Ugh, my legs are killing me,” he groans. “You know, walking too much really does a number on me.” You can’t help but smile at his exaggerated complaints, the way he never lets anything get to him, even when it’s clear he’s physically drained. It’s one of the things you love most about him.

“Wait, I’ve got an idea,” you say, your voice excited, a spark of inspiration lighting up your mind. Taehyung raises an eyebrow, intrigued, as he stretches out on the sand, sinking into the warmth. The weather may be chilly, and the beach almost entirely deserted, but none of that matters right now. It’s just the two of you, and that’s enough.

You bounce on your toes as you stand up, already plotting what you want to do. “Let me go grab something, I’ll be right back!” you call over your shoulder, already turning to sprint back to your car.

The wind bites at your face, but you ignore it, your focus entirely on the task at hand. You don’t care if you look silly, running across the beach with your arms flailing awkwardly, the sand sticking to your shoes.

As you reach your car, you pull open the door and rummage through the bags on the seat, your hands searching for the small surprise you had brought along, the one you thought would make today feel even more unforgettable. But as you shift things around, one of Taehyung’s notebooks slides off the passenger seat, hitting the floor with a soft thud. You bend down to pick it up, but as you open it to place it back inside, the pages fall open to a specific spot, and your breath catches in your throat.

There, spread across the page, are drawings. Taehyung’s drawings. But they’re not just any sketches. They’re of you. The way you smile when you laugh, the way you look at him when you think he’s not paying attention. Each drawing feels like a secret he’s been keeping, tucked away in his notebook, just for himself.

Your eyes sting as they well with tears, the sight before you too overwhelming to process at first. You flick through the pages of the notebook, each one telling a story—some of you, some of his family, others of his friends. You can pick out his mother, his siblings—older now, their faces more mature than the last time you saw them, but still, Taehyung’s delicate strokes bring out a beauty in them that only he could capture. There are others, too—friends you recognize from high school, and others you don’t know. People who had come into his life after you, people who had clearly made an impact on him.

But what makes your heart tighten in your chest is the realization that Taehyung has done something he swore he’d never do—he’s drawn people. Taehyung never liked drawing people. He never had, not like this. He always said he hated it, that he didn’t want to trap a moment in time, to freeze someone on paper forever.

You close the notebook, reluctant but understanding. This was a part of Taehyung that he hadn’t shared with you yet, and you can’t bring yourself to pry any longer, not when you know there’s a deeper reason behind it all. If he wanted to share these drawings with you, he would. And when the time comes, you’ll ask him, but for now, you allow him that space, that quiet secret.

You reach into your bag for the small Polaroid camera, an old model, but still reliable. The weight of it feels grounding in your hands, as if this moment, too, needs to be captured, frozen in time—something tangible, just like the way Taehyung has chosen to preserve those around him.

As you make your way back to the beach, you glance over at him again. He’s still lying there on the sand, his eyes half-closed against the sun, a small, peaceful smile tugging at his lips. The sound of the waves crashing against the shore fills the space between you, the world quieter somehow, as if it too were holding its breath.

“You still have it? Is it the same one from high school?” Taehyung asks, opening one eye as he sits up, his curiosity piqued.

“It is,” you reply, smiling as you hand him the familiar old Polaroid.

He takes it, turning it over in his hands with a knowing grin. “You were always with that thing. I’m not surprised you still have it,” he says, the nostalgia evident in his voice.

You watch as he brings the camera up to his eye, the way he handles it so carefully, almost as if it’s a part of him too. He adjusts the focus, directing it toward you, making you laugh nervously.

“No! There’s not a lot of film left!” you protest, reaching your hand out to stop him, but he’s already pressing the button.

“Too late,” he grins, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “That one’s mine.” He watches as the picture slowly starts to develop in his hand, then slides it into his pocket, still smiling.

“Hey!” you laugh, trying to grab it back, but it’s no use. He’s already claimed it as his own, looking more pleased with himself than he should.

“Maybe I’ll let you see it later,” he teases, leaning back on the sand, clearly enjoying the way he’s gotten under your skin.

“You’re impossible,” you say, shaking your head, but inside, a warmth settles in your chest.

You take the Polaroid back in your hands, your fingers brushing against the smooth surface as you frame Taehyung in your lens. He’s lying there on the sand, his body relaxed, his eyes half-closed, looking like something straight out of a fashion magazine. It doesn’t matter that his cheeks are a little thinner now, or that there’s a shadow under his eyes, or that his skin is paler than it used to be. To you, none of that matters. He’s still Taehyung—the boy you fell in love with all those years ago—and he’s still the person you love now, just as deeply as ever. Your heart aches with it, in the best way, because you know you’ll keep loving him for as long as you have breath in your lungs.

“Looking just like a Vogue cover,” you say, your voice light and teasing, as you watch the image start to form in the Polaroid, slowly taking shape.

Taehyung chuckles softly, his arms behind his head, and you can hear the hint of self-doubt in his voice. “You’re only saying that because you’re being kind. I’m really ugly right now,” he says, his tone playful but with a hint of vulnerability.

You shake your head, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you look at him. He might see the changes, the signs of exhaustion, but you couldn’t care less about that. He was still the same person to you, and you loved him just as much as you ever had.

“You could never be ugly,” you reply without hesitation, your words sincere. There’s no room for doubt in your voice, only the truth of what you feel.

He looks at you then, his eyes softening as if he wasn’t sure whether to believe you or not. There’s a flicker of something in his gaze—maybe surprise, maybe relief—but it fades quickly into a lighthearted smile. “Well, I guess I’m lucky then,” he says, shaking his head with a small laugh.

He closes his eyes again, letting the sound of the crashing waves fill the silence between you. The horizon stretches out endlessly before you both, painted in shades of gray and blue, but your eyes can’t leave him. Not when the soft smile playing on his lips feels more meaningful than the entire view in front of you.

“I saw your drawings,” you say quietly, careful not to disturb the fragile peace surrounding you both, though the words hang heavy with curiosity and something more tender. “You always told me you’d never draw people.”

At that, his smile fades, like a candle blown out by a sudden gust. His expression softens into something unreadable, and for a moment, he just breathes. In. Out. The silence stretches again.

“I did say that,” he murmurs eventually, eyes still closed as if avoiding your gaze would make the truth easier to speak. “And I meant it. I hated drawing people.”

You hesitate for a moment, then shift closer, sitting cross-legged in the sand so you can watch his face better. “But you’re really good at it,” you say, your voice almost a whisper, gentle. “So why now? Why draw them?”

He finally opens his eyes, blinking slowly before turning his head to look at you. There’s something there—a mix of nostalgia, pain, and quiet acceptance. Something raw.

“Because I can’t forget the ones I love,” he says, his voice barely audible over the wind, trembling with emotion. “Their faces, their expressions… the way their eyes light up when they laugh. When I draw them, it’s like I can still smell their scent, hear their voices echoing, feel their presence beside me.”

A single tear slips down his cheek, carving a quiet path over his skin. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“I’m starting to forget things,” he admits, and that’s when your heart cracks. “One by one. Small details I thought would never leave me—they’re fading. Like a film rewinding too fast. I try to hold on, but they’re slipping away.”

His eyes finally meet yours, raw and filled with something too heavy for words. “I don’t want to forget them. I don’t want to forget you.”

The air around you thickens, heavy with everything he’s saying and all that he isn’t. So you don’t speak. You simply lean forward, resting your forehead gently against his, as if that closeness could anchor him here. As if your presence alone could keep the memories from vanishing.

“You won’t,” you whisper. “I promise, you won’t.”

His hands gently cup your cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears you didn’t even realize had fallen. His gaze is soft, but behind his watery eyes is a storm of emotion threatening to break.

“I could never forget you,” he whispers, voice cracking with the weight of it all. “Because I want you to be the last thing I see before I die.”

But then, like a sudden shift in the tide, his hands fall away from your face, retreating with something heavier. “But you?” he murmurs, his eyes searching yours. “You’ll live. You’ll go on. What if one day… you forget me?”

“Taehyung,” you say, breathless, already shaking your head. The idea alone feels like a betrayal to everything you are—everything you’ve ever felt. You reach out, grasping his hands tightly between yours, grounding him. “How could I ever forget you?” your voice trembles with conviction. “You were my first love.”

“Was I?” he teases, the corner of his lips curling into that familiar boxy grin, the one that once made your heart skip beats in the middle of crowded hallways.

“You know you were,” you say through a quiet laugh, warmth spreading across your chest despite the chill of the sea breeze. You tilt your head, eyes locked with his. “You’ll always be.”

His gaze drops to your hand, to the simple ring that suddenly feels unbearably heavy. He doesn’t linger—just a glance, a flash of something in his eyes before he looks away with a soft, bitter smile and a quiet shake of his head.

“I really thought I’d be the one to marry you,” he says, voice gentle but aching with everything left unsaid.

You follow his eyes to the ring, your fingers instinctively moving to twist it around, searching for comfort in the motion, something steady to hold onto while your entire chest feels like it’s caving in. “I thought so too,” you admit, barely above a whisper. “But we were young. We didn’t know… we didn’t know how easy it was to drift apart.”

You try to convince yourself that it’s the truth—that time and distance were the only reasons. That maybe it wasn’t meant to be. But the ache in your heart tells you otherwise. Tells you it was more than just bad timing. Tells you it still is.

“Can I ask you something?” he says after a beat, turning his head toward you, his eyes full of quiet hope and restrained pain.

You nod slowly, bracing yourself.

“If things were different… if life gave us another chance and we somehow found our way back to each other—” he pauses, his voice more fragile than you’ve ever heard it— “would you give us another shot?”

Time seems to stop, the waves hush, the sky holds its breath. And all you can feel is the sound of your own heartbeat, pounding with a truth you’ve buried for too long.

“It’s scary how easy it would be for you to have me back,” you say, the words falling from your lips before you can stop them.

As soon as they’re out, a wave of shame crashes over you—thick and suffocating. Your chest tightens, your stomach knots, and the guilt creeps in like a shadow you can’t shake. You think of Minsu—kind, patient Minsu. The man who waited for you to come home, who trusted you even when your silence was too long, your explanations too thin.

And here you were, confessing—no, admitting—to another man that your heart, in all its flawed and fragile mess, still belonged to someone else.

To Taehyung.

The boy you fell in love with in high school. The boy who wrote himself into your past so deeply that no amount of time or change could erase him. And now, he was here again, like a skipped heartbeat, like muscle memory—achingly familiar.

You couldn’t meet his eyes right away, afraid of what he might see there: the truth, the conflict, the longing. But you didn’t take your words back either. Because as terrifying as it was to say it out loud… it was real. And it had always been.

One month slipped through your fingers like snow melting on skin. The roads were now blanketed in white, rooftops glistening under the soft winter sun. Your heads were tucked into oversized scarves and thick beanies, your cheeks stained pink from the biting cold. You still didn’t understand how winter could be Taehyung’s favorite season—it was harsh, relentless—but he somehow made it look magical. Even as his body grew thinner, more fragile, he looked ethereal under the winter sky.

You had crossed off a surprising number of things from his bucket list—some whimsical, some wild, some heartbreakingly simple. But it hadn’t all been laughter and dreams. There were bad days too. Days where his nose bled suddenly, where migraines made him wince in silence, clutching his head while pretending he was fine. He always reassured you, always smiled, always said, “I don’t want to go back yet.” And so you stayed on the road, giving him what little freedom time could still offer.

Now, you were standing at the foot of Hallasan, snow crunching beneath your boots as you pushed his wheelchair forward. The mountain towered in front of you, silent and ancient, blanketed in white. It was breathtaking.

“I can’t believe we’re in Hallasan during winter!” Taehyung said with a wide grin, his eyes sparkling like he wasn’t tired at all.

But he was. You could see it in the way his shoulders slumped slightly, the quiet wheeze in his breath, the way he leaned into the warmth of the blanket over his lap. His body wasn’t keeping up anymore. The days of walking freely had turned into hours in bed. His legs—once so steady, always dancing, always moving—had finally given up on him.

The wheelchair hadn’t been a choice. It had been a necessity.

Like always—like every time—it was just the two of you. Alone. Everyone else could afford to wait for the perfect weather, the right moment, a clearer sky. But you and Taehyung couldn’t wait. You didn’t have that luxury. Time was no longer a friend, but a constant ticking reminder of how little of it he had left. The urgency had stopped being subtle. It lived in every step, every breath, every plan made in half-rushed laughter.

“There’s no way we’re climbing that,” you said, staring up at Hallasan’s snow-draped silhouette with a mix of awe and exhaustion.

Taehyung turned toward you in mock surprise, eyes wide and playful. “Are you sure?”

“You’re not the one walking!” you laughed, throwing your head back as the cold air stung your lungs. “I’ve been pushing you around for weeks. My arms are basically ripped now.”

You laughed, because laughter kept the ache away. Crying was something reserved for the night, when Taehyung’s breathing would slow beside you, his face soft in sleep. That was when the tears came. Never during the day. Never where he could see.

“At least take me there,” he said, pointing to a quiet spot at the base of the mountain. There was a snow-covered bench, untouched and waiting, and he was already rummaging in his backpack with that boyish glint in his eyes. “You remember when you asked me to draw you like one of my French girls back in high school?”

You burst out laughing again, the memory hitting you like a snowball to the face. “Don’t you dare bring that up now.”

He just grinned, pulling out his old, worn notebook and flipping to a fresh page. “Too late. Today’s the day.”

You rolled your eyes but followed his direction anyway, brushing snow off the bench and sitting down.

“I’m not going naked,” you warned.

“What a shame,” he muttered with a smirk, already sketching the first lines. “Guess I’ll have to settle.”

You smiled, pulling your scarf closer to your face. “Just make sure you get my good side.”

“They’re all good,” he murmured without looking up, the pencil dancing between his fingers. “Just smile and be pretty.”

“Already am,” you teased.

“You’re right,” he said, and there was something soft, something heartbreakingly sincere in the way he said it—as if he were trying to memorize you, not just draw you.

And so, you sat there in the snow, smiling for the boy who once stole your heart—and never gave it back.

Within minutes, after a heavy, comforting silence filled only by the soft sound of his pencil gliding over paper and his quiet humming, Taehyung finally looked up and turned the notebook toward you.

“It’s messy,” he said, a small grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “You can see every stroke, every line. But I think… that’s what makes it beautiful.”

And it was. It was raw, unfiltered—his own eyes and hands had shaped you onto the paper. No filters, no polish. Just you, as he saw you. It made your chest tighten.

“I’m glad I can still do this,” he added softly, his voice barely above the breeze. “If my hands ever gave out on me… I think I’d die before the tumor ever got the chance.”

You opened your mouth to say something—anything to ease the weight of those words—but you froze.

“Taehyung…” you whispered.

Blood.

A thin trail of it was slipping from his nose, and before you could even move, a few drops had already fallen onto the page—onto the sketch. Panic hit your chest like a punch as you rushed to him, grabbing his hands and fishing through his backpack for a tissue with shaky fingers.

“Shit—Taehyung—stay still,” you said, your voice breaking as you pressed the tissue to his face, gently, but firmly.

His hand instinctively went to his forehead, wincing from the sharp pain. “I’m fine,” he muttered, trying to help, but only smudging blood across his cheek and knuckles. He was trying to brush it off, like always, but the tremble in his hand told you otherwise.

“No, you’re not,” you breathed, wiping the blood from his upper lip, heart pounding in your ears. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like this is nothing.”

The sketch lay forgotten on the bench beside you, stained with red, like the cruelest metaphor.

It became the last drawing Taehyung ever made. Not by choice, but because his body, little by little, started surrendering. His hands grew too weak to grip a pencil, his fingers trembling too much to trace even a line. Soon after, even holding his sketchbook on his lap became too much.

And then, one day, without warning—but somehow exactly as he knew it would—his heart stopped beating.

That messy, beautiful sketch was the last imprint of him in motion. A love letter in graphite.

Taehyung became a star in the sky, one that blinked into existence on a snowy day. The kind of snow that didn’t bite but fell gently, wrapping everything in a soft hush. As if the world knew it had to slow down for someone like him. As if the universe itself was bowing its head, just for a moment.

The journey back home was unbearable.

The seat next to you was empty. His scarf still smelled like him. His notebooks sat quiet in the backseat, as if mourning too. You didn’t cry, not at first. It was like your body refused to accept he was gone, as if you were just on your way to the next stop on the bucket list.

But then the silence got too loud. And your heart—your stupid, aching heart—started to break open, piece by piece. You had never felt pain like this. Not even when you first broke up. Not when you watched his body weaken.

This was different.

This was final.

You couldn’t face reality, not when those two months spent away from everything familiar—away from the life you once knew—were everything you had ever wanted and more. With Taehyung, you found comfort, laughter, and moments of beauty in the chaos, even though you knew deep down that it wouldn’t last. You had always known it wouldn’t.

Those two months were your favorites. But they were also the hardest. Because every sunrise with him felt like a blessing, but every sunset reminded you of the inevitable goodbye. And now, that goodbye was an unshakable weight you couldn’t lift from your chest.

You left your heart behind on the mountains. No, you left it with Taehyung, hidden in the snowy peaks where time stood still for just a moment, where you both could breathe easy. It was the only place your heart was truly safe—because, in truth, it belonged there, with him.

It wasn’t yours anymore. And, somehow, you didn’t want it back. Because as painful as it was, you knew it would always be his. Forever.

You kept everything that reminded you of him—each little piece a fragment of something once real, once whole. His keychains, his notebooks, his beanie. Every object felt sacred, as if holding onto them was the only way to keep him close. Because they once belonged to him, and for as long as you lived, they would be part of you.

You knew you could never return to the life you had before Taehyung came back into it. It was impossible. It wasn’t just about the days you spent with him, but about the way he had shifted everything inside you. The old life felt distant now, like a faded picture in the corner of a room you no longer visited. So you left. You drove, letting the miles stretch between you and the life you once knew, until all that was in front of you was a familiar neighborhood.

The high school, the benches where you once spent hours, his head resting in your lap, came into view. It was all so clear in your mind, like it had never left. His childhood home was there too. The same old car parked out front, the same street, the same world—but everything was different now. Inside that house, a family grieved the son who had been taken away five years ago.

But Taehyung could be gone for five years, ten years, or thirty, and his absence would always be felt. His presence, his smile, his laugh—none of it could be replaced. You realized that, no matter how many years passed, he would always be a part of you, woven into the fabric of your life, and nothing would ever fill that space. No one else could ever take his place.

Because even though the love story between you and Taehyung could be summarized in just two young hearts finding each other in high school, it was so much more than that. It wasn’t just a fleeting moment or a chapter in a book; it was a deep connection that shaped both of your souls, intertwining in ways words could never fully express.

Some love stories don’t last forever. They don’t stand the test of time in the way we wish they would. But that doesn’t mean they’re any less significant. Some love stories mark a soul forever, leaving an imprint that stays long after the final page has been turned.

And what you had with Taehyung was one of those stories. It was a love that lived, not in forever, but in every moment you shared, in every memory that will stay with you.

That’s just how life unfolds—the right person at the wrong time.

#bts taehyung #kim taehyung #taehyung x reader #taehyung fic #bts v #taehyung imagines #bts fanfic #taehyung fanfic #bts imagines #taehyung angst #bts #taehyung x oc #taehyung x you #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts fanfiction #bangtan

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igwb · 3 months ago

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Fate, Fortune and Jungkook's Misfortune.

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: strangers to lovers au, fluff + slice of life + comedy

summary: hopelessly romantic, jungkook believed in all kinds of things—but mostly in fate. so when he stumbled upon what he thought was a sign from the universe, he took it seriously. maybe too seriously. but one way or another, he was determined to make her believe in fate too.

word count: 20K (one shot)

warnings: fem!reader, mentions of; astrology talk, fluff, fluff & fluff, and jungkook being jungkook (cute) ♡

playlist: sally when the wine runs out, goodnight n go, fallingforyou & you are the traffic

Jeon Jungkook had heard plenty of things about himself over the years, but three remarks seemed to follow him everywhere.

The first was that he was dramatic—sometimes a little too much. Jungkook wasn’t the kind of person who simply told a story; he performed it.

His hands would move wildly, his voice rising and falling with exaggerated emotion, as if every minor event in his life were a grand cinematic moment. It didn’t matter if he was recounting a near-death experience (which, in reality, was just him almost tripping on a sidewalk) or the time he spotted an unusually fluffy cat on the street—his excitement was all-consuming. His big, expressive doe eyes would widen as he spoke, drawing people in, making them listen, even if they had no idea why finding a cute cat had him this worked up.

And the worst part? His enthusiasm was contagious. No matter how absurd the topic, his friends always found themselves leaning in, hanging onto every word, caught up in the sheer energy of his storytelling.

The second thing was that Jungkook was persistent—relentless, even. When he set his mind on something, there was no stopping him. Once an idea lodged itself in his brain, he would pursue it with single-minded determination, as if failure wasn’t an option. And by determination, that meant everything was fair game.

Like the time his high school held a massive sports tournament. Most people saw it as a casual event, something to participate in for fun. Not Jungkook. He trained for months, pushing himself like he was preparing for the Olympics. In the end, he placed first—not necessarily because he was the most skilled, but because everyone else simply didn’t care enough to try that hard. But to Jungkook, a win was a win, and he would take it, no matter what.

And then, there was the last thing—perhaps the one that defined him the most. Jungkook was a hopeless romantic. Not just the kind who believed in love, but the kind who believed in fate. In soulmates. In every ridiculous, unrealistic notion that most people would roll their eyes at. Horoscopes? He checked them more often than the weather. MBTI? Not only did he know his own personality type by heart, but he had memorized everyone else’s, convinced that compatibility was written in the stars.

He believed in love at first sight, in grand gestures, in the idea that somewhere, out there, was the one meant just for him.

And if he ever found her?

Well, knowing Jungkook, he would do everything in his power to make her believe in fate too.

Jungkook had always enjoyed taking Yeontan for walks. The little Pomeranian technically belonged to Taehyung—his best friend—but Jungkook might as well have been his honorary second owner. Taehyung was overprotective when it came to his beloved dog, rarely trusting anyone else to handle him. But Jungkook? He was the exception.

And today, Jungkook had never been happier to be out walking the tiny ball of fluff. The sun was shining, the air was crisp, and Yeontan—small but ridiculously stubborn—was leading him rather than the other way around. Jungkook barely had a say in where they went, not that he minded. Yeontan had a mind of his own, and considering Taehyung had raised him like a pampered little prince, he was more than a little spoiled.

So when Yeontan suddenly yanked him toward a small, unfamiliar café, Jungkook let himself be dragged along, more amused than anything. He had never been here before, but the place looked exactly like something out of one of his guilty-pleasure romance novels—warm lighting, large windows fogged slightly from the temperature difference, plants hanging from the ceiling, and the faint scent of coffee and vanilla drifting through the air.

It was cozy. Inviting. The kind of café where love stories began.

And Jungkook, hopeless romantic that he was, couldn’t help but wonder—was fate trying to tell him something today?

Jungkook immediately pulled out his phone, completely oblivious to the fact that he was standing right in front of the café’s entrance, probably blocking customers from coming and going. But he didn’t care. There were priorities in life, and checking his horoscope at a potentially fated moment like this was one of them.

His browser was already open to his favorite astrology site—it always was—so all he had to do was scroll down to his sign. Virgo. He barely had time to process the words before—

Yank.

His eyes widened as the leash suddenly tugged forward, nearly making him stumble. Before he could react, Yeontan had already charged straight into the café.

“Yah—Tannie!” Jungkook yelled, frantically shoving his phone into his back pocket as he took off after the tiny troublemaker. He pushed through the doorway, eyes darting around in search of the little fluff ball. Yeontan was small but fast, and knowing him, he was already causing chaos somewhere between the tables.

Jungkook weaved past a few customers, muttering rushed apologies, his head swiveling as he searched. “I swear, if you embarrassed me in front of strangers again—”

And then he saw him.

Or rather, he saw her.

Because Yeontan wasn’t just causing trouble—he was happily sitting at the feet of a girl Jungkook had never seen before. A girl who, at that moment, was peering down at the fluffy little traitor with an amused look, one hand resting on her coffee cup, the other scratching behind his ears like she had all the time in the world.

Jungkook came to an abrupt stop. His brain short-circuited for a second, and suddenly, he remembered something very, very important.

His horoscope.

He scrambled to pull his phone out again, nearly dropping it in the process. His eyes scanned the words quickly, his heart rate picking up as he found what he was looking for.

Virgo: Today, fate will lead you to an unexpected encounter. Pay attention—this person might change everything.

Jungkook swallowed hard, gaze flickering back to the girl.

No way.

Jungkook walked toward the table with slow, measured steps, unsure of how to proceed. The girl was so engrossed in petting Yeontan that she didn’t even notice him approach. She had a laptop in front of her, a large coffee cup beside it, and a soft smile on her face as she looked down at the dog. Yeontan, for once, was happily soaking up the attention, his little tail wagging furiously.

And Jungkook?

He never wanted more to be a dog than in that exact moment. At least then, he’d have her full, undivided attention.

A few more seconds passed before she finally glanced up, eyes briefly meeting his, before they flicked back down to Yeontan. She didn’t even seem phased by the random guy suddenly appearing at her table. Instead, she offered a soft, almost amused smile, glancing at him only for a moment.

“He’s so cute,” she commented, her voice light and warm.

“He may look like an angel, but he’s far from it.” Jungkook crouched down to Yeontan’s level, gently tugging the leash back into his hands, hoping the dog would finally acknowledge him for once. Now that they were at the same height, he couldn’t help but hope that she would finally look at him too, not just at the dog.

Yeontan, as expected, didn’t seem to care about Jungkook’s presence, too busy enjoying the scratch behind his ears. Jungkook shot the dog a glare, as if silently scolding him. Seriously, dude?

When her eyes finally flicked back to him, the smile she gave wasn’t judgmental, just amused.

“I can tell,” she said, her tone teasing, “He definitely looks like he’s got a little mischief in him.”

“I don’t know if ‘mischief’ is enough to describe his personality. He’s chaotic,” Jungkook replied, a small laugh escaping as he ruffled the dog’s fur. “But yeah, he’s definitely not as innocent as he looks.”

For a moment, there was a comfortable silence as both of them watched Yeontan enjoy his little moment of fame. Jungkook was still crouched down, hands resting on the leash, his heart racing.

She pulled her hand back from Yeontan, her fingers lingering for just a second before retreating to her lap. Then, she glanced around the café, her eyes briefly scanning the space. It was such a small, insignificant movement, but Jungkook was completely entranced.

The soft glow of the café’s warm lighting reflected off her glasses, her round, chocolate-brown eyes peering through the lenses with quiet curiosity. Strands of hair had fallen loose from the bun on top of her head, perfectly framing her delicate features. Her lips—plump and pink—were slightly parted, like she was lost in thought.

Jungkook was so busy memorizing her face that he almost didn’t notice when she turned back to him.

Panic.

He shot up from his crouch so fast that he almost lost his balance, awkwardly straightening his posture as if that would somehow make up for the fact that he had very obviously been staring.

And then she smiled. Not a flirty smile, not even an encouraging one—just a small, polite curve of her lips that almost felt like she was expecting him to leave now. Like the moment had run its course, and she was giving him an easy out.

Jungkook’s heart dropped.

“Oh—uh, I’m sorry,” he blurted out, looking down at Yeontan as if the dog could somehow save him from his embarrassment. His cheeks burned, and he hated that he was so bad at this. He didn’t want the moment to end, but he also didn’t want to overstay his welcome.

But then his horoscope flashed in his mind again.

Virgo: Today, fate will lead you to an unexpected encounter. Pay attention—this person might change everything.

His fingers tightened around Yeontan’s leash.

No. If this was fate—and Jungkook knew it was—then he had to do something.

“Uh…” He forced himself to look up at her again, ignoring the heat in his face. “Are you familiar with this place?”

She raised an eyebrow, a small hmm leaving her lips as if urging him to go on.

Jungkook swallowed. “Which drink is the best?”

For a second, she just blinked at him, like she wasn’t sure if he was serious or not. Then, slowly, a small, knowing smirk appeared on her lips.

“You’re just asking that to keep talking to me, aren’t you?”

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

Oh, she’s dangerous.

“I—” He cleared his throat, scrambling to regain his composure. “I mean… maybe?”

She chuckled, shaking her head slightly as she leaned back in her chair, tilting her head at him in amusement. “Alright, I’ll bite.”

Jungkook held his breath.

“The best drink here? Definitely the caramel macchiato,” she finally said, voice smooth, teasing. “Sweet, a little strong, and pretty addictive.”

Jungkook grinned, his confidence returning in an instant. “That does sound like my type.”

She raised a brow. “The drink?”

Jungkook met her gaze, the corner of his lips quirking up. “Maybe.”

For the first time since he’d walked in, she actually looked surprised. Just for a second—just a flicker of something in her expression before she composed herself again.

Yeontan was getting impatient. The tiny fluff ball kept tugging on his leash, huffing dramatically, clearly annoyed that he was no longer the center of attention. His little paws shuffled against the café floor, his determination unshaken.

Jungkook sighed. Okay, maybe walking the dog wasn’t fun anymore.

Each time Yeontan yanked harder, Jungkook’s arm jerked forward, nearly throwing him off balance. He knew it was time to leave—there was no point in fighting when Yeontan had already decided he wasn’t going to lose.

Jungkook let out a small laugh, looking back at the girl, reluctant to let the moment end.

“You heard the brat,” he said, nodding toward the demanding Pomeranian. “Guess that’s my cue.”

She smiled, watching the little dog’s antics with amusement.

“Thanks for the recommendation,” Jungkook added, dragging out his words just slightly, lingering for a response. A name. Anything to keep this from being just another fleeting interaction.

For a second, she hesitated, lips pressing together like she was debating something. But then—

She said it.

Her name.

And oh, Jungkook was not prepared.

It rolled off her tongue so effortlessly, so naturally, and yet it felt like it echoed in his mind, settling into a permanent place inside of him. It was pretty—too pretty. Almost unfair.

For a split second, he nearly lost his composure, his grip tightening on Yeontan’s leash as he processed the way it sounded.

He forced himself to keep his cool, offering a grin that (hopefully) didn’t expose just how much he was freaking out inside.

“Pretty name,” he said casually, though inside, his brain was already in overdrive.

Because tonight—without a doubt—he was going to a name compatibility site, typing her name next to his, and testing their fate.

The day had been horrible. No amount of Hoseok’s usual sunshine-like energy, nor the comforting sight of his signature heart-shaped smile, could do anything to lift your mood. It was just one of those days—the kind where everything felt ten times heavier than it should.

The lecture was dragging on endlessly, your professor droning about legal cases and justice articles in a tone so monotonous that it almost felt like a personal attack. You fought to keep your eyes open, blinking rapidly every few minutes in a desperate attempt to stay focused.

Sometimes, you genuinely questioned your decision to pursue law. Why had you willingly subjected yourself to this? You could have been anywhere else—on a beach, running away to the mountains, maybe even opening a tiny coffee shop where you wouldn’t have to read through endless legal texts every night.

And yet…

No matter how often the thought of quitting crossed your mind, it never truly stuck. Because deep down, as exhausting as it was, as frustrating as some days could be, you had always loved it. The way logic, facts, and concrete evidence could build a path toward justice. It felt structured—rational. There was a process, a way to piece everything together, then the truth would always reveal itself. It wasn’t always easy, but at least it made sense.

That was more than you could say for Hoseok’s field of study.

You never quite understood how he could immerse himself so deeply in literature and poetry—worlds filled with metaphors, abstract emotions, and meanings that changed depending on who was reading them. Everything in his world felt so… out of place, detached from reality. There were no clear answers, no right or wrong, just endless interpretations.

While he found meaning in verses and prose, you found it in arguments and evidence.

And you were perfectly fine with that.

The moment you stepped into the small coffee shop, you let out a quiet sigh of relief. This place had always been your little escape. Today, it was a bit more crowded than usual, but you didn’t mind. You could wait.

Shuffling into place in the line, you let your thoughts drift to your usual order. Iced coffee. Large. No second-guessing. Caffeine had practically become your lifeline at this point, the only thing keeping you awake during long nights buried under case studies and legal articles.

The line moved painfully slow. You tapped your fingers lightly against your arm, eyes flicking toward the counter. The customer in front of you took forever, hesitating over their order like they were making a life-altering decision.

By the time they finally stepped aside to wait for their drink, you swore an entire hour had passed.

Suppressing a groan, you took a step forward, ready to place your order—when a voice beside you made you pause.

“Oh, what a funny coincidence! Didn’t know you were familiar with this place. It must be destiny.”

And there he was.

The boy from the other day, standing next to you with wide boba-like eyes, filled with excitement like he’d just stumbled upon something life-changing. His dark hair was messy, parted in the middle, and strands of it fell over his forehead like he had run here without a care. His thin lips curled around the straw of his drink, cheeks puffing slightly as he sipped.

You scoffed, shaking your head just as the barista handed you your iced coffee. “I knew this place before you,” you reminded him, fingers wrapping around your cup. “I was the one giving you a recommendation.”

You turned on your heels, making your way to your usual booth. You’d been looking forward to sitting alone, letting the familiar hum of the café settle your mind as you worked through another exhausting day.

But apparently, he had other plans.

He followed right behind you, still sipping on his drink, the straw stuck between his lips as he trailed after you like a lost puppy.

“Oh yeah, right,” he chuckled, sliding into the seat across from you without asking.

You stopped mid-motion, blinking at him. He had just… invited himself?

You always sat alone. That was the whole point of coming here. It was your time to work in peace.

“I forgot,” Jungkook continued casually, settling into the booth like he belonged there. “It’s been such a long time since I last saw you.”

“One week,” you corrected, raising an eyebrow as you took a sip from your coffee.

Jungkook grinned, unbothered. “One week too long.”

He placed his drink on the table, leaning forward so his mouth hovered just above the straw, refusing to use his hands as he took another sip.

You glanced under the table, half-expecting to see a familiar ball of fluff staring back at you. Instead, all you found were a pair of worn-out dark Converse, one foot lazily crossed over the other.

Your lips pursed slightly in disappointment before you looked back up. “Where’s the cute dog?”

As you spoke, you pulled your laptop from your bag, subtly hoping the boy would get the message—you had work to do.

“Oh, he’s got a hairstyle appointment,” he said, shrugging like this was a completely normal thing.

You blinked. “A what?”

He chuckled at your reaction before elaborating. “His owner treats him like a total brat, so he has to go to the groomer every month. Haircuts, fancy shampoo, the whole celebrity dog experience.”

You couldn’t help but laugh. Honestly, it made so much sense. From what you had seen, the dog had more attitude than most people you knew.

“So he’s not your dog?” you mused, arching an eyebrow.

“Hopefully not,” he scoffed, leaning back in his seat. “I love bigger dogs. Ones that don’t act like princesses.”

“What’s his name?” you asked absentmindedly, turning on your laptop.

You were trying to focus—you really were. But it was proving impossible when the person sitting across from you was sipping his drink obnoxiously loud, making a whole production out of it.

Though, if you were being honest, the real distraction was the way his big, boba-like eyes peeked at you from over your screen, watching you with far too much amusement.

Jungkook smirked. “You know, I’m a bit offended that you asked for the dog’s name before mine.”

You glanced up, unimpressed, as he leaned back in his chair, seemingly forgetting about his drink entirely now that he had a new source of entertainment.

“My name is Jungkook, by the way,” he added, like he was offering the most valuable piece of information in the world.

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your lips betrayed you, curling into the beginnings of a grin.

“I didn’t ask for yours, did I?” you shot back, shutting your laptop halfway and placing it beside you, clearly accepting the fact that you weren’t getting any work done anytime soon.

Jungkook gasped dramatically, clutching his chest like you had personally wounded him. “Wow. That hurts.”

And just like that, you had a feeling you weren’t getting rid of Jungkook anytime soon.

And you were right.

Because every time you stepped into the coffee shop, he was already there.

Somehow, Jungkook always managed to arrive before you, sitting comfortably in your usual booth like he owned the place. And as if that wasn’t enough, he had the audacity to have your favorite drink already waiting on the table, like he had perfectly timed your arrival.

He’d wave at you the moment you walked in—enthusiastically, unashamed, completely oblivious to the way people turned to stare at you because of it. Your face would heat up every single time, a mix of embarrassment and exasperation, but Jungkook never seemed to care. If anything, he loved making a scene.

But, despite everything, you still made your way over to the table. Because, well—it was your table first. And Jungkook wasn’t about to scare you away from your favorite spot.

(Okay, and maybe because he was kind of nice. Just a little.)

Over time, you learned quite a few things about him. Mostly because Jungkook never shut up, and even if you hadn’t wanted to know, he would have told you anyway.

Like how he was obsessed—his words—with toe socks because he hated regular ones. Or how he was a hardcore astrology fan (again, his words).

That one, in particular, made you roll your eyes. And instead of working like you had planned, you found yourself in a full-blown debate with him about how horoscopes were absolute nonsense, a way for people to trick themselves into believing fate controlled their lives instead of taking responsibility for their own choices.

Jungkook had gasped, genuinely offended, and spent the next twenty minutes passionately explaining why he believed in them, rattling off birth charts and compatibility readings like he was reciting holy scripture.

And then, of course, there was this.

“What a coincidence,” Jungkook mused, voice dripping with fake innocence as he leaned back in his seat. His hands flew to his head in mock shock. “You coming here while your favorite drink is already on your favorite table? Fate really wants us together.”

You shot him a deadpan look, crossing your arms.

“I already told you,” you huffed, “fate is bullshit—a lazy excuse for naïve people who don’t want to take responsibility for their own choices.”

Jungkook grinned. “Exactly. And I’m choosing to sit here, waiting for you, every time. So really, it’s the same thing.”

You blinked, caught off guard. “That is not—”

But Jungkook was already sipping his drink again, looking far too smug for his own good.

And, annoyingly, you had no idea how to argue with that.

Jungkook cleared his throat, straightening in his chair with the kind of exaggerated seriousness that only he could pull off.

You sighed, already knowing what was coming as he pulled out his phone. Still, you sat down anyway, setting your laptop in front of you, pretending—really pretending—that you weren’t listening.

Jungkook, of course, wasn’t fazed.

He called your name, deepening his voice dramatically as he read aloud, “Today, your horoscope is telling you to take a deep breath, look at the grass, and let your heart talk while your mind relaxes.”

You raised an eyebrow, meeting his mischievous gaze over the top of your laptop screen. “Does it really?”

Jungkook grinned, nodding, but you weren’t convinced.

“What if you’re just bullshitting already bullshit facts?” you mused. “That would be defamation, and you could—”

Before you could get into any legal technicalities, Jungkook clicked his tongue, cutting you off. He wasn’t about to let logic ruin his fun.

He slid his phone across the table toward you. “It’s real, and I’m pleading non-guilty.” He lifted his hands in mock surrender.

You narrowed your eyes suspiciously before glancing at his phone, scanning the text quickly. To your surprise—and mild annoyance—he was actually telling the truth.

But then, your eyes landed on a line he had conveniently skipped.

“Oh, look,” you drawled, smirking as you pointed at the screen. “It also says I should be careful with who I’m interacting with today.”

Jungkook gasped, clutching his chest like you had stabbed him. “Are you implying I’m the bad influence here?”

You took a slow sip of your coffee. “I mean, if the stars say so…”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head as he dramatically took back his phone. “Unbelievable,” he muttered, typing something quickly before flashing the screen back at you. “Well, guess what? My horoscope says, ‘Don’t give up on people who challenge you—they may be the greatest blessing in disguise.’”

Your lips parted slightly at that, but before you could respond, Jungkook leaned forward, resting his chin in his hand as he smirked.

“So really,” he teased, “we’re the perfect balance.”

You rolled your eyes—but you didn’t argue.

Jungkook was absolutely ecstatic.

If he could, and if people wouldn’t look at him like he was a total weirdo, he would have definitely started dancing right there on the streets. With papers and colorful pens in hand, his movements would have been free and wild, just like his energy.

But instead, he grinned like an excited puppy as he made his way toward the coffee shop. And there you were, sitting in your usual booth, brows furrowed in intense concentration, typing away like a madman in the middle of a frenzy.

He couldn’t help but smile wider, his heart swelling with an odd kind of pride and joy.

He set his papers and pens on the table with a loud sigh, purposely making the sound dramatic as if to announce his grand entrance.

“It’s time for a break,” he declared, flopping down next to you with the flair of someone who was about to deliver the most important news of the century. “With the one and only Jeon Jungkook.”

You barely spared him a glance at first, but then you sighed, closing your laptop halfway with a sharp exhale. Your eyes were drawn to the chaos now sprawled on your table: a mess of papers, pens, and bright markers.

“Are you planning a drawing contest?” you asked, clearly unimpressed by the mess, already feeling the overwhelming urge to organize everything into neat piles. You hated working in a disorganized space. “Something the stars told you last night—something about you sucking at coloring?”

Jungkook scoffed loudly, leaning back in his chair like he was some kind of rebellious artist. He slid a sheet of paper toward you, the kind you’d get during an exam—multiple pages stuck together with nothing but your name scrawled on the front.

“It’s something I made,” he said, his voice oddly soft now, despite his playful tone. He quickly placed his hands over yours to stop you from reading it immediately. “For you.”

You blinked at him, confused. “You want me to take a break while doing something that looks like work?”

Jungkook shifted slightly, adjusting himself so that he was facing you more directly, his eyes wide with enthusiasm as he began explaining.

“It’s called an MBTI test,” he said, his voice bright with excitement, as if he were unveiling the secret to the universe itself. “It’s to see what your personality type is.”

You glanced at him skeptically, still unsure of where this was going. His face was utterly serious as he continued, the intensity in his eyes almost comical. “You have to answer the questions with what feels right to you—don’t overthink it, just go with your gut.”

You blinked at the stack of papers on the table, the colorful pens scattered around, and then back to him. The way he spoke—so intent, so dead serious—made it seem like he was about to launch into a criminal law exam or a high-stakes courtroom drama. But instead, it was… an MBTI test? Something Jungkook had created on a whim last night and printed out like it was some kind of official document?

It was absolutely ridiculous, and you couldn’t help but hide a grin. This was so Jungkook.

He was practically on the edge of his seat, as if waiting for a massive breakthrough in your psychological evolution. He tapped the paper a couple of times, as if he were an expert ready to reveal some deep, profound truth about you.

You stared at him, amused, eyes half-lidded, realizing that this was not the high-minded academic discussion you were expecting today. This was Jungkook at his finest. You tried not to laugh out loud, but his earnestness was too much.

“Right…” you drawled slowly, clearly entertained by how seriously he was treating this. “So this is like… a personality analysis? Just like that?”

“Exactly! This will tell you everything you need to know about who you really are.”

And there it was—another perfect example of Jungkook’s chaos, his unapologetic belief that everything, no matter how ridiculous, was important enough to be taken seriously. You shook your head in disbelief, but couldn’t help but feel entertained.

“Alright,” you finally said, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “What type are you then, Mr. Expert?”

Jungkook sat up a little straighter, tapping his chin thoughtfully before dramatically proclaiming, “I’m an ENFP. The campaigner—enthusiastic, creative, and full of ideas!”

You rolled your eyes. “Of course you are.”

He grinned proudly, unfazed by your skepticism, before nudging the test closer to you. “Now, your turn. Answer honestly!”

You sighed, knowing this was going to be a lot more entertaining than you had planned for your break.

You hated how focused you were on the test. Reading each question carefully as if it were one of the most important exams of your life, when, in reality, you should’ve been studying for something much more significant. But Jungkook had a way of pulling you into whatever chaos he created, and before you knew it, you were marking your answers like they actually mattered.

The only sound in the air was Jungkook’s rhythmic slurping through his straw, interrupted only by the occasional dramatic sigh that escaped his lips. He would never comment on your answers—probably terrified that if he did, it would somehow influence your responses and ruin the results of his serious experiment.

It took you almost twenty minutes to finish the entire thing. You handed him the test with a slight feeling of disbelief that you had actually gotten sucked into this. “Verdict, Mr. Jeon?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, half-tempted to make fun of him but curious at the same time.

Jungkook took the test from your hands and began reading your answers with the utmost seriousness. His brow furrowed deeply, as though he were an experienced psychologist analyzing a patient’s deepest fears and desires. He nodded at the answers with a distracted expression, as if processing your choices was a very complex task.

“Hmmm…” He nodded again, this time a little more dramatically, as if everything was starting to make sense. “Interesting… Very interesting…”

You waited for the reveal, feeling both a sense of dread and amusement as Jungkook continued his mock analysis, clearly savoring the moment. He rubbed his chin like an old-timey detective piecing together the clues.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he dropped the paper back on the table and leaned back in his chair with a confident smirk.

“Well,” Jungkook said, drawing out the word like he was preparing to make the grandest announcement of his life. “You, my dear friend, are… an INTP!” He paused dramatically for effect, before adding in a whisper, “The Thinker.”

You blinked at him, waiting for the punchline, but he just grinned, clearly satisfied with himself.

“INTP?” you repeated, not entirely sure whether to laugh or question his methods. “The Thinker? Really? That sounds like a terrible description.”

Jungkook shrugged with mock seriousness, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s the best one! It’s all about being logical, analytical, and deeply curious. It says you tend to overthink everything and live in your own head—oh, and you’re probably the type to avoid emotional decisions, too.”

You stared at him, not sure whether to be offended or impressed by how well he seemed to have pegged you. “That sounds… vaguely accurate.”

“See? I told you this was legit.” Jungkook leaned forward, his excitement palpable. “I’ve been studying this stuff for weeks!”

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at Jungkook’s theatrics. He was truly relentless. When he pulled out another sheet of paper from the mess and lowered his voice.

“And guess what,” he said, his voice dipping into a conspiratorial tone as that annoyingly adorable bunny smile appeared on his face. “INTP and ENFP are very, very much compatible.”

You let out an exasperated sigh, shaking your head as you pushed your foot against his ankle lightly, your patience starting to wear thin. “I should’ve known it would turn out like that.” You reached for your laptop, already preparing to tune him out.

Jungkook wasn’t deterred, of course. He was practically pouting now, his bottom lip sticking out in that way that always seemed to make his charm even more potent. “Everything is telling us to do something about that match the stars have made!” he whined loudly, his hands flailing dramatically in the air. “Come on, you can’t fake that!”

You gave him a long look, almost unimpressed but definitely entertained by his determination. “You really think just because the stars said so, we should… what, embrace the fate of this ‘match’?”

“Yes!” Jungkook’s eyes lit up like he’d just won the lottery. “I mean, come on—do you really want to deny the stars? The universe is practically begging us to be in sync!”

But you weren’t going to let him win that easily. “I don’t know, Jungkook. It sounds like a whole lot of nonsense to me.”

Jungkook pouted again, leaning toward you with his chin propped up on his hand. “Well, maybe you’re just too rational for this,” he said, teasingly. “Maybe you just need to believe a little bit more in… magic.”

You glanced at him, the corner of your lips tugging upward despite yourself. “I’ll believe in magic when you start acting like an actual gentleman,” you shot back with a playful smirk.

Jungkook raised his eyebrows dramatically. “I’m already a gentleman, thank you very much,” he said, half-mockingly, half-seriously. He leaned forward again, fixing you with a teasing gaze. “But if it’ll convince you to give this whole ‘fate’ thing a chance, I’ll do anything.”

“Oh, really?” you asked, eyes narrowing as you folded your arms on the table. “Anything, huh?”

“Anything,” he said, with complete sincerity. The way he said it almost made you believe he meant it, and that’s when you realized… Jungkook was a lot more convincing than he had any right to be.

But you weren’t going to let him off the hook that easily. Not this time.

“Alright then, Mr. Gentleman,” you said, raising an eyebrow. “First, get me a refill of my coffee. I’ll need it to survive this… soulmate talk.”

Jungkook’s face lit up immediately. “Anything! I’ll be back in a second!” he said, already jumping up from his seat like he had just been given the best mission of his life.

As you watched him rush to the counter, you couldn’t help but shake your head. Maybe you did secretly enjoy Jungkook’s chaotic, persistent antics more than you’d admit…

When Jungkook promised he would do anything, you should have been more cautious.

You knew it came from a guy who believed in every whimsical, far-fetched thing under the sun and, more importantly, he was determined to get you to believe in it too. And maybe, just maybe, he was succeeding—just a little bit.

It was another ordinary day as you left your lecture, walking alongside Hoseok, who was happily recounting the poems he had just studied. He was going on and on about the beauty of love as described in each verse, the words almost spilling from him as you tried to tune him out, but as usual, his enthusiasm was contagious—still, you couldn’t help but roll your eyes at his idealistic notions of love.

You had no idea that the moment you stepped outside the lecture hall, your day would take yet another wild turn. The campus, full of people, should have made it impossible for you to spot someone. But there, amid the crowd, you saw him—the one and only Jeon Jungkook.

And no, it wasn’t because you’d gotten used to recognizing his face, his messy dark hair, his trademark bunny smile, or those absurdly bright boba-like eyes.

It wasn’t only you who noticed him, either. Hoseok, ever the curious one, immediately turned to you with a puzzled expression, clearly caught off guard by the spectacle in front of him.

“Why is there a guy holding a giant sign with your name written on it, standing next to a cute dog?” he asked, his voice a mix of confusion and amusement.

You were frozen, your feet rooted to the spot, unable to fully process what was happening. There he was, Jungkook, right in front of you, with a massive banner bearing your name in bold letters and Yeontan by his side. The crowd around him parted like the sea, but it was clear: Jungkook was waiting for you.

And you? You were speechless. You couldn’t move, couldn’t form a coherent thought. You were stuck there, watching him scan the crowd, eyes darting back and forth, until they locked on you, his expression lighting up.

Jungkook practically sprinted toward you, but his momentum was cut short when Yeontan decided he had no intention of moving. The tiny dog sat stubbornly in place, tail flicking like he was some kind of royalty, completely unbothered by the fact that his leash was still in Jungkook’s grip.

Jungkook let out a dramatic sigh, tapping his foot impatiently. “Stupid dog, just stand up,” he muttered under his breath. When Yeontan remained firmly seated, looking up at him with a level of indifference that only Taehyung’s dog could master, Jungkook resorted to threats. “If you don’t, I swear I’ll tell Taehyung to make you sleep on the floor tonight.”

Yeontan, predictably, didn’t budge. Worse, he let out a small, high-pitched bark—almost as if he was mocking Jungkook.

You couldn’t hold back your laugh. “Can’t handle a tiny dog, Jungkook? How do you expect to handle a bigger one, then?” you teased, stepping closer and standing on your tiptoes to peek over his shoulder. Your eyes lit up as you turned your attention to the spoiled little dog. “Yeontan, hi!”

And just like that, as if he had only been waiting for the right person to acknowledge him, Yeontan immediately stood up and strutted toward you, his fluffy body practically wiggling with excitement.

Jungkook let out an exaggerated groan, rolling his eyes as he watched you crouch down to greet the dog like he was the most important being on earth. “Unbelievable,” he muttered.

“Maybe he was just angry,” he said after a beat, crouching down beside you, watching as Yeontan happily accepted your affection. “He doesn’t like seeing men. Yeontan hates guys who aren’t me or Taehyung.”

You scoffed, turning your gaze from the dog to Jungkook, who was wearing the smuggest grin imaginable. “Oh, really?” you said, raising an eyebrow. “Yeontan or Jungkook?”

“Both,” he admitted without an ounce of shame.

Jungkook shot a glare at Hoseok as he walked off, a little annoyed at how casually he had brushed past him, clearly unfazed by Jungkook’s grand gesture. He was about to ask who he was when you spoke again, your voice teasing.

“So, what’s with the ridiculously large sign?”

Jungkook straightened up, feeling the weight of the oversized cardboard sign hanging awkwardly from his hands. “I needed to make sure you would see me,�� he said with a sheepish grin.

You tilted your head, smirking. “Fate couldn’t do it for me?”

Jungkook chuckled, lifting the sign a little higher as if to prove a point. “Sometimes you need to take matters into your own hands.”

You rolled your eyes, but a small grin tugged at the corners of your lips. Without saying anything further, you stood up, stretching a bit, and started walking beside him. Neither of you had said where you were headed, but for once, it didn’t matter.

It was Tuesday, and usually, you would’ve been heading home by now—because it was 7 PM, and you had your usual routine of getting some rest and preparing for the next day. But tonight, for reasons you couldn’t quite pinpoint, you found yourself letting your feet carry you wherever Jungkook was going. Something about his presence had a way of making you forget about your usual need for structure, leaving you open to the idea of spontaneity.

You walked in silence for a while, the evening air crisp, but there was a sense of comfort in it. Something that felt easy. Even though it wasn’t part of your plan, you didn’t mind.

Jungkook beamed, motioning toward the arcade entrance as if it were some grand discovery. “Look where fate has brought us,” he said, excitement lacing his voice.

You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms as you watched Yeontan enthusiastically tug at his leash, barking at the door as if demanding to be let inside. “So, fate is Yeontan now?” you teased, shaking your head with a small smile.

Jungkook followed your gaze to the tiny dog at his feet, and though he hated to admit it, maybe—just maybe—the little troublemaker had actually led them here. But there was no way he was going to let Yeontan think he was in charge.

“Are you up for some arcade games?” he asked instead, his voice casual, but there was a hopeful glint in his eyes.

You hesitated. You had an early start tomorrow. A long, exhausting day filled with classes, readings, and responsibilities you couldn’t afford to neglect. And you knew yourself well—without at least eight hours of sleep, you’d be miserable.

But then you looked at Jungkook. His wide, expectant eyes darting everywhere except at you, as if afraid of your answer. The way he fidgeted slightly, like he was already bracing for rejection. And then there was Yeontan, tongue out, tail wagging, practically vibrating with anticipation.

And somehow, against all logic, you found yourself sighing in defeat.

“Fine,” you muttered, already regretting it and yet… not really.

Jungkook’s face instantly lit up, as if you’d just agreed to something life-changing. “Really?”

You rolled your eyes, already stepping toward the entrance. “Don’t make me change my mind, Jeon.”

And just like that, you let yourself be pulled into another one of his ridiculous, impulsive adventures.

“Alright, buddy. Stay with the nice man, okay? And please—please—don’t make a scene.”

Jungkook crouched down to Yeontan’s level, placing both hands on his tiny, fluffy face as he spoke in a hushed but serious tone.

Jungkook sighed, reluctantly handing the leash to the bodyguard stationed at the entrance. The man arched a brow, clearly questioning why he was suddenly assigned dog-sitting duties, but before he could refuse, Jungkook flashed him a bright, pleading smile—eyes wide, all innocence and desperation.

And just like that, the bodyguard gave in with a resigned sigh. No one could say no to Jeon Jungkook’s puppy eyes.

“Good choice, sir,” Jungkook said with a dramatic bow before turning on his heel and striding into the arcade, Yeontan’s protests ringing behind him.

“You are literally the worst dogsitter,” you said, shaking your head as you followed. “You just abandoned him with a total stranger for some arcade games.”

Jungkook glanced over his shoulder at the entrance, watching as the bodyguard—who initially looked reluctant—was now gently scratching Yeontan’s head, looking far too soft for his intimidating size.

“He’ll be fine,” Jungkook shrugged, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Honestly, it’s better this way. If Yeontan could talk, I’d be dead. Taehyung would bury me alive for this betrayal.”

You rolled your eyes. “And yet, you’re still so proud of yourself.”

“Of course I am,” he said, grinning as he came to a stop in front of the claw machine. He rubbed his hands together, cracking his knuckles as if preparing for battle. “Because—I’m about to win you a plushie.”

Jungkook bounced on the balls of his feet, rolling his shoulders like an athlete preparing for a high-stakes match. His fingers flexed in anticipation before gripping the joystick with the confidence of someone who had spent far too many hours mastering the art of claw machines.

“Alright, tell me—which one’s coming home with you?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with excitement.

You scanned the collection of plushies crammed inside the machine, your gaze immediately settling on one in particular.

“The bunny,” you said without hesitation.

Jungkook followed your line of sight, nodding in approval. The plushie was soft-looking, slightly lopsided, with tiny front teeth peeking out in a way that made it seem both mischievous and endearing. Unknowingly, a small smile tugged at your lips—it reminded you of someone.

Jungkook didn’t miss the way your expression softened, but instead of commenting, he shot you a wink, his usual playful confidence dialed up to maximum.

“Consider it yours,” he declared, cracking his knuckles dramatically before gripping the joystick like he was about to defuse a bomb.

“You do know that claw machines are scams, right?” you say, crossing your arms as you lean over the machine.

“Nothing is a scam if you’re skilled enough,”

You roll your eyes. “Right. And let me guess—fate is on your side?”

Jungkook grins. “Fate, skill, and pure determination.” He pushes the button.

The claw descends. Grabs the bunny. Lifts it.

And then—drops it right before the prize slot.

Jungkook’s jaw drops. His hands go to his head like he’s just witnessed the betrayal of a lifetime. “No way,” he whispers.

You snort. “I told you. Scams.”

But Jungkook isn’t one to admit defeat. Oh no. He pulls out more coins, inserting them like a man with a mission. “I will not lose to a machine,” he declares.

Attempt #2—fail.

Attempt #3—even worse.

Attempt #7—Jungkook is full-on yelling at the machine now. “You're rigged. Just admit it!”

By now, a small crowd has gathered to witness the absolute tragedy of Jeon Jungkook vs. the Claw Machine.

You sigh, shaking your head. “Let me try.”

Jungkook, looking utterly defeated, steps aside with a pout. “Fine. But if you win on your first try, I might actually cry.”

You take his spot, glance at the plushie you want, and move the claw with ease. One button press later, the claw grabs onto a cute little bunny plushie, lifts it, and—

Drops it perfectly into the prize slot.

Jungkook screams. “No way. No. Way.”

You bend down, grab the plushie, and hand it to him with a smirk. “For you, since you clearly can’t win one yourself.”

Jungkook clutches the plushie to his chest, looking at you with something close to awe. “I think I might be in love with you.”

You snort. “Shut up.”

You tugged at Jungkook’s sleeve, pulling him along with a surprising sense of urgency. You had a goal in mind, and there was no way you were going to let him chicken out. The moment you spotted it, the shooter laser game stood out like a beacon—something you used to love as a kid. Your dad used to take you there, and you’d always win, no matter how many times you played.

You hadn’t planned on telling Jungkook that, though. You wanted to see how determined he would be first, how seriously he would take this. It wasn’t just about winning—it was about making it fun, and seeing if he could keep up with your competitive side.

“Let’s do that,” you said, pointing at the brightly lit, futuristic shooter zone. Jungkook barely hesitated before his eyes lit up with excitement.

“Ready for some action?” he asked, almost too eager, as he handed his plushie bunny to the girl at the counter, his grin never fading. He slid on the neon vest with practiced ease, strapping the plastic gun around his waist with an exaggerated flourish.

“Okay, let me protect you,” he teased with a wink, stepping in front of you and walking toward the entrance of the game area, shoulders straight, as if he was about to face down a villain in a movie.

The mission was clear—this was going to be your game, and Jungkook was about to find out what it meant to face off against a determined opponent.

The moment the game started, you immediately fell into the zone, your eyes locked on your targets, fingers steady as you aimed and shot. But then, there was Jungkook, totally living his own action-movie fantasy. As you focused on picking off other players, he started yelling, “Cover me!” and then, with no hesitation, he dropped to the floor and did a full-on combat roll—completely unnecessary, but so Jungkook.

While you were racking up points, carefully picking off your targets, Jungkook seemed determined to make this game a one-man mission. He wasn’t playing it safe like the others, crouching behind barriers and taking strategic shots. Instead, he would rush directly into the fray, charging at his opponents with a reckless abandon, all while you watched in disbelief as he kept getting shot down, over and over again. It was like he was playing a completely different game.

The arena was dimly lit, the flashing lights of the game casting shadows and colors everywhere. But every time you caught sight of Jungkook, your attention was momentarily pulled away from the game. His face would light up with an almost childlike joy, his eyes locked in concentration, and his lips pressed tightly in a determined grimace as he aimed, his brow furrowed. Despite the madness of it all, you couldn’t help but grin at his antics.

As you watched him get shot again you leaned closer and whispered, “You’re not doing it right.” You quickly reached out, guiding his hands to hold the gun correctly, adjusting his stance so he’d be able to actually aim and shoot properly.

“It was right,” he muttered, a stubborn edge to his voice, but he didn’t protest as he immediately followed your correction, the gun now resting more naturally in his grip.

“You keep dying,” you pointed out, trying not to get distracted by the ridiculousness of the situation. “And you’re losing points because—”

Suddenly, he spun around, eyes wide as he shouted, “Behind you!” into your ear, as he shot at an enemy who had snuck up on you. His face lit up as he made the shot, turning back to you with a cheeky grin. “Call me if you need help,” he winked, clearly pleased with himself, and then, with zero regard for the other players, he dropped to the floor and started crawling across the arena like it was some kind of military operation.

You blinked, stunned for a moment. Literally no one else was crawling on the floor like him. But Jungkook? He was on his hands and knees, dragging himself across the ground as if there were some kind of tactical advantage to it. You couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, shaking your head at how ridiculously serious he was taking it all.

As the final seconds of the game ticked down, you caught sight of Jungkook once more. He had, once again, gotten himself shot for what felt like the thousandth time. He was lying dramatically on the floor, his body limp and still, as if he had been mortally wounded. But then, just as you were about to walk past, he reached out, grabbing your shoulder for support, and whispered in a voice that was way too serious for the situation.

“You must go on without me,” he said, gripping your hand with exaggerated intensity, his voice shaking as if he were facing his last moments.

He fell back dramatically, playing up his ‘dying’ act. But you weren’t about to fall for it.

You rolled your eyes, barely able to hide your smirk as you shoved him off. “You’re so annoying.”

And when the final scores flashed across the screen, your name was on top with a higher score than his. You couldn’t resist the small, victorious smirk that tugged at your lips. “Guess I don’t need your protection after all.”

Despite his over-the-top drama, he still grinned, following you like a lost puppy, not missing a beat. “Alright, alright, you may have won this round,” he said with a playful huff. “But the night is young. Let’s see who comes out on top in the next game.”

Jungkook knew he had to play this one smart. He had strategized this moment down to the last detail, carefully guiding you toward the dance battle game. This was his domain. If there was one game he could dominate, it was this one.

So, with all the confidence in the world, he turned to you and declared, “Fate says if I win, you owe me a wish.”

You scoffed, arms crossed. “When did fate ever say that?”

Jungkook waved a hand dismissively. “Just now. She whispered it to me.”

You rolled your eyes but stepped onto the dance pad anyway, letting him have his moment.

The game started, and that’s when you realized you were in trouble. Jungkook wasn’t just playing—he was performing. He was jumping, spinning, and moving like he was on a concert stage, while you were desperately trying to keep up with the arrows flashing across the screen. It was clear within seconds that he wasn’t holding back.

And then, as if he needed to rub it in, he ended the routine with a dramatic knee slide, stopping just in front of you. With a cocky smirk, he pointed at you like he had just finished a world tour concert.

“You must grant my wish now,” he said, completely out of breath but grinning like he had just won the lottery.

You, still panting, narrowed your eyes. “And what exactly is this wish?”

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He leaned in slightly, eyes twinkling with mischief. “A date.”

Your breath hitched. You scoffed, trying to play it cool even as you felt warmth creeping up your neck. “You just embarrassed yourself in front of a bunch of strangers for a date?”

Jungkook only grinned wider. “I’d embarrass myself anywhere if it gets me one with you.”

Yeah. That shut you up real quick.

That night, sleep was impossible. You tossed and turned, flipping your pillow to the cooler side, only to sigh in frustration when it didn’t help. At some point, you kicked off your sheets, but even the newfound freedom didn’t stop the restlessness creeping through your body.

And then there was the bunny plushie. Sitting there. Staring at you.

It was ridiculous how something so small could feel so significant. But it wasn’t just any plushie—it was the one you had won and gave to Jungkook, the one you had picked without really thinking, the one he had insisted you keep.

“You won it. You chose this one for a reason.”

His words played in your mind, looping like a song you couldn’t turn off. And what irritated you the most was that he wasn’t wrong. You had picked it instinctively, drawn to its slightly reckless charm—the little front teeth peeking out, the way its ears flopped in different directions. It reminded you of something. Of someone.

But that was the part you hated. Because you couldn’t explain it. There was no rational reason, no evidence, no logical conclusion to why this plushie—why he—was suddenly taking up so much space in your thoughts. It was an unsolved case, an unfinished puzzle, and that alone should have been enough to frustrate you.

And yet… somehow, it felt right.

And that? That was the most confusing part of all.

The first thing Jungkook did when he woke up was check his messages, his heart momentarily freezing in his chest before he sighed in relief.

Taehyung had only sent him a picture—an ugly close-up of himself mid-yawn, Yeontan happily licking his cheek. That was it. Nothing unusual. Nothing suspicious. Which meant… he didn’t know about his betrayal.

Shaking off the thought, he did what he always did—instinctively opened his favorite astrology website, scrolling straight to his sign.

Virgo: Don’t let yourself get down because of your poor love life!

Jungkook nearly threw his phone across the room.

He bolted upright, staring at the screen like it had personally offended him.

“Poor love life?!” he scoffed, running a hand through his messy hair.

He read it again. And again. As if, by some miracle, the words might shift and correct themselves.

“My love life isn’t poor,” he muttered defensively, brows furrowed. “It’s… just slow. A slow burn. Romantic. Building suspense.”

But then his expression faltered.

Three days.

It had been three whole days since that night at the arcade. Since he walked you home. Since you laughed at his dumb jokes and promised to text him.

And yet, his phone remained silent.

At first, he told himself you were just busy. No big deal. Then, by the second day, he convinced himself you were doing it on purpose, making him wait—a power move. But now? Now, as the third day stretched on, he was starting to wonder if… if maybe the website was right.

Maybe his love life wasn’t just slow.

Maybe it was dead on arrival.

With a dramatic groan, he flopped onto his back again, phone resting on his chest. His mind was racing, spiraling into increasingly dramatic scenarios.

Was this karma? Was this because he let Yeontan stay with a stranger at the arcade?

Jungkook sat up, eyes wide with realization.

It was the dog. It had to be.

He gasped, sitting up. “Shit. Is the universe punishing me?!”

Panic surged through him as he hovered over your contact.

(not) my crush.

His fingers twitched, itching to type something—anything. But what was he even supposed to say?

hey, did u forget about me? No, too desperate.

hey, are you mad at me? No, too pathetic.

hey, my horoscope just wrecked my entire self-esteem, please respond so I can prove it wrong? …Okay, maybe that one was the closest to the truth.

But instead of texting, he groaned and shoved a pillow over his face, muffling his frustration.

He was losing his mind.

And the worst part?

He was starting to think the stupid website was right.

Jungkook grabbed his phone with newfound determination, scrolling down urgently until he found your horoscope. If there was anything in this world that could give him an answer, it was this.

His eyes darted over the words, his heart pounding as he read: Today, you may feel a little more anxious than usual… maybe it’s time to open your heart?

Jungkook exhaled, a slow breath of relief washing over him.

Finally. Something to work with.

If you were feeling anxious, he could fix that. If you needed comfort, he could be there. And if there was even the smallest chance that you were truly considering opening your heart—like the blog suggested—then he would make damn sure that heart was opening for him.

That was all the confirmation he needed.

Jungkook barely took the time to breathe as he rushed through his morning routine.

Shirt—on. Shoes—on. Teeth—brushed, face—washed. Hair? A mess. But he didn’t care. He had bigger things to focus on.

Your horoscope had given him an opening, a chance—an actual sign from the universe. And if there was one thing Jungkook believed in, it was signs.

As he ran, Jungkook quickly glanced at his phone. Saturday, 10 AM. Which meant you were probably at the coffee shop by now.

He could already picture it perfectly—your usual spot by the window, an oversized cup of iced coffee sitting beside you. You once told him you liked it because you could leave it untouched for hours and it would still be the same temperature. He had laughed at the logic, but the way your eyes had lit up when you explained it had made it seem like the most brilliant thing in the world.

Then there was your laptop, decorated with colorful stickers—each one telling a small story. Jungkook loved those stickers. Loved watching you focus so intensely on your screen, completely lost in thought, before he inevitably interrupted with a question about one of them. You’d roll your eyes, sighing in mock annoyance.

“You’re distracting me,” you would say, but you’d always answer anyway. The thought made him grin.

Yeah. You were definitely at the café.

And Jungkook was going to be there too.

By the time Jungkook reached the café, he was out of breath. He couldn’t remember the last time he had run this fast—maybe during the high school tournament when he had spent months training for the final match.

He slowed his pace as he reached the front of the café, his eyes scanning the window. And there you were. Your face was pressed against the table, looking exhausted or maybe just lost in your own thoughts. Your usual large iced coffee was nowhere to be seen—replaced by a small cup, barely touched. But your laptop, with all its little stickers, was still there. You were still there.

Jungkook felt a rush of relief, but also a tightening in his chest. Something was off, and it was clear now. His horoscope had said you were feeling anxious, and everything about the way you were sitting, slumped over your table, told him his hunch was right. You weren’t just having a bad day; it seemed like something more. And he wasn’t going to let that slide.

With one last deep breath, Jungkook pushed open the door to the café, his focus sharp. He wasn’t here for some grand gesture today. No, this time, his mission was clear: he had to make your day feel better. Because if your horoscope was even half right, you needed someone to help. Someone to show up.

And that someone, he decided, would be him.

“Weather’s good, the sky’s blue, and I think we should go for a little bit of a run,” Jungkook said with a smile, his voice light but full of purpose as he approached your table. He tucked his hands into the pockets of his joggers, giving you an amused look.

Your head jerked up at the sound of his voice, and before you could even process it, you found yourself screaming, your face flushing bright red. The sound was involuntary, escaping you before you could stop it. In a panic, you slammed your laptop shut, suddenly feeling self-conscious, though you couldn’t even pinpoint why.

“Why? Am I that ugly?” he muttered under his breath. But it wasn’t that at all—it was the opposite. Jungkook stood there in front of you, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe right.

For the past three days, it had been hard to even focus on anything other than him. Ever since the arcade, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. Your mind was constantly drawn back to the things he did, the things he said, his mannerisms, and the way he made you feel. There was something about him—something undeniable and confusing that stirred your emotions.

It wasn’t love, you were sure of that… but it wasn’t just attraction either. It was something in between, something you couldn’t wrap your head around. And that only made it worse. You hated not being able to define what you were feeling. You were used to rational thoughts, to clear explanations, and this? This wasn’t it. And that made you anxious.

He stood there, dressed in a full oversized Nike tracksuit that was beige and blue. His hair was messier than usual, like he hadn’t bothered to fix it before rushing out the door. It seemed to have grown a bit longer since the last time you saw him, though you couldn’t even believe it had only been three days. He looked out of breath, cheeks flushed from his little sprint to the café, and somehow, that only made him more irresistible.

“So, how about that run?” he asked, voice light, but his gaze never leaving yours. It was almost like he was waiting for you to say something—anything—that would break the tension.

“You know I can’t go running, Jungkook. My finals are in two weeks, and—”

Before you can finish, he flops down onto the couch beside you. Not just beside you—right beside you. Close enough that you can see the curve of his eyelashes, the way his round eyes widen with innocent pleading. Close enough to notice a faint scar on his cheek, one you’ve never noticed before.

“Please?” He blinks up at you, fluttering his lashes in an exaggerated attempt to be cute.

You narrow your eyes. “That’s not gonna work on me.”

“Okay, fine,” he huffs, crossing his arms. “Then let’s talk logic. You owe me a date. I won the dance battle, fair and square.” He frowns, eyebrows scrunching like he’s personally offended that you’d forget such an important event.

“You seriously want our date to be… running?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Jungkook beams, but you don’t miss the way his eyes flicker to your hands—how you’re already packing your stuff despite your protests. “It’s not what I originally had in mind,” he admits, standing up and—without hesitation—grabbing your backpack for you. “But if it’s the only way to get you to spend time with me, then sure. Let’s make it a date.”

“You really can’t take no for an answer, can you?”

At that, he simply shrugs, tilting his head in a way that makes him look entirely too smug. ��Maybe I should become a lawyer too. I clearly know how to argue my way to a win.”

You roll your eyes, following him out of the café as he leads the way toward your apartment, two blocks away.

“Yeah, well, cases can’t be solved with astrology or whatever,” you tease, nudging his shoulder playfully.

Jungkook gasps, dramatically clutching his chest. “Excuse me? Are you suggesting the stars don’t have all the answers?”

You roll your eyes. “I’m implying that the stars didn’t predict you annoying me into a run today.”

Jungkook clicks his tongue, shaking his head. “Oh, but they did,” he says, reaching for his phone. “Your horoscope literally said you should open your heart today. And what better way to open your heart than a little bit of cardio?”

“You have a serious problem,” you mumble, but you don’t stop walking beside him.

He grins, triumphant. “And yet, here you are, willingly going on our first official date. Running,” he emphasizes, like it’s the most romantic thing in the world.

“You really think this is a date?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

Jungkook stops in his tracks, turning to face you with the biggest, most innocent puppy-eyed look you’ve ever seen. “Of course it is,” he says, completely serious. “Spending time together, getting our hearts racing, maybe even falling dramatically into each other’s arms if one of us trips—”

“That’s just you being clumsy.”

“—And afterward, we get smoothies, because every date needs a cute ending,” he finishes, ignoring your interruption.

After making a quick stop at your apartment to change into something more comfortable, you step outside to find Jungkook already waiting for you. He’s stretching, his arms reaching up toward the sky, head tilted back slightly as he loosens his muscles. The sight is almost too much—like he walked straight out of a Nike ad.

“You know, I’m very competitive,” he warns, rolling his shoulders as you step beside him. “So you’d better be ready to keep up.”

Without hesitation, you mirror his movements, stretching your arms as well. “Please,” you scoff. “I was in track when I was thirteen. You should be the one worried.”

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, clearly amused. “Oh? Guess we’ll see about that.”

And just like that, the two of you are standing there in the middle of the street, stretching like absolute idiots. But somehow, you don’t care. Because at least you’re two idiots together.

And you should have known—Jungkook was a fitness guy. The kind of person who could run for hours, barely breaking a sweat, and still have enough energy to challenge you to a push-up contest afterward. His stamina was unreal, almost unfair.

You had always been pretty confident in yours, but something about this run was different. Maybe it was the way he decided to casually shrug off his jacket, leaving him in just a fitted white shirt that clung to him way too well. Or maybe it was the way your breath hitched—not just from running, but from realizing you were definitely staring.

Jungkook was always ahead, glancing back every now and then with that ridiculously bright smile of his, teasing you, daring you to catch up. And when you did—because, of course, he slowed down just enough to let you—he only grinned wider, as if this was exactly where he wanted you to be.

And for the first time today, you weren’t thinking about finals. Or stress. Or anything else weighing you down.

Because that’s the thing about Jungkook. He’s this endless ball of energy, always smiling, always pulling you into moments that feel lighter, better—like today. And maybe that’s exactly why you—wait, like! Like. That’s why you like Jungkook.

You wonder how he knew today was a terrible day. Maybe his horoscope nonsense wasn’t so much nonsense after all. The thought makes you laugh—only to immediately regret it when you realize laughing while running is a terrible idea.

Your breath catches, and within seconds, you’re doubling over, coughing like an idiot. Great.

Jungkook stops instantly, his teasing grin replaced with concern as he jogs back to you.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice softer now as he gently pats your back. You barely manage to throw a thumbs-up between coughs, and he sighs in relief.

“Let’s take a break, okay? You’re doing so well.”

And just like that, your heart does something weird. Because suddenly, it’s not the run making it race—it’s him. His voice, his touch, his stupidly sweet encouragement.

Honestly? You think you could run for another hour now. Maybe even two.

The two of you sit in silence for a moment, watching as other joggers pass by, their rhythmic footsteps blending into the sound of the wind rustling through the trees.

“It’s so pretty,” Jungkook murmurs, his voice softer than usual, his eyes fixed on the river. “I love running.”

For once, there’s no teasing lilt in his voice, no mischievous glint in his doe eyes. Just quiet admiration. Peace. Relief.

It’s a side of him you haven’t seen before. A side you—unknowingly, unconsciously—want to know more about.

“You know,” you say after a moment, your breath finally evening out, “I don’t actually know anything about you.”

Jungkook turns to you, his usual grin creeping back onto his face. “You know my name is Jungkook,” he starts, tilting his head slightly. “I have a best friend named Taehyung, who has a terrible dog.”

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head as he continues.

“You also know I’m a Virgo. And an ENFP.” He lifts a finger, as if he’s listing off important facts. “You know I’m a dance machine, and a—”

“Okay, okay, I get it,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes before he can spiral into one of his dramatic monologues.

Jungkook just chuckles, nudging your knee with his. And as you sit there, catching your breath beside him, you realize something—maybe knowing Jungkook isn’t about the big things. Maybe it’s about the small moments like this.

Jungkook exhales slowly, his gaze dropping to his feet. “I just don’t feel like there’s a lot to know about me,” he finally admits, voice quieter than before. “I’m not doing anything prestigious like law school. Or, well… anything at all.” He lets out a small scoff, but you can hear it—that vulnerability laced beneath his usual playfulness.

You frown slightly. “You don’t have to do something like that to be worthy.”

He doesn’t look up, just keeps staring at his shoes. His toes wiggle inside them, like some kind of nervous habit, and he lets out a small chuckle—but you know it’s not real.

“You probably think I’m an idiot for believing in stupid stuff like this,” he mutters, scratching at the back of his neck. “I mean, you’re a law student. You obviously like solid facts. Things that aren’t based on some random website.”

You don’t say anything, just let him keep talking.

“Today, my horoscope said I was gonna have a bad day,” he continues, exhaling sharply through his nose. “And every time I read something like that, I do everything in my power to prove it wrong.”

For the first time, you really listen. You’ve always thought horoscopes were just an excuse—something people used to justify things happening to them instead of taking control of their own lives.

But maybe Jungkook sees it differently. Maybe, for him, it’s not about letting the universe decide his fate. Maybe it’s about fighting against it—choosing to seek out the good, even when the bad feels inevitable.

And maybe… that’s not so stupid after all.

After what felt like a long minute of silence—a silence that, surprisingly, wasn’t uncomfortable at all—you both finally start walking home. Conversation with Jungkook is always effortless, flowing like a river with no real destination, just moving naturally from one topic to another. He never lets the quiet stretch too long before filling it with something, whether it’s an observation, a joke, or a random thought that pops into his head.

And you love that.

By the time you arrive in front of your apartment, smoothies in hand just like he promised, you almost wish you could go for another round—just to spend more time with him.

You hesitate for a moment, watching as he sips on his drink, seemingly in no rush to leave either.

Then, just as you turn to head inside, you stop. “By the way—”

Jungkook instantly turns around at the sound of your voice, eyes wide, like he’s afraid he missed something important.

“I’m still waiting for the real date,” you say with a teasing smile, tilting your head slightly.

And before he can respond, before you can see whatever stunned expression is on his face, you finally step inside.

Jungkook stares at your closed door for a long second, then looks down at his smoothie, shaking his head with a laugh.

Yeah. He’s never been happier than right now.

If Jungkook had to describe what he was feeling right now in one word, it would be: terrible.

He was a walking disaster, pacing around his room, running a frustrated hand through his already-messy hair as he stared at the absolute war zone that was now his bed. Clothes were scattered everywhere—shirts he had tried on and tossed aside, jeans that didn’t feel quite right, shoes lined up in pairs as if they were about to be judged in a runway competition.

And still, nothing felt good enough.

The worst part? He had to swallow his pride and FaceTime Taehyung for advice. And that was truly, truly humiliating.

Because now, instead of being helpful, Taehyung was leaning into the camera, squinting like he was examining a piece of evidence.

“Bro,” Taehyung finally said, exasperated, “you look good in everything. Just wear clothes and leave the house.”

Jungkook groaned, rubbing his face. That should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t.

Still, after much internal debate (and Taehyung threatening to hang up if he didn’t stop whining), Jungkook finally decided: he just had to be himself.

And if that meant showing up in his usual slightly-effortless-but-still-cool style, then so be it.

Honestly? You weren’t doing any better.

Jungkook hadn’t even told you what the plan was. Instead, he had sent a series of texts that were so Jungkook that you almost regretted asking for clarification in the first place.

jk sexy virgo boy [4:32 PM] :

at least have something on u!

not that i would mind if not!!! :00

ewwww no!!! i know i shouldnt ask fucking taehyung for advice when it comes to that

you know what? just put on sneakers

oh and something you don’t mind really

…Yeah. That helped absolutely nothing.

You stared at your wardrobe for a moment, trying to make a decision that wouldn’t be too much, but also wouldn’t look like you were just casually hanging out with him as if you were old friends. You considered a dress, but it felt like overkill. Jeans were too laid back, too easygoing.

You finally decided on a pair of pants that were comfortable, but not too casual, and paired them with a simple t-shirt. You hoped that, by whatever weird cosmic force Jungkook believed in—maybe fate, or whatever the universe was trying to tell him—he would see that you weren’t trying to look good, but maybe just trying to survive this. You just hoped he wouldn’t see it as you dressing to impress. After all, you were definitely worried about looking like complete shit.

Jungkook was still a mess by the time he pulled up in front of your building.

Today was supposed to be his chance to impress you, so he had taken Taehyung’s advice—again—and took his car. Apparently, girls liked cars. Especially sleek, black ones like his. Jungkook had been skeptical at first, but Taehyung had said it with such confidence that he figured, why not?

Now? He deeply regretted listening to him.

At first, he had done his best to look smooth—one hand confidently gripping the steering wheel, the other resting lazily on the passenger seat like he was starring in some kind of car commercial. But the moment he actually arrived, all that supposed confidence vanished.

Because now, there was no avoiding it. In just a few minutes, he’d see you again.

His pulse picked up, thoughts racing faster than they should. It wasn’t even a big deal—just a date. A casual date. A hangout, even. So why did it feel like his brain was short-circuiting? Why did his palms feel clammy against the leather of the wheel?

And why, for the love of everything holy, had he decided this was the perfect time to struggle with parallel parking?

Five minutes. That’s how long he had been at this. Five whole minutes of inching forward, reversing, adjusting, reversing again, somehow making it worse every time. There were other parking spots, easier ones, but he had stubbornly chosen this one—the one closest to your front door. It made sense. It would make things smoother when you got in the car.

Except nothing about this was smooth.

He exhaled sharply, gripping the wheel. Alright. One more time. Just a few small movements, and—

A sudden knock on his window made him jump.

A noise—something between a squeak and a gasp—escaped him before he could stop it. His heart slammed against his ribs as he turned his head in pure panic, only to find you standing outside, arms crossed, amusement dancing in your eyes.

Jungkook froze. His mind blanked.

For a second, all he could do was stare at you, caught like a deer in headlights. Then, in a desperate attempt to salvage his dignity, he quickly shifted—one arm thrown back over the seat, posture adjusting into what he hoped was a nonchalant pose. With exaggerated ease, he rolled down the window, schooling his expression into something cool.

“Hey,” he said, voice only slightly strained. “What’s up?”

You raise an eyebrow, arms crossed as you peer down at him through the open window. “Having some trouble there, Fast & Furious?” your voice is light, teasing—but not unkind.

Jungkook visibly tenses, his grip on the steering wheel tightening for a split second before he clears his throat. “Uh, yeah… just, you know, making sure I’m not blocking anyone.” He runs a hand through his already-messy hair, a nervous habit you’ve started to pick up on. “Gotta be considerate of others.”

Your eyes flick toward his car—angled awkwardly, one wheel nearly kissing the curb while the other juts out into the street in a way that is definitely not considerate of anyone. You raise an eyebrow, amused.

“Right,” you drawl, nodding slowly. “Super considerate. I’m sure the other drivers will really appreciate the creative use of space.”

At that, Jungkook groans dramatically and throws his head back against the seat. “Okay, fine, I suck at parking. Happy?”

You laugh, leaning against the door. “A little.”

His head snaps toward you, scandalized. “Wow. You’re supposed to be on my side.”

“I don’t remember signing up for that.”

Jungkook narrows his eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. He’s fighting a smile, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening. With a sigh, he shifts the car into reverse. “Alright, one more time. If I don’t get it this time, we’re Ubering.”

You smirk. “Deal.”

Jungkook straightens up, hands gripping the wheel with newfound determination. You step back, watching with amusement as he very slowly attempts to correct his angle, his bottom lip caught between his teeth in deep concentration.

And, to his credit—he does manage to park properly on the next try.

You make a show of clapping as he steps out of the car, locking it behind him. “Wow. Look at you. A functional adult.”

Jungkook rolls his eyes, but he’s grinning now, stuffing his hands into his pockets as he falls into step beside you. “Ha ha. Let’s just go before you hurt my ego even more.”

Still smiling, you nudge him playfully. “No promises.”

Jungkook, ever the gentleman (when he wants to be), holds the passenger door open for you before settling into his own seat. He’s still keeping up this air of mystery, refusing to spill any details about where exactly he’s taking you. It’s your date—still such a weird thing to call it—but apparently, you’re not allowed to know a single thing about it.

You try everything. Nudging his shoulder lightly, poking at his arm, even giving him your best puppy eyes. But all you get in response is a dramatic sigh and a warning.

“If you keep that up, I swear I’m gonna crash this car,” he mutters, gripping the wheel like it personally offended him.

“You’re so dramatic,” you huff, leaning back into your seat with an exaggerated whine when it becomes obvious he won’t budge. “At least give me a hint.”

“Nope.”

“You could literally be kidnapping me right now.” You glance out the window, as if hoping that alone will make him talk. “Hoseok asked me to send my location, by the way.”

Jungkook scoffs, barely sparing you a glance as he switches lanes. “Well, tell that Hoseok guy that tonight, you won’t be giving him any updates. You’ll be way too busy with me.” He grins proudly, wiggling his eyebrows like he just said something outrageously smooth.

You give him a long, unimpressed look before deadpanning, “You sure are taking my time. Five minutes to park? Yeah.”

His smile immediately drops. “Oh my God, let it go!”

“Never.”

You were glad you hadn’t pressed Jungkook for more details because, as soon as you saw where he had taken you, excitement bubbled up in your chest so fast you practically bounced in your seat.

“Karaoke?” you exclaimed, eyes lighting up as you took in the neon sign above the entrance.

Before Jungkook even had the chance to step out and open the door for you like he had originally planned—because he was, in fact, on his best gentleman behavior tonight—you were already scrambling out of the car, clapping your hands together like a little kid who just got the biggest candy bar in the store.

Jungkook, now standing on the other side of the car, stuffed his hands into the pockets of his trousers, willing himself to stay cool and collected. But inside? He was screaming. You loved the idea just as much as he had hoped, and that was enough to make his heart do a full-on gymnastics routine.

Still, he played it off like it was no big deal. Running a hand through his hair, he shrugged, forcing a casual expression onto his face. “Yeah,” he said, voice dripping with feigned nonchalance. “I think it’s time for you to witness my legendary singing skills.” His tone was cocky, the kind that made you roll your eyes and laugh at the same time.

“Oh, legendary, huh?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “I hope you know I take karaoke very seriously.”

Jungkook only smirked, stepping ahead of you as he pulled open the door. “Then you better bring your A-game, because I don’t lose.”

As you both made your way toward the entrance, Jungkook suddenly picked up his pace, clearly determined to be the first one inside. But you weren’t about to let him win that easily. You mirrored his steps, speeding up just as fast, the two of you now locked in a completely unnecessary—and yet highly competitive—race to the door.

Unsurprisingly, Jungkook reached the counter first, flashing a triumphant smirk as he leaned against it, effortlessly slipping into his “bad boy” act. He gave his name to the staff with an air of cool indifference, as if he hadn’t just practically sprinted to get there first. You rolled your eyes at his theatrics but followed along as the employee led you both toward the private booth he had booked.

The moment you stepped inside, the dimly lit karaoke room came to life with glowing neon lights, casting streaks of pink and blue across the walls. Jungkook took one look around, nodding in satisfaction before turning to you with a cocky grin.

“Alright,” he announced, completely serious. “This is the place where you’ll fall in love with me.”

The words left his lips so casually, so matter-of-fact, that it took you a second to process them. When you did, you let out a scoff, but no sarcastic remark came to mind—because the truth was, you had already fallen.

And if you let yourself think about it any longer, you knew you’d realize something even worse.

That no matter how much you fought it, no matter how ridiculous he could be… you were probably going to fall even more.

It was nearly impossible not to laugh at Jungkook’s antics. The way he threw himself into every song—whether it was an intense rock performance, complete with dramatic jumps and exaggerated guitar riffs made with his mouth, or a heartbreaking ballad where he closed his eyes and poured his entire soul into each lyric—was something out of a fever dream. He wasn’t just a good singer, he was a great one. And beyond that, he was a performer. Every move, every exaggerated gesture, was so unapologetically him that you couldn’t even think about taking the mic away.

By the time he finished his latest emotional masterpiece, a song so devastating that you half-expected him to drop to his knees in despair, he turned to you with a mischievous glint in his eyes.

“Come on,” he said, slightly out of breath but grinning. “I’ll show you how good we work together.”

Before you could protest, he grabbed your hand, effortlessly pulling you up from the couch. The warmth of his touch sent an embarrassing flutter through your stomach, and as he handed you a microphone, you caught sight of the song selection. A duet.

“Seriously, Jungkook?” You groaned, but the smile on your face betrayed you.

He didn’t even answer, too busy scrolling through the lyrics like he was preparing for the most important performance of his life. And when the music started, he went all in—grabbing your hand and twirling you in place before you could even sing a single note.

You tried to be serious. Really, you did. But how could you when Jungkook was dramatically belting out the lyrics, jumping around like a five-year-old who’d had too much sugar? It was ridiculous, and absolutely unfair, because the moment he pulled you close and started singing like you were the only person in the world, you completely lost it.

Laughter bubbled out of you, your voice cracking as you tried—and failed—to get through your lines. “Jungkook, I can’t—” you gasped between giggles, clutching your stomach as he twirled you again, this time nearly making you stumble.

“Oh, come on,” he teased, his own laughter mixing with yours as he tightened his grip on your hand. “At least try to keep up!”

You didn’t stand a chance. By the time the song ended, you were breathless—not from singing, but from laughing so much. And as Jungkook stood there, hands on his hips, chest heaving like he’d just finished a full-blown concert, you realized something.

This was the most fun you’d had in a long, long time.

“How was I?” Jungkook asked, his bunny smile stretching wide across his face, eyes gleaming with excitement. He was practically bouncing on his feet, ready to soak in every compliment you had to offer.

You opened your mouth, ready to tease him, but the way he looked at you—so expectant, so earnest—made you pause. His eyes were shining, round and full of innocent anticipation, like he truly needed to hear what you thought.

You smiled softly, tilting your head. “I think that not even the stars could have predicted how happy I am right now.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. He hadn’t expected that. His confidence wavered for half a second before he let out a choked laugh, quickly turning his head away. “Aish, what is that?” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint pink dusted his cheeks.

But you saw the way his fingers curled slightly, the way he ducked his head just enough to try and hide his flustered expression. And you knew, without a doubt, that it was the best answer he could have possibly hoped for.

Jungkook continued to sing, each performance just as energetic as the last. It was almost exhausting just watching him, yet somehow, he never seemed to run out of energy. His voice never wavered, his movements never slowed—he was a force of nature, completely in his element.

You leaned back against the couch, watching in amusement as he jumped onto the small table in the middle of the room, using it as a makeshift stage. The neon lights reflected in his eyes as he belted out the chorus, dramatically pointing at you like he was dedicating the song to you and only you.

It was refreshing, really. How someone could be so alive, so unapologetically himself. While you often felt drained and stressed, weighed down by responsibilities and expectations, Jungkook was the complete opposite. He carried an energy so contagious that it made you forget about everything else—your finals, your worries, the anxiety that had settled in your chest all day.

Jungkook had a way of making the world feel a little lighter. And tonight, you let yourself enjoy that feeling, completely and without hesitation.

Just like every morning, Jungkook checked his horoscope the moment he woke up. It had become a ritual at this point—his little way of preparing for the day ahead. He checked yours too.

So, still half-asleep, he grabbed his phone, scrolling through the daily horoscope predictions. Everything seemed fine at first, but then… an idea struck him.

What if he checked your full zodiac chart?

It was stupid, probably. But Jungkook never did things halfway. If he was going to believe in astrology, he was going to do it right. So he sat up in bed, grabbed his laptop, and started searching. He input your birth details, cross-checking them with what little information he had gathered from your conversations. He even went down a rabbit hole of different astrology sites, just to be sure.

Jungkook stared at the screen, completely frozen. His heart, which had been doing happy little flips since last night, suddenly felt like it had plummeted straight into his stomach.

INCOMPATIBLE.

A big, glaring red warning taunted him from the astrology website, as if the universe itself was shaking him by the shoulders, screaming ABORT MISSION. His hand twitched toward the laptop, fingers hovering over the trackpad like he was contemplating slamming it shut and pretending he had never seen this. Maybe if he refreshed the page, the result would change. Maybe the website was wrong.

But no. There it was. The hard, cold truth.

Your rising sign? Disastrous.

Your moon placements? A ticking time bomb.

Your Venus signs? Literally the worst possible match.

Jungkook let out a strangled noise of distress, running his hands through his already-messy hair. This was bad. So bad.

He had been so sure—so sure—that the stars had aligned perfectly when he met you. But now? Now it felt like the universe was playing some kind of cruel joke on him. What if this meant something? What if this was a sign that things would go wrong?

He groaned, rolling onto his stomach to scream into his pillow.

And so, in true Jungkook fashion, he did the only logical thing: he decided to avoid you.

Just for a little while. Just until he could figure out what to do. Because what if he was leading you both into disaster? What if, despite how good everything felt, you were destined for heartbreak? He wasn’t ready to test fate like that.

He already missed you.

It didn’t help that the first thing Jungkook saw when he checked his phone was a message from you.

(not) my crush [9:54 AM] :

i went to the same website as you and my horoscope told me i would have really bad news!!! can u believe that? ahahaha!!!

Jungkook stared at the text, his brain short-circuiting.

Oh.

Without thinking, he flipped his phone face-down on the bed as if it had personally offended him. Then, after exactly three seconds of trying to process what he’d just read, he groaned dramatically and kicked his feet against the mattress, his frustration spilling out in the most childish way possible.

Why hadn’t he thought to check that sooner?!

Here he was, spiraling into an identity crisis, convinced the universe had doomed him to a tragic love story before it even began.

You hated it. Hated how Jungkook still hadn’t answered your text, even though it had been almost two hours.

Two whole hours.

It wasn’t like him. Jungkook always answered, even if it was just to send a ridiculous meme or a dramatic voice note about whatever chaos he’d gotten himself into. But now? Nothing.

You found yourself checking your phone every two minutes, staring at your last message, hoping—praying—that he’d at least open it. But he didn’t.

No read receipt. No typing bubble.

The more you thought about it, the worse it got. You couldn’t even focus on your lecture anymore, your professor’s words fading into white noise as your mind spiraled. Had you done something wrong last night? Had you said something that made him want to avoid you? You replayed every interaction, every joke, every single moment—but nothing stood out.

And yet, the silence felt like an answer in itself.

You didn’t want to be this kind of person. The kind who overanalyzed a single text, who let a tiny thing ruin their entire morning. But Jungkook’s weird antics had apparently rubbed off on you, because before you even realized what you were doing, your fingers were already typing into his favorite horoscope website.

Maybe, if Jungkook wouldn’t give you an answer, his precious astrology nonsense would.

The second the page loaded, you groaned, already hating yourself. How had it come to this? How had Jungkook managed to pull you into his ridiculous superstitions? You swore you weren’t like this. You swore you didn’t believe in this stuff. And yet, here you were, scrolling through planetary alignments like they held the key to your entire existence.

Just as you were about to give up, a familiar voice interrupted your crisis.

“Since when do you check horoscopes?”

You nearly jumped out of your seat as Hoseok dropped into the chair across from you, cracking open a can of Sprite. His brows were raised, eyes filled with pure amusement. “You always make fun of me for this,” he added, taking a sip.

Before you could even attempt to defend yourself, he leaned forward and glanced at your phone screen. His eyes widened.

“…You’re not even a Virgo.”

You tried desperately to hide your screen, quickly swiping the phone away from Hoseok’s curious gaze. “I’m trying to find answers,” you muttered, feeling the shame creep up your neck as you admitted the ridiculousness of what you were doing.

Hoseok raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “I didn’t think you were the type to believe in that stuff. You always said it was stupid.”

And you still thought it was stupid.

Virgo: It’s a wonderful day for you! You will feel happier than ever.

You couldn’t contain the scoff that escaped your lips. Happier than ever? Yeah, sure. If ignoring your texts and leaving you hanging was his version of a “wonderful day.”

Frustration bubbled up in your chest, and you quickly locked your phone, trying to push the whole situation out of your mind.

“And I still think it’s bullshit,” you muttered, half to yourself, half to Hoseok.

The hours dragged on as you sat at the coffee shop, staring out the window and occasionally glancing at your phone, hoping for some sign, some message, or at least a glimpse of Jungkook’s bright smile. But nothing.

The words from the horoscope kept playing in your head, an incessant loop. And all you could imagine was Jungkook, carefree and happy, doing exactly what he wanted, while you sat there, feeling like an idiot waiting for a message that wasn’t coming. It was infuriating.

You hated this feeling—the irritation, the frustration that bubbled up in your chest every time you thought about how he could be living his best day while you were left waiting, wondering what went wrong.

You had always admired Jungkook’s happiness. It was contagious, that energy of his. But today, for some reason, it felt like he was hiding it from you. You wanted to see it, feel it, share it with him. Why couldn’t he just reach out?

The sun began to set, casting long shadows across the coffee shop, but there was still no sign of him. The usual excitement in your chest slowly faded, replaced with a gnawing emptiness. He wasn’t coming.

As you walked home, the weight of your frustration grew heavier with every step. Your fingers hovered over your phone, unsure, but the pull to send something—to send anything—was too strong to ignore. You didn’t know if you were really that type of girl, the one who couldn’t handle being ignored, the one who overthought every message or lack thereof. But the truth was, you couldn’t be cool about it. You couldn’t just let it slide. The silence, the waiting, the unanswered texts—it was eating away at you, minute by minute, as if every second without a reply was slowly driving you insane.

You knew you should probably wait longer. You knew you should probably play it cool, pretend you were unaffected. But you couldn't.

So you did it. You sent the message.

You stared at the screen after sending it, the nerve-racking weight of regret hitting you. Was it dramatic? Yes. Was it over the top? Absolutely. But it felt like the only way to break through the silence, the only way to make your presence known in this strange waiting game you were playing.

As soon as Jungkook received your text, his heart skipped a beat. His phone had been sitting in front of him all day, and he had been checking it every few minutes, hoping for something from you. So when he saw your message light up the screen, he reached for it almost instantly, nearly leaping off the couch.

His eyes scanned the words, and then it hit him:

(not) my crush [7:03 PM] :

the stars have spoken, and they predict that if i dont get a reply from u soon, i will accidentally manifest a series of very very very weird, unexplainable events in your life this week!!! hope ur ready for it jeon. </3333

He froze. The audacity. The way you used his own horoscope—his stars—as a weapon against him had him laughing and groaning at the same time. He couldn’t help it. You were threatening him, but in the most playful, ridiculous way.

His heart was racing, but he immediately turned off his phone, swiping the screen as if that would somehow protect him from the impending doom of your horoscope wrath.

He slumped back into the couch, shaking his head. “Why did I even get into this?” he mumbled to himself, feeling both entertained and somewhat panicked.

But the more he thought about it, the more he realized: He didn’t really mind at all.

Turns out it was much harder than Jungkook had anticipated to ignore you.

First of all, his heart was screaming at him to see you. It had been four days without any interaction, and it felt like an eternity. He missed you more than he was willing to admit.

And second, you seemed to be everywhere. Or maybe it was just him. Jungkook swore that wherever he went, there you were. Walking down the same aisles at the grocery store, standing in line at the coffee shop, laughing with friends just a few feet away. It was like the universe was playing a prank on him, throwing you in his path at the most inconvenient times.

Like right now, for instance.

He’d been casually strolling through the grocery store, his mind distracted by the mundane task of picking out produce. When he turned a corner, he froze. There you were, casually walking through the aisle, completely oblivious to him standing just a few feet away. He blinked, his heart racing, not prepared for this sudden encounter.

He cursed under his breath, looking for a quick escape. His eyes darted around the store, and in the split second that followed, he spotted a shelf of canned beans directly behind him. Without thinking, he quickly ducked behind it, crouching down and trying to steady his breath. What the hell is wrong with me?

From behind the shelf, he peeked over the top, trying to gauge whether you had seen him. But you were still strolling along, picking out items, completely unaware of the mess he was making of himself. Jungkook felt both relieved and utterly embarrassed. He let out a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding, shaking his head at his own ridiculousness.

Jungkook cautiously peered around the corner, his heart pounding as he tried to check if you were still nearby. His plan was simple—sneak out of the store without you noticing. Without thinking twice, he started to move swiftly toward the exit, hoping to escape unnoticed.

But fate, as usual, had other plans.

As he rushed past one of the aisles, a shopping cart suddenly came out of nowhere, rolling in his direction. Jungkook, not expecting it, collided with the cart full force. It sent him sprawling across the smooth floor, his feet flying out from under him and sending him into an awkward slide, his arms flailing like a windmill trying to regain some kind of balance.

“Oof,” he groaned, but before he could even recover from the fall, he heard a familiar voice, smooth and teasing.

“Oops,” you said, barely trying to hold back a laugh as you casually strolled by with your shopping cart in tow. The mischievous grin on your face made it clear that you were enjoying the sight of him on the floor more than you probably should have.

Jungkook watched you walk away, his heart sinking as you didn’t even spare him a glance. He had wanted to explain everything—about the horoscope, about his stupid overthinking, about how he’d been going crazy trying to figure things out in his head—but now it was too late. You were already too far away, leaving him standing there in the same spot on the floor.

The next few days were a blur for him. He couldn’t focus on anything. It didn’t help that he couldn’t stay away from you. No matter how much he tried to distract himself, his thoughts always circled back to you. He found himself at the coffee shop, the one he knew you frequented, even though he had no real reason to be there.

He threw on his black bucket hat, sunglasses, and a big, oversized hoodie, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. It was hot as hell, but he didn’t care. He was desperate to catch a glimpse of you, just a fleeting moment to see if you were okay.

As he hid behind the tree, peeking out just enough to watch you, Jungkook’s heart ached. There you were, sitting in your usual spot with your laptop in front of you, a steaming cup of coffee by your side. You looked so peaceful, so engrossed in whatever you were doing, and it only made him miss you more. He had been a fool, hadn’t he? He should’ve never let things get this weird, should’ve never let his insecurities get in the way.

He stayed there, trying not to make a scene, wishing he could just walk up to you and fix everything. But no, he was too scared to make the first move. So, he remained in the shadows, watching from afar, longing for a chance to make things right.

Jungkook’s heart skipped a beat when a voice suddenly snapped him out of his nervous thoughts.

“What are you doing, you freak?” The words hit him like a bucket of cold water, and he nearly jumped out of his skin as he spun around to face the source. A man stood a few feet away, eyebrow raised in confusion, a can of Sprite casually dangling from his hand. The stranger’s gaze flicked between Jungkook and the tree, clearly puzzled by the odd sight of someone trying to hide behind it.

“You should probably leave before I call the cops for stalking,” the man added, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Jungkook’s face flushed a deep shade of red. He didn’t know whether to be embarrassed or to just make a run for it. He quickly reached up and pulled off his sunglasses, hoping to defuse the situation.

“I swear it’s not like that! I’m not a freak, I—” Jungkook stammered, his nerves now in overdrive.

The guy squinted at him, his expression shifting from confusion to realization. “Wait, you’re the guy with the cute dog, right?” He pointed at Jungkook, then made a show of lifting his finger to Jungkook’s bucket hat as if trying to get a better look. The recognition hit Jungkook like a ton of bricks. Of all the people in the world to see him in this ridiculous state, it had to be your friend.

“Seriously, man?” the guy called out again, clearly still amused, but not pressing the issue further. “You’re just gonna hide behind a tree like a creep?”

Jungkook winced, wishing the earth would swallow him whole. He could already feel his cheeks burning with embarrassment, and the last thing he wanted was for you to turn around and see him there, looking like a complete idiot. He couldn’t even face the guy properly, so he just mumbled something inaudible, turning around quickly and starting to back away.

“Alright, alright,” the man muttered, taking a sip of his Sprite. “But, hey, next time, try not to stalk people in broad daylight.”

As soon as Hoseok came to your table, he couldn’t hold back the grin on his face as he told you about Jungkook’s little hide-and-seek stunt behind the tree. You couldn’t help it. The sound of his description hit you like a wave, and you burst into laughter, the kind of laugh that makes your stomach hurt.

“He really hid behind a tree?” you asked, still chuckling as you wiped tears from the corners of your eyes. “That’s a new level of awkward.”

You weren’t angry at him anymore, not after hearing that. In fact, you were kind of amused. It seemed like Jungkook had finally realized how ridiculous his avoidance had been.

Still, you couldn’t let your guard down too much. Your chest ached with how much you missed him. The silence between the two of you had become unbearable, but your pride kept you from reaching out first. You needed him to make the first move, to come to you and explain why he had been acting so distant.

And just as you were starting to feel like maybe he’d never reach out, your phone buzzed with a message.

jk sexy virgo boy [4:37 PM] :

i failed the mission. meet me at the park pls pls pls? :(

It was like a breath of fresh air after holding your breath for days. The urge to jump out of your seat and run to the park was overwhelming. You didn’t even think twice. Your ego might have tried to hold you back, but the excitement in your chest was stronger. You were already putting on your shoes before your mind even caught up with what was happening.

You couldn’t say no. Not when he sounded so… genuine. Plus, how could you resist seeing him again, after all this time?

As you walked into the park, you couldn’t help but feel a smile tugging at the corners of your lips as you saw him. Jungkook was sitting on a bench, his gaze fixed on the river. There was something oddly calming about seeing him like that, lost in thought, but it only made you more aware of how much you missed him.

His hair was longer than you remembered, the strands falling gently over his forehead. He looked even more beautiful than before—if that was even possible. Maybe it was the time and distance, but you found him even more striking now. He was still the same boba-eyed boy, the one you’d been both frustrated with and drawn to. It was hard to be mad at him when everything about him still made your heart race, even though you’d spent the past few days fuming over his silence.

What caught your eye, though, was the little fluffball sitting next to him. Yeontan was there too, his tiny tail wagging excitedly at your arrival.

“Hi, Yeontan,” you said, your voice soft as you crouched down to greet the dog. You purposely ignored Jungkook for the moment, focusing your attention on the little puppy as you gave him a gentle pat. Yeontan, ever the social one, eagerly licked your hand, wagging his tail even faster as if he knew he was the bridge between you and Jungkook.

Jungkook sighed, his voice low but tinged with a playful frustration as he watched you focus entirely on Yeontan. “The little brat always gets more attention than me whenever he’s around,” he muttered, tugging gently on the leash, trying to get you to turn your attention back to him.

You feigned confusion, looking around dramatically. “Who is speaking? Can you hear that, Yeontan?” you teased, purposefully ignoring him. You had told yourself you’d eventually listen, but that didn’t mean you were going to make it easy for him. You were enjoying the moment a little too much, watching him squirm just a bit.

Jungkook let out a soft sigh, shoulders slumping. “Guess I deserve that,” he muttered, but he didn’t let the silence linger for too long. Reaching behind him, he pulled out a sheet of paper and handed it over to you.

“Here,” he said, a little nervous now.

You raised an eyebrow, inspecting the piece of paper as you took it. “What is this? Is this a picture of me you took while hiding behind the tree?” you teased, your voice dripping with amusement. Jungkook’s cheeks flushed a deep shade of red as he stammered.

“It wasn’t like that, I swear. Don’t make it worse than it was!” he quickly protested, reaching for your hand to pull you up beside him on the bench.

You snickered, shaking your head as you glanced at the sheets in your hand. “You had a bucket hat and sunglasses, Hoseok told me everything,” you said, practically bursting with laughter. “What was the plan? Hide from me like a secret agent?”

Jungkook groaned, sinking his head into his hands. “It wasn’t that bad,” he mumbled, but his voice was laced with embarrassment.

You finally looked down at the sheets in your hands, the title at the top reading: Reason Why Jeon Jungkook Was Ignoring You And Why You Should Forgive Him.

“Oh wow,” you said, your voice laced with mock intrigue. “Okay, this is gonna be interesting.” You began flipping through the pages, smirking to yourself as you saw the first point listed:

1. You know how I always trust the universe’s timing, right? Well, I checked our zodiac compatibility, and it was a red flag—like, flashing neon lights red. I had to listen to the stars, or else the consequences would have been disastrous. It’s really not personal, I swear.

You couldn’t help but burst into laughter, your eyes scanning the screenshots that Jungkook had sent you, his so-called proof of why he had been avoiding you. Your complete zodiac chart, one that you didn’t even know existed, was now paired with his, glaring back at you with all its astrological implications.

“Really?” you said, still chuckling. “You’re basing all of this on a website and the stars?”

Jungkook bit his cheek, clearly trying to hold back a smile but failing miserably. “It’s not funny. I had multiple mental breakdowns because of that,” he insisted, his voice barely hiding the frustration. But the way his eyes flicked back to the screen made it clear he was invested in this whole thing far more than he was letting on.

You continued reading, curious about the next part of his dramatic saga. When you got to the second reason, your laughter intensified. You could barely keep it together as you read:

2. Yeontan gave me some tough love advice. He said, ��Jungkook, the stars have spoken, and sometimes love can be as confusing as a game of fetch.’ I think he’s onto something, but I’m still unsure whether it’s me or the cosmos making me do this.

“Jungkook, are you for real?” You couldn’t stop laughing now, your hand pressed to your mouth to stifle the sound of your amusement.

Jungkook looked at you, his face serious despite the ridiculousness of the situation. “Yeontan gives great advice,” he said earnestly, his voice filled with mock sincerity.

You raised an eyebrow. “Yeontan, huh? You mean the same Yeontan who doesn’t have the ability to speak?”

“Well, yeah,” Jungkook started, then hesitated. “It’s actually Taehyung who told me that, but… you know what, let’s just say it was Yeontan.” He gave you a sheepish grin, clearly trying to make up for the fact that the whole story was a bit far-fetched.

You shook your head, still smiling despite yourself. “A little lie to make me forgive you, huh?”

“Exactly.” He nodded seriously, though you could see the glint of amusement in his eyes. “A little white lie can’t hurt, right? Especially when it involves the world’s wisest dog.”

“Fine,” you said with a dramatic sigh, though you couldn’t suppress your smile. “But next time, just ask Yeontan for relationship advice before we end up in a cosmic catastrophe.”

Jungkook’s hand wrapped around your wrist, his grip firm but trembling slightly. His wide eyes locked onto yours, a mix of fear and urgency swimming in them. He looked terrified—like he had just thrown himself off a cliff and was bracing for the fall.

“Wait. Please,” he pleaded, voice softer than you’d ever heard it. “Read the next page.”

Something about the way he said it made your breath catch. His fingers didn’t loosen around you, like he was afraid you’d let go before you saw what he needed you to see.

With a small, reassuring smile, you finally lowered your gaze to the page in your hands.

It was a mess. Words were scribbled over, sentences scratched out so violently they nearly tore through the paper. His handwriting, usually neat and precise, looked frantic—like he had rewritten the same thought a hundred times, fighting with himself over the words before finally settling on the one line that remained untouched.

3. I decided I didn’t care about all of that because I love you, and I don’t think zodiac charts (as terrible as they look) can change what I feel for you.

Your fingers tightened around the edges of the paper as your heart did something strange—something impossible to ignore.

Slowly, you lifted your eyes back to him.

Jungkook was watching you like his entire world depended on what you’d say next. His jaw was tight, his chest rising and falling a little too quickly, his free hand clenching into the fabric of his jeans.

Your heart was pounding. You swallowed, trying to find the right words, but your mind was blank. He loved you. Jungkook loved you.

“Jungkook…” You looked up at him, and for the first time, the usual confidence in his gaze wavered.

“I know it’s dumb,” he rushed to say, his free hand rubbing the back of his neck. “I just—I got in my head about it, and then I panicked, and I thought maybe the universe was trying to tell me something, and then I realized—” He took a shaky breath. “I realized I didn’t care. Because none of it matters if it means losing you.”

Your fingers curled around the page, gripping it tightly like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“You… really love me?” The words left your lips softer than you intended, but they hung in the air between you, heavy and real.

Jungkook nodded, his throat bobbing as he swallowed. “Yeah. I do.” His voice was quiet, but there was no hesitation.

You blinked, feeling the sting of tears you hadn’t expected. And then—because it was Jungkook, and because you had been waiting for this moment without even realizing it—you smiled.

“So… are you saying the stars were wrong?” you teased, holding back a laugh.

Jungkook groaned, dropping his forehead against your shoulder dramatically. “God, don’t start.”

But his arms wrapped around you anyway, pulling you in close, and you could feel the way his heart was racing against yours.

“You know,” you murmured, gently pulling his head away from your shoulder so you could look him in the eyes. “Now more than ever, I think astrology is bullshit.”

Jungkook didn’t argue this time. He just looked at you, his eyes soft, almost embarrassed. Because you were right. He had let some random website tell him you weren’t meant for each other—when everything about you, about this, felt exactly right.

He exhaled a small laugh, shaking his head. “Yeah… I think I might have overreacted a little.”

“A little?” you raised an eyebrow, hands settling firmly on his shoulders. Yeontan whined between you, attempting to wriggle into your lap, but you ignored him. Your focus was solely on Jungkook. “But,” you continued, tilting your head slightly, “I do believe in one thing now.”

Jungkook blinked, leaning in unconsciously. “What’s that?”

“Fate,” you said simply, your fingers moving up to cup his round cheeks, brushing against the warm skin.

His lips parted slightly, his breath fanning against your face as he searched your gaze. “You really think that?” he asked, and when he smiled, it was his bunny one—the one that made your heart ache and your stomach flip all at once.

And oh, how you wanted to kiss him right then and there. But first, you needed to say it.

“Because I met you,” you whispered, your thumbs tracing over his cheekbones, “and I love you.”

Jungkook didn’t let you finish another word. Before you could even blink, his hands had found your face, his lips pressing against yours in a way that stole the breath right out of your lungs.

It wasn’t just an apology, and it wasn’t just relief. It was Jungkook—stubborn, overthinking, hopelessly romantic Jungkook—showing you exactly what he felt without needing any more words.

And as you kissed him back, fingers curling into his hoodie, you knew.

The stars might have been wrong, but this?

This was written in the universe just for you.

#bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook fic #jungkook #jungkook imagines #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #bts imagines #jungkook fluff #bts jk #bts #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts fanfiction #bangtan

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igwb · 4 months ago

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i dont even know how to begin this. ive genuinely been contemplating sending this ask for the past 10 minutes but... god, a black eye and two kisses was just TOO good. your writing is absolutely heavenly- the perfect amount of poetic, casual, and just so so captivating. i started reading it last night and i kid you not when i tell you i could NOT put my phone down. the characters, the plot, just everything was so perfect. i am never one to be so immersed in a fic but i was smiling so wide when i was nearing the end of the third part. the fic progressed so beautifully, it didnt feel rushed or too slow. i know ive said this already but the story genuinely felt perfect. i hope you never stop writing, whatever it may be. im super excited for your future work, and till then, im gonna check out your other stuff xx

oh wow!!! you don’t know how much this means to me… i was so scared during the writing process because so much changed along the way! it felt more like my characters were making the choices for me, ahaha. lets just say I kind of trusted the process, and im so glad you liked it.

thanks for taking the time to write this. it reminds me why i love writing every time, so thank you so much. ♡

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igwb · 4 months ago

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A Black Eye & Two Kisses. (III.)

"good men die too, i'd rather be with you."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: strangers to lovers au, angst

summary: it was the final journey, one that carried the weight of so many decisions, but deep down, you knew that no matter what you chose, jungkook would be there. he would always be there, right by your side. and you would make sure he was okay, just as he would do for you.

word count: 18K

warnings: angst, set in the 90s, mentions of; sexism, patriarcal society, shitty husbands/men in general :(, blood & violence, fluff & happy ending! ♡ yoongi & tae appearance!! love, love, love & so much love…

playlist: american money, western nights, with or without you

author's note: this isnt a one shot & this is the final part! you can find the first parts here;

part I. part II. part III.

As comfortable as the beige couch in the back room of the hair salon was, and as soft as the blanket draped over your body felt, sleep refused to come.

The walls were thin. You could hear the hushed voices of the two women outside, their quiet gossip mingling with the clinking of coffee cups.

“Taehee asked them to kill her husband.”

Your body jolted upright. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, drowning out the muffled gasp that followed. The voices lowered instantly—a belated realization that you, Taehee’s daughter, were still there, listening.

“She asked me for the address of those men. I think she really wants to go through with it.”

The words rang in your head, each syllable sharp and cutting. Your stomach twisted. The idea of your mother going to them—to Jungkook—to have your father killed made your breath hitch.

Without thinking, you shoved your sneakers back on and bolted out of the salon, the two women staring after you, their mouths agape.

You desperately wished she hadn’t done it, that there was still time to stop her. To beg her to reconsider. As much as you hated your father, you didn’t want him gone—not like this. Not when you had spent your entire life rejecting violence in all its forms.

And your mother… she should have rejected it too. She knew violence. She had endured it. She had suffered under it for years. And yet, she had sought it out. She had chosen it.

Still, you couldn’t fully bring yourself to judge her. You weren’t the one who had been on the receiving end of his rage. You hadn’t suffered as long as she had. But even so—if she did this, wouldn’t she be just like him?

You hoped—no, you prayed—that Jungkook would come to his senses. That something in him would recognize your mother. That he wouldn’t let his own thirst for revenge for his own mother blind him into doing this.

You didn’t want him to do something like this. Not to your father. Not to anyone.

He wasn’t like that.

He was a good man.

You cursed yourself for lashing out at him yesterday. Maybe if you had just listened—really listened—if you had tried to understand why he did what he did, he would have reconsidered. Maybe he would have stopped himself before it was too late. Maybe you could have helped him, reminded him of the good in him before he let the darkness swallow him whole.

But no. Like a coward, you abandoned him. You left him alone with his thoughts, with the weight of his choices and the crushing consequences that followed. And now, you hated yourself even more.

You had promised to be there for him.

And yet, when it mattered most—you weren’t.

By the time you reached your home, your feet were sore, every step burning with exhaustion. Your breath came in ragged gasps, your chest heaving. The metallic taste of blood coated your tongue from how hard you had been running—how hard you had been crying.

And yet, nothing could prepare you for what you were about to walk into.

You recognized his posture instantly. Even from a distance, there was no mistaking the way his broad shoulders slouched forward, how his head hung low, frozen in place as he stared at the front door of your home.

But it was his outfit that made your stomach twist.

The black tactical gear—the one you never wanted to see. Tight fabric clinging to him, one sleeve long, the other arm bare. His back adorned with the holster, a weapon strapped securely in place. A uniform of violence. A reminder of what he was capable of.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to move closer. Maybe you were just in time. Maybe you could stop him before he stepped inside, before he did something he would regret for the rest of his life.

Your voice wavered as you called out his name.

“Jungkook?”

You needed to see his face. To find something—anything—in his expression that would tell you he wouldn’t go through with it. That despite the hatred burning in his heart—toward your father, toward men like him—he could still choose a different path.

He didn’t turn around right away. You watched his fists clench tightly at his sides, his chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths—like he was trying to keep himself from breaking apart.

You took another step closer, hesitant, your movements small and unsure. Deep down, you knew—whatever happened next would change everything. Your life was standing at the edge of a precipice, teetering, and you weren’t sure if you were ready to know what lay beyond the fall.

“Kook?” Your voice was gentle, a stark contrast to the storm you could feel brewing inside him.

And then, finally, he turned around.

Your stomach lurched.

Blood.

It was smeared across his face, staining the curve of his cheek, the bridge of his nose. His hands—bloody. His black outfit—soaked.

Blood. Everywhere.

But he was standing. Unscathed. His body untouched by any violence.

Which could only mean one thing.

It wasn’t his.

It was your father’s.

It was too late.

You brought your trembling hand to your mouth, trying to muffle the scream clawing its way up your throat, but nothing came out. No sound. No words. Just the crushing weight of silence as your lungs tightened, suffocating on the realization settling in your bones.

Your knees threatened to give out beneath you, legs shaking so violently you didn’t even know how you were still standing.

Jungkook moved instinctively, reaching out to steady you—but the second he caught sight of his own hands, dripping with blood, he yanked them back. He couldn’t touch you. He wouldn’t.

Not with this. Not with himself.

You didn’t deserve to be tainted.

Your body finally gave in, knees crashing against the cold concrete as the first sob broke free.

But it wasn’t yours.

It was his.

Jungkook fell beside you, his bloody hands clawing at his hair, his head bowing so low it looked like he was trying to curl in on himself—to disappear. To sink into the earth and never be seen again.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out.

Again. And again.

Each time more broken. More slurred. Until the words themselves dissolved into his cries, swallowed whole by his grief.

You weren’t even crying. You couldn’t.

Instead, all you could do was watch Jungkook.

The man who had done this. The man who had done it for you.

But looking at him now, wrecked and unraveling, you realized something—this wasn’t victory for him. This wasn’t justice or relief. This was pain.

Jungkook was hurting. He had always been hurting.

Your body moved before your mind caught up, crawling toward him despite the sharp sting of gravel scraping against your palms and knees.

Your hands trembled as they hovered over his head, afraid to touch him, to feel the warmth of fresh blood that coated him.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, voice barely above a breath.

You hesitated for only a second before your fingers finally sank into his hair—right where it was still clean, untouched by blood.

“Hey,” your voice cracked, pleading. “Please. Please, Jungkook. I need you to explain everything to me.”

Because even though you already knew what had happened inside that house, you needed to hear him say it. You needed him to admit the truth.

But he only shook his head violently, his mouth opening and closing as he tried to form words, but nothing was clear—his sobs swallowed everything whole, turning his voice into nothing but a broken mess of anguish.

You inhaled sharply, forcing yourself to stay steady even as your chest tightened.

“I need you to calm down for me, Kook.”

Your eyes squeezed shut as you cupped his cheeks, ignoring the way his blood smeared against your skin. It didn’t matter. Not right now.

Because you knew—this was the only way to bring him back. To get him to breathe.

Jungkook clung to you like a lifeline, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his arms locking around you in a desperate grip. His whole body trembled against yours, like he was trying to make himself smaller, like he could just disappear if he held on tightly enough.

“It wasn’t me,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I swear, it wasn’t—”

Your fingers, which had been threading through his hair, suddenly stilled.

Your eyes drifted toward the house.

Jungkook must have felt the change in you because he pulled back, wide, desperate eyes searching yours. His face was a mess—blood smeared across his cheeks, his lips trembling, his entire body screaming please believe me.

And yet—truth.

You saw it, clear as day. The guilt. The sadness. But also, the truth.

Something inside you shifted, and before you could even process it, your body was moving.

You pushed yourself off the ground, your legs still shaky beneath you as you started toward the house.

Jungkook was on you instantly, hands grabbing your shoulders, his warmth pressing against you like an unspoken don’t do this.

“Baby,” he pleaded, voice hoarse, broken. He reached for your hands, trying to keep you close. “No, please. Don’t go in there.”

You shoved his hands away—not out of anger, but because you had to do this. You needed to see. To face it.

You took a step forward.

“Wait for me,” was all you said, your voice eerily steady, before you walked inside without sparing him another glance.

You push the door open, your breath caught in your throat as your eyes flicker around the dimly lit house. The air is thick—too still, too heavy. A soft whistle drifts from the living room, followed by the lazy hum of a voice, casual, almost serene.

Your steps are light, hesitant, but your body moves forward as if pulled by something stronger than fear.

And then you see her.

Your mother’s head peeks over the back of the sofa, her silhouette illuminated by the faint glow of the lamp beside her. A glass of wine rests elegantly in her hand, her fingers wrapped delicately around the stem as she swirls the deep red liquid.

Her heels—her polished, pristine heels—are propped carelessly on a body.

Lifeless.

Your father’s body.

You try not to look. You shouldn’t look. But your eyes betray you, drawn to the scene despite every fiber of your being screaming against it.

His face is turned away, pressed into the thick fibers of the carpet, but the sight is still unbearable. The back of his dark hair is soaked, a deep crimson pooling around his head, staining the fabric beneath him. The blood has already begun to dry at the edges, smearing where it shouldn’t.

The world tilts beneath you.

Your mother takes a slow sip of her wine, exhaling softly as if this were just another quiet evening.

She must have seen you—your reflection flickering in the old television screen. Her eyes meet yours, widening in disbelief.

“You’re here,” she breathes, standing abruptly, her wine glass clinking against the table as she reaches for you.

You step back. Swat her hands away before she can touch you.

Her fingers are clean. Too clean. Cleaner than Jungkook’s, yet somehow, they feel filthier. It’s all over her—not just her hands but her face, her movements, her eyes.

Eyes that, unlike Jungkook’s, hold no pain. No guilt.

Only calculation.

“He—” she starts, voice trembling, a performance already beginning. “A boy. Around your age. He came in and—”

Then the tears come. Loud. Too loud. The kind that should shake a person’s chest but don’t. The kind that fill a room but leave it feeling empty.

She doesn’t realize it, but she’s already lost.

Her story doesn’t make sense.

Without meaning to, she’s told on herself.

And she doesn’t even know it.

She grabs your collar, her fingers clutching onto the fabric like a lifeline, but you shove her away.

“Don’t.” Your voice is cold, sharp. You raise a finger at her, your posture stiff, unwavering.

You should trust her—she’s your mother, after all. That’s what daughters are supposed to do. But how could you?

She says she cares, says she’s always cared. But this is the same woman who neglected you for years, who only ever looked at you with resentment, who never saw you as anything more than a burden.

You can’t trust her.

Not when you know what real guilt looks like.

Not when there’s a boy outside, broken, sobbing, wearing the weight of a crime he didn’t commit.

“Don’t try to make him guilty,” you say.

Her face shifts in an instant. The cracks in her act show. The performance is over.

Silently, she wipes away the tears that had managed to slip through.

“I don’t fucking care what you did,” you start, voice steady despite the rage simmering beneath your skin. “You had your reasons. I can understand them. But don’t you dare try to ruin someone else’s life because of it.”

Your voice comes out louder than you intended, the weight of your words crashing between you like a storm.

She scoffs—a cold, empty sound that chills you more than the sight of the body at her feet. She rolls her eyes as if you’re the one being unreasonable.

“So what?” she exhales, walking to the coffee table to pick up a cigarette. “How do you expect me to act, then?”

“You want to be strong? Want to be independent?” You take a step closer, jaw tight as you spit the words at her like venom. “Then fucking face the consequences like a woman.”

Every syllable burns your throat.

Because the truth is, for a moment, you really thought she had changed.

That night, when she held you after your father threw you out, when she handed you a packed bag like she had planned for this, when she looked at Jungkook and told you he might be good for you—

You thought, for the first time in your life, you had finally found a mother.

But now?

Now, you see the truth.

That woman never existed.

She had always been the same woman.

Engulfed in anger, swallowed whole by the unfair world she was forced to live in. She carried that rage like a second skin, let it shape her into something unrecognizable, something cruel.

Her hatred had no face, no single target—just an untitled entity, an ever-present shadow looming over her. She couldn’t name the root of it, couldn’t pinpoint where it began, but she made sure to nurture it, to let it grow until it consumed her completely.

And it did. It always did.

She tried, once. Tried to be good. For you. Because somewhere, buried beneath all the bitterness, she wanted to make things right.

But her hatred toward the world always came back.

It was all she ever knew. Hatred. Anger. Violence.

And in the end, it was all she had left.

You could give her two choices—two paths that would determine everything.

The first was to walk away. To disappear from this town, from your life, from everything that had led to this moment. She could let Jungkook’s people handle the mess, let them make the body vanish, let them erase the evidence as if none of it had ever happened. She could take the money, your father’s money, and finally live the life she always claimed she wanted. No more struggling, no more excuses, no more pretending to be a mother when she never truly was. You wouldn’t stop her. You wouldn’t chase after her. If she left, she would be nothing more than a memory—a closed chapter in a book you never wanted to read again.

The second option was to face what she had done. To go to the police, turn herself in, and admit the truth. I did it. No lies, no shifting blame, no pretending someone else’s hands were stained with blood when it was her own. It would mean consequences, judgment, prison. It would mean the end of the life she knew. But it would also mean accountability. A rare kind of justice in a world where women like her were rarely given the power to take it for themselves.

Whatever she chose, one thing was certain: you wouldn’t let her drag Jungkook down with her.

Because he was the only thing that mattered now. He had done things—terrible things, things you didn’t want to think about, things that made your stomach twist—but never to you. To you, he had been kind. He had been patient. He had been the only one who saw you, protected you, gave you something that almost felt like safety.

The only one who ever did.

Call it selfish, call it blind devotion, call it whatever you wanted—you didn’t care. You were willing to close your eyes to what Jungkook had done. Not because you didn’t understand the weight of it, but because you understood him. You knew what had led him to this, knew the pain, the anger, the desperation that had built up inside him for years. And you knew, without a doubt, that he could change. That he wanted to change.

You heard it in the way his sobs cracked through the silence outside. Saw it in the way his bloody hands trembled, as if he could still feel the weight of what had happened. He wasn’t numb to it. He wasn’t indifferent. And that was enough for you to take the risk. To throw yourself into the unknown with him, no matter how dangerous it might be.

Your mother, on the other hand, made her choice without hesitation.

Like the coward she had always been, she chose to run. To take the money and disappear into the life she had always dreamed of, without a second thought, without a glance back.

Not for you.

Not for him.

Not for anyone but herself.

She didn’t spare you another glance as you walked out the door, stepping out of the house that had never truly felt like a home. You knew you’d never come back—not to this place, not to the memories that had poisoned every corner of it. The family that once lived here was gone. If it had ever really existed at all.

For the first time, you felt the full weight of it—you were alone. Truly, completely alone. And yet, there was no urge to pretend otherwise. No need to cling to the illusion of a love that had never been there.

But maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as alone as you thought.

Your eyes landed on him.

Jungkook hadn’t moved. He was still kneeling on the pavement, his body curled in on itself, as if bracing for impact. As if he knew what was coming. His head lifted slightly when he saw you step outside, his breath catching in his throat. He was ready. Ready for you to scream at him, to shove him away, to hit him, to hate him.

He would take it. Whatever you gave him.

But he wasn’t ready for this.

He wasn’t ready for your arms wrapping around him, for the way your body sank against his, for the way your fingers curled into his hair like you were afraid he’d disappear if you let go.

He wasn’t ready for your warmth.

And for the first time that night, Jungkook broke for a different reason.

Your embrace was abruptly broken by the sound of tires screeching to a halt outside. The black car came to a stop in front of the house, and two men emerged from it, their faces masked with indifference as they made their way inside without sparing a glance in your direction. They didn’t need to look at you, and they didn’t need to say anything. They knew what had to be done.

Before you could even process what was happening, before you could even bring yourself to watch them disappear into the house, you grabbed Jungkook’s arm and pulled him to his feet. His gaze was distant, lost, but you didn’t give him a chance to protest. You had no words to offer him—only the feeling that something had to be done, that it was time to leave.

“Let’s go home,” you said, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside.

Home.

It wasn’t a house or a place you had ever known, but it was where you felt safe now. The small motel room, tucked away from the world, where nothing could hurt you, where you could hide away from the mess that had become your life.

You didn’t care about the consequences, didn’t care about what came next. It was just you and him. And that was all that mattered.

He remained silent, not a word escaping from his lips as you gently removed his clothes. There was no resistance, no hesitation. He didn’t even meet your gaze, as if he couldn’t bear to look at you, or perhaps he simply couldn’t find the strength to do so. He let you tend to him, taking care of him like you would a child—soft, delicate, with the kind of care he had never known despite from his mother.

You didn’t ask for any explanation, didn’t push him for words. His silence was enough. You didn’t need him to tell you what had happened, you didn’t need the details. You already knew. What mattered was that he was here, with you, and that he hadn’t pushed you away. That was enough.

When the room was bathed in darkness, the only light now coming from the faint moonlight filtering through the window, he whispered, barely audible, “I love you.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and raw. You froze for a moment, your heart stuttering in your chest. It wasn’t just the words, it was everything behind them.

You turned toward him, your eyes wide, instinctively reaching out for him. He was lying on his back, his hands resting over his stomach, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. There was a subtle tremor in his body, a trace of uncertainty in the way he lay there, as if he was still unsure of your reaction. His confession wasn’t just a declaration—it was a fragile offering, a piece of him that he was terrified to give away.

You swallowed hard, your voice soft as you responded, “I love you too.”

You could feel the weight of your own emotions, the rawness of everything that had passed between you. But in that moment, in that silence shared between the two of you, you both understood without needing to say anything else. The love wasn’t just in the words—it was in the way he let you care for him, in the way you let him fall apart and still found it in yourself to hold him. It was in the trust, the unspoken promise that, no matter what had happened, you’d stand together now.

You didn’t know what the future held, what you both would have to face tomorrow or in the days to come. But for now, the world outside seemed distant, irrelevant. In this moment, it was just you and him, two souls tangled in the quiet of the night, clinging to each other in a way that felt both fragile and irrevocable.

The sun filtered softly through the gap in the curtains, its warm rays hitting the room, stirring the stillness that hung heavy in the air. You hadn’t even remembered to close them last night, too lost in the quiet aftermath of everything that had happened.

It was Friday.

The day that seemed like it would stretch on forever, yet the ticking of the clock reminded you that time was running out. You could feel the weight of it, the pressure in your chest—soon, the men would come. And you had no idea what would happen once they did. Everything was teetering on the edge of uncertainty.

Jungkook was still asleep beside you, his face peaceful, his breathing even. He was calm, vulnerable in the most fragile way, as if he had found a semblance of peace in the quiet of this room. You almost felt guilty for the thought that soon, you’d have to wake him up to face a reality neither of you were prepared for.

His life, your life—it felt like everything was still hanging by a thin thread. The future seemed so blurry, like a fog you couldn’t break through. You didn’t know what would come next, or how any of this would play out. But the reality was clear: no matter what, it wasn’t going to be easy.

But you couldn’t avoid it. The future was uncertain, but one thing was for sure: you would face it together. Even if the road ahead was dark and winding, you couldn’t let go of him.

“Kook,” you whispered, your fingers gently tracing the outline of his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. It was grounding, comforting, a rhythm that reminded you that he was still here, with you. Still alive, still fighting, even if you both didn’t fully understand what that fight meant yet. You couldn’t imagine letting go of this connection, the warmth of his presence beneath your touch.

He stirred, a low groan escaping his lips, his pout deepening as his eyes fluttered open for a brief moment. He looked so innocent—more innocent than you’d ever thought possible. It was strange, almost surreal, to see him like this, especially when you knew the weight he carried on his shoulders, the blood on his hands. But in this moment, there was a vulnerability in him, one that almost felt untouched by the world’s cruelty.

In that softness, you could see it—the innocence that had been stripped from him far too soon, the innocence that life and people had cruelly taken away. But you would make sure, you promised yourself, that he would find it again. That he would learn to live beyond the pain and darkness, to see himself in a light that wasn’t defined by what he’d been forced to endure.

You leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek, letting your lips linger there just a little longer than you’d intended. It was a soft, tender moment, but you needed him to wake up, to face the world, even if it felt impossible right now. “Baby,” you said again, your voice softer, coaxing him out of his slumber.

That was when you felt the shift. His lips twitched into a grin, the corners of his mouth curving upward in that familiar bunny smile that never failed to make your heart skip a beat. “You like that when I call you baby?” you teased, pinching his cheeks gently, your fingers grazing the soft skin.

Before you knew it, you were showering him with tiny kisses, pecking his cheek, his forehead, his nose—just to feel him respond, to feel the spark of life that still resided in him. It wasn’t enough just to exist beside him. You wanted to make him feel alive, wanted him to remember there was still love, still tenderness in this cruel world.

And in those moments, you could pretend that everything else—the violence, the danger, the uncertainty—didn’t exist. In that simple, beautiful exchange, it was just you and him, and that’s all that mattered.

He gently wraps his hands around your waist, lifting you effortlessly, and pulls you onto your back once more. His body hovers above you, warmth radiating from him as his lips find yours. Soft and tender, his kisses trail from your forehead, brushing over your eyes, before finally landing on your lips. You breathe him in, your body relaxing into the weight of his gentle touch, as his kisses move lower, grazing your neck—a spot that’s always been a place of comfort for both of you.

“I like it,” he murmurs into your skin, his voice thick with sleep and something deeper, something more genuine. His breath is warm against your pulse as he speaks, and you can’t help but smile, a mix of affection and the quiet relief of being so close to him.

“I like it too when you call me that,” you admit softly, your hands slipping around his back to pull him even closer, the comfort of his presence grounding you in this moment.

He lets his breath ghost over your skin, each exhale a silent confession of everything he couldn’t say before, but now needed to. His words are quiet, but they come with a weight that settles between you both. “I love you,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. “I don’t deserve you, not after everything… but thank you. Thank you for trusting me.”

His words seem to hang in the air, a promise and an apology, both tangled together. You feel his hands gently move along your body, every touch deliberate, careful, as if he’s making sure you know just how deeply he feels. His chest presses close to yours, his heart beating in rhythm with yours, the warmth between you creating a perfect, fragile connection.

He holds your gaze, his eyes intense yet vulnerable, conveying every unspoken thought. His movements are slow, almost reverent, as if he’s savoring every moment, every inch of this intimacy. There’s a depth to it, a quiet understanding that speaks louder than words. In the silence, you can hear him—not just through his lips, but in the way his body speaks to yours, telling you without a doubt how much he loves you.

Jungkook’s quiet sobs racked through his body, his chest trembling with every soft sound of pain and longing. He buried his face in the crook of your neck, as if trying to disappear into you, to make sure you were the last thing he felt, the last thing he could hold onto. His movements were slow but urgent, as if he wanted to imprint every sensation into his memory, to make sure that you were the final image that stayed in his mind.

With every kiss, every touch, he was telling you without words that this was all he wanted—you. His heart, his soul, his entire being, all focused on you in this fragile moment.

“I love you,” he whispered through his tears, his voice cracked, as if the weight of his emotions was too much to carry. “I love you so much, and I just… I want to be with you forever. You’re the last thing I need, the last thing I want to feel.”

You could hear the pain in his voice, the fear of losing this, of losing you. And yet, despite the tears, there was a tenderness in the way he moved, the way he whispered your name, as if trying to cherish every second, every movement.

You held him tighter, your own heart aching with the intensity of the moment, and whispered back, “I love you too, Jungkook. Always.”

And as he continued, each movement slower than the last, it felt like time was stretching out, like this was a fragile thread between you both, one that neither of you wanted to let go of. His body shuddered with every breath, as if trying to memorize everything about you, as if trying to make sure that, no matter what happened, you would be the last thing he would know.

A knock echoed against the door, sharp and final, like a countdown to the inevitable. Jungkook glanced at you, lying there with your hair scattered across the pillows, an angelic sight despite the chaos swirling around you. Your eyes were wide with fear and disbelief, locking onto him as if hoping for some sign that this wasn’t really happening.

His chest rose with a deep breath, his entire body tense as he slowly pulled out of you, a deep sadness in his gaze. He slipped out of the bed, his movements mechanical, like someone accepting their fate. He didn’t need to say it aloud—he knew what was coming. No amount of money, no amount of bargaining or pleading, would ever be enough to satisfy the primal need for vengeance that others carried in their hearts. He understood that better than anyone. People like him.

His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled on his jeans, the denim cold against his skin, before he buckled his belt with a practiced, resigned motion. He threw on a t-shirt, the fabric settling over his torso like armor he never wanted to wear but had no choice but to don.

He turned to look at you, and in that moment, he saw you clutching the sheets to your chest, your face filled with worry, fear, and a silent plea for him to stay. “Jungkook,” your voice was soft, barely a whisper, but it struck him like a blow. You were rushing to dress yourself too, panic rising in your chest as the reality of the situation hit.

The knock came again, louder this time, more urgent, pulling him out of his thoughts. He glanced back at you one more time, the silent love in his eyes a stark contrast to the grim resolve in his movements. “I’ll be back,” he promised, though neither of you believed it.

The knock came again, insistent and unforgiving. He turned and, with one last lingering look, opened the door, stepping into whatever fate awaited him on the other side.

A familiar voice cuts through the tense air, smooth and deep, tinged with a hint of amusement.

“Took you long enough.” The man standing at the door has sharp, cat-like eyes, his smirk almost playful as he flicks his cigarette butt onto the floor, his gaze sweeping over Jungkook as he stands at the threshold.

Jungkook’s heart feels a weight lift at the sight of him. “Yoongi,” he breathes out, the name almost a relief. If he could, he would have run into the older man’s arms, seeking some semblance of safety, some connection to hold on to. He had been ready to face whatever was coming for him, but seeing Yoongi, there was a brief moment where it felt like the world slowed down, allowing him a few more minutes, maybe even an hour, before everything came crashing down.

Without ceremony, Yoongi tosses a duffel bag to the floor at Jungkook’s feet. “It was at my door,” he mutters, his voice casual, almost bored, as he drops his cigarette to the floor. “Thought I’d bring it to you. You know how it goes.”

Jungkook stares at the bag, a frown tugging at his features as he nudges it with his foot. The bag feels heavier than it looks, bulging with something more than just clothes or gear. “What is that?” he asks, his curiosity creeping in, eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

Yoongi shrugs nonchalantly, walking over to the bag and crouching down to unzip it. “A lot of money. More than we ever asked for.” He scoffs as if the amount was nothing out of the ordinary, his fingers rummaging through the contents with ease. “Someone sure is generous today.”

Jungkook’s mind struggles to catch up, his words faltering. “Is it—” He swallows hard, the knot in his stomach tightening. Only one person could have arranged something like this, only one person could have pulled this off.

“Yeah,” Yoongi cuts him off with a slight chuckle, “the crazy one.” He gives a short, dry laugh, his gaze distant for a moment as if recalling a memory. “She’s something else, that one. Honestly, didn’t think she’d come through with all of it. But here we are.” Yoongi pats Jungkook on the shoulder, the gesture almost mocking, but there’s a flicker of something else—perhaps acknowledgment. “Guess you did a good job. She’s pleased.”

Jungkook’s eyes widen as the weight of it sinks in. “I didn’t—” His voice trails off, and he shakes his head in disbelief. “I didn’t do anything. She fucking did it. She was the one—”

Yoongi’s voice snaps him back to the present. “You’re not off the hook yet, kid. But this? This is a hell of a start.” He gestures at the duffel bag like it’s nothing, as if it were just another day in their fucked-up world. “You got the money, now it’s time to figure out what the hell you’re going to do with it.”

You step out of the door, unable to stay inside any longer. Your pulse quickens as your gaze moves from Jungkook to the man standing next to him—his face familiar, but not a person you’ve ever really seen up close. The recognition hits you, but you can’t place where exactly you’ve seen him before.

As your eyes flick down, the duffel bag at Jungkook’s feet catches your attention. Your heart skips a beat, and you already know what the answer will be, but the question slips out of your mouth anyway. “What is that?”

The question hangs in the air, and Jungkook hesitates for a moment, his tongue absently toying with the lip ring that rests on his bottom lip. He glances at Yoongi over your shoulder, his eyes unreadable.

Yoongi, standing a few feet away, assesses the situation with sharp eyes, his gaze flicking between you and Jungkook. His expression is calculating, like he’s trying to figure out who you are, how you fit into this whole mess.

“Money,” Jungkook mutters, voice low. He takes a deep breath before continuing, and you feel the weight of his words land on you even before they hit your ears. “From your mom.”

The second those words leave his lips, Yoongi’s eyes widen. His reaction is immediate, the surprise flickering across his face before he masks it with a scoff. He mutters a curse under his breath, clearly caught off guard.

“Well, well,” Yoongi chuckles darkly, shaking his head in disbelief. “She really did go all in, didn’t she?” He steps forward, his gaze flicking over the bag once more. “Guess that explains a lot,” he adds, a mixture of intrigue and disbelief in his voice.

You kneel down in front of the duffel bag, your fingers grazing over the stacks of money inside. The weight of it is overwhelming, not just in terms of its physical presence but the meaning behind it. It feels like a final attempt from your mother in her twisted, complicated way, she still wanted to make sure you had a chance. That there was one last opportunity for something better, something that didn’t involve this suffocating life.

The thought that this money could be your ticket out of here, a chance to start fresh with Jungkook, feels surreal. Maybe it wasn’t just a gesture for you. Maybe it was the last act of someone who knew they had nothing left to give except this—an offering to keep you safe, to ensure that the chaos and darkness of your life didn’t swallow you whole.

Your breath catches in your chest as you lift your gaze from the bag and meet Jungkook’s eyes. A smile tugs at your lips, despite the storm of thoughts swirling in your mind. “Jungkook, we have enough money now,” you murmur, trying to hide the mix of disbelief and excitement.

And before you can even process the full weight of the moment, a laugh bursts out of you, uncontrollable and full of something between relief and disbelief. You throw yourself into his arms, seeking comfort in his warmth, feeling the tension in your body loosen for just a moment.

Jungkook holds you tightly, but there’s hesitation in his touch. His fingers don’t grip you like they usually do. They linger, unsure. You feel it in the way his body tenses, in the way his chest rises and falls. He doesn’t want to believe it, doesn’t want to let himself hope that this might actually be the way out.

“I don’t know,” he mutters quietly, his voice barely above a whisper as he pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and clouded with doubt. “They could still turn on me. What if they don’t keep their word?” The fear in his voice is raw, and you can hear the struggle in his words—the desperate hope and the deep-rooted fear that it might all crumble, that his life is still hanging by a thread.

Before you can reassure him, the older man, Yoongi, lets out a low laugh from behind you. He’s been watching the scene unfold with an almost amused expression, his arms crossed as he observes the two of you. “Enough money for what?” Yoongi asks, his voice skeptical, but laced with curiosity. He’s still not quite sure what you two are planning, what your next move is. His eyes flick between you and Jungkook, waiting for an explanation.

Jungkook looks at the floor for a moment, avoiding Yoongi’s gaze. Then, he opens his mouth, his voice barely audible, a hint of shame in his words. “I… I want to get out of here. Far away from all this. No more running, no more hiding. Just… somewhere safe. Somewhere we can start over.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow, his lips curling into a smirk. “You’re not just going to take the money and run off into the sunset, are you?” His tone is more knowing than mocking, and it stirs something inside of you—a sense that Yoongi, even with his tough exterior, knows exactly what you and Jungkook are up against.

Jungkook looks up, his eyes hardening as he glances at Yoongi. “We have to. It’s the only way out,” he says, a firmness in his voice now.

You squeeze his hand tighter, and as much as Yoongi’s words cut through the fragile bubble of hope you’ve allowed yourself to create, you refuse to back down. You can’t—this is your chance, your only chance.

“We’re leaving,” you say, your voice steady, no longer wavering. “We’re going somewhere else, somewhere no one can touch us.”

Yoongi leans back against the wall, letting out a long sigh as he exhales. “You really think they’re just going to let you go? You don’t think they’ll come after you?”

Jungkook’s eyes darken, the fear in his expression now shifting into something else—a mix of anger and determination. “Let them come,” he says, voice low but filled with resolve. “I’ll face whatever I have to.”

The tension in the room thickens, and you feel the weight of the decision you’ve made press against you like a heavy burden. But you can’t go back now. You won’t. You’ve come too far, and this is the only way out—for both of you.

Yoongi watches the two of you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then, he uncrosses his arms and sighs. “Well, if you’re sure, then I guess there’s nothing more to be said. But don’t say I didn’t warn you. The road ahead’s not going to be easy.”

He looks at the duffel bag of money at Jungkook’s feet, the final piece of the puzzle, the last thread of hope. “But, good luck. You’re gonna need it.”

With that, he turns on his heel and walks away leaving you and Jungkook standing in the silence, the weight of everything hanging between you.

“We should go,” Jungkook says urgently, his voice steady despite the underlying tension as he grabs your hand and pulls you back into the room. His touch is firm, like a lifeline—like he’s already imagining the future, a future away from all this chaos.

“We should run away and never come back,” he continues, his words tumbling out in a rush as he starts throwing his belongings into his backpack, each motion quick and deliberate. “They won’t find me.” There’s a determination in his voice, one that makes you feel like this could be your chance to leave it all behind, to disappear for good. You don’t hesitate; you start packing too, grabbing only the essentials, only what truly matters.

Minutes pass in a blur. You work in sync, moving quickly, but the heavy weight of time still presses on you, as if the clock is ticking down to something inevitable.

“Where should we go?” you ask, your voice lighter than it should be, the smile on your lips a mixture of excitement and uncertainty. Despite everything, despite the fear that still lingers in the pit of your stomach, you can’t help but feel a spark of something else—hope.

“Jeju,” Jungkook replies without missing a beat, his voice filled with a quiet resolve. “I always dreamed of a house there.” He pauses for a moment, turning to look at you with that familiar, gentle smile—the one you’ve come to love. His eyes soften, and his lips pull up into his signature bunny smile. “We could build something there,” he adds, his voice barely above a whisper, as if the idea of it still feels too surreal.

You meet his gaze, and for a moment, the world outside doesn’t matter. It’s just the two of you. You nod, the smile never leaving your face, and without saying anything more, you both finish gathering your things, making sure nothing important is left behind.

Together, you head for the door, hands clasped tightly. Jungkook’s duffel bag hangs over his shoulder, and the weight of it doesn’t seem so heavy anymore. It’s not just the bag; it’s the future that feels lighter now, somehow more attainable.

You walk out of the motel room, side by side, the door clicking shut behind you, leaving that part of your life behind. It feels like a fresh start, even if you can’t quite believe it yet.

Hand in hand, you step into the unknown—ready to create a life of your own, far away from everything that has tried to break you both.

You should have told him to stay. To face the consequences, to settle his debts the right way, because that’s what people are supposed to do. But the world wasn’t built on what was right—it was built on power, on survival. And now that you had seen firsthand what people were capable of, how violence could be so easily justified, so casually executed, you knew better. You knew that no amount of money was worth his life.

So you would run. Hide. Disappear into the cracks of the world where no one could find you. With this much money, you could vanish for years—long enough to become ghosts, long enough to start over somewhere new, somewhere safe. Maybe even settle down, live a quiet life, far from the bloodstained streets you were leaving behind.

It was an ugly truth, but you couldn’t ignore the relief blooming in your chest. As much as you resented her, you couldn’t deny that, in her own twisted way, your mother had given you a final gift. The closure you had needed. The chance to walk away from it all.

You weren’t sure where she had gone, or if she would ever truly find the happiness she was chasing. But in that one final act—handing over enough money to buy your freedom—she was telling you to find yours.

And you would.

Jungkook suddenly stopped in his tracks, his grip on your hand loosening before he let go entirely.

“Wait,” he said, his voice rushed, breathless.

You turned around immediately, heart pounding at the sudden change in his demeanor. His face was pale, his brows drawn together in a way that made worry settle deep in your chest.

“Are you okay? Did you forget something?” you asked, already reaching to take the duffel bag from his grasp, thinking maybe he was struggling under its weight.

“Yeah… Sukchul,” he breathed out, his shoulders relaxing just a little.

Relief flooded through you when you realized it wasn’t something life-threatening. You had half-expected him to say something that would shatter the illusion of escape you were holding onto.

“I have to tell him I’m going,” he continued.

Before you could say anything—not that you would have stopped him—he was already turning on his heel, heading toward the small, weathered shop.

And honestly, you were glad. You wanted to see the old man one last time, too. Because deep down, you knew that if you ever did come back here, there was a chance he might not be here anymore.

The old man emerged from the storage room the moment he heard the bell chime. His face softened into a gentle smile as he took in the sight of both of you standing there, hands clasped together, backpacks slung over your shoulders. His gaze lingered for a moment on your intertwined fingers, on the quiet determination in Jungkook’s eyes, and the way yours glowed with something close to hope.

“I’m glad you’re not leaving alone this time,” he said, his voice warm but laced with something bittersweet. He busied himself with placing a record back on its shelf, as if focusing on something mundane would make saying goodbye easier.

But this time, his farewell wasn’t weighed down by worry. This time, he felt relief.

Jungkook squeezed your hand once before letting go, stepping forward and pulling the older man into a tight embrace. Sukchul hesitated for just a second before returning it, patting the younger’s back.

“I’ll do things right this time,” Jungkook murmured, voice thick with quiet resolve.

You watched as Sukchul pulled away slightly, studying the boy—no, the man—he had watched stumble through life, making mistake after mistake, but never truly losing himself. You wondered if the old man had always known. If he had turned a blind eye to the things Jungkook had done, hoping that one day, he would choose a different path.

And now, he was.

You knew just how much Sukchul meant to Jungkook. Even after years of running, of losing himself in the chaos, he always found his way back to the old man who had once given him warmth when the world had been nothing but cold. Sukchul was the one constant in his life, the one person who had never turned his back on him.

“You’ll take care of him, right?” Sukchul’s voice pulled you from your thoughts.

You scoffed lightly, shaking your head at the absurdity of the question. “Of course, I will.”

Because even though Jungkook had spent years surviving on his own—hardened, rough around the edges, someone who had learned to depend on no one—he still needed someone. Maybe now more than ever.

He needed someone who would take care of him, not because he couldn’t do it himself, but because no one ever had. He needed someone to be his friend, his family—the kind life had ripped away from him too soon. And yes, he needed someone to love him, not out of obligation, not because it was expected, but because he deserved it.

With Jungkook, you were someone. You were already someone. Not just the girl he held onto, not just the idea of stability in a world that had never given him any. You weren’t just the woman he wanted to settle down with because that’s what men his age were supposed to do.

You were the one who made him feel safe.

The one who made him feel something real.

Enough that he hadn’t run away this time, even when his life was at risk.

Enough that he had broken his promise—had chosen to walk away instead of taking another life, instead of killing the man who had caused you so much pain.

Because it was you.

The sound of an old, familiar engine roaring through the streets made both of you turn around sharply. Your stomach clenched, heart hammering in your chest as you realized—there was no more time. They were probably at the motel by now, searching the streets, trying to predict where Jungkook would go. It wouldn’t take long before they thought of the record shop.

“Fuck.” Jungkook cursed under his breath, fingers tightening around yours.

Sukchul furrowed his brows, glancing between the two of you. But then, as his gaze landed on the way you clutched at Jungkook’s arm, your wide, panicked eyes darting between him and the door, his face softened with understanding. He let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as if this was something he had seen before.

“Take my car,” he said simply, without hesitation, tossing the keys to Jungkook.

Jungkook caught them mid-air, blinking in surprise. “Sukchul—”

“Don’t argue,” the old man cut him off, waving a dismissive hand. “Just go. Get the hell out of here before it’s too late.”

Jungkook looked down at the keys in his hand, jaw tightening. The weight of Sukchul’s kindness settled heavy in his chest. It reminded him of a memory he had long buried—the day a woman had once done the same for his mother, handing over a set of keys with quiet urgency, telling her to run.

It was a debt he had never been able to repay.

His throat felt tight, but he nodded, shoving the keys into his pocket before grabbing your hand again. “Let’s go.”

You looked up at Sukchul one last time, your chest swelling with gratitude, with the bittersweet understanding that this was goodbye. You wanted to say something—to thank him, to promise you’d take care of Jungkook—but all that came out was a shaky breath.

“Go,” Sukchul urged again, but his voice was gentler this time. “And don’t look back.”

And so you didn’t.

With Jungkook leading the way, fingers laced tightly with yours, you ran.

You barely had time to catch your breath before throwing yourself into the passenger seat. Jungkook tossed the duffel bag and his backpack onto the backseat, his hands gripping the steering wheel tightly as his eyes flickered between the rearview mirror and the empty road ahead. His breathing was shallow, panicked, his chest rising and falling rapidly.

You reached out instinctively, placing your hand on his thigh, trying to ground him.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, voice steady despite the adrenaline still coursing through you.

He turned the key in the ignition, the car coming to life with a low rumble. His fingers flexed around the wheel, knuckles turning white. “Fuck,” he muttered, exhaling sharply. “I can’t drive for shit.”

A laugh burst from your chest before you could stop it. The confession was so unexpected, so ridiculously timed, that it cracked through the tension in the car like lightning.

Jungkook turned to you, his wide, doe-like eyes narrowing in faux annoyance. “Stop making fun of me,” he mumbled, lips twitching like he was trying to hold back a smile.

You bit your lip, failing miserably at suppressing another laugh.

“I’ll teach you,” you promised, squeezing his thigh reassuringly. “Just like you did with me and the bike.”

He scoffed, shaking his head, but you could see the tension in his shoulders loosen slightly.

“Alright, first thing’s first,” you began, your voice taking on a teasing lilt. “The big pedal is the gas, the other one is the brake—”

“Shut up,” he groaned, but there was warmth in his voice now, a small, reluctant grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he listened to you explain.

Jungkook started the car, the vehicle jerking forward awkwardly before he pressed down on the gas a little too hard. The sudden acceleration made him yelp, his hands gripping the wheel for dear life.

“Don’t put too much pressure on the pedal!” you shouted, instinctively reaching for the dashboard like it would somehow steady the car.

He muttered something under his breath, barely audible over the rumbling engine. “Come on, you can’t always be good at something the first time.”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. “That’s funny, coming from the guy who bragged about knowing how to ride a bike perfectly on his first try.”

Jungkook groaned, but you caught the small smirk tugging at his lips. The memory was still fresh in your mind—him, cocky as ever, guiding you on his bike like he’d done it a thousand times before. It hadn’t been that long ago, but it felt like another lifetime. Like you’d known him forever.

Eventually, he got the hang of it, the jerky movements smoothing out as he focused on the road ahead. The city slowly faded behind you, the buildings growing smaller in the rearview mirror. You watched as the streets you once called home disappeared, replaced by the vast stretch of the highway leading to an uncertain future.

The silence between you was comfortable until Jungkook finally spoke. “I didn’t know you knew how to drive.”

You turned to him, watching the way his fingers clenched the steering wheel like it might slip from his grasp. “I don’t,” you admitted.

His brows furrowed, eyes flickering to you before snapping back to the road. “Then—”

“I just said whatever felt right,” you interrupted with a soft smile. “I needed you to calm down.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything, but then he exhaled, a quiet chuckle leaving his lips. His grip loosened on the wheel, shoulders relaxing just enough for you to notice.

He glanced at you again, longer this time, eyes shining with something unreadable. Yeah, you were definitely the one for him.

Jungkook handed over the bills, leaning down slightly to speak to the woman behind the counter. “Two tickets for Jeju, please.” His voice was smooth but impatient, his fingers drumming lightly against the surface as he waited.

You stood beside him, eyes darting around, keeping a sharp watch over your bags. Every passerby felt like a potential threat, and you weren’t about to let anyone ruin this for you. This moment, this escape, was too precious.

The woman behind the counter took longer than expected. His lip ring—a telltale sign of his growing frustration. He turned to you, rolling his eyes dramatically, just as the woman finally slid the tickets toward him.

“Thank you,” he said, his voice dripping with exaggerated politeness as he raised his eyebrows at her.

You scoffed, shaking your head as the two of you stepped away from the counter, making your way toward the waiting area for the ferry.

“You’re such a brat,” you muttered, shoving the duffel bag into his arms.

Jungkook grinned, slinging the bag over his shoulder effortlessly. “Yeah, but you love me anyway.”

Your smile deepened, warmth creeping up your cheeks. The weight of his words settled comfortably in your chest—you love me anyway. And you did. You weren’t afraid to say it, not with him.

“I do,” you admitted softly, eyes dropping to your sneakers as if the confession made you shy.

But before you could revel in the moment, Jungkook suddenly gasped, his hands gripping your shoulders as he spun you around to face him.

His eyes were wide, excitement brimming in them, and his signature bunny smile stretched across his face. “Wait, I need to do something real quick. Wait for me, baby,” he said, breathless.

You barely had time to react before he turned and bolted back toward the port station, disappearing into the crowd.

“Jungkook—” you called after him, but he was already gone.

You sighed, shaking your head fondly as you clutched the strap of your bag.

You sat outside, waiting for the ferry, surrounded by strangers. The air was thick with the unfamiliarity of a new place, and though the sky was clear, a sense of unease settled in your chest. You hated being alone, especially here, where you knew no one and where Jungkook was nowhere in sight. You had been counting the minutes since he left, your fingers tapping anxiously against your knee.

It wasn’t just the waiting that unsettled you—it was the way people looked at you. Travelers passed by in pairs or groups, families keeping to themselves, couples holding hands. You were the odd one out, a girl sitting alone, and it didn’t go unnoticed.

One man, in particular, kept glancing at you. His gaze lingered too long, filled with something unreadable. Annoyance bubbled in your chest.

“What?” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended.

The man chuckled, raising his hands in defense before bowing his head slightly. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said, stepping closer.

Now that he was near, you realized he wasn’t much older than you. His features were soft despite the way his boxy grin stretched across his face. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he added.

“You didn’t scare me,” you muttered, eyeing him as he casually took the seat beside you, uninvited. “You pissed me off.”

At that, he laughed, shaking his head. “Fair enough.”

You glanced at him warily, waiting for him to explain himself. He must have caught on because he exhaled, his voice turning more relaxed. “I just… I’m traveling alone for the first time, and honestly, I’m kind of terrified,” he admitted. “Then I saw you with your boyfriend earlier, and I thought—maybe I could say something instead of sitting there freaking out by myself.”

At least he was self-aware. And he wasn’t wrong—Jungkook was here before, but now he wasn’t. And that was the only thing on your mind. You shifted, glancing back toward the station.

“You waiting for him?” the boy asked, following your gaze. You hummed in response. “Where are you from?” he asked, clearly trying to keep the conversation going.

“Busan,” you replied absentmindedly, scanning the crowd for Jungkook’s familiar figure.

“Daegu,” he said, a bit more cheerfully than necessary. “Kim Taehyung, by the way.”

You turned to him, taking in the way his eyes crinkled as he smiled. He had an easygoing energy, one that might have been comforting if your mind weren’t occupied by worry.

“Nice to meet you, Kim Taehyung,” you murmured, offering him a small nod before returning your attention to the entrance.

He kept talking, something about Jeju and photography, but you weren’t really listening. Your thoughts were clouded with worst-case scenarios, your stomach twisting at the thought of something happening to Jungkook.

You decided that time would pass quicker if you kept talking to the stranger, and surprisingly, it worked. Kim Taehyung was easy to talk to, his words flowing effortlessly, filling the space where your nerves once thrived. He told you about how he had always dreamed of traveling alone but never thought he’d actually go through with it.

And for a moment, just a brief one, you let yourself relax.

Then, ten minutes later, Jungkook appeared.

Relief flooded through you the second you spotted him. He looked perfectly fine—not a single bruise, not a scratch, nothing to suggest he had been in trouble. The tight knot of anxiety in your stomach loosened.

But maybe you had let your guard down too soon.

Because the moment Jungkook reached you, he didn’t slow his pace—he stormed straight to the bench and shoved Taehyung off it with enough force to make him stumble and fall on his butt.

Your mouth fell open in shock.

Taehyung blinked up at Jungkook, looking more surprised than offended. He didn’t even attempt to fight back.

Jungkook, however, wasn’t even looking at him anymore. His dark, heated gaze was on you as he cupped your face in his hands, tilting your chin up to inspect you like he was searching for any sign of distress.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice tight with concern. “Did he hurt you?”

Before you could even respond, Taehyung scrambled to his feet, hands raised in defense. “Whoa, hold on, I—”

Jungkook barely spared him a glance before raising a hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. Taehyung clamped his mouth shut immediately.

Damn. That was hot.

You bit your lip, trying—and failing—not to giggle at the absurdity of it all. You knew Jungkook well enough by now to recognize his jealousy, but seeing Taehyung actually listen to him without a fight? That was just too funny.

At the sound of your laughter, Jungkook’s tense shoulders relaxed slightly, though he kept side-eyeing Taehyung like he still didn’t trust him.

Finally, he sat down next to you, claiming the spot without hesitation, effectively blocking Taehyung from getting too close again.

You turned to him, amused but still curious. “Where were you?”

Taehyung, still standing awkwardly beside the bench, let out a sigh. “Yeah, where were you?”

Jungkook shot him a glare. “I wasn’t asking you.”

Taehyung held up his hands again, taking a step back. “Got it. Not my business. Carry on.”

You chuckled, nudging Jungkook’s knee with yours. “Come on, what took you so long?”

Jungkook hesitated, his lips pressing into a firm line before he finally sighed. “I had to take care of something.”

Vague, as always. But judging by the way his fingers drummed against his thigh, you knew it wasn’t something he was ready to talk about yet.

That was okay. You had all the time in the world now.

Even if Jungkook still looked like he was two seconds away from shoving Taehyung into the ocean.

Taehyung scoffed, muttering something under his breath that Jungkook, of course, managed to catch.

“Mysterious boy,” he mused, barely suppressing a smirk.

Jungkook immediately turned his full attention to him, his body shifting so much that you were now left facing his back. You leaned slightly to the side, catching a glimpse of Taehyung, who was now standing a little straighter, as if preparing himself for whatever was coming next.

“Seriously, who the fuck even are you?” Jungkook asked, his voice dropping a little deeper than usual, the way it always did when he felt the need to assert dominance.

Taehyung, completely unfazed, tilted his head and replied, “Kim Taehyung. Twenty-two years old. Probably older than you, kid.” His voice, naturally deep, somehow sounded even richer now that he was deliberately trying to one-up Jungkook.

Jungkook puffed out his chest slightly, and you saw the exact moment realization hit him—Taehyung was older. But did that stop him from furrowing his brows and squaring his shoulders? Absolutely not.

Men and their pride. It was something else.

And yet, this time, instead of pissing you off, it just amused you.

What followed was an increasingly ridiculous exchange of skills and achievements, each trying to outdo the other. Jungkook boasted about knowing how to ride a bike, to which Taehyung scoffed and admitted he didn’t, but then immediately countered by bragging about how he could drive better—something you knew wasn’t true, considering Jungkook had just learned how to drive today.

They went back and forth like this for several minutes, listing anything and everything they thought made them superior.

Until, finally, you spotted the ferry in the distance.

“Come on, boys,” you interrupted, rolling your eyes as you slapped Jungkook’s thigh before standing up. You reached out, offering your hand to him.

Jungkook took it, standing up with ease, but not before shooting one last victorious look at Taehyung.

And then, just as he pressed a soft kiss to the back of your hand, he smirked and said, “Oh, and I have a girl. You don’t.”

Taehyung groaned dramatically, throwing his head back.

“Seriously? That’s low, man.”

Jungkook just chuckled, leading you toward the entrance of the ferry, Taehyung following close to you.

Jungkook leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear as he muttered, “Seriously, don’t tell me he’s going to Jeju too?” His eyes flicked behind you, locking onto Taehyung, who was struggling miserably with his two oversized suitcases.

You nodded, suppressing a laugh as you turned back to glance at Taehyung just in time to see him wave enthusiastically at the two of you—only to realize too late that in doing so, he had let go of his luggage. One of the bags tumbled to the ground, nearly knocking over a poor elderly man walking past.

“He’s funny,” you remarked as you stepped inside the ferry, shaking your head.

Jungkook scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I’m definitely funnier,” he argued, poking the inside of his cheek with his tongue.

You grinned, pressing a quick peck to his cheek before taking your seat by the window. The view outside was already breathtaking, and you couldn’t wait to watch the waves as you traveled.

Jungkook placed your bags in the overhead compartment before plopping down beside you, his hand instinctively finding yours.

Meanwhile, Taehyung stood near the aisle, glancing between his ticket and the numbered seats, trying to find his assigned spot. The second he realized where it was, his boxy grin reappeared.

“Oh hey, man,” he greeted Jungkook with a casual nod as he lifted his luggage into the compartment.

Jungkook, however, let out a deep, exhausted groan. “You must be fucking kidding me.”

Taehyung just chuckled, settling into the seat beside him.

Yeah. This was going to be a long, long trip.

Turns out, you were the one growing jealous.

Fourteen hours. Fourteen hours of endless talking, laughing, and debates about the most random things imaginable. You didn’t think there was a single moment when they stopped.

You had tried—really tried—to get Jungkook’s attention. A glance, a squeeze of his hand, even sighing dramatically in hopes he’d notice. But no. He was completely engrossed in whatever his apparently new best friend was saying.

By the time the ferry docked, your legs were sore from sitting too long, and your ears felt like they were bleeding from listening to their non-stop chatter. You stretched, relieved to finally be standing, but still a little annoyed as you glanced at Jungkook, waiting for him to acknowledge you.

Instead, he turned to you with that stupid bunny smile, eyes shining. “Fuck, he was so cool!” he gushed, squeezing your hand as if he hadn’t just ignored you for the entire trip.

You sighed, rolling your eyes, but you couldn’t help the way your heart softened at his excitement. He looked so happy. And honestly? You were glad. Jungkook had never really had close friends—at least, not ones who stuck around. He had always been wary of other men, always kept his distance, but here he was, grinning like a kid who just made his first friend at school.

Before you parted ways, Taehyung promised he’d see you both again, and Jungkook was practically bouncing with excitement.

And just like that, your irritation faded. Your legs still ached, but watching Jungkook so happy made it all worth it.

It was a great start.

But now, you needed to find somewhere to stay. Yet, it seemed Jungkook had other plans, as he led you toward the beach, ignoring your complaints about how exhausted you were and how badly you just wanted to sleep. Your feet ached from the long journey, but instead of stopping for a rest, he scooped you up onto his back without even asking.

“Seriously, Kook, how can you always be so full of energy?” you muttered, your cheek pressed against his back, arms wrapped loosely around his neck. His steady pace made you relax despite your protests, and as the sun began to dip low on the horizon, your eyelids grew heavy.

“I promise it’ll be worth it,” he said, his voice full of excitement, as if he couldn’t contain it.

You leaned into him, feeling his warmth, already too tired to fight. Eventually, he stopped, and you were gently set down on your feet. The soft sand beneath your toes made you want to just sink into it, the warmth of the earth soothing your exhausted muscles.

Jungkook stepped back slightly, his gaze fixed on the horizon, his eyes bright as he took in the scene. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked, his voice full of wonder.

It was beautiful. The sunset painted the sky with brilliant oranges and pinks, reflecting on the calm water. “I already love it here. I can’t wait to—Jungkook, what the fuck are you doing?” your words cut off when you saw him. Jungkook, on one knee.

Jungkook takes something out of his pocket, and for a moment, your heart sinks. You feared it was something that would force you to confront a commitment you weren’t ready for. But as he pulls out a box wrapped in the most elaborate gift paper you’ve ever seen, you feel a sudden wave of relief. It’s not what you feared. Not a ring, not anything to do with a life-changing decision.

It’s just a gift.

“I know it’s probably not what you were expecting—” Jungkook starts, his voice almost sheepish.

You quickly reassure him, “I’m not mad, I’m glad actually,” before he can finish, his words hanging in the air. He laughs, relieved that you understand, and you can see the weight lift off his shoulders.

“Now I know I’d look like an idiot if you were dumping my ass right there,” he says, feigning a pout. His voice softens, but there’s a nervousness there, the kind that reminds you that, despite his bravado, he’s just as vulnerable as anyone else.

Before the moment can slip away with the fading sun, Jungkook hands you the gift. His grin widens as he watches you take it. “That’s what took me so long at the station,” he explains, his eyes sparkling with excitement. “But now I’m glad I took my time because you met Taehyung and so I—”

“Are you seriously talking about Taehyung right now?” you cut him off with an exaggerated roll of your eyes, which makes him chuckle even more.

You take the gift from his hands, tearing away the decorative paper nonchalantly, wondering what could be so important that it kept him occupied for so long. Jungkook stands up beside you, his gaze fixed on your every move, clearly eager for your reaction. The grin on his face is wide, like a kid waiting for approval.

Your heart was racing, skipping a beat with every breath you took. Your mind was spinning, overwhelmed by the wave of emotions crashing over you, and your stomach tightened from the weight of the love you felt in this very moment.

In your hands was a Walkman.

Not the old blue one you used to have, but a brand new, bright yellow one. It was simple, unassuming, yet it held so much significance. You could feel the tears prickling at the corners of your eyes as memories flooded your mind. This small object had been the catalyst, the bridge that had led you to him.

The very thing that once cut through the chaos of your home, drowning out the anger and the shouts, had now brought you closer to someone you never imagined you’d find. Jungkook. He had been the one to walk into your life, to make everything feel real in ways it never had before.

It felt impossible to hold back the tears now. You never could have known that something as simple as a Walkman could tie your story together in such an unexpected way.

“Jungkook,” you whispered, barely able to speak through the wave of emotions choking you. You reached for him, pulling him close, resting your head against his chest as the sobs racked your body.

Jungkook didn’t say anything at first. He just held you, his arms wrapping around you like a shield, offering all the comfort he could. You clung to him, feeling like you were finally where you belonged, and all the pain, the confusion, and the chaos that had once been your life seemed so distant now.

He smiled softly as he pulled out a second Walkman, this one in a bright, playful pink. “This one’s mine,” he said, his voice filled with pride. You couldn’t help but laugh at the bold choice of color, completely charmed by how unapologetic he was about it.

“Yeah, I know it’s pink,” he said, shrugging with a mischievous grin. “But I was like, fuck off with that masculinity nonsense.”

Your heart swelled at his words, at how truly authentic he was, and you pulled him tighter into your embrace, not caring about anything else in that moment. He was everything you had ever hoped for, and yet, he was so much more than that.

He was the very opposite of the men you had expected to encounter in your life—so different from anything you had ever known. He defied the norms, challenged what was supposed to be “normal,” and it was that exact freedom that made him so undeniably perfect for you.

“I love you so much,” you whispered, your voice thick with emotion as you held him close, feeling his heartbeat against yours.

“I love you more,” he replied instantly, his lips brushing your hair as he kissed the top of your head gently. In that simple moment, the world outside didn’t matter.

It was just the two of you, a Walkman, and a love that felt like it could stretch across eternity.

The familiar hum of your white Daewoo Arcadia filled the quiet streets as you maneuvered smoothly through the neighborhood. It had been three months since you bought it—your first real purchase with your own hard-earned money. A small but powerful symbol of everything you had built.

Owning a record shop had started as a dream, a simple idea fueled by your love for music. But somehow, it had turned into something bigger. Walkmans were getting bigger, and suddenly, your little shop—specializing in cassette players and tapes—had become the talk of the city.

It still felt surreal.

You could remember the exact moment you found out that the shop space was for sale. The way your heart had pounded at the thought of actually owning something, building something. You had hesitated, scared of taking a risk, but Jungkook never once wavered.

Without a second thought, he had used nearly all the money your mother had given him to buy the place for you. He brushed off your worries when you told him it was too risky, too uncertain. Instead, he had looked at you with those unwavering eyes and simply said, “I trust you. I know you’ll make this into something great. Soon, you’ll be richer than you ever imagined.”

And he had been right.

You had done it—on your own. But never alone.

Jungkook had been there every step of the way. Supporting you, pushing you forward, believing in you even when you doubted yourself.

You pulled into the driveway, cutting the engine before stepping out. Your heels clicked softly against the pavement as you made your way to the front door.

Home.

When you arrived in Jeju three years ago, you had been scared as hell. You had no real plan, no certainty—just the weight of a fresh start pressing down on your shoulders. The first few months were spent hopping from one cheap motel to another, stretching every bit of money you had. And then you found the shop.

Back then, you barely believed in it. You hadn’t seen what Jungkook saw.

He had poured everything into it, every last bit of money, every ounce of faith. It left you both with almost nothing—certainly not enough to buy the house you had dreamed of. You had been frustrated, worried, but Jungkook never wavered. He promised it would all work out.

And a year later, it did.

By then, the shop was thriving, and you had saved enough to buy a home—not the biggest or the grandest, but something just right. Small enough to feel warm, cozy, like a real home rather than just a house. It was tucked away in a quiet corner of the island, where the sound of the waves could still reach you on windy nights.

Jungkook worked relentlessly to make it perfect. He never complained, never hesitated—just threw himself into every little task, every piece of furniture, every coat of paint. He listened to your every wish, making sure each room felt like you.

And in the end, it was everything you had both dreamed of. Maybe even more.

The loud chatter reached your ears before you even stepped inside.

“You don’t know shit, how can you give me advice on that—” You immediately recognized Jungkook’s voice, his tone laced with irritation.

“I’m older, so technically, I have more experience, and I’m telling you, you should do it like I—”

You sighed, shaking your head as you stepped into the kitchen, only to find Jungkook and Taehyung glaring at each other, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed in frustration. It was always something with those two.

Taehyung had been a constant presence in your lives ever since your paths crossed again a year later. What was supposed to be a short trip for him turned into something permanent when he fell in love with Jeju’s quiet charm. He ended up settling in a house just a few blocks from yours, and from that point on, it was like he had always been there—third-wheeling your dates, crashing at your place just because, and most of all, getting under Jungkook’s skin for fun.

As soon as Jungkook spotted you, whatever argument he had been having was forgotten. He practically ran to you, wrapping you up in his arms and peppering your lips with quick, eager kisses, as if he hadn’t just seen you this morning.

Taehyung groaned in disgust, rolling his eyes as he reached for an apple on the counter. “God, get a room.”

Jungkook ignored him, tilting your chin up to press one last kiss against your mouth before flashing his signature smirk. “Missed you.”

You laughed, patting his chest. “I was gone for an hour.”

“An hour too long,” he shot back without hesitation.

Taehyung scoffed, shaking his head. “You’re so whipped, it’s embarrassing.”

Jungkook turned to glare at him. “Says the guy who’s single and giving me relationship advice?”

And just like that, the argument picked up where it left off.

You smiled to yourself, leaning against the counter as you listened to them bicker, warmth blooming in your chest. This—this chaotic, ridiculous, love-filled life—you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

You settled into the seat beside Taehyung, chewing on your apple as you tried to piece together their conversation. Your eyes flickered between the two boys, one sulking, the other smirking.

“Relationship advice? For what?” you asked, brows furrowing slightly.

Your relationship with Jungkook had been going perfectly, or so you thought. You never had any major fights, and despite the bickering he did with Taehyung, he always made time for you. But now, knowing he had asked for advice, you couldn’t help but feel a small pang of guilt. Maybe you had been too caught up with the shop, too distracted to notice if something was bothering him.

Taehyung sighed dramatically, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. “Well, your boyfriend here—” he jabbed a finger into Jungkook’s chest, earning a glare, “—was telling me he wanted to take you out to dinner. Boring. So I suggested something better, something actually romantic—”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence.

Jungkook slapped a hand over Taehyung’s mouth so fast the older boy choked on his words. “Shut the fuck up, Taehyung,” Jungkook hissed, his voice low in warning.

You raised a brow at your boyfriend, amused by his reaction. “Kook,” you teased, holding up your apple like it was a gavel. “Don’t threaten our guest.”

“Guest?” Jungkook scoffed, finally releasing Taehyung, who coughed dramatically like he had barely survived. “More like an impostor. He’s always here.”

“Because I live nearby,” Taehyung retorted, rubbing his throat as he glared at Jungkook. “It’s not my fault you treat me like your rival—”

“Because you are my rival,” Jungkook shot back, his expression dead serious.

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to hide. No matter how much Jungkook complained about Taehyung or how dramatic their so-called rivalry was, you wouldn’t trade this for anything.

As Taehyung made his way to the door, he suddenly stopped, shaking his Samsung SH-770, the sleek, silver flip phone glinting under the kitchen light. The small external screen blinked with notifications as he wagged it in Jungkook’s direction with a smug grin.

“Don’t forget to check your phone, dumbass. You always ignore my texts, stupid Kook,” he teased, snapping the phone shut before walking out the door and heading to his house.

Jungkook scoffed, crossing his arms like a child. “I hate that thing. Since when can people reach me whenever they want? Especially when I’m at home—with you.”

He punctuated his words by pressing his lips to your neck, arms winding around your waist as he pulled you closer. His warmth, his scent—the familiarity of him—sent a shiver down your spine.

You chuckled, leaning into his touch. “It’s called convenience, Kook. Welcome to the future.”

“Inconvenience,” he corrected, mumbling against your skin before placing another kiss just below your ear. “Now, can we forget about Taehyung and his dumb phone? I finally have you all to myself.”

He was quick to bring you to your bedroom, his hands gentle yet eager as he undressed you with a tenderness that never failed to make your heart race. His lips followed the path of his fingers, pressing soft, lingering kisses to your skin like he was discovering you for the first time all over again.

It always felt like this with him—like love was something tangible, something you could feel in the way he touched you, in the way he looked at you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever held. Every kiss, every caress was filled with devotion, with care, with an unspoken promise that he wasn’t going anywhere.

And neither were you.

Apparently, Jungkook had actually listened to Taehyung’s advice because he didn’t take you to dinner that night. Instead, he chose something far more meaningful.

He pulled out his bike—a new one he’d bought around the same time you got your car. He had refused to learn how to drive a car, claiming he hated it and that he looked cooler on a bike. You didn’t argue with him, not when he was pouting at you like that, his big brown eyes practically begging you to agree. And honestly, how could you resist him?

Now, as you sat behind him, arms wrapped securely around his waist, the wind rushing past your face, you couldn’t help but smile. It always felt like this when you rode with him—like freedom, like nostalgia, like love. It reminded you of that very first night together, the one that changed everything.

And just like that night, he was taking you up the mountain again.

He turns off the engine, and you hop off the bike, your excitement building as you run towards the edge of the mountain, drawn by the breathtaking view. The waves crashed against the rocks below, their rhythmic sound filling the air. You close your eyes for a moment, just taking it all in, feeling the cool breeze on your skin.

Before you can fully lose yourself in the moment, you feel Jungkook’s arms wrapping around you from behind, his chest pressing into your back as his face gently rests on your shoulder. You can feel his warmth, his steady breath against your neck, and it instantly makes you feel safe, loved, at peace.

“How was work?” he asks softly, his voice low and warm, like he genuinely wanted to know. He knew you were doing well, of course. But there was something about hearing it from you, hearing you talk about the things you were passionate about, that made him proud. He loved how independent you were, how hard you worked for everything you had.

“People kept coming in. I almost didn’t have time to breathe,” you admit with a small laugh, your hands moving to cover his where they rest on your stomach. Despite the chaos of running a busy store—stocking shelves, cleaning up between customers, offering advice to those who asked—you wouldn’t trade it for anything. You loved every second of it, especially because it was yours.

He presses a soft kiss to your neck, his lips lingering for a moment as you smile. “It’s great. I’m happy for you,” he says, his voice sincere and filled with pride.

You turn in his embrace to face him. “And you?” you ask, your brow furrowing slightly. You know his job had never been easy, and it’s something he’s struggled with.

It’s been a long road for Jungkook—always searching for something that felt right. He was good at everything he did, but he was never able to stick with anything for long. He got bored of the routine, tired of the monotony. He wanted something meaningful, something that made a difference.

When he told you he wanted to become a police officer, you couldn’t help but worry. His previous jobs had been risky, dangerous even, and the thought of him in a high-stakes profession like that made your heart ache.

But then he explained why. He wanted to help people, to protect the innocent, and to hold those who did wrong accountable. That’s when you realized that he was made for this. Yes, the job was dangerous, and it came with its own set of challenges, but he had such a strong sense of justice. He wanted to make things right in a world that often felt broken.

You remembered how he’d told you, the way his eyes had sparked when he spoke about it: “I want to teach the bad guys a lesson, but in the right way. I want to help, not hurt.” And you knew, without a doubt, that he was born for this.

You may have worried about his safety, but you understood his passion. His past mistakes didn’t define him. He was doing this now because he wanted to be the kind of man who helped fix things, not break them. And in your heart, you knew he’d make a difference in the world.

And when he came home, tired but fulfilled, he would always tell you about the cases. He’d recount the moments when he took charge, when he stood strong in the face of fear and danger. His voice would grow more confident, proud of what he had accomplished. And you couldn’t help but beam at him, your heart swelling in admiration for the man he had become.

It always tore at him when he was called to respond to abuse cases. Even as society slowly started changing, with women slowly carving their place, there were still men who thought they could get away with things that were unforgivable. Every time the call came in, he was the first to volunteer, ready to confront the situation head-on. He hated the idea of anyone suffering and every time he slapped the handcuffs on a man who thought he could get away with abuse, Jungkook felt a small, vindicating victory.

“One day,” he’d often say, a slight grimace forming on his face as he spoke of the cases, “I hope I never have to deal with something like this again.” But until then, he was determined to do his job, to right as many wrongs as he could, and you knew he found solace in that.

Because you knew what this meant to him. It wasn’t just about his job. It wasn’t just about righting wrongs. It was personal for him. Every case felt like he was saving someone, but to him, it always felt like he was saving his mother again, and again. Every time he stood up against the darkness, he was fighting back the ghosts of his past, protecting others from the same pain that had haunted him and his family. It was as if every victim he helped gave him a small piece of peace, a bit of redemption for everything he couldn’t do before.

You would hold him close after those days, your fingers threading through his hair as he rested his head on your chest. You’d whisper words of encouragement, telling him how proud you were of the man he had become. How proud you were that he had turned his pain into something good, something meaningful.

“Seokjin is such a pain, but I guess it’s fine,” Jungkook mutters, rolling his eyes at the mention of his superior. He talks about Seokjin a lot, mostly complaining about him. Jungkook has always had an issue with authority figures, but deep down, he respects the older man, even if he doesn’t always show it. It’s a complicated relationship, filled with tension, but there’s also a hint of admiration that Jungkook never quite admits out loud.

He pauses for a moment, his usual playful demeanor shifting into something more uncertain. His voice lowers, hesitant, and for the first time, he bites the inside of his cheek, clearly wrestling with the words he wants to say. “Hey,” he begins, voice barely above a whisper, his gaze searching yours for any sign of what you might be thinking. “What would you do… if I asked you to marry me right now?”

Your heart skips a beat, the question catching you completely off guard. Your eyes widen as you try to process his words, your mind racing to catch up with the sudden shift in the air. It’s so unexpected, so messy in its delivery, that you almost can’t believe it’s happening. Jungkook immediately curses under his breath, clearly regretting the rush of words that slipped out before he could think. His face flushes with embarrassment, realizing that he’s completely botched this moment he’s been planning for so long.

“Shit,” he mutters to himself, running a hand through his hair. “I’ve been thinking about this for years, and I still mess it up.” He looks at you, the self-doubt written all over his face. “I don’t even know what I’m doing, I asked fucking Taehyung for advice, and now I look like an idiot.” He shakes his head, a mix of frustration and anxiety swirling in his chest. “I wouldn’t blame you if you walked away after seeing how badly I messed this up.”

You can see the vulnerability in him, the raw honesty behind his words. It’s unlike any side of him you’ve seen before, and it makes your heart ache a little. He wants this so badly, but his fear of failing, of looking foolish, is overwhelming him.

“Fuck, that was terrible,” he groans, running his hand down his face.

Before you can say anything, you look at him, still trying to process the question, and in a quiet, almost timid voice, you ask, “Jungkook, are you asking me to marry you, right now?”

He scoffs, clearly embarrassed, and rolls his eyes at himself. “What? No, of course not,” he says, laughing awkwardly, trying to deflect the awkwardness that’s settled between the two of you. “Me? A husband? Nah, that’s not me.” He forces a laugh, but it’s hollow, like he’s trying to convince both you and himself that he’s not serious. He pulls at the box of the ring in his pocket, fidgeting with it as if it could somehow distract him from the overwhelming nervousness building inside him.

“I would say yes,” you whisper, the words slipping from your lips before you can stop them. It’s true. You would. You would say yes to him, right now, in this messy, imperfect moment. No questions asked.

Jungkook’s words stop mid-sentence as he processes what you’ve just said. He freezes, his eyes widening in disbelief as he stares at you, trying to figure out if he really heard you correctly. His lips part, but no sound comes out at first. “What?” he breathes, barely able to believe what you just confessed.

You nod slowly, a soft smile curling on your lips. “I would say yes,” you repeat, your voice more confident this time, looking into his eyes with sincerity.

Jungkook’s face softens, his heart pounding in his chest. For a moment, he looks completely overwhelmed, as if he can’t quite grasp the enormity of what you’ve just told him. His hands tremble slightly as he reaches for you, pulling you into him, his arms wrapping around you in a tight embrace. He buries his face in your hair, his breath shaky. “You’re serious?” he whispers into your ear, his voice raw with emotion.

You nod again, your heart full, a sense of peace settling over you. “I’m serious.”

Jungkook laughs softly, a mixture of disbelief and relief, holding you closer as if he’s afraid this moment might slip away. “I can’t believe this,” he murmurs, still in awe of how things turned out, how you felt the same way he did. “I’ve been so scared of messing it up, but you…” His voice trails off as he kisses the top of your head. “You would say yes?”

“I would say yes,” you repeat, and in that moment, everything feels right.

Jungkook kisses you again, his lips soft and warm, but you gently pull back, furrowing your brows. “I don’t want to sound like that kind of girl, but—” you start, laughing awkwardly as you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. “I don’t have the… ring?”

Jungkook’s eyes widen, and he gasps, cursing himself under his breath. “Shit,” he mutters, quickly fumbling around in his pocket. He pulls out the small box, face turning red with embarrassment for forgetting the one thing Taehyung had practically drilled into him not to forget. He hands you the box with a nonchalant shrug, but you can tell it’s not as casual as he’s pretending. His heart is doing somersaults, even if he’s trying to play it cool.

You hold the box in your hand, teasing him. “Aren’t you supposed to, like, get down on one knee, open it for me, and… you know?” you say with a playful grin. You’re being a bit mischievous, but he’s so cute when he’s flustered like this, and you can’t resist.

Jungkook’s eyes go wide, and before you can even blink, he snatches the box back from your hand. “Shit, of course I would!” he exclaims. In his rush to do things right, he drops down onto one knee so quickly that he ends up hurting his knee in the process. “Ah, fuck!” he winces, pulling his knee up with a grimace, inspecting it like it’s some kind of emergency. But despite the slight pain, he straightens up and finally settles into position, looking at you with a determined, slightly goofy expression on his face.

You can’t help but giggle, but you see how much this means to him. He’s nervous but so sincere. His eyes lock with yours as he takes a deep breath, preparing to speak the words that have been tumbling around in his mind for so long. The words Taehyung helped him practice now flow from his lips with surprising calmness.

“I want to give you this ring, not to make you mine, because you already are,” he begins, his voice steady but full of emotion. “But because I want to make you mine forever.” He pauses for a moment, the words hanging in the air, before adding, “And also because I love you so, so much, that I want you to remember it when you have a long day at work… just by looking at that… thing.” He shrugs his shoulders, trying to downplay it, but you can see how proud he is of himself. This was it—the moment he had been preparing for, and it was going better than he could have hoped.

Tears spring to your eyes as you listen to his words, your heart swelling with love. The smile on your face is wide and bright, but the tears start to fall freely, rolling down your cheeks, not out of sadness but pure happiness. It’s everything you’ve ever wanted, and more.

Jungkook grins, his heart soaring when he sees your reaction. His hands shake slightly as he holds out the ring, waiting for you to say something. You can see the joy in his eyes, the hope that this moment will seal your future together.

You wipe your tears, taking a shaky breath. “Yes,” you whisper, voice trembling with emotion. “Yes, I’ll marry you, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s face lights up, his eyes wide with disbelief and joy. He’s finally done it, and everything feels perfect. You’re perfect. His heart beats faster as he slides the ring onto your finger, and for a moment, time stands still. In that moment, it’s just you two—your love, your promise, your forever.

You walked through the door that night, still floating on air from the day’s excitement, your heart light and full. As you changed into your pajamas, you caught sight of Jungkook sitting on the bed, his brows furrowed in concentration. His thumb hovered over the phone’s keyboard, his index finger tapping slowly as he tried to figure out how to text, clearly struggling with the unfamiliar technology. He cursed softly under his breath when things didn’t go as planned, a cute sign of his frustration.

You couldn’t help but smile, watching him. He was so good at everything, but new technology—especially when it came to phones—seemed to leave him stumped. You laughed softly before throwing yourself onto the bed beside him, propping yourself up on your elbows as you observed the scene.

“Who are you texting?” you asked, a curious smile tugging at your lips.

“Kim Taehyung,” he replied, a small smile finally breaking through as he seemed to succeed in sending the message. He eagerly turned the phone toward you, showing off the text he’d just written.

she said yes. jeon jungkook.

The sheer simplicity of the message made you burst out laughing, unable to help yourself. Ten minutes to type five words? He looked so proud of himself, but the way he’d typed out each letter so carefully and slowly made it all the more adorable.

“You know you don’t have to put your name at the end, right?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, still chuckling.

Jungkook let out a frustrated sigh, slumping his shoulders as he tossed the phone onto the bedside table. “I don’t know how this shit works,” he muttered. But then, in his usual way, his pout quickly turned into a grin, and before you knew it, he pulled you by the waist and sat you down on his lap, his arms wrapping around you with a sense of possessiveness and warmth.

You’re still giggling as you sit down on his lap, your hands resting on his shoulders as you look down at him, his cheeks flushed from the slight embarrassment. Jungkook’s not used to this whole texting thing, and it’s adorable how he struggles with it, especially for something as important as texting Taehyung.

He gives you a playful pout as you settle onto him, his arms wrapping around your waist. “You’re laughing at me, aren’t you?” he says, trying to suppress his own smile, but it’s hard to be mad at you when you’re so close.

You nod, still chuckling, but it’s in the most loving way possible. “I’m not laughing at you, Kook, I’m laughing because you’re so cute. I mean, it took you ten minutes to send five words. You could’ve just called him, you know?”

“I was trying to make it official,” he huffs, his arms tightening around you. “I wanted it to sound proper.”

You can’t help but shake your head, your fingers brushing through his hair as you settle more comfortably against him. “You’re adorable. Honestly, he’s gonna laugh when he sees your text.”

Jungkook groans and leans his forehead against your shoulder. “I’m just trying to keep up, okay? Everything is so much harder now. At least I used to just talk face to face.”

You smile softly, touching his chin to tilt his face up so you can look into his eyes. “I get it. But don’t worry about it. You’re already doing so much. I love you just the way you are.”

His eyes soften, his hand brushing against your back as he pulls you in closer. “I love you too,” he murmurs, his voice low and sincere. “More than anything.”

You look at him, seeing the sincerity in his eyes, and your heart skips a beat. You’ve always known he had a big heart, but moments like this, when he’s so vulnerable, make you realize just how lucky you are.

“Well, you don’t need to stress about tech stuff. You’ve got me,” you tease, leaning in to kiss his cheek. “I’ll teach you, promise.”

Jungkook grins at that, the tension leaving his face as he leans in to kiss you back, slow and deep. “I’m glad I’ve got you,” he whispers against your lips, his hand gently cupping the back of your neck, holding you to him.

As the night settled in, the soft glow of the moon filtering through the windows, you felt an overwhelming sense of contentment. You knew that the world was changing around you—new technologies, new challenges, new adventures—but there was one thing you were sure of: no matter where life took you, you wanted to be with Jungkook through it all.

Your hands were trembling slightly, damp with nervous sweat. Your heart was racing, each beat louder than the last, and you found yourself fiddling with the bouquet in your hands, twisting the stems like a lifeline. Closing your eyes for a moment, you tried to breathe, but the anxiety just wouldn’t let up. When you opened your eyes again, you saw Taehyung glancing at you from the driver’s seat, his face a mixture of concern and amusement.

“Please don’t puke in my car,” he said, his voice laced with genuine worry as he shot you a quick glance.

You chuckled, but the sound was breathless. “Taehyung, I’m scared as fuck,” you admitted, shifting awkwardly in the car. You tried to adjust your dress, but it was hard, the fabric so wide and heavy, making movement feel impossible.

You couldn’t help but wish Jungkook was here. You missed the calm of his touch, his voice reassuring you that everything would be okay. He always knew how to steady you when your nerves got the best of you. Taehyung was great, but he wasn’t your fiancé.

“I’d be scared too,” Taehyung said, his voice lightening the mood. He shot you a teasing grin as his eyes returned to the road. “It’s not every day we get to see Jungkook dressed up in a fucking suit.”

The way he said it, the ridiculousness of the situation, made you finally break out into a laugh, albeit a shaky one. Taehyung really had a way of easing the tension, making the moment feel a little less overwhelming. You almost felt a little lighter, despite the nerves still bubbling in your stomach.

“Yeah,” you said, finally letting out a deep breath. “I’m definitely gonna need a drink after this.”

Taehyung chuckled. “Me too, but don’t go fainting before you get to see him in that suit. You’ve gotta give him a chance to impress you.”

“What if he hates the dress?” you asked, your voice trembling with doubt as you stared at your reflection in the side mirror. You had been so sure of it when you bought it, but now, with everything feeling so real, you couldn’t shake the uncertainty. You clutched the bouquet tighter, feeling the weight of the moment settling on your shoulders.

Taehyung, ever the reassuring presence, glanced at you with a comforting smile. He had been there through the entire process, giving his opinion and offering to help you choose the perfect dress. And honestly, you couldn’t imagine having anyone else by your side. Even if it did mean receiving some playful pouts from Jungkook lately, complaining that it seemed like you were always with Taehyung.

“You could show up dressed as a clown, and he would still marry you,” Taehyung had said, his voice light and teasing, and somehow it managed to stick with you, even now.

But the worry still crept up, lingering in the pit of your stomach. Today was the day. The day you would become his forever. And as you sat in the car, the familiar roads leading to the church where your life would change, you couldn’t help but feel the anxiety seeping in.

Taehyung’s lighthearted chatter continued, but you could barely hear it over the buzz of your nerves. Everything felt so surreal. Was this really happening?

Meanwhile, across town, Jungkook was in his own battle with the same anxiety, trying to fight the knot in his stomach. The nerves were almost unbearable, making him feel like he could barely breathe. He was pacing around the church, waiting for the moment to arrive.

His hands shook slightly as he straightened his suit, his own nerves threatening to overwhelm him. It didn’t matter that he had imagined this moment a thousand times, in a thousand different ways. This was real, and it was happening now. And the only thing that mattered was you walking through those doors.

“You got this, Kook,” he muttered to himself, trying to calm his nerves as he wiped his palms against his pants.

The drive felt endless, the air thick with the lingering heat of the summer sun, but the cool breeze that entered through the open window did wonders to calm your nerves. You let it whip your hair around, not caring that your carefully styled locks would likely be a mess by the time you arrived at the church.

There’s something liberating about summer. The way the wind moves through the air, cool against your skin, a welcome relief from the heat that lingers long after the sun begins to set. It feels almost alive, slipping through your fingers, tangling in your hair—never quite staying, never quite gone.

Everything seems to slow down, as if the world itself is taking a breath, suspended in the thick, hazy air. Time stretches, moments linger, and even people seem different—softer, freer, as if summer loosens something inside them. Maybe it’s the heat, or the endless nights, or the way the season blurs reality just enough to make anything feel possible.

The simple relief of knowing someone was waiting for you.

That Jungkook was waiting for you.

authors note: aaandd done! pls dont a hesitate to tell me what you think—id love to hear your thoughts! maybe you even imagined a different ending? tbh i had a hard time choosing between a bad ending or a happy one, but in the end… i just couldn’t bring myself to separate them ahaha

thanks a lot for being part of their journey and i you liked it ♡ byyyyeeee

#bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook fic #jungkook #jungkook imagines #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #bts imagines #jungkook angst #bts jk #bts #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #bts x reader #bts imagine #bts fanfiction #bangtan

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igwb · 4 months ago

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not be like idk weird/demanding or anything but any idea of when chapter 3 of a black eye two kisses will come out. i just read both chapters in one sitting:) also wow you ar an amazing writer!

hiiii, no worries, it’s okay!

i usually publish on thursdays at 10am (paris time), so today!! :) i had this part prepared for so long, and i couldn’t wait to drop it ahahaa

also, thank you sooo so much! im glad you like it 💗

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igwb · 4 months ago

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omgggg part two of A black eye and two kisses was sooo good!! love love love the way you write, it's so atmospheric and descriptive, I really feel like i'm in that motel room haha. also I've been listening to Western nights as I was reading, really pulls the whole thing together. can't wait for the next chapter 🩷🪽

thank you sooo so much! im glad you like it 💗

western night is suuuuch a good song—almost every song by ethel cain inspired me for this fic, btw! and this one, in particular, has a huge place in part 3 ;)) i cant wait for you to read it!!

tysm ♡

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igwb · 4 months ago

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A Black Eye & Two Kisses. (II.)

"keeping guns in his locker, and he denies it, like it's actually important, but he lied 'cause i sure did watch him."

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: strangers to lovers au, angst

summary: you thought jungkook would be different, that he would show you another side of men but as the days passed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he might not be as different as the rest.

word count: 23K

warnings: angst, set in the 90s, mentions of; sexism, patriarcal society, shitty husbands/men in general :(, violence, child abuse, jk becoming suspicious & his story explained (my poor bby♡)

playlist: the boy with the thorn in his side, forwards beckon rebound, chihiro

author's note: this isnt a one shot! you can find the first part here;

part I. part II. part III.

You were still floating in the haze of last night when the first rays of sunlight slipped through the thin, ineffective curtains. Blinking against the light, you let out a small chuckle, still unable to fully process what had happened. But the warmth in your chest quickly faded when you reached out beside you and found nothing but empty sheets.

Panic set in almost immediately. Your heart pounded as you threw the covers off, your mind racing to the worst possible scenario. Not again. Not after everything.

“Stupid Jungkook,” you muttered under your breath, rummaging through your backpack in search of a clean pair of jeans, your hands shaking slightly. “If those men don’t kill you on Friday, I swear I’ll be the one—”

“So now you wanna kill me, sugar?”

His voice came from behind you, laced with amusement, and you spun around so fast you almost tripped. Standing there, hair damp from the shower, bare chest glistening with leftover droplets of water, Jungkook smirked at you. He was wearing only his jeans, belt still unbuckled, looking completely unbothered. Meanwhile, you felt like a complete fool for immediately assuming the worst.

“You idiot,” you huffed, smacking his thigh in frustration. But your annoyance was quickly replaced with concern as your eyes traveled down to his stomach. The bruise from last night was even worse in the daylight, a deep, ugly shade that made your chest tighten. His eye was nearly swollen shut now, and the cut on his lip, just beneath his piercing, looked painfully raw.

How many times had he come home looking like this? How many more times would he have to if he didn’t find a way out? You hated seeing those dark bruises stain his golden skin, and you silently vowed to never let it happen again.

“Come on, we need to go to the pharmacy and clean that up,” you said, nodding toward the bruises on his stomach and face.

Jungkook scoffed, grabbing a towel and tossing it lazily onto the bed. “We don’t have money for that, honey,” he reminded you, his tone almost mocking, but there was something bitter underneath. The reality of the situation was suffocating.

Your shoulders slumped as you let yourself fall back onto the bed with a heavy sigh. He was right. Even something as simple as treating a wound required money—money neither of you had anymore.

You let yourself fall back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of the situation finally settled in. Last night had been a blur of warmth and safety, but now, reality was creeping in, forcing you to face the consequences of everything that had led you here.

“What do you owe them?” you finally asked, voice quieter than you intended.

Jungkook hummed in response, seemingly unbothered as he settled between your legs, his fingers lazily playing with the hem of your t-shirt, occasionally brushing over your belly button. His touch was light, teasing, and he chuckled like a child amused by his own game.

“Jungkook,” you sighed, grabbing his hands to still them. “Be serious.”

He only smirked in return, clearly enjoying how easy it was to distract you. Instead of answering right away, he leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before pulling away entirely, walking toward the small table by the window.

You sat up, watching his back, frustration bubbling inside you. How could he act so casual when the situation was this dire?

“800,000 won,” he finally admitted, his voice flat.

The number hit you like a slap.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt your stomach drop. “Jungkook,” you gasped. “Are you serious?”

“I’m glad you’re not overreacting,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he leaned against the table, refusing to meet your gaze.

Your hands clenched into fists against the sheets as you tried to wrap your head around it. 800,000 won. And only one week to get it.

“How the hell are we supposed to find that kind of money?” you asked, panic creeping into your voice.

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just exhaled slowly, as if he had already accepted the inevitable. But you weren’t ready to give up yet.

There had to be a way.

Jungkook ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply. “I may have some ideas,” he admitted, though his voice lacked any real confidence. “But if it goes wrong… it’ll be even worse.”

You stepped beside him, glancing out of the motel window. The view wasn’t anything special—just dim streetlights flickering over empty sidewalks—but it gave you something to focus on instead of the panic creeping into your chest. The thought of what would happen if you didn’t find the money made your stomach twist painfully.

No. That wasn’t an option.

You took a deep breath, straightening your shoulders. “I might have an idea too,” you said, turning back to him. “But you need to accept it without throwing a tantrum.”

Jungkook scoffed, crossing his arms over his bare chest, smirking at you like he wasn’t standing on the edge of a cliff. “Go on, then,” he challenged.

You hesitated for only a second before speaking. “My mom can—”

Before you could even finish, Jungkook pushed himself off the table with an angry scoff, pacing around the small room.

“For real?” He spat your name, his frustration dripping from every syllable. “You seriously wanna go back there and ask them for money? The same people who threw you out like a goddamn dog?”

You sighed, bracing yourself. You knew he’d react like this.

“My mom would do it,” you insisted, gripping his shoulders firmly, forcing him to look at you. “She’d do anything just to piss off my dad. I’m sure of it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened as he poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek, the way he always did when he was trying to hold something back. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he muttered, “I don’t want your stupid daddy’s money.”

Shrugging off your hands, he stepped back, putting space between you. His expression hardened, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. “I’d rather die than accept a single won from a man who disrespects women.”

His words hit like a slap, and for a second, you just stared at him. Part of you wanted to argue, to tell him that pride wouldn’t save him when those men came knocking—but another part understood. Understood why Jungkook would rather take a beating than owe a man like your father anything.

Still, you refused to just stand there and let him throw away his only chance.

“So what? You’re just going to accept your fate?” You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. The thought alone was impossible to stomach.

Jungkook let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Fuck yes, why not?” he threw back sarcastically, his expression unreadable.

Your fingers twitched at your sides—you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. But before you could, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course not,” he muttered.

“I’ll work my ass off like a goddamn man,” he added, finally tugging a t-shirt over his bruised torso.

Something in you twisted at his words. The way he spat out the word man like it was something that determined his worth, like it meant he had to suffer to prove himself. It made you want to gag. You were starting to hate everything about toxic masculinity, especially when it came from him.

You pulled on your jeans, grabbed another shirt, and threw it over your head before standing tall in front of him. “Then I’ll work too,” you said, voice firm with determination. “I’ll help you find the money myself, without asking anyone. And you won’t have a say in it.”

Jungkook leaned against the table, watching you with an amused smirk, one eyebrow slightly raised. He couldn’t believe how stubborn you were—so angry, so determined, so ready to prove yourself. It was frustrating, maybe even reckless. But at the same time, something about it made him want to fight even harder, made his chest feel tight in a way he wasn’t used to.

“Where exactly do you think you’ll work, huh?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it. His mind immediately jumped to the worst possibility—the one job he would never, ever associate you with.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, tying your sneakers. “A bar, a coffee shop, anywhere that’ll take me.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched at that. A bar. He could already picture it—drunken men, leering stares, hands that didn’t know boundaries. The thought alone made his stomach turn. But he knew better than to argue, knew better than to act like one of those men who tried to control women. You had already lived under that suffocating grip for too long.

After a long pause, he sighed, running a hand through his damp hair before finally meeting your eyes. “Go to Sukchul.” His voice was serious now. “He’s the only man I trust to take good care of you.”

“What about you?” you shot back, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. Your heart softened at the thought—if you had to work somewhere, at least it would be with Sukchul, the old man who had always treated you kindly. A place where you felt safe, where you wouldn’t have to put yourself in dangerous situations just to survive.

Jungkook shrugged, a casual smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll find something else. Don’t worry about me,” he assured you before leaning in to kiss you softly. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together effortlessly. “Let’s go, independent woman,” he teased with a grin, pulling you towards the door.

You couldn’t help but smile, warmth spreading through your chest. The words sounded beautiful—almost unreal—coming from a man.

As you walked hand in hand toward the old man’s shop, a small flicker of hope started to take root in your chest. It was fragile but steady, growing with every step. Maybe—just maybe—things would turn out okay. Maybe Jungkook would be safe, and you would be too. If you worked hard enough, if you pushed through, you could gather the money, put this nightmare behind you, and finally start the life you both deserved.

But you didn’t dare voice your thoughts. Speaking them out loud felt like tempting fate, like inviting the universe to take it all away before it even had a chance to happen. So instead, you just squeezed Jungkook’s hand a little tighter, letting the warmth of his skin ground you.

He glanced down at your hands as you swung them gently between you, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “What’s that for?”

You only shook your head with a small smile, unwilling to break the moment with words. Instead, you let the quiet understanding settle between you, filling the space with something that felt an awful lot like hope.

The soft chime of the bell echoed through the small shop as you stepped inside. Almost immediately, Sukchul emerged from behind the counter, his pace slow and measured as always, but his grin widening at the sight of Jungkook.

“Ah, Kook!” he greeted, his voice carrying a note of relief. He gave Jungkook a firm tap on the shoulder before turning to you with a small smile of acknowledgment. He might not remember your name, but he knew who you were—and that was enough.

Jungkook, still holding your hand, lifted it slightly toward the old man, his grip tightening just a little. “She wants to work with you,” he said, his voice tinged with something shy, almost hopeful.

Sukchul’s gaze flickered between the two of you, his expression unreadable at first. He let out a low chuckle, then turned on his heel, making his way back behind the counter.

A long moment stretched between you, heavy with anticipation. You knew you weren’t the usual type to work in a place like this. Maybe he’d refuse. Maybe he’d laugh at the idea.

But then, finally, he spoke.

“I’d be happy to have you by my side,” he said simply.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped in a quiet sigh of relief.

Jungkook immediately bowed, a deep, respectful gesture, and you followed suit, gratitude filling your chest. You had no idea what the coming days would bring, but at least for now, there was a plan. There was a chance. And sometimes, that was enough.

Jungkook turned you around gently, his hands resting on your arms as he looked into your eyes. His voice dropped lower, softer, filled with something raw and real.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he murmured, leaning in as if to kiss you. But at the last second, he seemed to remember Sukchul was still nearby, so instead, he awkwardly patted your head, making you roll your eyes with a small laugh.

As he turned to leave, you instinctively grabbed onto the fabric of his shirt, your fingers curling around it as if holding onto him could stop him from going.

“Wait, Jungkook,” your voice came out shakier than you intended.

He stopped immediately, turning back with concern already etched into his bruised face. You could see it in his eyes—he thought you were going to back out, that you were going to tell him you couldn’t do this after all. That you didn’t have to.

But that wasn’t it.

“Where are you going?” you asked instead, your gaze traveling over his face, trying to memorize every detail like he might disappear the second he stepped out that door. The thought unsettled you, that terrible, lingering fear that one day, he might not come back.

“Finding work, sugar,” he said with an exaggerated grin, despite how swollen his lip was and how his eye was nearly shut. The sight was so ridiculous you couldn’t help but smile.

“Be careful,” you warned, your grip tightening for a second. “Don’t do anything too dumb.”

He chuckled, but before he could respond, you glanced over your shoulder, checking to make sure Sukchul was no longer behind the counter. And when you saw that he wasn’t, you quickly leaned in, pressing a kiss to Jungkook’s lips before he could react.

It was soft, fleeting, but enough.

You couldn’t help the wide smile stretching across your lips as you walked back to the motel, crisp bills clutched tightly in your hands. You kept counting them over and over again, as if the numbers might change, as if seeing them again would make it all feel more real.

There was something deeply satisfying about it—money earned by your own hard work, not given, not borrowed, but yours.

80,000 won. You were certain of it. But still, you counted again, just to be sure.

If things continued at this pace, you could gather two-thirds of Jungkook’s debt on your own. And if you added whatever money he managed to make, you might even have more than enough—for him, for you, for whatever came after this.

You pulled the lollipop Sukchul had given you from your lips, the sweet taste lingering as you smiled up at the neon lights flickering above the streets. The same ones that once felt suffocating, their artificial glow a reminder of everything you hated about this place.

But now?

Now, they didn’t seem so bad. Now, they marked the streets you walked with purpose, the world you were learning to navigate on your own terms.

This place would be your home for the next week.

Maybe even longer.

You push the door fully open, stepping inside with a proud grin, still shaking the bills in your hand. The door hadn’t been locked, which meant Jungkook was home. Your eyes flicker to the worn-out boots by the entryway, a sight that immediately reassures you.

“Kook!” you sing-song, excitement bubbling in your chest. “Look!”

But he doesn’t turn right away. His back is to you, shoulders tense, his movements rushed as he fumbles with his backpack. Something about the way he moves—quick, deliberate, almost frantic—makes your smile falter.

You slow your steps, watching him more closely now.

“Jungkook,” you say again, this time more firmly.

At last, he turns. His breath is uneven, and as he moves, you catch the subtle motion of him tucking something behind his belt before hurriedly pulling his shirt down over it.

“Hey,” he exhales, as if trying to sound normal, but you don’t miss the way his voice strains, like he’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “How was it?”

Your fingers tighten around the money in your hand.

Something is wrong.

You shake your head, pushing away the uneasy feeling creeping up your spine. You don’t want to let whatever he’s hiding ruin the happiness still buzzing in your chest. Instead, you toss the bills into his hands, watching as his eyes widen slightly before a slow, proud smile spreads across his bruised lips.

Without hesitation, he steps closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. The warmth of it lingers, making it harder to question him.

You throw yourself onto the bed, stretching out with a deep sigh. Your feet ache from standing all day, and before you can even complain, Jungkook is already sitting at the edge of the bed, taking your foot into his hands and massaging it gently.

For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it. The quiet care in his touch. The way his thumb presses into the sore spots with just enough pressure to ease the pain.

“What did you do?”

His fingers pause for half a second before continuing, and you catch the way his tongue rolls over his lip ring—a habit of his when he’s thinking too hard.

“I found something that’s gonna pay so well,” he says, exaggerating his tone like he’s telling you the best news in the world. His voice is dramatic, playful even. “After this, when my life isn’t hanging by a thread, we could even go to Jeju.”

Before you can respond, he suddenly throws himself onto you, wrapping his arms around you tightly. He presses a quick kiss to your lips before rolling onto his back, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as if lost in thought. Then, almost hesitantly, he speaks.

“Wait… are you even planning on staying with me after… that?”

You blink at him, taken aback by the question. As if he really thought you’d just walk away.

Without a second thought, you turn onto your side, cupping his face between your hands, your fingers spread wide across his cheeks. His skin is warm beneath your touch, his jaw slightly tense.

“Of course, idiot,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “You really think you’re getting rid of me that easily?”

At your words, a slow smile stretches across his lips—one of those rare, genuine ones that make his eyes crinkle at the corners. He shakes his head slightly, almost in disbelief, before pulling you down into another kiss, this one deeper than the last.

It starts soft—gentle presses of his lips against yours—but then he tilts his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your waist, and the kiss turns heated. Your hands slip down from his face, tracing over his jaw, his throat. You feel the way his pulse stutters under your touch.

Jungkook groans softly when your lips trail down to his neck, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against the skin there. His fingers twitch against your hip, gripping a little harder like he’s trying to ground himself.

“Shit,” he breathes out, voice raspier now, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips as your fingers trace the lines of his torso. You settle onto his thigh, your grip tightening on the hem of his shirt, ready to pull it over his head. But just as you start to lift the fabric, Jungkook’s hand wraps gently but firmly around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

“Wait,” he breathes out, clearing his throat before pushing himself up into a sitting position.

You frown, searching his face for an explanation. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. His jaw clenches, his tongue running over his lip piercing—a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize. And then, without meeting your eyes, he shakes your hands off his shoulders and looks away.

Something twists in your chest at that.

“Jungkook,” you say more softly now, your voice dipping in concern. “Talk to me.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “I just—” He stops himself, clicking his tongue in frustration before forcing out a dry laugh.

You sat back on your heels, watching him pace the small room like a caged animal, his hands running through his hair, his jaw clenched.

“You’re acting like a freak right now,” you huff, frustration bubbling in your chest. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Jungkook stops abruptly and turns to you, his eyes filled with something unreadable—fear? Guilt? Desperation? He crosses the space between you in two strides, his hands landing on your shoulders, his grip not tight but firm enough to ground you.

“You have to trust me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, pleading. “Please.”

His gaze searches yours, wide and vulnerable, and your heart clenches at the way he’s looking at you—like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if you don’t say the right thing.

You inhale sharply, exhaling through your nose as you hold his stare. Every instinct in you screams to push for answers, to demand the truth. But instead, you sigh, nodding slowly.

“Okay,” you breathe out, the word heavy on your tongue.

But deep down, something in your chest tightens—a lingering feeling that whispers you shouldn’t let this go.

The bell above the door chimed and without hesitation, you made your way to the storage room to greet the old man. It was only your third day working at the shop, but seeing Sukchul had already become a source of comfort—something familiar in the midst of all the uncertainty. You were grateful it was him and not someone else.

The morning had started like the others: waking up alone in the motel room, Jungkook already gone. You didn’t ask questions anymore, at least not out loud. He was doing whatever job he had found, the one he still refused to give you any real details about. But you trusted him—you had to.

“Hey, darling,” Sukchul greeted, his voice warm as he stepped inside, carrying a large box in his hands.

You quickly moved to take it from him, placing it on the counter with ease. “What’s this?” you asked, already prying open the lid.

The moment your eyes landed on the contents, a breath of excitement escaped you. “Damn,” you whispered in awe, carefully lifting one of the vinyl records from the stack. The sleeves were slightly worn but well-preserved, the kind of treasures collectors would fight over.

“You like them?” Sukchul chuckled, watching your expression with amusement.

“Like them?” You shook your head, flipping through the records with admiration. “It’s my dream to have a collection like this.”

The old man hummed in response, moving to help you unload the box onto the shelves.

“And a shop like yours, too,” you added, glancing around the store with fondness. It wasn’t big or flashy, but it had character. It felt like a place where people came to escape, to find something special among the shelves.

Sukchul shot you a knowing look. “Good thing you’re close with Kook, then.”

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate as he wiped down a shelf before carefully placing a record in its new spot.

“He’s the closest thing to family I’ve got,” he admitted after a moment. “I don’t have kids of my own, so I always figured I’d leave this place to him someday.”

You stilled at his words, warmth blooming in your chest. The thought of Jungkook inheriting this place—of having something stable, something that truly belonged to him—made you smile. He’d never had that before.

“He’d be so happy,” you murmured, meaning it.

Sukchul turned to you then, his sharp eyes softening as he observed you. “You kids seem to get along well,” he remarked, a teasing glint in his gaze.

Your cheeks flushed instantly, and you tried to busy yourself with the records, but the old man’s knowing grin only grew wider.

“Jungkook, he’s a good boy,” Sukchul’s voice cuts through the silence, making you freeze in place. There’s something in the way he says it, a tenderness in his voice that you hadn’t expected. As he speaks, you can feel yourself hanging on to every word, though you try not to. There’s something invasive about hearing these details, but it’s too late—you’re already drawn in, craving every piece of the puzzle that is Jungkook’s life.

“Life hasn’t been easy on him,” Sukchul continues, his gaze distant as he sets down a record. “His mother was a sweetheart,” he smiles softly, his eyes softening as he remembers her. “But his father… he was a terrible man.” The words hang heavy in the air, a mixture of sorrow and regret, as Sukchul pauses to remember her and the man she had married.

You glance down, your stomach twisting. For a moment, you can’t help but picture your own father in place of Jungkook’s—so much darker, colder. You know deep down that Jungkook’s father was far worse than yours. At least your father never killed your mother. But sometimes, the lines blur, and you wonder if the cruelty, the hatred, is so far removed from the day-to-day suffering that it almost feels too normal.

You try to shake the image of your own home from your mind, but it’s hard. You know all too well how many men beat their wives, how many women live in fear, trapped. The thought of it makes you feel nauseous. You hate the idea that one day, it might be your own mother in the same situation as Jungkook's one. That fear, that uncertainty—it clings to you, even as you try to push it away.

Sukchul’s voice pulls you back to the conversation, his tone quieter now. “With Jungkook, too,” he adds, his face darkening as he finally addresses the truth you hadn’t dared to ask about.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. “What do you mean?” You can feel your heart beat harder in your chest. Your mind flashes back to what Jungkook had told you—his father didn’t care about him. He wasn’t even worth the effort because he was a man, too strong to be controlled.

Sukchul turns to you, his expression somber, yet kind. He seems to hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether or not to share more. Finally, he speaks again. “His father never wanted him to be anything but a shadow,” he says quietly. “He never treated him like a son. He only saw him as something to control, to break. It was all about power for him. Jungkook couldn’t win against that kind of man.”

Your throat tightens at his words. Jungkook’s entire life, it seems, has been spent fighting for his humanity, trying to scrape together any sense of self-worth against a backdrop of rejection and violence. It makes you ache for him in a way you can’t even describe. And it makes you want to wrap your arms around him, to tell him that he’s safe now, that he doesn’t have to fight alone anymore.

You swallow hard and, without realizing it, you find yourself asking the question you’d been dreading to ask. “How was his father with him, exactly?” The words come out almost in a whisper, as though you’re afraid the answer might shatter you.

Sukchul’s eyes soften when he meets your gaze, but his voice remains steady. “His father… he didn’t care for him at all. Jungkook was never good enough, not strong enough, not obedient enough. His father’s love came with a price, and Jungkook couldn’t—and wouldn’t—pay it. That made him weak in his father’s eyes.”

The revelation hangs in the air between you both, the silence thick with the unspoken reality of what Jungkook has lived through. And for a long moment, you don’t know what to say. There’s nothing you can say that will make it better. The truth is painful—too painful for you to bear.

Sukchul seems to notice your hesitation, the discomfort settling on your face, and he gives you a small, sad smile. “I don’t mean to burden you with all of this, but Jungkook deserves to know that not everyone is like his father. He deserves to know that there’s kindness left in the world.”

You can feel the weight of his words sinking into you. You nod, but inside, your heart is heavy, weighed down with the knowledge that Jungkook, despite all of his strength, has carried so much more than anyone should have to. And yet, he’s still standing. Still fighting.

“I’ll make sure he knows,” you finally say, your voice steady, though your heart feels like it’s shattering all over again. You have to be strong for him, just like he’s been strong for everyone else.

Sukchul looks at you, nodding in approval. “I know you will.”

After a few moments of heavy silence, you finally find the courage to ask the question that’s been gnawing at you. “Do you know where his father is now?” you ask, your voice tight, betraying the anxiety building in your chest. The thought of Jungkook ever facing that man again—of him being forced to confront the one person who had caused him so much pain—was unbearable. You could never imagine allowing that to happen. Jungkook deserved so much more than to face the one who had made him feel weak, worthless, and alone.

Sukchul scoffs, a harsh sound that seems to come from deep within his chest. “Far away from here,” he mutters, as if the thought of that man is enough to ignite the anger and frustration that Jungkook has carried with him for so long. The old man rolls his eyes, a bitter expression clouding his face. “After he…” He stops for a moment, closing his eyes as if to shield himself from the painful memory, his hands pausing mid-air. For a brief second, it feels like the room itself holds its breath, waiting for him to continue.

“He just left,” Sukchul finally says, his voice breaking slightly. “Didn’t care that his son would have to grow up alone, without a home. Without anyone to protect him. He just disappeared into the night, like a coward.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You already knew the man was terrible, but hearing Sukchul’s account of his abandonment, of the way he let his son suffer without a second thought, makes you feel a surge of anger you didn’t know you had. It’s a cruel thing to do to any child—to just walk away and leave them to face the world with nothing but empty promises and the ghosts of a broken past.

A sense of sadness fills you, the reality of Jungkook’s past hitting you even harder now. How could anyone do that to their child? To leave them like that, abandoned and unwanted? The injustice of it all stirs something deep within you—something protective. You would never allow Jungkook to feel that kind of abandonment again. You would never let that man back into his life.

The evening air was cool against your skin, but the warmth in your chest kept you steady as you walked, your thoughts consumed with Jungkook. It was like the universe had shifted slightly, and now, no matter what happened, it seemed like every thought, every breath was centered on him. He was everywhere, woven into the very fabric of your days, more than just a presence—he was a part of you, a beautiful part that had attached itself to you in ways you never imagined.

You had never believed in love at first sight, or any of the romantic notions that people dreamed about, but with Jungkook, everything felt different. He had snuck into your life quietly at first, but now, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to want him close. To need him there, to be near him. It was like he had filled spaces inside of you that you didn’t even know were empty. And even though you had been through so much together already, you knew you were only just beginning to learn about each other. Yet, despite that, you already felt something strong, something undeniable, growing between you two.

You paused in front of a beautiful garden, the delicate, fragrant flowers stretched out before you, their colors vibrant against the evening sky. The scene was peaceful, untouched, as if this little part of the world belonged to no one but the flowers and the stars above. It was the perfect place to find something for Jungkook—something meaningful, something that would show him what you felt inside. You may not have money anymore, but you knew the one thing you could give him that would speak volumes: a gesture, a symbol of your love.

With slow, deliberate steps, you moved forward, heart pounding a little faster with every inch closer you got to the garden. The flowers, in all their glory, seemed to call to you, and you could feel the same quiet, certain energy of the night wrapping itself around you. You weren’t sure what kind of flowers you were looking for, but something about the idea of picking one felt right. It felt simple. Pure. Just like the first night you shared together under the mountains, with only the moon above to witness your connection. That was when everything started to change. That was when you first felt the deep, unspoken bond begin to form between you.

You glanced around, making sure no one was watching, hoping your luck would hold out. The thought of being caught didn’t scare you, but the idea of ruining something so small and meaningful just because you took it for granted made you cautious. The garden, despite its beauty, was not yours, and you knew it was wrong to take something from it without permission. Still, the feeling in your chest pushed you forward.

Reaching down, you carefully plucked a soft purple flower from the ground, its petals delicate between your fingers. It felt like a promise, like a piece of your heart in bloom, a small offering to someone who had unknowingly grown so deep within you. It wasn’t about the flower itself, but the gesture. The thought behind it.

You couldn’t wait to see his face again, to hand him this small, beautiful token of your feelings. You just knew he’d appreciate it. You hoped it would be a moment you’d both remember.

And as you made your way back to the motel, flower in hand, you couldn’t help but feel that familiar flutter in your stomach. A feeling that you knew by now was love, the kind that was growing, blooming, and maybe, just maybe, it would last.

As you stepped in front of the motel, the last thing you expected was for someone to collide into you, knocking you off balance. The impact was sudden, forcing the small flower from your grasp, sending it fluttering to the ground. Before you could even reach for it, a heavy boot came down, crushing it beneath careless steps.

You froze, your lips parting in silent disbelief as you watched the petals crumple under the weight of the stranger’s stride. He didn’t stop, didn’t even spare you a glance. Just kept walking, his broad shoulders cutting through the dimly lit hallway, his presence an unmovable force that paid no mind to anything in its way.

Your first instinct was to snap at him, to demand he at least acknowledge what he had done. But you knew better. Men like him—cold, indifferent, towering with an air of entitlement—never bothered with consequences. They moved through life unchallenged, their carelessness something the world had long since learned to excuse.

So, you bit your tongue, swallowing down the sharp words burning in your throat. It wasn’t worth it. Not here, not now. You had never been the type to cower in front of Jungkook, had no trouble standing your ground with him, but with a man like this? A stranger whose power came not from love but from the silent threat of what he could do? No. You weren’t stupid.

You simply clenched your fists at your sides and watched as he disappeared out the door. Moments later, the roar of an engine filled the air, his car speeding off into the night. The tires kicked up loose gravel, a few stray stones skidding toward you, as if mocking the way you had been so effortlessly dismissed.

Only when the dust had settled did you finally allow yourself to exhale. Slowly, you crouched down, reaching for what was left of the flower. It was ruined now—the delicate petals torn, the stem bent and broken beyond saving. The small, simple gift you had wanted to give Jungkook had been destroyed in a matter of seconds, crushed underfoot like it had never mattered at all.

“Motherfucker,” you muttered under your breath, the words tasting bitter as they left your lips.

You stared at the flower for a long moment before finally letting it go, watching as the wind carried the damaged petals away. There was no salvaging it, no way to undo what had been done. But maybe, just maybe, it didn’t matter. Maybe Jungkook didn’t need a flower to understand what you felt for him.

With that thought, you straightened your back, brushing the dust from your clothes before stepping forward. Whatever tonight had in store for you, one thing remained certain—you couldn’t wait to see him again.

The door to your room was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of darkness spilling into the dimly lit hallway. Your steps faltered as a cold dread crept up your spine. Something felt wrong.

Your breath hitched when your gaze dropped to the doorknob—small droplets of blood smeared across the metal surface, stark and unforgiving against the cheap, peeling paint.

For a moment, you couldn’t move.

Your stomach twisted painfully, nausea creeping up your throat as your mind raced through the worst possibilities. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to turn around, to run, but your feet betrayed you, moving forward before you could think twice.

With trembling fingers, you pushed the door open, careful not to touch the bloodstained knob.

“Jung—” His name barely made it past your lips, coming out in a shaky whisper before you heard it—low, pained groans and quiet curses slipping through the partially closed bathroom door.

Panic surged through you, your heartbeat deafening in your ears as you rushed forward.

Your breath caught in your throat the moment you saw him. Jungkook was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the shower with his legs stretched out in front of him. His bare chest rose and fell heavily, glistening with sweat. His hands—his hands were covered in blood.

Your eyes traveled lower, stomach churning at the deep gash across his right side. A needle and thread were clutched between his fingers, the makeshift stitches half-done, his skin raw and angry where the wound split open.

He lifted his head at your sudden presence, his dark eyes hazy but sharp, assessing your expression.

“Shit,” he muttered, pausing in his work as he took in your pale face.

You dropped to your knees beside him, your backpack slipping from your shoulder, forgotten in the urgency of the moment. Your hands hovered uselessly over his wound, shaking too much to even reach for him.

“What the hell happened?” Your voice wavered, but you barely noticed.

Jungkook let out a breathy chuckle, though it was strained, his lips twisting in something that wasn’t quite amusement. “It’s nothing, sugar. Just a scratch.”

Your stomach flipped. A scratch? His skin was split open, bleeding freely, and he called it a scratch?

Your fingers twitched, aching to press against the wound, to help in any way you could—but the sight of so much blood made your head spin. The coppery scent was overwhelming, and suddenly your stomach lurched, bile rising in your throat.

Jungkook must’ve noticed, because his bloodied hand reached for yours, gripping it weakly. “Don’t pass out on me,” he murmured, a teasing edge to his voice despite the obvious pain he was in.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay grounded. You had to push past the nausea. You had to help him.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you met his gaze. “Let me do it.”

You had a million questions running through your mind—where had he been? What had happened? Who had done this to him? But none of them mattered right now. Right now, all you cared about was stopping the bleeding.

With shaky fingers, you grabbed the needle, barely holding it at the tips to the blood. Jungkook’s breath was ragged, but he still managed to guide you through it, his voice tight with pain.

The first attempt was disastrous.

As soon as the needle pierced his torn skin, Jungkook let out a strangled groan, his hand instinctively gripping your wrist in a bruising hold. His body tensed, muscles flexing under the strain, and he hissed out a string of curses that made your heart clench with guilt.

“Shit, fuck—!” His jaw clenched, breath coming out in sharp gasps.

“I’m sorry, Kook, I’m so sorry—” Your voice cracked as you tried again, forcing yourself to stay steady despite the way your hands trembled. The sight of his blood, the sound of his pain—it made you want to break down.

But you couldn’t.

So you sucked in a deep breath, gritted your teeth, and pushed through the nausea pooling in your stomach.

You had to do this.

Swallowing back your nerves, you guided the needle through his skin, this time steadier, smoother. Jungkook sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t protest.

“You’re doing good, sugar,” he murmured, voice hoarse but laced with reassurance. “Just keep going.”

And you did.

As soon as you finished stitching his wound, you dropped the needle onto the floor like it had burned you, your fingers shaking from the tension. Without a second thought, you yanked your t-shirt over your head, using the fabric to wipe away the blood smeared across his stomach. You hated the sight of it—the deep red against his skin, the way it felt warm and sticky under your touch. It made your stomach twist painfully.

Jungkook exhaled a ragged breath, his head falling back against the cold tiles of the shower wall. His whole body trembled, his muscles rigid as he fought against the pain.

“Jungkook,” you called softly, but his eyes remained shut. Panic flared in your chest. You gave his cheek a couple of light slaps, trying to keep him alert. “Hey, don’t pass out on me—stay with me.”

A small, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his lips before he forced his eyes open, lids heavy with exhaustion. His hand found your bare waist, his grip weak but reassuring.

“I’m good, baby,” he murmured, though the way his body swayed against yours said otherwise. “Just… gimme a second.”

“Can you stand up?” you asked, your voice softer now.

He nodded sluggishly, and without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his waist, bracing yourself as he leaned against you. His weight was almost too much, but you gritted your teeth and held firm.

“Alright, come on,” you encouraged, guiding him out of the bathroom step by step.

You barely made it to the bed before Jungkook collapsed onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, his body sinking into the worn-out sheets. You stayed by his side, still holding onto him, as if letting go meant he’d disappear.

You guided his head onto your chest, and he settled against you without hesitation, as if this was where he belonged. His left arm wrapped loosely around your waist, his breath warm against your skin. The weight of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, was the only thing keeping you grounded. His soft fingertips brushed against yours, a quiet reminder that he was here—that he was still breathing, still alive.

But the thought of what could have happened if you had arrived just two minutes later made your stomach clench painfully.

You closed your eyes, your fingers gently combing through his silk hair as your mind wandered. If you were to lose him, if he were to slip through your fingers like smoke, you knew you wouldn’t survive it. The thought alone was unbearable.

Then, your mind drifted back to Friday.

Your gaze flickered down to his face, the bruises darkening his skin, the way his eyelashes rested so delicately against his cheek despite the pain he had endured. He looked so soft like this, so human. How could anyone want to hurt him? How could someone look at Jungkook—someone whose heart was so big, whose presence was so warm—and wish to kill him over something as meaningless as money?

His life was worth more than that. More than anything.

Your grip around him tightened instinctively, pulling him impossibly closer. You blinked rapidly, trying to push back the tears threatening to spill, but they burned in the corners of your eyes, stubborn and unrelenting.

If Jungkook reminded you of a flower, it would be a rose.

A beautiful, delicate thing—so vibrant, so captivating—that you would reach out and take it into your hands, breathing in its scent, feeling the softness of its petals. But roses had thorns, and Jungkook was no exception. He had built his own armor, layer after layer, sharp and unforgiving, to protect himself from a world that had tried to crush him too many times. And if you weren’t careful, if you held on too tightly, those thorns would cut you open.

And yet, knowing all of this, you still couldn’t let him go.

Your night had been restless, haunted by the lingering fear that clung to you like a second skin. Every time you drifted off, you would wake up again—eyes immediately searching for him, ears straining to catch the soft rhythm of his breath. You held your own breath each time, waiting, listening, only allowing yourself to exhale when you heard the steady rise and fall of his chest. It felt almost maternal, like checking on a newborn, making sure he was still there, still alive.

But now, sleep was out of reach.

The thought that someone could come and hurt him again—or worse, hurt you both—left your stomach twisted in knots. You stared at the ceiling, willing yourself to push the thoughts away, but they only pressed harder against your mind.

Beside you, Jungkook shifted, a low sigh slipping past his lips as he blinked an eye open. His voice was rough with sleep when he spoke. “Can’t sleep?”

You hummed in response, turning your head to look at him. He pushed himself up, sitting against the headboard as he turned on the small bedside lamp. The dim glow softened his bruised features, but it didn’t ease the tightness in your chest.

“Why?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.

A scoff left your lips. Sometimes, you hated how he tried to brush things off, how he pretended to be unfazed, like his own life didn’t carry the same weight as everyone else’s. And more than that, you hated the world for making him believe it.

“Because I came home and you were covered in blood, Jungkook,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended.

He only shrugged, leaning onto his side with a small wince, propping his head up with his hand. “I’ve had worse, you know?”

Your jaw clenched. “I don’t care. You still got hurt, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

For a second, he just looked at you, then a lazy grin spread across his face—one of those stupid, playful grins that usually made you want to kiss him. But right now, it only made you more frustrated.

“You’re cute,” he teased, his fingers tracing absent patterns over your stomach. “You care that much about me?”

You took a slow, shaky breath, staring at where his fingers danced over your skin. When you finally answered, your voice was quieter but firm.

“Yes. I do.”

His lips traced a slow path along your shoulder, leaving warmth in their wake. You shivered under his touch, but before he could go any further—before you lost yourself completely in the haze of him—you spoke.

“Who was it?”

Jungkook sighed and flopped onto his back, fingers absentmindedly drumming against his stomach. “Some asshole I got into trouble with,” he muttered, his voice laced with nonchalance.

Your brows furrowed. “Some asshole?” You turned onto your side to face him, searching his expression for anything that might give you a clearer answer. “How many men have you gotten yourself into trouble with, Jungkook?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s nothing, really. You know how they are—bruise their ego just a little, and suddenly, they act like you’ve declared war on their entire bloodline.”

You frowned, suspicion creeping into your voice. “And what did you do this time? Stole from him, too?”

The words had barely left your mouth before Jungkook shot up, the casual demeanor melting off him in an instant. His dark eyes locked onto yours, filled with something sharp and unforgiving.

“For fuck’s sake,” he snapped. “So it’s always me, huh?”

You opened your mouth, ready to explain that you hadn’t meant it that way, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“It’s them,” he bit out. “They’re the problem. The rich bastards like your daddy.” His voice dripped with mockery, the words landing like a slap.

Your spine stiffened, and anger coiled hot in your chest. “Maybe you should be more careful,” you shot back, sitting up now, your pulse hammering in frustration. “You act like the whole world is against you, but—”

You watched as he threw the sheets off himself, standing up despite the pain that made him clutch his stomach. His eyes burned with something sharp, something reckless.

“I won’t let myself get walked over like you did your whole life.”

His words cut deeper than any wound.

The words echoed in your chest, setting fire to every nerve in your body.

You shot up from the bed, heart hammering against your ribs as anger surged through you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head as if you were too naïve to understand. “It means I won’t sit back and take shit from people just because they have power. I won’t bow my head to some rich asshole who thinks money makes him untouchable. Not like—”

He stopped himself, but you knew what he was about to say. Not like you.

Your blood ran cold. “You think I had a choice?” you spat, voice laced with disbelief.

Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He hadn’t lived in your skin, hadn’t spent years learning how to survive in a world that never let you win.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be powerless,” you shot back, voice shaking.

He let out a bitter laugh. “Are you serious? You think I don’t know what it’s like?” His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “I grew up with nothing. I had no home, no family, no safety. My own father beat me bloody and left me to rot, he killed my mom because he felt like it, and you wanna talk to me about power?”

You swallowed hard, your anger twisting into something else. Something closer to guilt. But the fire inside you refused to die.

“You don’t get it,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Survival isn’t just about fighting, Jungkook. Sometimes, it’s about knowing when not to.”

His eyes softened for a second—just a second—but then his walls shot back up, and he scoffed. “Yeah? And what has that ever gotten you?”

You clenched your fists, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “It got me here. With you.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. For the first time since the argument started, he looked at you like he wasn’t sure what to say.

For a moment, the room was silent except for your ragged breaths. Then, without another word, he turned his back to you, running a hand through his hair.

“I need some air,” he muttered, grabbing his hoodie from the chair.

Your stomach dropped. “Jungkook—”

But he was already walking to the door. And when it shut behind him, you felt like he took all the air with him.

You pulled the sheets over yourself again, as if they could shield you from the cold that had nothing to do with the breeze slipping through the cracks of the motel window. The air felt heavier now, thick with the weight of words that had cut too deep, leaving wounds neither of you knew how to tend to.

You knew you’d go to him eventually. You always did. No matter how heated the argument, no matter how much his words stung, something in you would always pull you back to him. But right now? Right now, you couldn’t face him.

You understood why he was angry. Jungkook had never been given the privilege of stability, of safety. He’d fought for everything, carved his place in the world with clenched fists and bloodied knuckles. And in his eyes, you—no matter how much you had suffered—would always be someone who had been given a life he never had.

But that didn’t mean his words hadn’t hurt. It didn’t mean he had the right to make your struggles feel small. He knew what it was like to live in a world that saw you as something lesser, something disposable.

You curled into yourself, biting your lip to keep the emotions at bay. The night stretched on, silent and still. Somewhere outside, Jungkook was probably pacing, cursing under his breath, maybe kicking at the gravel in frustration.

And eventually, you would go to him.

Eventually, you would remind him that you weren’t his enemy.

You don’t even make it two minutes before grabbing your sweater and denim, the cool air pressing against your skin as you step outside. Jungkook is sitting on the edge of the small stone wall in front of the motel, his fingers curled around a cigarette, smoke drifting in the night air.

The moment you step closer, his eyes ignores you, and you can see the tension in his face. You can’t help but scoff, “Very mature, Jungkook.”

“Yeah, maybe I should ask for some education from them if I’m so—” he starts, but before he can finish, you jump on the wall beside him, shooting him a pointed glare. He immediately gets the message and shuts up, the smirk that had been tugging at his lips fading.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s slowing down, the world falling away just to make space for the two of you.

“Im sorry,” you whisper softly, your voice breaking the silence between you. “I shouldn’t have asked you to shut down when I know how much it hurts.”

Jungkook’s body stiffens slightly before he throws the cigarette on the ground. He then shifts, moving his head to rest gently on yours, and for a moment, everything feels right again, as if this is exactly where you both needed to be.

“I’m sorry too,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. You can hear the sincerity in his words, feel the weight of them pressing against you as much as the silence that had hung between you earlier.

In the stillness of the night, you both let your mistakes hang in the air, unresolved yet somehow understood.

Jungkook turns your head gently, his lips pressing against yours in a soft, fleeting kiss. It isn’t rushed or demanding—just a reassurance, a silent promise that you’ll both be okay.

You’re not used to this kind of gentleness. The idea that problems could be solved without shouting, without fists, without bruises. That love could be given without fear. Your parents had always shown you that things were fixed with a slap, not a kiss. But with Jungkook, it was different. It was easy.

As you both make your way back to the room, his fingers laced through yours, a quiet warmth settles in your chest. But just as you reach the door, your body suddenly tenses.

Your heart stops.

Your grip on Jungkook’s hand tightens as your breath catches in your throat.

Because there, just a few steps away, walking out of the motel in the dead of night—

Is your father.

Jungkook felt it immediately—the way your entire body stiffened, how your fingers gripped his with a force that was almost desperate. Your breath hitched, your eyes wide and unblinking as you stared at the tall figure walking ahead.

Your father moved with his head hung low, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top, his steps unhurried but purposeful. It was clear he didn’t want to be seen.

But you saw him.

And suddenly, as much as you had tried to ignore it, as much as you had spent years avoiding the thought—there was no doubt anymore.

He was like them.

Like every man who saw women as disposable.

Like every man who took what he wanted and walked away without looking back.

Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat. Because you knew. Even without seeing the room he had come from, even without hearing the exchange of money or the whispered goodbyes—you knew.

Your father was no different.

You turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer, your breath coming out in short, uneven gasps. The weight of it—the truth, the disgust, the betrayal—pressed down on your chest, suffocating.

Jungkook pulled you into him, nestling you against the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around you protectively. The moment the first tear slipped down your cheek and dampened his skin, he felt his own heart shatter.

His jaw clenched as his dark eyes followed the man’s retreating figure, his hands twitching at his sides. If you weren’t here, trembling, vulnerable in his arms, he wouldn’t have thought twice. He would’ve walked straight up to that man and made him feel just an ounce of the pain he had inflicted.

Even though your father was nothing but a stranger to him, Jungkook already knew what kind of man he was. The type who would look down on someone like him. Who would scoff at his anger, his presence, his existence.

But Jungkook didn’t care.

He hated the man.

More than before.

More than he hated most men.

Because he had seen what that man had done to you. And Jungkook could never forgive that.

The day dragged on endlessly, every second stretching into what felt like an eternity. The usual warmth you found in working with Sukchul had faded, replaced by a dull, persistent ache in your chest. It was Wednesday now, and for two days straight, your mind had been consumed by thoughts of your father. But more than him, you thought of your mother.

Did she know?

Did she turn a blind eye, or had she convinced herself of a lie to keep surviving?

The rhythmic ticking of the clock echoed in your ears, a reminder of time slipping away. No matter how much you tried to push it from your mind, Friday loomed closer. And with it, Jungkook’s fate.

You had gathered a decent amount of money. Enough to give him a chance. But what about Jungkook? He was still so vague about his job, refusing to give you details no matter how many times you asked. The only thing he kept repeating was how well it paid.

You trusted him. You really did.

But you also knew that blind trust wasn’t enough—not when his life was at stake.

And you were done staying in the dark.

Whatever he was doing, you had to know. Because if he was putting himself in danger, you weren’t going to stand by and let it happen.

Jungkook had been acting strange.

Leaving before you even had the chance to wake up. Coming home when you were already in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying—and failing—to fall asleep.

Your mind was a battlefield of worst-case scenarios, endless possibilities circling in your head like vultures, each one worse than the last. And the only thing that ever silenced them was his presence beside you.

But lately, even that had become a rarity.

The only time you caught a glimpse of him was when he would slip into the bathroom, careful not to make a sound. He thought you were asleep, but you weren’t. You would watch him through the mirror, noting the fresh bruises blooming on his skin, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers trembled slightly as he splashed water onto his face.

And it was killing you.

That was why, the moment you woke up that morning to find his side of the bed cold and empty, you made a decision.

You were going to follow him.

Sukchul hadn’t questioned it when you told him you wouldn’t be coming in today. The moment you mentioned Jungkook, worry flashed in his eyes, but he only nodded.

“Go,” he said simply, as if he understood everything without needing an explanation.

And so you did.

You followed him from a safe distance, careful to keep your steps light and your presence unnoticed.

Jungkook walked with purpose, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his posture tense. Every few steps, he glanced around, his sharp eyes scanning the streets as if he expected someone to be watching.

He was cautious. Too cautious.

It only made your anxiety grow.

What was he so afraid of? Who was he looking out for?

And more importantly—what was he about to do?

You watched as Jungkook disappeared into the alleyway, your heart pounding in your chest. You hesitated, afraid that if you followed too closely, he’d catch you. So you stayed put, counting the minutes.

One… two… three…

When he finally emerged, something was different.

His backpack was gone. And so were his clothes.

The black hoodie he had been wearing was replaced by a fitted long-sleeve t-shirt, and his usual denim had been swapped for a pair of black trousers. Only his boots remained the same.

You swallowed hard as you watched him climb the stairs of a random apartment complex, his movements quick and precise, like he knew exactly where he was going.

Your pulse quickened as you rushed into the alleyway, eyes darting around for any trace of Jungkook. Then, you spotted it—his backpack, carelessly discarded into a rusted bin like it meant nothing. A cold pit formed in your stomach as you hesitated for a second before reaching inside, fingers fumbling through the fabric. His hoodie, his jeans—everything he had been wearing earlier.

Before you could process the unsettling thought, voices echoed from the stairwell above. You barely had time to duck behind the bin, pressing your back against the cold wall as you strained to listen.

“Our typical motherfucker,” an unfamiliar voice sneered, his tone dripping with amusement. Laughter followed, mingling with another—Jungkook’s. The sound sent a shiver down your spine.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stay still, even as your mind screamed for answers.

“Do what you want with him. She doesn’t give us anything special to follow,” the man continued, his words cryptic, yet ominous.

Your fingers curled into Jungkook’s hoodie, knuckles turning white. She? Who were they talking about? And him—who was the man they were discussing?

Then, Jungkook’s voice cut through the tension. Steady, indifferent. “Consider it already done.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t recognize him in that moment. There was no warmth, no hesitation—only cold certainty. It terrified you.

You waited, pressing yourself against the cold metal bin, your heart pounding in your chest. The voices above grew quieter, and you risked a glance toward the staircase just in time to see the unfamiliar man disappear into the apartment complex.

He was young—not much older than Jungkook—but old enough to have seen things, to have done things. He carried himself with a kind of confidence that came with experience, but not the kind built from a stable life. No wedding ring, no signs of a man with a family waiting for him at home. Just another lost soul in this world, much like Jungkook.

The silence stretched on, two minutes of nothing but the distant hum of the city.

It was now or never.

Taking a deep breath, you carefully stepped out of your hiding spot, your body tense as if expecting someone to jump out at you. Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up, your only goal now to find him. You had to.

It wasn’t hard to spot him amidst the busy crowd. His dark hair stood out, and his black outfit seemed out of place among the well-dressed people around him. He looked like he was trying to blend in, but his attire only made him stick out even more. He wasn’t trying to hide. His gaze flicked down to a paper in his hand, eyes scanning it before he kept walking, heading toward a neighborhood that reminded you of your old one. A place that felt familiar but distant now.

He came to a stop in front of a house. It was tucked away, hidden by overgrown bushes, and he crouched down, his movements quick and purposeful. You stood there, your breath catching in your throat as you watched him unzip his backpack and pull out something that made your heart skip a beat.

He took out a shoulder holster with a practiced ease, strapping it onto his chest. The gun, heavy and cold, gleamed in his hand for a brief moment before he slid it into place. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. The action was so casual, like it was second nature to him now.

Jungkook, who had always seemed so full of contradictions—so gentle and yet capable of such violence. It was like watching someone you loved slowly lose themselves, piece by piece, to a world you didn’t understand.

You felt the urge to approach him, to call out and tell him to stop, to beg him to leave whatever this was behind, but you couldn’t. Not now. Not when you saw the man he was becoming in front of you.

Instead, you stood frozen, watching from behind the corner of a building, your heart heavy with fear and a sense of loss you couldn’t shake off. You wanted to save him, but you didn’t know how.

Jungkook never had a say in his own life. His father never let him forget how weak he was, how useless he seemed to be, and how he wasn’t manly enough. The words were like daggers, sharper because they came from the one person he should have been able to look up to, to feel safe with. He was only eleven when his father’s cruel words first cut deep.

But it wasn’t just his father who shaped his world. His mother, gentle and loving, always knew when he needed her most. She would be there, a soft light in the darkness of his father’s criticisms. Whenever he cried, feeling small and lost, she would hold him close, reassuring him that it was okay to be sensitive, to feel deeply. “Don’t tell your dad,” she would whisper, “and let’s go get ice cream.” And so, with a small hand clasped in hers, they would slip away from the house, the weight of his father’s harshness momentarily forgotten.

They shared secrets, laughter, and tears over ice cream, the simple joys of childhood that Jungkook would cling to, knowing they were the only moments where he didn’t have to be someone else. His mother taught him that he was allowed to feel, that his gentleness wasn’t something to hide or be ashamed of. It was something his father despised, but to Jungkook, it was the one thing that made him feel human, feel real, even in the face of all the hate he received from the person who should have been his protector.

Jungkook’s hatred toward men began when he was just seven years old, the first time his father’s fist landed on him. It wasn’t just a bruise on his skin; it was a scar that dug deeper into his heart. From that moment on, he began to associate every man, every male figure, with the same cruelty. His teachers, classmates, even strangers on the street—whenever they got too close, his body would tense, and he would start crying, clutching his thumb tightly against his mouth as if that small act could offer him any comfort, any sense of safety in a world full of men he no longer trusted.

His mother, always the protector, would rush to the school whenever his cries grew uncontrollable. He had become a disruption in the classroom, but it wasn’t his fault—how could it be? His emotions had a way of spilling out when the fear took over, when the memories of his father’s abuse resurfaced. She’d gather him in her arms, her touch gentle as she ran a hand through his hair, soothing him in the only way she knew how. Then, without any explanation to the teachers, she’d take him home. She couldn’t bear to tell them the truth. She couldn’t risk them taking him away, the only thing that kept her from falling apart. Jungkook, despite everything, was her only hope, her only reason to keep going.

She knew the truth, deep down. She was acting out of fear, selfishly keeping her son close because he was the one thing in that house that made her feel like she wasn’t completely alone. She could never admit it, though. She never let anyone see how desperate she was to protect him, even if it meant staying in a home that was more prison than sanctuary. Every time she took him away from school, every time she shielded him from the world outside, it was because she didn’t want to risk losing him—her child, her hope, her salvation.

She had finally reached her breaking point. After years of enduring the torment, the silence, and the fear, she couldn’t take it anymore. That night, Jungkook’s sobs pierced through the thin walls of their small, crumbling home. His fragile heart, always so sensitive, had been crushed once again by a classmate’s cruel words. He had always been so easy to hurt, so vulnerable to the world around him. And now, in the midst of the quiet night, his cries filled the house, echoing in his mother’s ears as she sat in the dim light of the living room.

His father, meanwhile, was oblivious to the pain his son was enduring. He sat slumped on the couch, a can of beer in his hand, the bottle nearly empty as he let the alcohol do the talking. He could hear his son’s wails, but they did nothing to stir his conscience. His response was anger.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his words slurring as he tossed his beer glass against the wall. The loud crash made Jungkook’s mother flinch, her body instinctively tensing at the sound. Her eyes were wide with panic, but she couldn’t seem to find the strength to move. She was so used to the violence, the rage, but every time it happened, it shattered her all over again. She bit her nails, trying to distract herself from the helplessness creeping in.

Jungkook’s cries only seemed to fuel his father’s anger. He shot up from the couch, his body stiff with rage, and as he stumbled toward the door to their son’s room, he spat, “I swear I’ll kill him.”

The words hit her like a slap. In his drunken haze, he was threatening their son—her precious boy. The thought of him going into that room, storming in with the same fury he always carried, was too much to bear.

In a surge of desperation, she stood up, her legs shaky, and rushed to intercept him. With hands trembling but determined, she grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to hold him back. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, “It’s my fault he’s like this…”

Her eyes welled up with tears, her chest tight with helplessness. She couldn’t let him hurt their son again. Her heart was breaking for both of them. She had always been the one to protect him, but this time, the realization hit hard. She had kept him safe, but she had done it by shielding him too much, by not stepping in sooner, by not protecting him from the monster in their home. And now, it was coming to a head.

“I protected him too much,” she whispered through a choked breath, her words falling heavy between them. “Kill me!” she suddenly shouted, her voice raw with anguish. “If someone has to die, it’s me!”

Her heart ached with the weight of her plea. She would take it all if it meant saving him, if it meant saving her son. The anger, the frustration, the helplessness—all of it could be on her. If it meant keeping Jungkook safe, she’d sacrifice herself. But instead, her husband just stared at her coldly, the alcohol still clouding his judgment.

Without another word, he left the living room, leaving her standing there, her legs weak beneath her. Her body trembled as she heard the door close behind him, but she knew this moment of peace would not last. It never did. It was only a matter of time before he would come back for their son again.

With the echo of his footsteps fading away, she let out a long, shaky breath, feeling the tension in her shoulders begin to release. But it wasn’t over. It would never be over until they were away from this place. She rushed to Jungkook’s room, where the muffled sounds of his cries filled her ears, and found him sitting on the bed, his small frame trembling. His eyes were wide, filled with confusion and fear, his cheeks flushed from crying.

“Mom?” he whispered, his voice fragile, like he wasn’t sure whether to expect comfort or more pain. His once bright eyes were now bloodshot and swollen from crying.

“Baby,” she croaked, crouching down beside him, her hands shaking as she gently touched his face. Her heart broke all over again at the sight of him, at how small he seemed, at how much pain he carried for someone so young.

Without another word, she reached for his little backpack and began packing it with the things that would bring him comfort. His favorite bunny plushie, the one his father always mocked him for carrying, the one he held onto for dear life every night when his father’s rage threatened to engulf him. She stuffed it into the bag along with a few other familiar things—his drawing book, a set of colored pencils, a worn-out blanket.

“Do you want to go eat ice cream?” she asked, forcing a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She needed to give him something, anything to cling to.

Jungkook, still sniffling, nodded, his eyes wide and uncertain, but he took her hand and followed her out the door. His trust in her, in the only person who had ever truly protected him, was unshaken. And as they walked down the hallway, heading for the door that would lead them to a temporary escape, she promised herself that she would do whatever it took to keep him safe. Even if it meant leaving everything behind.

She would protect him—no matter the cost.

Together, they made their way to the Han’s house. The Han family had always been kind to them. Sukchul, the grandfather, was the only man Jungkook seemed to have any trust in, and Hyerim, his wife, had always treated them with such warmth. In a world where men had mostly let them down, the Hans were a beacon of normalcy, a reminder that not all men were like the one she was trying to escape.

When they arrived at their modest home, she didn’t need to say much. As soon as she knocked, Hyerim opened the door, her face immediately reflecting concern as she saw the state of her and Jungkook.

Without hesitation, she explained what was happening, and although Hyerim didn’t ask for details, her eyes spoke volumes. She could see the fear, the desperation in her friend’s face, and without another word, Hyerim handed her the keys to the car. She knew the urgency in her voice, the panic that was barely held together by the need to protect her son.

“Take care of him,” Hyerim said softly, her voice laced with understanding. “You know you can always come here.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat tight with gratitude.

Jungkook didn’t speak a word as they got into the car. He climbed into the passenger seat silently, his eyes blank, too exhausted and hurt to ask what was going on. She could feel the weight of his silence, how heavy the air between them had become in such a short time. She could only imagine what he was thinking, how much he was trying to hold it together. He was only a child, and yet, he had carried more weight than any child should ever have to bear.

As she started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, her foot pressed hard on the gas. The car shot forward, the tires screeching slightly as she sped through the familiar streets. Her heart was racing, the thudding in her chest a constant reminder of what was at stake.

Her eyes flicked over to Jungkook every few moments, trying to read him, trying to figure out what was going on behind the blank stare. But he wouldn’t look at her. He kept his gaze straight ahead, his hands clenched in his lap, his fingers twitching from the anxiety. She wished she could tell him everything would be okay, but she didn’t know if she could promise that. She didn’t know if anything would be okay until they were far away from here, until they were safe.

Jungkook never imagined his twelfth birthday would be spent in such a grim, cramped motel room—dust settling on the worn furniture and the stale smell of the air making his stomach churn. It wasn’t the day he had dreamed of, and it certainly wasn’t what he deserved. But in that moment, as he sat there on the edge of the bed, his heart softened just a little when his mother stepped into the room, holding a small cupcake, the candle flickering brightly on top of it.

“Happy birthday to you, my Kookie,” she said, her voice a little shaky but filled with love. The bright smile she gave him was the only thing that kept the room from feeling completely bleak, though the exhaustion in her eyes couldn’t be hidden. She tried not to let her mind wander to the price she had to pay to be here with him, the sacrifice it took to rent that bed for the night, to get that cupcake and candle. Every penny counted, and every smile from Jungkook was a reminder of the reason she kept going, even when the weight of the world was crushing her.

She had hoped, for his birthday, they could at least sleep somewhere safe, somewhere clean—something that felt like normal for once. The car had been their home for the last week, and Jungkook’s complaints had become a constant soundtrack in the background of her thoughts. He hated it. She hated it too, but there was little she could do.

She couldn’t work a traditional job, not with the way things were. So, she did what she had to. She gave what she could. Her body, her warmth, her time—anything to scrape together enough for them to survive. She tried not to think about the toll it took on her, tried not to think about how the men who walked away after they were done with her left her feeling empty inside. But it was worth it. Every single time Jungkook’s smile lit up, every time she saw him happy for a moment—she told herself it was worth it.

And now, watching him blow out the candle, making a wish with a shy grin, she realized something. No matter where they were, as long as they were together, there was still a kind of magic in the moment. For just a second, they were free from the weight of their circumstances.

Jungkook’s eyes met hers, and in that brief exchange, she saw the love and trust he had for her, despite everything. It made all the sacrifices worth it.

“Thank you, Mom,” he whispered, his voice soft, but the sincerity in it made her heart ache. She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“You’re welcome, baby,” she replied, her voice trembling, but she pushed through it. She smiled at him, a genuine smile this time, because, in this moment, they were okay. For now.

Jungkook grinned, and for the first time in a while, his eyes sparkled with a light that wasn’t dimmed by fear or doubt. That was all she needed. That smile, that moment, was enough to get her through another day.

“Let’s eat it,” she said, grabbing a fork and cutting into the cupcake, the frosting smearing slightly as she handed him the first piece.

Together, they ate, the simple sweetness of the cupcake offering a rare moment of peace in their chaotic world. Even in the worst circumstances, they still had each other. And sometimes, that was all they needed.

The moment the door crashed open, the world seemed to shift into something dark and unrecognizable. His father’s presence filled the room like a storm, overwhelming everything in its path. Jungkook’s mother froze, her body tense with dread, knowing exactly what was coming.

“You fucking slut,” he spat, his words sharp and venomous, as he threw the small table with the cupcake across the room. The sweet, innocent little moment they’d managed to create was shattered instantly, just like everything else in their lives. “How dare you fucking go away from me?” His voice was dripping with disgust and rage, and it wasn’t just directed at her—it was like he hated everything she was, everything she did, everything she tried to be.

Jungkook, his tiny heart pounding with terror, scrambled to hide behind the headboard of the bed. His hands trembled as he pressed them over his ears, trying desperately to block out the sounds, trying to block out the reality of what was happening in front of him. He held his bunny plushie close to his chest.

The shouts, the punches, the cries of pain—all of it blurred into a sickening hum in Jungkook’s ears. He closed his eyes tightly, curling up into himself, hoping somehow that by shutting everything out, he could make it stop. But it didn’t stop. The sound of his mother crying, the muffled thuds of slaps and punches, each one more violent than the last. His heart ached with each passing moment as he cried silently, feeling utterly helpless, knowing that he couldn’t protect her, couldn’t protect himself.

Time seemed to stretch on forever, and it felt like the darkness had swallowed everything whole, leaving only the pain and terror. But then, after what seemed like an eternity, there was a sudden, chilling silence. The shouting stopped. The sounds of the violence ceased, and all that remained was the thudding of his own heart in his chest, a reminder that he was still there, still alive, still hurting.

And then his father appeared in front of him, his face twisted with disdain, his presence looming like a suffocating shadow. Without a word, he walked up to Jungkook, his hand raising before coming down with a hard slap. The force of it left Jungkook reeling, his cheek stinging as he stumbled back. His father didn’t even look at him after that. He just stood there, cold and distant, as if Jungkook’s existence meant nothing at all.

“You’re nothing but a disturbance,” his father muttered, his voice devoid of emotion, as if the words didn’t even matter anymore. “Do whatever you want. You won’t last long in a world like that anyway.”

And with that, he left. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving nothing but a trail of destruction in his wake. Jungkook was left there, in the aftermath, his mother’s lifeless body beside him.

Jungkook’s anger grew like a fire that could never be extinguished. From the moment he witnessed the violence his father inflicted on his mother, he made a vow in the deepest corners of his heart: to never trust another man, to never allow himself to be vulnerable to the kind of cruelty that men like his father carried.

As he grew older, his anger transformed into something else—something sharper, darker. His pain drove him to make himself into something different, something stronger. He covered his body in tattoos, a visual representation of his defiance and his anger. Piercings adorned his face, as if he could pierce through his pain and somehow make it more bearable. The more he changed on the outside, the more he pushed his rage inward. He looked for fights, not just with men who would give him trouble, but with anyone who dared to challenge his perception of himself.

He sought out men to fight, people who he knew would be easy to rile up. He would provoke them, knowing they would retaliate. But the real satisfaction wasn’t in the violence itself—it was in proving to himself that he could overpower them. Jungkook knew, deep down, that when it came to men, he could never let his guard down. He had to be stronger than them. He had to make sure they knew that no matter how hard they tried to break him, he could stand up for himself.

When he threw punches, he always scoffed at how easy it was. Men like them—pompous, self-assured—were nothing more than a punching bag. They relied on their strength to intimidate, but when faced with someone who didn’t flinch at the thought of pain, someone who had endured far worse, they crumbled. Jungkook relished in that moment of power. It felt like justice—like every man who hurt someone would eventually pay for it, in one way or another.

That was how Jungkook found himself standing in the pristine halls of a vast, cold house, the walls echoing with emptiness. His mind was sharp, his thoughts focused solely on the task at hand. It wasn’t his first mission, and it wouldn’t be his last, but something about this one felt different. The woman’s plea had shaken him, her voice cracking under the weight of years of suffering. He’d heard similar stories before—stories that made his blood boil, that set a fire in his chest.

She had barely told him anything—just enough to point him in the right direction, just enough to know where he needed to go and who he had to face. But it was enough. Jungkook didn’t need much more than a name, a face, and the knowledge of what had been done. He didn’t need to ask questions or hear the full story. He already knew what kind of man he was dealing with.

He reached the room where he knew the man would be. His heart didn’t race; it didn’t need to. He wasn’t afraid of men like this anymore. He had learned to channel his anger into something productive. It was about precision, about being the action behind the words that so often fell on deaf ears.

He opened the door without hesitation.

Inside, the man was lounging on a leather chair, a drink in hand, as if he owned the world. His arrogance was palpable, his face one of entitlement. The moment Jungkook stepped in, his eyes lifted, narrowing in confusion, then in recognition.

“Who the hell are you?” the man sneered, his voice dripping with condescension.

Jungkook didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The man’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of Jungkook’s calm, unyielding expression. He could tell something was different—this wasn’t just some random intruder. This was someone with a purpose.

Without warning, Jungkook moved. In an instant, he was standing in front of the man, his fist connecting with the side of his face with a force that sent him crashing to the floor. The man gasped for breath, looking up in disbelief.

The man tried to stand, reaching for a weapon, but Jungkook was quicker. He grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground with ease, his fingers tightening around the fragile neck.

“You’re nothing,” Jungkook whispered, his voice icy cold. “You’re weak. And you’ll never hurt anyone again.”

In his world, women held the power, providing clear instructions on how they wanted things to unfold. Jungkook’s role was simple: to carry out their demands without question. And what they asked for, more often than not, was the death of their husbands.

Without a second thought, he drew the gun from his holster and fired, the bullet finding its mark between the man’s eyes.

Within minutes, other men arrived to handle the aftermath, taking care of the body. That wasn’t his responsibility. He was the one who acted, the one who made sure the job was done. The action-taker.

You ran back to the motel, your heart racing, before you could see him leave the house. You were overwhelmed with confusion. Jungkook, in your eyes, wasn’t capable of violence. Even though you knew he had been in fights before—like that one time in the alley when they took his bike, or when you walked into the motel to find him stitching up his own wounds—he always seemed to be the one getting hurt, not the one causing it.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine. The image you had of him—gentle, kind, a boy who’d never harm anyone—suddenly shattered, leaving you with a cold, unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake.

He came home earlier than usual, his presence filling the room before you even heard his footsteps. The moment his hands slid around your waist, you felt a sudden urge to pull away, but you stayed still, frozen in the warmth of his touch. He was dressed in his usual attire, and that ever-present playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips, as if nothing had changed, as if everything was still light and carefree.

“You had a good day?” His voice was soft, almost soothing, but it didn’t reach you the way it normally did. He plopped down onto the bed casually, kicking off his boots and setting his backpack beside him. His movements were so natural, so familiar, but all you could focus on was the sight of that backpack. The same one that probably carried the remnants of his darker side—the side you hadn’t truly seen, but felt creeping at the edges of your mind.

Your gaze lingered on it, the thought of where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and who he’d become when he wore that outfit—the one that made him capable of violence—made your stomach twist with a sense of dread. It was all too much. The image of the gentle, playful Jungkook you thought you knew was starting to crack, splintering into something darker, something you hadn’t expected.

“Sugar?” His voice cut through your thoughts, a note of concern creeping in as he noticed your unusual silence. He furrowed his brows, a frown beginning to form. “What’s wrong?” The words were simple, but they felt like a lifeline thrown to you in the midst of a storm, and you weren’t sure whether to grab onto it or let it slip through your fingers.

You exhaled sharply, your breath shaky as you sank down onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. The weight of everything pressing on you felt suffocating, like you could hardly breathe.

Jungkook crawled over to you, concern etched deeply on his face. He reached out, gently placing his hands on your shoulders, his touch warm and comforting in contrast to the turmoil inside you. He kissed the top of your head softly, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulled back slightly.

“Hey, what happened? Was it Sukchul? Did he do something to you?” His voice was soft, filled with a quiet urgency, as though he needed to fix whatever was wrong. His eyes scanned your face for any sign of distress, and the thought that anything could have happened to you made his mind race in a hundred directions. He wasn’t thinking straight, wasn’t sure of anything, but one thing was clear: he needed to protect you, even if it meant doing whatever it took.

You pushed him away gently, your body tense as you looked up at him with wide, almost frantic eyes. “Fuck, Jungkook, no,” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief.

He frowned, a furrow appearing on his brow as he leaned in slightly, trying to bridge the distance between you. “You need to tell me if something happened, something I don’t know about. If someone—”

“So what? You’ll kill him too?” The words came out before you could stop them, sharp and biting, a rush of anger and hurt spilling from you. The instant you spoke, you froze, the weight of your own words hanging in the air. You shut your mouth quickly, as if regretting the outburst, but the tension still lingered, suffocating.

Jungkook’s eyes went wide at your words, as if they struck him deeper than anything else you could’ve said. He opened his mouth to respond, but for a moment, no sound came. He stepped back, his lips trembling slightly, as if trying to make sense of what you’d just said.

Jungkook’s grip tightened on your wrist, his fingers almost painfully firm, but his eyes… his eyes were soft, filled with something close to desperation. He was silently pleading with you, begging for you to understand.

“What do you mean?” His voice trembled, barely above a whisper, as if saying the words aloud might make it all too real. His breath was shallow, like he was holding on to something, afraid that if he let go, the truth would spill out in ways he couldn’t control. Not that he didn’t trust you, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of you seeing him as something you should be afraid of.

You refused to meet his gaze. The weight of his hold made it feel like the air was closing in around you. You tugged at your wrist once more, but he didn’t release you. His eyes were still fixed on you, pleading for understanding, for something he wasn’t sure how to explain.

“Jungkook, please,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly as the distance between you felt insurmountable. You didn’t know what you were asking for, didn’t know how to stop the flood of emotions rushing through you.

Then, in an instant, he stood up abruptly, and the sudden motion made you flinch, your heart racing in your chest. His tone was sharp, as if trying to convince both of you that there was nothing to fear. “Wait, seriously? You think I would hurt you?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and frustration, the kind of frustration that came from feeling misunderstood.

“I don’t know you.” The words came out in a rush, raw and honest. It felt like a slap in the face, but it was the truth. You didn’t know him, not the way you needed to. You only knew the parts he chose to show, the parts that made you feel things you couldn’t quite put into words. But the rest? The side that might be capable of violence, of things you couldn’t even imagine? You didn’t know that Jungkook, and that thought was enough to make your heart ache.

You stepped back slightly, your chest tight with emotions you couldn’t control, trying to create some kind of distance from the confusion swirling in your mind.

“Well maybe if you let me explain—”

“What do you want to explain?” you interrupted, your voice sharp, but there was a tremor of fear in it that you couldn’t hide. “That you’re a monster just like every other man here?” Your words hit him like a punch, and you could see the flinch run through him. His eyes darkened, a coldness creeping into them as he heard you compare him to the very thing he hated most—his rival, the men he despised.

“Do you even do this for money, or for your own pleasure?” you asked, your voice trembling, but the anger inside you was hard to ignore now. You needed answers, and you needed them to be true, no matter how much it hurt.

The question seemed to throw him off, as if you had hit him with something unexpected. He opened his mouth, then closed it, as though the lie he had been telling himself and others was on the tip of his tongue. But this time, the lie stayed stuck. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, not to you, not now.

“Be honest for once,” you said, your breath shaky but your eyes not leaving his. You could see the hesitation in his face, the battle between his usual deflection and the truth that was forcing itself out.

Jungkook lowered his head, his gaze dropping to the floor as if he couldn’t meet your eyes anymore. It was in that moment, in the silence that stretched between you both, that he finally spoke the words you were terrified of hearing.

“Because I want to. Money is a plus.”

The words hit you like a wave, your body freezing in place as the meaning behind them sank in. If he was doing it for money, you could almost understand, because you knew his life in danger. But this? This was different. This felt like a choice, and it was a choice that made your stomach twist.

You grabbed your backpack, your hands shaking as you hastily packed your belongings, trying to escape the suffocating tension in the room. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight, and the only thing you knew was that you had to leave.

Jungkook was there, his presence overwhelming, his hands gently cupping your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. Those eyes. The same doe-eyes you had come to love, the eyes that once made your heart flutter, now filled with pain and confusion.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the words breaking through the thick air, on the verge of tears. His fingers trembled as they hovered near your cheek, begging for an answer that made sense, but there was no way to make sense of this.

“I want to go home,” you muttered, your voice shaky, trying to pull away from his grasp as you moved frantically around the room, gathering the rest of your things. You could feel your chest tighten with each step, each moment that passed.

“Home? You can’t be serious,” he scoffed, disbelief clouding his voice. “Your father’s a bastard and—”

“At least he’s not a fucking killer!” you snapped, your words cutting through the air like a knife. You turned to face him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest, your body trembling with anger. “Don’t tell me what’s right for me when you should be the one I should be running away from!”

You grabbed the plastic bag with the money you had won and you tossed it at his feet, the crinkling sound of the bag hitting the floor echoing in the silence that followed.

“Here,” you spat, your chest heaving with rage. “Take that.”

He didn’t even acknowledge the money as it fell at his feet. Instead, he dropped to his knees, his body sagging, and his head hung low. His silence was deafening, the weight of your words settling in the space between you both.

“The money I fucking worked for your stupid life!” you shouted, your voice cracking with the sheer intensity of your emotions.

He stayed kneeling, the tears you had been holding back now threatening to spill. His lips parted, but nothing came out. You had shattered something inside him—something that even he hadn’t been ready to confront.

And you couldn’t stand there anymore. You couldn’t stand to watch him fall apart, because the truth was, you were falling apart too.

You closed the door behind you with a quiet click, the weight of it sinking deep into your chest. Each step you took away from the motel felt heavier than the last, as if the walls were closing in around you. Shame clung to your skin, suffocating you with every breath. You didn’t even know if you were still welcome in your own home anymore.

Your father’s words rang in your ears, a reminder of how unwanted you had become in his eyes. His cruel dismissal was something you’d never be able to forget, but despite it all, the thought of returning home was the only thing you could hold onto right now.

With every step, you wondered if your return would only confirm that you were nothing more than a burden, unwanted and lost. But you kept walking anyway. Because it was the only place left where you might find something to hold onto. Even if it was just the walls, the stale air, the broken pieces of a home that was no longer yours.

You felt a strange mixture of relief and guilt when you saw your mother open the door. Her expression was cold, and her eyes narrowed when she saw you standing there, but she quickly pushed the door wider, letting you in without a word. There was no warmth, no embrace, only a faint flicker of something behind her eyes that you couldn’t quite place.

“He isn’t here,” she said curtly, not bothering with a greeting, her tone sharp and detached. Her movements were quick, almost frantic, as she grabbed you by the shoulders and steered you into the house, guiding you towards your room without a second thought. “You shouldn’t be here. What happened?” The faintest trace of concern flashed in her eyes, though it quickly vanished behind her guarded expression.

The words were stuck in your throat for a moment before you spoke, the realization of what you had learned about men “I was wrong,” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the floor. “They’re not one better than the other.”

Her hands were on your chin before you could even react, forcing you to look at her. Her fingers dug into your skin with surprising strength as she locked her gaze onto yours, her eyes searching you in a way that made you feel exposed. “Does he hurt you?” she asked, her voice calm but there was an edge to it—a raw, demanding edge that you had never heard before.

The words flew from your mouth without hesitation, fueled by the raw confidence and certainty you felt in that moment. “Never.” The anger in your response surprised even you, as if your own heart had built a wall in defense, not just for Jungkook but for yourself. You were almost angry that she would ask such a thing, even though, deep down, you knew why she was concerned.

Her grip loosened slightly, but her face remained stern. She looked at you for a long moment, as if weighing the truth in your eyes. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke again, her voice a bit softer, yet still tinged with that same determination. “Then he is better than them,” she said, her words almost resigned, as though she had already come to that conclusion in her mind.

“Your father made it clear, he doesn’t want you there,” your mother finally says, her voice low and resigned as she stands up from the bed. She walks over to the window, peeking through the blinds to see if your father’s car isn’t parked outside. She lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t keep you hiding here for long. Things would be terrible for me if I did.”

She gestures towards the bruises on her arms. Your body tightens with rage at the sight, and something inside you burns. Anger floods your chest, but you stay silent, the truth sinking in. She had to keep quiet. She had no choice.

She presses her fingers to her temple, brows furrowing as though she’s trying to come up with an escape, a way out. “My hairdresser…” she starts, her voice suddenly shifting. You look up at her, confused. She smiles, but it’s not the smile you’ve grown used to. It’s something unfamiliar, almost like she’s found the solution to her problem. A spark of something new. “You know Park Yejin, right?”

You nod slowly, your mind struggling to catch up. Yejin was the small woman your mother always went to for her haircuts. The one place where your mother could be herself, if only for a moment, away from the suffocating presence of men. Yejin’s shop wasn’t just a place for hair—it was a sanctuary for women. A place where they could sit together, laugh, and share stories without fear of being judged or watched. It was the rare space where they could be free, even if just for a little while.

You remember the joy in your mother’s eyes whenever she returned from those visits. She would always speak about Yejin with such warmth, telling you how the other women in the neighborhood would gather there, all of them gossiping and laughing, sharing a rare kind of freedom.

Your mother’s eyes gleam now as she thinks of something, a plan forming in her mind. “She’s a good person,” she continues, almost to herself. “She wouldn’t turn you away.”

“I’ll come to see you tomorrow,” she said, her voice filled with an odd sense of finality as she moved toward the window. She opened it wide, the cool air rushing in. “Climb out here, follow the same path, and you’ll find her.”

Her words were clear, almost rehearsed, as though she had thought this through many times before. Without hesitation, you nodded and swung your leg over the windowsill. Your heart pounded in your chest, unsure of what you were walking into, but trusting her in a way that only a child could.

Following the directions your mother had given you, you made your way through the winding streets. The same familiar neighborhood that you had grown up in, where everything felt safe and comforting, but now it seemed different. You were walking through it with a new purpose, your thoughts swirling with confusion and uncertainty. Each step felt heavier than the last, but you kept moving forward.

Finally, you reached Park Yejin’s shop, nestled between two other small buildings. The warm light from inside filtered through the windows, casting a golden glow onto the sidewalk. You could see the faint silhouettes of women inside, their laughter and chatter muffled by the walls. This was it. This was where your mother had found her moments of freedom, her small haven away from the chaos.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, lifting your hand to knock on the door. The moment felt surreal, as if everything was leading you to this point. The woman who had been your mother’s safe space, now holding the key to your escape.

You quickly explained your situation, the words tumbling out as you felt the weight of everything that had led you here. Park Yejin, without hesitation, opened the door wider, letting you in without a single question when you mentioned your mother’s name. It was as though she already understood.

She guided you inside, offering you a glass of water, the cool liquid a soothing relief as it ran down your throat. She led you to the back of the shop, where a soft beige couch rested against the wall. The simple, cozy space seemed like a world away from the chaos you had just left behind.

Without a word, she handed you a blanket, its warmth wrapping around you like a hug. It was the first time today that your heart finally began to slow down, the tension in your chest starting to ease.

You sank into the couch, the exhaustion of the day catching up to you. Your mind raced with everything that had happened—your mother, Jungkook, the things you’d said, the things you’d learned. It was all too much.

“Rest,” Park Yejin said quietly, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re safe here.”

You nodded, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for now, you allowed yourself to close your eyes and drift into a fragile, peaceful sleep.

Kim Taehee was a woman consumed by anger, a rage that had burned within her from a very young age. A rebellious spirit that refused to bow to the limitations society and family imposed on her. She had always known, deep down, that she didn’t want to fall into the same destructive spiral her mother had lived. Yet, despite her fierce resolve, she eventually found herself bound by the very chains she swore to avoid when she chose to marry Lee Minhyeok.

At first, everything seemed perfect. He was kind, promising her the life of luxury and security she had always dreamed of. Beautiful houses, expensive jewelry, and a life of comfort that seemed too good to be true. For a while, it was a fairytale—she felt cherished, important, and above all, loved. She thought she had found a man who truly cared for her. But like all fairytales, this one was fleeting.

The moment she gave birth to their daughter, everything changed. Minhyeok, once so attentive and loving, became distant and indifferent. He had gotten what he wanted—a child. He had only ever wanted one, and after that, her role was reduced to nothing more than the mother of his child. No longer the wife, no longer the woman. She was just a vessel, a caretaker for their daughter, nothing more. The love they once shared withered away, and Taehee found herself trapped in a marriage that had lost all its meaning. She became everything she despised—just like her own mother.

Her rebellious fire, the one that had always burned so brightly within her, only grew fiercer with time. She was no longer content with being a mere shadow of herself. The woman who once dreamed of a life of autonomy and power now sought more than mere survival. She sought freedom, control, and, above all, the power to change her fate.

As she climbed the stairs of the apartment complex, a smile tugged at her lips. Her lipstick, a deep red, was perfect—bold, unapologetic, just like her. She had long fantasized about a space where she could take charge, a place where she could dictate her terms, and the men inside would bend to her will. She had imagined this for years, but now it was becoming a reality.

It was almost a dream came true when while Kim Taehee sat in the salon chair, her hairdresser carefully wrapping a curler into her hair, she half-listened to the hum of the hairdryers around her. Her fingers drummed against the edge of the magazine she was flipping through. It was the only place where she could exist without the weight of her marriage bearing down on her—without the suffocating presence of her husband.

Her friend, who had been quietly getting her hair done at the station beside her, leaned in close. Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper, filled with an air of secrecy. “Taehee,” she began, her eyes scanning the room before settling back on her. “My husband… he’s dead.”

At first, Taehee froze, she was ready to apologize. But then her friend began to laugh, and with that, something inside Taehee clicked. The air between them shifted, and she could see the satisfaction in her friend’s expression.

Taehee let out a soft laugh too, unsure whether it was from disbelief or the strange relief creeping into her chest. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “What do you mean? How did that happen?”

Her friend leaned back, looking around as if checking for anyone else who might be listening before she spoke again, this time in more of a confidential whisper. “I did it. I had him killed—paid men to do it for me. Men who’ll do anything for money. I told them everything, everything they needed to know. And now, I'm free.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with unspoken truths. Taehee’s heart pounded, the reality of what her friend was saying sinking in. “You really had him killed?” Taehee murmured, her voice shaky, but inside, a new excitement was building.

“Yeah, Taehee. Just like that. We made the deal. They took care of it. And now I can do whatever I want, without him breathing down my neck. I'm free.”

Taehee let the words settle in her mind. It was almost too surreal to comprehend—until she looked around at the other women in the salon, who had gathered to listen. The three of them erupted into laughter, mocking the situation, laughing about the man’s death, about how easy it seemed. In a space where women often shared their secrets, their frustrations, and their gossip, this was just another story, another tragedy turned into something absurd.

But Taehee’s mind was far from the laughter around her. While the others continued to mock her friend’s late husband, she was lost in thought. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with ideas and possibilities. Could it really be that simple? Could she also find a way out? A way to be free from the suffocating grip of her marriage?

For the first time in years, the spark of rebellion flickered in her chest, rekindled by the stories of men willing to kill for a cause—willing to erase the obstacles standing in the way of freedom. In that moment, her mind was already racing, already devising plans for her own escape. She didn’t have all the pieces yet, but she knew one thing: if others could do it, so could she.

She looks at the paper in her hand, her friend’s handwriting scrawled across it with the address she was supposed to go to. With a deep breath and a heavy heart, she knocks on the door.

The door opens, and a young man stands there, his sharp, cat-like eyes studying her with a penetrating gaze. For a second, the silence between them feels thick, almost suffocating, before he steps aside and gestures for her to enter. The click of her heels echoes through the small apartment as she steps inside, the faint smell of smoke and the dull hum of city life seeping through the walls.

On the couch, another man lounges lazily. He’s younger than the first, dressed in a tight black shirt, one long sleeve and the other bare. His chest is adorned with a holster, and he’s smoking quietly, the cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers.

Taehee notices his disheveled appearance—his eyes are red, his hair a mess, and there are bruises on his face. His doe-eyed gaze seems oddly familiar, but she can’t place where she’s seen him before.

The first man finally speaks, his voice deep and calm, as he sits himself down at a desk, his eyes never leaving her. “So,” he begins, folding his hands in front of him, “I’m sure you know what we’re doing.”

She meets his gaze, unsure of how to respond but knowing there was no turning back now.

Taehee shook her head, finally finding the strength to stand taller, her posture changing as she squared her shoulders.

She took a cigarette from her own packet, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought it to her lips. The small, familiar motion grounded her, and the smoke was almost comforting as it filled her lungs. Exhaling slowly, she leaned back against the wall, her voice steady but firm as she began explaining how she found them—and why she needed their help.

“My husband,” she began, her voice low. “I need him gone. And I don’t care what it takes.”

The man sitting at the desk—his eyes calculating, patient—nodded, absorbing her words. He didn’t interrupt, letting her speak freely. When she finished, he leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice smooth but with an edge, “what makes you think you can trust us? And why now? What changed?”

Taehee straightened, her gaze unwavering. “I’ve been living in a prison for too long. I can’t keep pretending that things will get better. I need him out of my life, once and for all. You’re my only way out.”

The man at the desk exchanged a glance with the other one, the one with the bruised face. He took a long drag from his cigarette, eyes still locked on Taehee.

“We’re not in the business of doing favors,” the man at the desk said, his tone sharp. “But if you’re serious, we need to know everything—how, when, and where. Every detail matters. One wrong move, and it all falls apart.”

Taehee nodded, her expression cold but determined. “I know what’s at stake. I’ll give you everything you need.”

She watched as the man jotted down some notes, preparing to make her request a reality. The weight of her decision was heavy, but for the first time in years, she felt like she was finally taking control of her life.

She provided them with every detail they needed—when he would be home, where he usually spent his time, the places where he could be found without delay. Her heart raced with a dark sense of satisfaction, the anticipation growing as she laid out the plan.

“Make him suffer,” she said, her voice steady but cold, as she tapped the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray on the desk. Her gaze never wavered as she continued, her words laced with a cruel finality. “Don’t kill him right away. I want him to feel every ounce of pain before the end. Let him beg for mercy.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and it was almost unnerving—this smile wasn’t the kind of expression you’d expect from a woman in her position. The two men exchanged a glance, their eyes flicking between each other, both surprised by her intensity. Most women who came to them were broken, scared, or hesitant. But this one—this woman—was different. She was calm, almost eager for the outcome.

Jungkook, however, was more focused on something else. He wasn’t just listening to her words; he was studying her every movement, every subtle change in her expression. He knew her. There was something about her that seemed familiar, something that resonated deep within him. As he watched her speak, something clicked—a recognition. Her posture, her coldness, her sharpness—it all reminded him of someone. You.

The way she held herself, the fire in her eyes, the way she seemed untouchable despite everything she had been through—it was eerily similar to you. He could see it now—the rebellious spirit, the drive to survive.

It wasn’t just a sense of familiarity—he knew her.

His gaze sharpened, and he stepped forward, slowly crossing the room toward her. There was no mistaking it now. This was her. This was the mother he had heard so much about.

“Any children we should be aware of?” Jungkook asked, his voice low, his tone more serious than before. His eyes were fixed on her face, studying every detail, looking for any sign that she was lying. He couldn’t afford to miss anything.

“My daughter is safe,” she said firmly, and Jungkook let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He was relieved, but that relief didn’t last long.

“But while that fucker is still alive,” she continued, her voice growing colder, “I can’t guarantee she will stay safe. I need him out of my life. I need him gone so I can protect her, to care for her the way a mother should.”

Jungkook nodded slowly, a quiet understanding passing between them. His thoughts aligned with hers. It was everything he needed to know before he spoke again.

“I’ll do it,” he whispered, the resolve clear in his voice.

The older man nodded in agreement, and with that, the plan was set. Jungkook knew his next move, and nothing would stand in his way.

It would happen on Thursday night. Tomorrow.

Your mother had told them everything—how he always came home early that day, how work finished earlier than usual. On Thursdays, he was often exhausted, too drained to even raise a hand against her. It was the one night where silence filled the house instead of violence. The perfect day to strike.

But after it was Friday and it wasn’t just any other day for Jungkook.

It was the day he, too, would have to face the men who wanted him dead. A confrontation he had been preparing for, one he had always known was inevitable. But that didn’t matter. Not right now.

He had a job to do first.

He would make sure the bastard was gone before he even thought about his own fate. If he had to die, so be it—but not before he saw this through. Not before he knew that you were safe.

If finishing this mission meant risking it all, then he would. Without hesitation.

“Still okay?”

It was the first thing he asked when Jungkook stepped into the dimly lit apartment. He always checked in before they did something they couldn’t take back.

Jungkook gave a firm nod, not a hint of hesitation in his movements. He double-checked his gun, ensuring it was fully loaded before strapping the holster securely across his chest. His fingers slipped into his half-finger gloves, tightening them as if they were part of a ritual.

“I did,” he said, his voice steady, offering silent reassurance to the older man.

There was a pause before the man exhaled a slow drag from his cigarette, observing him through the haze of smoke.

“You seem different today,” he finally noted, tapping the ash into an overflowing tray.

Jungkook didn’t respond, merely raising an eyebrow as he adjusted the straps across his shoulders.

The man sighed, his tone turning more serious. “Listen, Jeon.” Jungkook’s fingers twitched at the sound of his last name. He hated it—hated what it reminded him of, who it tied him to.

“The woman paid well. She’s determined. If you mess this up, it won’t end well.”

“I know,” Jungkook said simply. His voice carried no doubt, no room for error. He clapped the older man on the shoulder before stepping toward the door.

Outside, the night awaited.

Jungkook was grateful the streets were empty. He always preferred to do this kind of work under the cover of darkness. Sometimes, he didn’t have a choice—some targets lived their lives in broad daylight, forcing him to move under the sun. But tonight, the absence of light was a relief. He could already feel guilt creeping into his chest, tightening its grip around his heart.

He thought of you. Your face. Your eyes, the way they looked at him before you left. Did you know? Had your mother told you what she had planned? He hoped—God, he hoped—you did. Because if you knew and hadn’t tried to stop it, maybe that meant you understood. Maybe, in some twisted way, you agreed with what he was about to do.

The house loomed ahead, dark and silent except for a single light near the entrance. Just as your mother had said. A signal. An invitation.

It was unsettling how methodical she was, how she had orchestrated everything from start to finish like she had done this before. He had worked with desperate women before—women who barely spoke above a whisper when they gave him their husbands’ schedules, who hesitated, who broke down before the deed was even done. But your mother? She was something else entirely.

Jungkook made his presence known with a quiet knock, and almost immediately, the door creaked open. She stood there, her manicured fingers pressing lightly against her lips, a silent nod directing him inside.

It was easy. Too easy.

Most times, he had to break in, move like a shadow through unfamiliar halls. But here? Here, he was welcomed like a king into the home of a man he was about to kill.

She didn’t speak, just pointed toward the living room. And there he was—sprawled on the sofa, mouth hanging open, his breath a slow, rumbling groan.

Completely unaware that his life had just run out of time.

Jungkook’s gaze flickered around the house, taking in every detail with sharp precision. But when his eyes landed on the family portrait hanging on the wall, his breath caught in his throat.

It looked like something out of a picture frame catalog—perfect, polished. A family that seemed whole. Your hands rested on your father’s shoulder, your smile bright, your eyes shining. You were beautiful.

But Jungkook knew better.

To anyone else, that smile could be convincing. But not to him. He had seen your real smile before—the one that made your nose scrunch, your eyes crinkle at the corners, the one where your teeth showed in an unguarded, genuine laugh. The one you gave when you were truly happy.

This? This was rehearsed. Controlled. A mask.

Your mother watched him, her brows furrowed in silent observation. He had been calm, detached, efficient throughout the planning of this whole thing. But now, he was standing there, staring at a photograph with more care than he had shown the entire night.

Then, she followed his gaze. Her daughter.

And suddenly, it clicked.

Her lips parted slightly as she finally recognized what had been nagging at her since the first moment she saw him—the familiarity in his face, in his eyes. Doe-eyes, fixated on the girl in the photograph.

It was him. The man you had clung to and the one you had apparently run away from.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Your mother’s voice was quiet, almost testing.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. He tore his gaze away from the portrait, shaking his head quickly as if to rid himself of the distraction. Focus.

He felt like an idiot for letting his thoughts drift when he was supposed to be here to kill a man.

“I’m doing it for her,” your mother murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She cast a quick glance toward the living room, ensuring he was still asleep. Then, with unwavering certainty, she met Jungkook’s gaze. “So think about her while you do it.”

Jungkook didn’t respond—he only gave a sharp nod before stepping forward.

It should have been easy. It had always been easy. But now? His heart felt heavier than it ever had before.

Your mother lingered by the doorframe, watching intently, her arms crossed as if bracing herself for what was to come. She wanted to witness it—the moment the man who had caged her for so long finally felt powerless. She was waiting for Jungkook to make the first move, for the violence to begin.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked one last time to the family portrait on the wall. His breath came out slow, controlled, but his chest burned with restrained emotion. His gaze locked onto yours—the same eyes that had glared at him with betrayal as you walked out of the motel room. The same eyes that had widened in fear when you realized what he was capable of.

Then, he thought about your father.

The man who had thrown you out into the night like you were nothing. The man who had slaped your cheek without remorse. The man who had made you suffer in ways Jungkook couldn’t even begin to understand.

And suddenly, the guilt in his chest burned into something else entirely.

Without hesitation, he seized the sleeping man by the collar, yanking him upright. The sudden movement jolted him awake, but before he could even process what was happening, Jungkook threw him down with brutal force. His back slammed against the corner of the coffee table, the sharp crack of bone meeting wood echoing through the silent house. A muffled groan of pain escaped him as he writhed on the floor.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

He stepped forward.

Jungkook’s fist met the man’s face with brutal force, knuckles splitting against skin and bone. The impact jolted through his arm, but he barely felt it. The man beneath him groaned, weakly trying to grab Jungkook’s wrist in a feeble attempt at defense. It was useless. Jungkook didn’t stop. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he threw another punch. And another. And another.

A sharp, ringing laughter broke through his daze.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. His vision, which had been tunneled on the bruised and bloodied face beneath him, flickered to the side.

Your mother was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, legs crossed, a cigarette between her manicured fingers. Her lips curled into a smirk, eyes alight with something that unsettled him. She took a slow drag, exhaling smoke as she tilted her head.

“Add more pain,” she murmured, her voice smooth, almost amused.

Jungkook’s grip on your father’s throat tightened instinctively. The man beneath him coughed, a wet, gurgling sound as blood dribbled from his mouth. His swollen eyes barely opened, his expression a mixture of confusion and agony.

Jungkook didn’t look at him.

He looked at her.

His stomach twisted.

This was not the reaction he had come to expect. He had seen women filled with rage, with desperation, with grief. Women who sought vengeance through gritted teeth, who flinched at the sight of blood but swallowed their fear for the sake of justice. Women who paid him because they had no other choice.

But she? She was different.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t trembling.

She was enjoying it.

Jungkook could see it in the way her lips curled, the way her eyes gleamed with something almost… eager. The way she leaned forward slightly, as if she wanted a closer look at the damage he was inflicting.

It unsettled him.

He thought he was the monster. The killer. The animal. He had believed it himself, accepted it, worn it like a second skin. But now, sitting here, watching this woman—your mother—smile at the suffering before her, he felt something foreign settle in his chest.

Disgust.

For the first time, he wondered if maybe he wasn’t the real monster in the room.

Jungkook’s mind was spiraling.

He couldn’t understand it. You were their daughter? You, who recoiled from violence, who looked at him with something close to fear when you found out what he had done? How could someone like you come from people like them—one cruel, the other heartless?

His breath shuddered as he loosened his grip.

The man beneath him gasped sharply, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths, his body trembling from pain but still clinging to life.

A sharp sound of heels clicking against the floor.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Your mother’s voice sliced through the air, cold and sharp as she loomed over him. The amusement in her tone was gone, replaced with something more threatening. She stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray with unnecessary force, eyes narrowing in fury.

“I want him dead.”

Jungkook stayed still.

His body felt heavy, his hands limp at his sides. He was kneeling over your father, straddling him, his head hanging low. He could finish it—one final blow, a bullet to the skull, an end to it all.

But he couldn’t.

Not when he saw your face in his mind.

You may have hated your father. You may have wished him gone, but death? Death was different. It was permanent. Unforgiving. No matter how much he deserved it, Jungkook knew the weight of it would stay with you. He knew the burden of living with the knowledge that someone took your parent away from you. That someone played god with their life.

And that someone would have been him.

His fingers twitched at his sides. His jaw clenched.

He couldn’t do that to you.

“Are you even listening to me?” Your mother’s voice dripped with venom now, her patience thinning.

“I—”

A flash of movement.

Pain exploded across his jaw as your father, fueled by desperation, threw a weak but determined punch. His knuckles collided with Jungkook’s face, sending his head snapping to the side.

The room seemed to still for a moment.

Jungkook inhaled slowly, tasting blood. Then, exhaled.

Your father had the upper hand now.

Jungkook barely had time to react before another punch landed, this one more forceful, knocking his head back. Pain burst through his skull, sharp and dizzying.

“Who the fuck are you?” your father roared, voice raw with anger and desperation as he grabbed Jungkook by the collar, shaking him.

Jungkook’s fingers fumbled for his holster, for the cold metal of his gun. His vision was blurry, but he knew if he could just—

CRACK.

The sound was sickening.

The weight on top of him slumped suddenly, heavy and lifeless.

Jungkook blinked rapidly, his breath ragged, tasting blood on his tongue. He smelled it first—the thick, metallic scent of it filling his nostrils—before he saw it.

Your mother stood above them, her chest heaving, fingers tightly clasped around the heavy glass ashtray. Its edges were darkened, slick with blood.

Jungkook’s body stiffened as he processed what just happened.

The back of your father’s head was caved in. Blood pooled onto his shirt, soaking into the fabric like ink spreading over paper. His body was completely still. Silent.

Jungkook spit out blood onto the floor, his breath shaky. His ears were ringing.

For the first time since entering this house, he wasn’t sure what terrified him more—what he had done, or what she had done.

There was no turning back now.

One of your parents was gone. Erased from existence in an instant. And even if Jungkook hadn’t been the one to deliver the fatal blow, he had still been part of it. He had still held the gun in a way.

The weight of it crushed him.

He felt sick—dirty. Like the blood soaking into the carpet had somehow seeped into his own skin.

And what made it worse—what made his stomach churn with something close to disgust—was that your mother didn’t seem to care.

She let the ashtray slip from her fingers, the sound of it hitting the floor sharp and final. She didn’t tremble, didn’t even hesitate. There was no shock on her face, no guilt in her eyes. Only cold satisfaction.

Jungkook sank onto the floor, ignoring the lifeless body beside him. His chest heaved, his mind racing.

“What the fuck was that?” she snapped, voice sharp and accusing. “I paid you, and you—”

“I can't hurt her!” The words ripped out of him, raw and desperate. His hands clawed at his hair as he doubled over, his body shaking with sobs.

He was a monster.

And the worst part?

He had no idea if you would ever forgive him.

At that, her frantic pace came to a halt. It was as if the weight of her actions finally struck her—like she was just now realizing the gravity of what she had done. Her mouth fell open, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Oh no,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Fuck, what did I do?”

Jungkook could only watch in disbelief, his eyes narrowed. She was a lunatic, pacing frantically around the room, her fingers tugging at her hair like she was losing her mind. She had been so cold, so calculated, but now… now she was unraveling, and it was only making him more confused.

Without warning, she dropped to her knees in front of him. Her hands gripped his face, and the sensation made his skin crawl. He hated it. He had always loved it when you touched him, your fingers gentle and warm, but this? This was suffocating. The coldness in her touch was a stark contrast to anything he had ever known.

“Listen,” she urged, her voice a mix of desperation and confidence, her eyes scanning his face like she was studying him, gauging his reactions. “She can’t know it was me.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

“I’m her only parent now,” she continued, her grip tightening on his face as if she could will him to understand. “I promised her—I promised I would take care of her. And now I will. No matter what it takes.”

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw her hands off of him, demand she understand the mess she had made. But instead, he was silent. His heart raced with guilt, with confusion, and with fear. Fear for you—because in the end, this wasn’t about her. It was about you.

“It was you, you did it, okay?” she snapped, her hands tightening around his face, forcing him to meet her gaze.

Jungkook recoiled, pulling his head back in disbelief. “What—” he began, swatting her hands away, his heart pounding in his chest.

“You heard me,” she said, standing tall, her voice cold and firm. “I’ll give you money, whatever you want, but—”

Her words fell on deaf ears as Jungkook stormed toward her. His anger surged, raw and uncontrollable, as he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her into the kitchen. The force of his movements made her stumble slightly, but she didn’t falter, only meeting his eyes with an icy stare.

“I don’t want your money,” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “How can someone like you even think you can take care of her? A cold, heartless bitch like you?”

Your mother’s hand lashed out with lightning speed, striking him hard across the cheek. The sharp sting of the slap burned his skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight of her words.

“Because you can?” she retorted bitterly, her voice laced with venom. “With all the blood on your hands? Don’t act like you’re any better than me.”

Jungkook froze. Her words cut deeper than the slap ever could. His hands trembled with rage, but now, something else gnawed at him. Something darker. What was he doing? How could he judge her when he was no different? His actions were just as guilty, and the weight of it hit him like a ton of bricks.

“So either you run away, leave her life, or I tell the police it was you,” she threatened, her voice sharp, each word cutting through the air like a blade. “They won’t ask any questions. You scream trouble,” she sneered, her eyes scanning him with a judgmental gaze. “You’re the perfect culprit.”

Jungkook’s heart raced, a mix of anger and panic flooding his chest. He could already feel the weight of her words sinking in. She was right—his appearance, his bruised face, the tattoos and piercings that made him look like nothing more than a criminal; to anyone who didn’t know him, he was the ideal scapegoat. All she had to do was point the finger, and he’d be the one to take the fall.

He refused to be imprisoned for something he didn’t commit. It would be unjust, unequal—everything he had spent his life fighting against. He wanted fairness, not a life where he was sent to jail simply because he had nothing—no money, no home, no power.

“I’ll leave her,” he finally says, the words heavy in his chest. The thought of running away again feels different this time, more painful. He had spent his entire life moving, escaping, but now, it felt impossible to walk away. For the first time, there was something worth staying for—someone to care for, someone to love.

Your mother smiled, her hand resting coldly on his shoulder, guiding him toward the door. “When will the men come to take care of the body?” she asked, her voice almost casual, her smile unnervingly calm.

Before Jungkook could respond, she pushed him out of the door with a swift, practiced motion. He stumbled back, feeling a mixture of anger and confusion. Inside, she sat down on the couch again, eyes focused on the lifeless body of her husband, as if waiting for the next step to unfold—calm, patient, and completely detached.

He stood frozen, his body tense and rigid, eyes locked on the door. Anger surged through him, every fiber of his being clenched as if ready to explode.

“Jungkook?”

The sound of your voice hit him like a punch to the gut. His heart stopped, his palms suddenly drenched in sweat. His thoughts became a blur, a chaotic storm of confusion and guilt. He couldn’t even bring himself to turn around, to face you.

Your voice—quiet, shaky, full of vulnerability and worry—pulled him back from the storm inside his head. He wanted to answer, wanted to make things right, but all he could do was stand there, paralyzed by the weight of the moment.

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igwb · 4 months ago

Text

A Black Eye & Two Kisses. (serie masterlist.)

part I. part II. part III. (3/3)

pairing: jungkook x reader

genre: strangers to lovers au, angst

summary: you knew life wouldn’t be easy as a woman in a world built by men. you had grown up knowing that it was only a matter of time before you, too, would face that same brutal reality. even as you dreamed of something else—something as simple as independence—you understood how utopian that idea was for a woman in times like these. but who could have known that, sometimes, freedom could come from a man himself? a lost soul, like you, caught in the same struggle, trapped in his own way. a soul that, despite everything, might just understand your pain

final word count: 76K

warnings: angst, set in the 90s, mentions of; sexism, patriarchal society, shitty men, blood & violence

serie playlist

#bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagines #jungkook #bts fanfic #jungkook x oc #jungkook angst #jungkook fic #bts jk

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igwb · 4 months ago

Text

A Black Eye & Two Kisses. (I.)

"there's just something about you, baby, maybe i'll just be crazy."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader

genre: strangers to lovers au, angst

word count: 35K

warnings: angst, set in the 90s, mentions of; sexism, patriarchal society, shitty husbands/men in general :(, blood, & violence, jk is the only good man here♡, mentions of; sexual contents (no actual smut!), womens struggles & having to fight for a place in a patriarchal society

playlist: crush, fade into you, single

author's note: this story mostly came to me because crush by ethel cain has been stuck in my mind and i knew i had to do something with it… and ofc this jk was immediately part of the equation!

part I. part II. part III.

It has always been your favorite time of the year—the only time when you feel like you can finally breathe.

You could lock yourself away, disappear for days if you wanted to, and no one would ask why. No one would wonder if something was wrong because they were too busy with their own lives, wrapped up in their own escapes. And that, more than anything, was what made summer feel like a breath of air after drowning for months.

The simple relief of knowing no one was waiting for anything from you.

Summer and your Walkman have always been the most precious things to you. A constant, a quiet escape. The weight of it in your jacket pocket, the earphones snug in your ears—it was as familiar as your own heartbeat. A shield between you and the rest of the world.

Your parents always told you that you could talk to them more. That you should. But they never understood. Never realized that when their voices turned sharp, when words became weapons and things started to break against the walls, your Walkman was the only thing that could drown out the noise.

Music was predictable. Safe. It never raised its voice, never turned on you, never made you feel like you were standing in the middle of a storm with nowhere to run. It was the only thing that made sense when everything else felt too big, too chaotic, too much.

So you kept it with you. Always.

And as you close your eyes, the wind rushing in through the open window, earphones snug in your ears, you let the music drown out the world. Your father grips the wheel of his pristine, dark Hyundai Sonata, his newest prized possession. He’s proud—too proud—driving slow enough through the neighborhood to make sure everyone sees. He’s waiting for the comments, for the admiration, for the little nods of approval that will make him feel like he’s won something.

Your mother sits in the passenger seat, her smile just as rehearsed as his. She basks in the attention, in the way gazes turn toward the car, toward them. It’s a performance, and they are shining in their starring roles.

But you? You couldn’t care less.

It doesn’t matter what new car they have, what image they carefully construct for the world to see. It never has. You know better than to get caught up in their illusions, in the things they think make them better.

So you press your head against the window, let the wind brush against your skin, and turn the volume up just a little louder.

You feel the car slow to a stop, but you don’t open your eyes just yet. It’s your favorite part of the song—the one that always makes your chest feel lighter, like for a moment, nothing else matters. So you wait. Just a little longer. Just long enough to feel it.

But the moment is ripped away.

The door swings open too fast, and before you can react, your head tilts forward with the sudden force. Your earphones are yanked from your ears, and then—a sickening crack.

Your Walkman hits the pavement.

The sound of plastic shattering against concrete makes your stomach drop. A sharp, ugly noise that tells you everything you need to know before you even look.

“I already told you to stop with that thing,” your mother spits, her voice sharp with irritation, not even sparing a glance at the wreckage on the ground.

She doesn’t care.

She doesn’t care that the one thing you had—the one thing that made everything bearable—is broken at her feet. That it wasn’t just a thing to you.

You stare at the broken Walkman, something burning behind your ribs. A tight, aching weight that you know you’ll have to swallow down. Just like always.

You crouch near the broken Walkman, fingers trembling as you pick up the pieces, turning them over in your hands, trying to figure out if—how—you can fix it.

There weren’t many models like this. You knew that. You were lucky to have it in the first place, one of the few kids around here who did. And you also knew you wouldn’t be getting another one anytime soon.

You had to fix it.

“You broke it,” you whisper, voice barely there, your head bowed. You don’t look up at her face—just at her legs, at the neat hem of her pale blue skirt brushing against her knees.

She scoffs, then crouches down, mimicking the way she used to when you were a little kid, back when she pretended to care. “It’s nothing,” she says, voice light, dismissive. Like it doesn’t matter. Like you don’t matter. “You can have a new one.” She even smiles, like that could erase it, like a new thing could replace what was lost.

“I liked this one.”

You don’t look at her when you say it. Just keep your hands busy, gathering the broken pieces, tucking them into your pocket like something sacred.

Your mother sighs, already bored of this conversation. She straightens up, placing her hands on her hips, her eyes darting around the street. She’s hoping no one’s watching. Hoping no one will see her like this.

She loves the attention when she’s gliding through the neighborhood in a brand-new car, when people admire her clothes, her jewelry, the life she’s built. But never when she has to act like a mother.

She’s too proud for that. Too proud of the fact that, unlike most women her age in this neighborhood, she isn’t stuck at home, raising a house full of kids, drowning in diapers and dinner plans and loveless husbands. She wants them to envy her, to wish for her life. Her freedom.

Having you was never part of her dream.

You were just what was expected. A requirement. Something she gave in to because her own mother wanted to be a grandmother, because her husband wanted a wife who could give him a child.

And you?

You were just the consequence of a decision that was never really hers.

“Don’t fucking start,” she spits, voice sharp, cutting through the thick summer air. “Your dad just got a new car. He’s happy, and you should be too.”

And just like that, she turns on her heel, leaving you crouched on the burning concrete, the heat pressing down on you from above and rising up from below. The broken Walkman feels heavy in your pocket, pieces rattling softly as you clench your fists around them.

Your dad doesn’t notice you’re still outside. Doesn’t notice anything beyond the gleaming metal of his new car. He’s too caught up in it—running his hands over the hood, admiring the way the light bounces off the paint, waiting for someone to walk by and acknowledge his latest prize.

You could be anywhere right now, and it wouldn’t make a difference.

Because as long as the car is perfect, as long as he is happy, nothing else matters.

Dinner was silent.

Your father sat at the head of the table, focused on finishing his plate, barely acknowledging anyone else’s presence. Your mother, on the other hand, had her eyes locked on you, displeasure written all over her face. She didn’t like the way you pushed your food around with your chopsticks, barely taking a bite. She couldn’t stand the way you looked at your bowl like it was something you’d rather starve than eat.

With an irritated sigh, she snatched the bowl from in front of you just as you were about to take a bite.

“Don’t make that face,” she snapped, dumping the untouched food straight into the bin. “The one where you’d rather eat anything else than what I’ve made for you.”

She never liked cooking. Never liked anything that made her feel like a housewife. Even if, in reality, that was exactly what she was. It was a role she resented, one she never wanted but was forced into because, in her world, women needed men to survive. She had learned to tolerate it, to live with it—but she hated every second of it.

And maybe, in some way, you understood. Maybe you couldn’t blame her for despising the life she felt trapped in.

But that didn’t change the fact that you were still her daughter.

“You’re so ungrateful,” she huffed, running her manicured fingers through her freshly cut hair, ruining the careful brushing she had done earlier. “Here I am, trying to make something good, and you act like you’re eating your own shit.”

At that, your father finally raised his head. He set his chopsticks down with deliberate slowness, his expression unreadable. When he spoke, his voice was calm—too calm.

“Sit down.”

It was the same tone he had used to scold you as a child. Not like your mother’s anger, which burned hot and fast. His was different. His was cold, sinking into your skin like ice, making your spine stiffen.

But your mother wasn’t finished.

“Your daughter is ungrateful, Minhyeok!” she spat, jabbing a sharp finger in his direction as if you weren’t even there. “She didn’t even acknowledge the new car. She doesn’t even realize how lucky she is to be born into the right family.”

You wanted to defend yourself. To tell her that you did know how lucky you were, but not in the way she meant. That you knew the kind of life you could have had. That you knew how much worse it could be. But you also knew better than to say anything at all.

You had learned a long time ago that these were the moments where it was best to stay silent. Where your mother’s anger wasn’t really about you at all—but you were the easiest target for it.

Your father turned to you then, offering a small, tired smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Go upstairs. Listen to your Walkman, will you?”

You almost told him that it was broken. That there was nothing left to listen to.

But instead, you just nodded, gave a small bow, and left the table without another word.

You close your door softly, careful not to make a sound.

Sinking down onto the floor, you wrap your arms around your knees, but there’s no comfort in it. Your Walkman isn’t in your hand. Your earphones aren’t there to drown everything out.

The first sound you hear is the sharp crack of a slap.

Then your mother’s voice, high and furious, slicing through the walls. Then your father’s, lower, rougher, crashing over hers like a wave. Another slap. A thud. More shouting.

You can’t even make out the words. They slur together, tangled in rage, too loud, too sharp, too much. Your mother’s voice rises again, but your father’s strength is what wins.

You clutch the broken pieces of your Walkman tighter in your palm, the jagged edges biting into your skin, grounding you in the sting. You squeeze your eyes shut, pressing your forehead against your knees, willing yourself to block it out.

You try to hum a song, a quiet, trembling whisper of sound—something, anything to cover the noise.

But no melody is strong enough to drown out the war raging downstairs.

The sky outside your window is almost too beautiful.

The sun hasn’t set yet, but it hangs low, casting the world in golden hues—orange melting into pink, into purple, into something unreal. It’s the kind of sky that makes everything seem softer, quieter, like for a moment, the world isn’t such a cruel place.

But inside this house, nothing is soft. Nothing is quiet.

You push open your window, the warm air brushing against your skin as you glance down at the bushes below. They look sturdy enough to break your fall. It wouldn’t hurt that much, you think.

And then—silence.

The shouting stops. Your mother’s voice, sharp and unrelenting just moments ago, is gone. But the slap still lingers in the air, ringing in your ears long after it’s done.

She’s given up.

You don’t have to see it to know—she’s finally let herself sink into the role she was born into. A woman who fought for too long, only to realize that fighting doesn’t matter when the world has already decided where you belong.

You hate it.

You hate that you would rather hear her scream, would rather hear her fight back, than be forced to sit in this silence—this heavy, suffocating proof that she’s lost. That she always loses.

You hate your father more.

Even though he’s never laid a hand on you, even though he’s never been cruel the way she has, you hate him more.

Because men like him never have to question their power. They never have to wonder if they deserve it. It’s given to them the moment they’re born, woven into their bones, pressed into their hands. He grew up knowing—just as your mother did—that he would always have the upper hand. That he could do whatever he wanted to the woman who bore his child, and the world would still call him a good man.

And you?

You were doomed to the same fate as your mother.

That thought is enough.

You don’t hesitate as you swing your right leg over the windowsill, then your left.

And then—you jump.

The bushes catch you, scratching against your skin, leaves tangling in your hair. You wince as you hit the ground, but the pain is dull. Nothing compared to what’s happening inside.

You push yourself up, brushing dirt from your palms, the fabric of your top already sticking to your skin from the heat.

You don’t look back.

You just start walking.

It’s not like you’ll never come back.

You’ll be back eventually. There’s nowhere else to go, and you’re not brave enough to leave it all behind—not yet. Not when everything you know is here, wrapped up in the walls of this small, suffocating neighborhood. The same faces, the same streets, the same houses that have stood the test of time.

You could never truly escape it.

You’ve lived here your whole life, and the place is etched into your bones. You know every cracked sidewalk, every corner, every tree lining the streets. You’ve seen the small changes, the subtle shifts that come with the passage of time—the new cars parked in driveways, the old ones sold off. The faces that come and go. The families that grow, and the ones that break apart.

There’s comfort in that familiarity. In the predictability of it all.

Even though, sometimes, you wish you could escape. You dream of a place where things aren’t so small, so predictable. But you also know that if you left, you’d feel lost. Scared. It’s easier to stay.

Because no matter how much you hate it, there’s something reassuring about knowing where you are. Knowing that, for better or worse, everything is still here.

Just as you’re about to turn left, heading toward a familiar place—one that offers a small sense of comfort—a motorcycle rushes past. The dust and sand whirl up around you, stinging your skin and eyes, and you cough as the old engine roars, leaving behind a cloud of exhaust that clings to the air long after it’s gone. The smell is sharp, acrid, and unpleasant, lingering in your nostrils like a bad memory.

You watch the bike slow down, its wheels screeching slightly as it stops in front of the dilapidated motel. The place always had an eerie, run-down feel, but you were used to it. You’ve passed it a thousand times, seeing the same worn-out sign, the faded paint, the flickering lights that never seemed to work. Still, tonight it feels different. The motorcycle feels out of place here, an odd contrast to the shabby motel and the usual quiet.

You stand there for a moment, heart thudding, uncertain if you want to stay or move along. You turn your head, glancing at the motel again, wondering who it could be. But you don’t dare stare too long. Not here. Not in a place where stories go untold and faces remain hidden.

You watch as the man—no, the guy?—removes his cap, running a hand through his hair, smoothing it down as though he’s trying to make himself presentable. He’s trying too hard to appear like he’s entering somewhere grand, somewhere important, when in reality he’s about to walk into a dilapidated motel that’s seen its fair share of secrets and sins.

It’s not the first time you’ve seen people go into that place. You’ve seen it all before—the men in suits, the ones who seem out of place, who look like they’ve come from well-kept homes with their wives and children waiting for them. The ones who, for some reason, end up here, where the air is thick with shame and quiet desperation. But this time, it’s different.

This time, it’s a stranger.

He’s not the usual kind of person who stumbles into this place. He’s young. His face is soft, almost delicate, not the weathered look of older, tired men. And when his eyes catch yours, something shifts. There’s a brief moment where the world seems to stop, where the space between you two feels charged with something unspoken.

His eyes are wide, almost innocent, doe-like—chocolate brown, round, and bright. You see it in his gaze, the uncertainty, the hesitation. He looks around quickly, as if hoping no one has noticed him, as if he’s ashamed of what he’s doing here.

But then your gazes lock, and for that split second, everything feels different. He’s not like the others who come here—those who walk in like they own the world and are only too happy to hide in the shadows. No, there’s something about him. Something vulnerable, something… human. Something that makes you want to look away but also can’t tear your eyes from him.

He doesn’t look like he belongs in a place like this.

He doesn’t look like he belongs here. Or anywhere, really. His movements are uncertain as he walks toward the motel, his boots thudding heavily against the concrete with each step. His gaze never lingers, not even a second, as if he’s afraid to look back. And then, just like that, he disappears into the grimy motel, the door swinging closed behind him with a dull click.

The place feels different now, suddenly. That same street, those same worn-out walls, those familiar faces that you’ve passed by a hundred times—all of it feels strangely foreign. As if something about the whole scene has shifted, broken the mold you’ve always known. The air is thicker, heavier now, not from the dust or the heat, but from the feeling of unfamiliarity settling into the space around you.

And it’s almost a relief.

For a brief moment, you don’t feel trapped in this neighborhood. You don’t feel like you’re stuck in the same old cycle, walking the same paths, seeing the same people, watching the same mistakes repeat over and over. No, for a second, it’s like the world around you has cracked open just a little, and you’re left with the quiet possibility that things might change, even if just for a moment.

The shift feels small, but it’s there. Like the first breath of fresh air after suffocating for too long.

When you get home that night, you find your mother sitting on the porch, the thin, burned-out cigarette dangling between her fingers. She’s not pretending anymore, not now that it’s late and everyone else is probably asleep. Her hair is messy, no longer the smooth, well-kept style she usually flaunts. Her face is swollen—bruises splotching her cheeks, her eyes puffy and tired from crying.

“Where were you?” she asks, her gaze still fixed on the house in front of yours. She doesn’t bother looking at you, not to check if you’re okay. Her attention is elsewhere, distant, as if she doesn’t expect any answer that would matter.

“Walking around,” you admit, eyes focused on your feet, the weight of her cold gaze too much to bear.

She scoffs. The cigarette, now crushed under her foot, is unceremoniously snuffed out, and you can see the way she doesn’t even flinch from the pain. It’s a habit, a daily routine.

“You’re lucky for now,” she says, voice softer than before, rough from the crying, the scream of her throat still raw. “But soon, you’ll be in my shoes.”

She stands up, her small frame carrying a quiet defiance despite the way she looks—worn, bruised, and broken. But there’s confidence in the way she holds herself, like she’s been carrying it all for years. “I never wanted to have a child,” she spits out, her words sharp yet tired. “Especially not a girl. I hate being a woman, and I hate that you have to be one.”

Her voice isn’t as angry as usual. It’s bitter, almost resigned. She steps closer, her hands coming up to grab your chin with a force that feels like it’s meant to command attention. She forces you to look at her, her fingers digging into your skin.

She points to each bruise, one by one, her index finger tracing the marks as if they were a map of her life. She doesn’t care that she’s showing you the evidence of everything she’s endured—she’s too used to it, too numb to the shame of it.

“This is the reality of being a woman,” she mutters, almost to herself, before shoving your face away with an almost violent jerk. “So, please, for the love of God, don’t act like you’re stupid.”

Her words hang in the air, heavier than any slap, before she turns and walks back into the house, leaving you standing there, unsure of whether you should follow or just stay outside where it’s quieter. The front door closes with a soft thud, and for a moment, all you can hear is the distant hum of the neighborhood at night.

It was the first time your mother had shown any sign of care, though it wasn’t the kind of love you expected. It wasn’t tender or warm, but something raw, something almost desperate. Maybe it was because she hated her own life so much, and in that bitterness, she saw you—her daughter—trapped in the same fate she had lived. A fate passed down from her mother, and her mother before her, a cycle that seemed impossible to break.

She hated that she couldn’t escape it, and more than anything, she hated the thought that you might walk the same path. That you might fall into the same patterns, the same resignation, the same endless hurt.

And yet, she couldn’t help but see herself in you. She couldn’t bear to watch you go through the same things, to let you slip into that cycle without a fight. That’s why her words were so harsh, so bitter—because she wanted to shake you awake, to make sure you understood. She wasn’t doing it because she didn’t care. She was doing it because, in her own twisted way, she did.

She knew she couldn’t change her fate, but maybe, just maybe, she could help you change yours. Maybe if she told you the truth, no matter how ugly, you could see it for what it was and find a way to escape.

In that moment, she wasn’t just your mother. She was a woman who had lived through a life she couldn’t control, a life she hated. And for the first time, she was trying to make sure you wouldn’t be doomed to live it too.

The next morning, everything falls back into place, as if nothing ever happened. Your mother’s hair is perfectly styled again, dark and silky, cascading down her shoulders like nothing could’ve ever disturbed it. She’s wearing the same light baby pink dress, the one she always wore when she wanted to appear delicate and soft, the one that made her look so much like the image she desperately wanted to maintain.

Her bruises, the ones from last night, are now hidden beneath layers of makeup, and the wounds are no longer visible. She’s smiling, the kind of smile she perfected when she wanted to convince the world that everything was fine, that she was content. She stands beside him on the porch, acting as if nothing ever happened. She laughs as she speaks to your father, the sound sweet, almost too sweet, a performance of love and happiness, as if she wasn’t the same woman who had been crushing a cigarette under her bare foot the night before, staring into the distance in quiet pain.

Your father, too, wears that perfect grin of his, proud and unbothered. He acts as if he is the perfect husband, as if he hasn’t raised a hand against the woman standing beside him, as if he’s somehow different from the other men in the neighborhood. But you see through it all. You see that it’s just an act, one he’s practiced for years to keep the appearance of a happy family.

And then, your eyes meet your mother’s. The smile on her face falters, just for a moment, and her eyes give you a glimpse of the woman you saw last night—worn, bruised, and raw. She lets you see her true feelings for the first time in years. For a split second, it’s like she’s dropping the mask, her true emotions finally shining through, but only for a fleeting moment.

She doesn’t ask you where you’re going or why you’re leaving so early with your backpack slung over your shoulder. She doesn’t question you at all. But you can feel it—the quiet understanding between you, the unspoken recognition of what lies beneath the surface.

And you don’t explain yourself. You don’t need to. Because, in that moment, you both know exactly what’s happening. The role you’re both playing, the life you’re both trapped in, and the quiet truths you’ve learned to keep hidden.

The silence between you says everything.

As you walked through the neighborhood, your gaze naturally drifted to the motel, and there it was—the same motorcycle parked in front of it, just as you had seen the night before. Up close, the bike looked even older, with a rusted engine that seemed to be barely hanging on. The smell of gasoline and the loud sputtering noise it made as it idled still lingered in the air. It was far from a smooth ride, but there was something undeniably cool about it. Something raw and untamed that spoke of freedom.

You couldn’t help but wonder what it would feel like to ride a machine like that. The wind wouldn’t feel the same as it did in a car, you imagined. On a motorcycle, it would hit you directly, against your face and body, with a freedom that felt entirely different. It was the kind of freedom you hadn’t experienced yet.

For a moment, you let your mind wander. Maybe one day, you would have one of your own. A motorcycle. You’d ride it wherever you wanted, with no one telling you where to go or how to live. It seemed like something you could use, something to escape from everything else.

And even though you’d never seen a woman on a motorcycle around here, you thought, maybe I could. Maybe it would be the one thing that was truly yours. Something bold, something that didn’t fit into the mold of the life expected of you. You wondered, too, if it was one of your mother’s secret desires—something rebellious, something that stood apart from everything she was supposed to be. Maybe she dreamed of it, too. But if she did, it was something she buried, a quiet longing hidden beneath her role as the perfect housewife, a dream she would never dare to chase.

But you could. You didn’t need permission. You could chase it for both of you.

You clench the straps of your backpack tighter, walking with determination toward the little secondhand shop, hoping to find someone who could fix your broken Walkman.

The shop had always felt like a refuge. It was far from perfect, its dusty, wooden floors creaking with every step you took. But there was something comforting about it. Raw. Real. It wasn’t the kind of polished, shiny place people raved about, but it was home to you in a way that no other place had been. The old man who ran it was a quiet figure, always there, rearranging the shelves, wiping the dust from vinyls, his slow movements almost hypnotic. The kind of place that felt like it had been frozen in time, a refuge for those who wanted to forget the world for a while.

The shop was never busy, and you didn’t mind the stillness. You loved how it felt like a haven, a place that didn’t need to pretend.

You waited by the counter, your fingers tapping lightly against the wood. The old man always recognized you, even though you wondered how he could still see clearly enough to know your face. His speech was slow, each word measured, like he was thinking before saying it. But he was kind. Never rushed, never impatient. He had stories about his late wife, and sometimes, when the shop was quiet enough, he’d tell you about her.

“You remind me of her, you know,” he’d often say. “She used to wander in here like you. Quiet, but always looking for something.”

You would smile and nod, never quite sure how to respond to that. You imagined a love like his. Real. Uncomplicated. The kind where you don’t need to try, it just is. A love that didn’t feel forced, where the other person wasn’t a burden but a part of you. Not the kind of love you saw in your parents’ eyes. Their relationship felt like a contract—something they had to fulfill rather than something they chose.

You hoped one day you could have that. A place like this. A life that you built for yourself. Not with someone else’s expectations. Not because you had to. But because you wanted to.

You tap the bell on the counter again, the sharp ringing echoing in the dusty shop, but this time it seems to stretch out into an uncomfortable silence. Impatience gnaws at you as you glance around the shop, but there’s still no sign of the old man. You’ve been coming here for years, and he’s always been here, slow and steady, always with a kind word or a story. Something feels wrong now.

Then, a loud crash echoes from the storage room, followed by a muttered curse that’s far too quick, too sharp to belong to the old man. Your heart skips a beat, an unease creeping up your spine. The sound—almost frantic—grates against the usual calm of this place. The hair on the back of your neck stands up.

A moment later, a man steps out from the storage room. He’s younger than the old man, much younger. His hair is dark and untamed, falling messily over his forehead, parted in the middle. Unlike the old man’s greying locks, his hair looks fresh, unruly, and full of life. His eyes, a warm brown, catch yours immediately, and you recognize them—the same doe-like eyes from the previous night. The same guy you saw by the motel. Your stomach does a little flip at the sight of him, though you can’t tell if it’s curiosity or something else stirring inside you.

He takes a step toward you, his movements slow but deliberate. There’s a silver piercing gleaming in his eyebrow, the light from the dusty windows catching on it just right. It’s the first time you’ve seen something like that in person, and for a moment, you can’t help but stare. The piercing isn’t the only one either—his lower lip holds another one, and you feel your eyes dart there before you can stop yourself.

His voice cuts through your thoughts. It’s low, with an edge of impatience, as if he’s not in the mood for this interaction, but he still bothers to ask, “Need help?” His tone suggests he hopes it won’t take long.

You blink, taking in the whole scene now. The way he stands—like he’s been here before, or maybe like he owns the place. His demeanor is different from the old man’s. There’s a confidence to him, but something in his posture says he’s also waiting for something, not sure if he wants to be here either.

“Can I help you?” he repeats, tapping his fingers against the counter in a steady rhythm, as if he’s not used to people lingering. He’s not the warm, inviting figure you’re used to seeing around here, and it throws you off. The shop feels suddenly different, less welcoming in his presence, and you can’t put your finger on why.

You can’t help it—your mind goes back to the old man. “Where is the old man?” you ask, the words slipping out before you can stop them. You turn, peering over his shoulder as if you might find the old man still standing there, but the storage room remains silent. Your heart pounds in your chest at the thought of something happening to him. You’ve always felt safe in this little shop, but now… it doesn’t feel quite the same.

The guy seems to notice your unease, and his eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no answer. Instead, he stands a little straighter, and you catch a flicker of something in his expression—indifference, or maybe something else, but it’s hard to tell.

He lets out a soft sigh, a faint roll of his eyes as he leans against the counter. His arms cross over his chest, and you can’t help but notice how his presence seems to fill the small, cluttered space more than it should. Every movement he makes feels deliberate, and you realize he’s entirely aware of how he occupies the room. His boots scrape loudly against the wooden floor as he shifts his weight, and you can almost feel the way the air tightens with the tension he brings.

“The old man is my uncle,” he says, his tone cool but with a slight edge of amusement. A small, knowing grin appears on his lips as he watches you, his gaze flicking over your face when your mouth falls open in surprise. “He’s taking a break. I’m doing him a favor. That’s it.” The words are casual, but there’s a quiet finality to them—like he’s done talking about it, like it’s not up for discussion.

You blink, trying to steady yourself. It’s harder than you expected to meet his eyes without feeling a little exposed, a little off-balance. You had assumed the old man was always here, the steady, familiar presence that greeted you every time you came in. But now, faced with this stranger—this person you’ve only ever seen from a distance—the air feels different.

“I was just asking for a repair,” you say, your voice faltering more than you meant it to. The usual certainty in your tone wavers as you shift on your feet. You glance back toward the storage room once more, but there’s no movement, no sound to assure you that the old man is still here. “It’s for my—my Walkman.”

He raises an eyebrow, clearly amused by the idea. His gaze moves lazily from the counter back to you, a flicker of interest passing behind his eyes before he whistles quietly. “A Walkman, huh?” he repeats, almost as if he’s surprised someone in this neighborhood had one. He lets the words hang in the air for a second, then continues, his voice laced with a hint of sarcasm. “And you’re telling me that this place—this place, of all places—is going to fix it? Aren’t you rich enough to just buy a new one?”

The way his eyes move over you makes your stomach twist uncomfortably. You can feel his gaze sizing you up, measuring you in a way that feels both intrusive and sharp. He looks at your clothes—your neat, clean appearance—and his lips curl into a slow, dismissive scoff. It’s not lost on you that his eyes linger for just a moment longer, as if judging something he’s already decided about you.

A sudden pang of self-consciousness hits you. Your heart sinks slightly, regret flickering through your chest as his judgment gnaws at you. You hate the way his scrutiny makes you feel, like you don’t quite fit in here. Like you don’t belong.

You force yourself to take a deep breath and shake it off, trying to reassert yourself. “It’s important to me,” you say, your voice steadying. “Can you fix it or not?” The question is simple, but there’s a trace of desperation creeping in, despite your best efforts to remain composed. You need him to understand—this isn’t just about the Walkman. It’s about something deeper, something he’ll never understand unless he takes the time to look past the surface.

He pauses for a moment, his eyes lingering on you as if weighing your words. You can almost feel the shift in the air, a flicker of something beneath the surface—curiosity, perhaps, or something else—but it’s gone before you can fully place it. His gaze softens, just barely, but then he lets out a sharp exhale, pushing himself off the counter and stepping forward with the weight of his boots echoing against the wooden floor, the sound strangely loud in the stillness of the room.

“You’re serious, huh?” he asks, his voice softer now but still carrying that sharp edge, like he’s not quite used to being asked for something. He glances back at the storage room again, his eyes lingering there for a second, almost like he’s reconsidering something. Then, with a nonchalant shrug, he turns toward the cluttered shelves behind him, picking up a few items and inspecting them absentmindedly before setting them back down, like he’s not fully engaged in the situation, but also not ready to back out just yet.

“Alright,” he finally says, the word slipping from his lips with a trace of reluctant agreement. He shrugs again, as if it’s no big deal, though you can tell there’s a part of him that’s still sizing you up, still trying to figure out what it is you’re really after. “I can take a look at it. Doesn’t mean it’ll be easy to fix, though. This place doesn’t exactly scream ‘high-end electronics repair,’” he adds, a wry smile playing at the corners of his lips as his gaze drifts toward the dusty shelves stacked with vinyl records and faded cassette tapes. The place feels more like a forgotten corner of time than a shop for repairs.

You let his words settle, watching him carefully as he moves. His attitude seems casual, but there’s something about the way he approaches things—so effortlessly, so confident—that makes you wonder if he’s more than he lets on. His hands work quickly, pulling a few items from the shelves, inspecting them before moving to the counter. He rummages through drawers full of tools, the sound of metal clinking against metal mixing with the soft hum of the room.

“I don’t care where you do it,” you say, your voice firmer now, like you’ve made up your mind. “I just want it fixed.”

He raises an eyebrow, a soft chuckle escaping him. His eyes flicker over you again, lingering a moment longer than usual, and for the briefest second, you think you catch a glimpse of something softer in them, but it’s gone just as quickly as it appeared. He’s unreadable, as usual.

“Fine, fine. We’ll see what we can do,” he mutters, leaning down to dig through the drawer again, his hands moving with a practiced ease that you can’t help but admire. Despite his earlier sarcasm, he doesn’t seem bothered by the task at all. His fingers brush against the old tools, each movement deliberate, like he’s been doing this for years. He pulls out a few items—some soldering wire, a small screwdriver, a flashlight—almost like he’s done this hundreds of times before.

“So, what’s with the Walkman?” he asks casually, his eyes now focused on the device in his hands. The question is simple enough, but there’s a certain detachment in his voice, like he’s trying to keep the conversation light, even if there’s something more beneath it.

You hesitate for a moment, unsure whether to share anything personal. But something about the way he works, the rhythm of his hands, the quiet focus he’s putting into the task—it makes you feel like you can let your guard down, just a little. So, you answer him, your voice softer than you intended.

“It’s… sentimental,” you say, your eyes dropping to the counter as you cross your arms, trying to hide the vulnerability that creeps into your voice. “It’s the only thing that feels like mine. It’s always been with me.”

His hands still for a moment, and you almost don’t notice it at first. But then, he picks up the Walkman with more care, his fingers brushing over it like he’s seeing it in a new light. “Sentimental,” he repeats, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful. “I get that.”

The silence stretches between you two as he works, the quiet hum of the room settling around you. The atmosphere feels different now, less awkward, almost… familiar.

You watch him as he works, the quiet precision in his movements catching you off guard. His fingers, surprisingly gentle despite the rugged look, move with an almost protective care, like he’s handling something fragile, something valuable. There’s a soft furrow in his brow, a small crease forming as he concentrates, and you can hear the occasional curse slip from his lips when something doesn’t go as planned. It’s an oddly captivating thing to watch, how someone could be so absorbed in something as small as fixing a Walkman.

His tongue pokes into the side of his cheek when he’s frustrated, a subtle gesture that almost feels like it’s his way of keeping calm, of focusing deeper. You hadn’t realized how much you were paying attention to the details—his every movement, the slight tension in his posture—as if the small actions were painting him in a new light, one you hadn’t expected.

“It’s the first time I’m holding one,” he mutters softly, more to himself than to you, but the words still carry through the quiet room. His voice is low, almost distant, like he’s unsure whether he even wants you to hear. “Too expensive.”

You nod quietly, feeling an unfamiliar pang in your stomach. It’s an odd feeling, almost like a tinge of guilt or something deeper that you don’t quite understand. Maybe he’s right—maybe this Walkman wasn’t something someone like him would ever have, and certainly, it wasn’t something someone like you would have, either, if not for the circumstances.

It had been a gift, one that your parents had gotten for you when it first hit the market, all shiny and new. They’d said it was a revolution, a piece of history. Everyone would envy you, they’d promised, and for a while, you’d believed them. It was the kind of thing that made you feel special, like you had something others didn’t. But now, in this moment, it didn’t feel as significant as it used to. If you’d never had it—if it had never been in your hands at all—you wonder if it would have mattered.

You glance at him, his hands steady and sure, and then look back down at the Walkman in his grip. It feels like something distant now, just an object, one that’s tied to a past you’re not sure you even care about anymore.

Your eyes are drawn to his piercings once again, the gleam of the silver reflecting the light as you try to think of something to say. You want to know more about him, to learn what brought him here, what his life is like, what makes him tick—something more than just his uncle’s store. You wonder if there’s a story behind those piercings, a story behind him, beyond the sarcasm and the aloofness.

Finally, you break the silence. “I love your piercings,” you say, leaning forward a little, your arms resting on the counter as you get a closer look at the glinting metal.

He halts his movements, his hands pausing mid-task, and pulls back slightly. A scoff escapes him, and for the first time, you catch the slightest shift in his expression. It’s a mix of amusement and something else, maybe frustration. He looks you over, his eyes flicking from your outfit to the pristine state of your appearance, and there’s a subtle judgment in the way his gaze lingers.

“I doubt your parents would love that,” he mutters, his voice dry, as if the thought alone is enough to make him cringe. He gestures toward you—your clean, polished look, the kind that screams privilege, the kind of look that wouldn’t align with someone choosing to wear piercings like his. His tone suggests he’s seen enough of that world to know exactly what it thinks of someone like him.

You feel a flicker of discomfort at his words, but you push it down. Instead, you glance around the store, letting your eyes wander over the worn vinyl records and the neglected shelves. There’s no music playing like it used to when the old man was around, and it makes the space feel emptier, quieter somehow. It’s a small detail, but one that strikes you.

“No,” you say, your voice softer now, a touch defensive, but with a small smile tugging at your lips. “I don’t think my parents would be too thrilled about it either.” You pause, feeling the weight of your words for a moment. “But I love it,” you add, your gaze drifting back to the piercings, the way they shine under the dim light.

The words hang between you two, and there’s a strange tension in the air. You feel a little more vulnerable than you’d expected, but there’s also a sense of freedom in the truth. It’s the first time you’ve really said something that’s your choice, something that isn’t dictated by the expectations placed on you.

“Then get one,” he throws out, a mischievous grin still tugging at his lips as he carefully inspects the Walkman. He holds it up between his hands, offering it to you once more. You don’t take it immediately, unsure of why, or maybe unsure of what to do next.

“Keep it,” you finally mutter, your words feeling heavier than you intended. You can feel the weight of the device in your hand, the memory of it too tied to you, to your past. “I don’t need it anymore.”

His eyes flash with a hint of annoyance. He scoffs, tapping his cheek in frustration, before poking the Walkman back into your hands with a little more force than necessary. “You just wasted my time,” he says, his voice dripping with mild irritation.

For a moment, you feel a pang of guilt, but you quickly shove it aside. You slide the Walkman back toward him, the cool metal against your palm. “I’m not,” you say, almost laughing at how absurd the whole situation is. “You met me.”

You offer a soft, quiet laugh, unsure of how he’ll respond, but the tension breaks when you hear his unexpected chuckle. He turns his head toward the dusty window, staring outside as the sunlight catches his eyes, the gleam of his piercings almost blinding for a split second.

“If I keep it, you won’t have it back,” he says, his tone light but with an edge of finality, still gazing out the window, a small smile tugging at his lips.

You smirk, feeling a little lighter. “I’m not planning to.”

He finally turns back to you, his expression shifting as he holds the Walkman with a reverence you hadn’t expected. For a moment, he looks at it like it’s something precious, almost as if he’s seeing it for the first time. You can tell he’s never held something quite like this before, despite the old motorcycle you’ve seen him ride, which probably cost far less than this device. In fact, you wouldn’t be surprised if the Walkman had been worth more than his bike.

His fingers trace the edges, like he’s savoring the feel of something foreign to him—something valuable. It’s strange to watch him like this, his cool and detached demeanor replaced with something a little more… curious. The room feels quieter as he focuses, and for just a moment, everything about the store—the dusty shelves, the absence of music—fades away. It’s just you, him, and the Walkman in his hands.

“Thanks,” he whispers, his voice unusually soft, and you catch a brief hesitation before he clears his throat, speaking louder. “I will take care of it.” His words are firm now, as he slips the Walkman into the back pocket of his denim jeans with a certain carefulness that makes you wonder if he’s fully aware of what it means to him, what it means to you.

The smile that follows is unexpected. It’s wide and genuine, a kind of purity behind it that almost makes you forget the tough exterior he wears. His front teeth peek out, and for a brief second, he looks… soft, almost cute, despite the sharpness of his features and the piercings that define him. There’s a warmth in that smile, a connection that, for whatever reason, feels more important than it probably should.

You feel a wave of something inside you—something light, something content. You can’t help but smile back as you close your backpack, adjusting the straps, and turning to leave. As you walk toward the door, you glance over your shoulder. He’s still standing there, his hand resting on the counter, a quiet presence in the small shop.

You tell him your name before leaving, your voice quiet but steady. He doesn’t respond with his own name, and in that moment, you realize that you don’t need it. There’s no need for something as trivial as a name when you’ve shared this small, unspoken moment—an exchange that doesn’t require any formalities.

It’s enough, you think, that he accepted the Walkman, that he treated it with care, that it found its place in his hands. That’s more than enough. You walk out of the store, feeling lighter, leaving behind the weight of the past with every step.

It was ridiculous, really, how your eyes always wandered to the motel whenever you passed by, searching for that one familiar sight. The motorcycle, parked in the same spot, untouched. It had become a strange sort of reassurance, a quiet confirmation that he was still there, lingering just at the edge of your world.

You hadn’t seen him since that last time, hadn’t heard his voice or caught a glimpse of those piercing eyes, but knowing he was still around was enough—for now. You liked to imagine him with your Walkman, headphones snug over his ears, listening to something that made his day just a little bit lighter, a little less heavy. The thought made you feel strangely content, though you weren’t sure why.

When you stepped into the shop that day, a flicker of anticipation sparked in your chest, only to fade as quickly as it came. The old man was there, the same as always, greeting you with a familiar smile as he shuffled toward you. You forced yourself not to look too disappointed, not to let it show that you had been hoping for someone else instead.

“It’s been a while since you’ve come by,” he remarked, dragging a cloth across a shelf in a half-hearted attempt to clean, only managing to stir the dust into the air.

You raised an eyebrow. “I was here last week,” you reminded him, letting your fingers skim over the vinyl records, pretending to browse when really, your attention was elsewhere. “Your nephew was here.”

The moment the words left your lips, his expression shifted, his brows lifting in amusement. “My nephew?” he echoed, as if the idea itself was absurd.

You laughed, tilting your head. “Yeah. Piercings, kinda looks like a bunny,” you added, hoping the description would jog his memory.

A chuckle rumbled from his chest, and for some reason, it made your shoulders relax. You hadn’t imagined him. You hadn’t made him up in your head just to fill some empty space in your life.

“Jungkook,” the old man mused, tossing the cloth onto the counter. “That boy. He’s not my nephew—I don’t have any.”

You froze, your hand stilling over the record you had been pretending to consider.

Jungkook.

His name felt unfamiliar, rare even, like something that didn’t quite fit in the world you knew. And yet, now that you had it, you wanted to hold onto it.

“If he’s not your nephew,” you said, forcing a chuckle, trying to keep it light despite the curiosity gnawing at you, “then who is he? Some kind of impostor I should be worried about?”

The old man smirked, shaking his head. “Nah, nothing like that. He’s a good kid, far as I can tell.” He leaned against the counter, rubbing his chin as he thought. “His mother was a friend of my wife,” he finally said, as if that alone explained everything.

But it didn’t.

If anything, it only left you with more questions.

You stare at the old man, waiting for more—more details, more answers, anything that would give you a clearer picture of Jungkook, this boy who had somehow settled into your thoughts without permission. But the old man just shrugs, as if that small explanation is all you need to know.

His mother was a friend of his wife. That’s it?

There’s something about the way he says it, though—like there’s more to the story, something he’s choosing not to say. You can tell from the way his gaze flickers for a moment, like he’s debating whether to say more or leave it at that.

“And?” you press, crossing your arms, trying to sound casual despite the way your stomach twists.

The old man chuckles, shaking his head as he leans against the counter. “And nothing, kid. He showed up a while ago, needed a place to stay, so I helped him out. That’s all.”

That’s all.

You want to ask why. Why he needed a place to stay. Where he came from. What led him here. But you know better than to pry—at least, not in front of the old man, who clearly isn’t interested in giving you a life story.

Instead, you hum in acknowledgment, returning your gaze to the rows of vinyl records, but you’re not really looking at them anymore. Your mind is still stuck on Jungkook.

The motorcycle at the motel.

The way he looked at the Walkman like it was the most valuable thing in the world.

The way he didn’t give you his name.

He’s a nice kid, the old man had said. But there was something unsaid beneath that.

You shake your head, exhaling softly. Maybe you were overthinking it.

Maybe you just wanted to understand him too badly.

“Well,” you say finally, picking up a random record just to keep your hands busy, “if you see him, tell him I said hi.”

The old man gives you a look, one that makes you think he knows exactly why you’re asking, but he just grins, nodding. “Sure thing, kid.”

You nod back, placing the record down before making your way to the door.

The old man didn’t try to stop you when you left as quickly as you had arrived. He didn’t call after you or ask why you suddenly seemed so eager to be somewhere else. Instead, he just scoffed to himself, shaking his head at the way your enthusiasm had dimmed the moment you realized Jungkook wasn’t there.

You thought he didn’t notice—thought he was just some oblivious shopkeeper too lost in his own world to catch the subtle shifts in people’s expressions. But he wasn’t naïve. He had lived a lifetime before you, had seen this kind of thing more times than he could count.

It had happened to him too many times before—coming home to an empty space, hoping for someone who was no longer there.

He knew the feeling well, that quiet ache of expectation followed by the heavy weight of absence. It settled in the bones, in the spaces left untouched, in the silence that stretched too long.

So when he saw that look in your eyes—the flicker of hope when you walked in, the way it dimmed when you realized Jungkook wasn’t there—he understood. More than you probably thought.

But he didn’t say anything. Didn’t ask questions. Some things were better left unspoken.

The walk home felt heavier than before, each step dragging under the weight of questions you couldn’t silence. Without your Walkman, the usual comfort of music was gone, leaving you alone with the pounding in your chest and the restless thoughts clawing at your mind. You tried to focus on the rhythm of your footsteps, the dull scuff of your shoes against the pavement, but even that failed to ground you.

Then you saw it.

A flash of light blue. A pair of unmistakable orange headphones.

Your breath caught in your throat as your gaze locked onto the Walkman—your Walkman—gripped carelessly in the hands of a stranger.

It was like the world tilted off its axis for a second. No one else in the neighborhood had one. You knew it as well as you knew your own name. And yet, here it was, being held by someone who shouldn’t have it.

“Hey!” The word left your mouth before you could think. You surged forward, weaving through the sparse evening crowd, heart hammering. The man didn’t even glance up, just shoved the headphones back over his ears like your voice didn’t exist.

Rage flared in your chest. Now you knew exactly why your mother had always hated that device.

“You sucker,” you spat, reaching out and gripping the man’s shoulder, spinning him around with more force than you realized you had.

He reacted immediately, shoving you back with enough strength that you nearly stumbled. “The fuck’s your problem?” he snapped, eyes narrowing as he adjusted his stance.

But you barely heard him. Your gaze was fixed on the Walkman, still clutched in his fingers.

“Where did you get that?” you demanded, pointing at it with a shaking hand. “It’s mine. You stole it.”

The man scoffed, rolling his eyes like you were some entitled brat throwing a tantrum. He tried to turn away, but you weren’t letting this go.

“I bought it,” he said sharply, enunciating each word like he wanted to shove them down your throat. His jaw tensed, muscles twitching under the flickering streetlights.

Your stomach twisted. “From who?”

He let out a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe the audacity of the situation. “Some kid was selling it,” he muttered, adjusting his grip on the device. “I paid. Fair deal.”

A sharp breath pushed through your lungs. You swallowed the lump in your throat, the sinking feeling in your stomach threatening to drag you under.

“Who—” you started, but he cut you off, shoving you again, hard enough that your back hit the rough concrete.

“I don’t owe you shit,” he snapped, his voice carrying enough venom to make the people around you pause in their steps, their eyes flickering between the two of you.

You barely registered them.

Your fingers clenched into fists, but you forced yourself to unclench them, to steady your voice. “Was he wearing piercings?” you asked, swallowing thickly. “Black boots? About this tall?” You raised your hand to about Jungkook’s height, the image of him burned into your memory.

The man clicked his tongue, impatient, but nodded. “Yeah. Probably.”

Your breath shuddered.

“Where?”

He barely got the words out before you were already running.

Your heart was pounding against your ribs, each step slamming against the pavement as you sprinted through the streets. You barely registered the murmurs of the people you passed or the way your breath came out in short, uneven gasps.

Jungkook had sold it.

The thought lodged itself into your chest like a blade, sharp and twisting with every heartbeat. You didn’t understand—why would he? You had given it to him. Not as something to throw away, not as something to trade for a few bills, but because you wanted him to have it.

Your throat tightened as you pushed forward, eyes locking onto the flickering neon sign of the bar ahead. It was the kind of place that stank of beer and regret, where the jukebox played the same old tunes on a loop, and where no one asked too many questions.

You barely hesitated before shoving the door open, the scent of alcohol and cigarette smoke hitting you immediately. The dim lights cast long shadows over the people hunched over their drinks, their conversations slurring together in the haze of the room. Your eyes darted around, scanning every face, every figure, until—

There.

He was slouched against the bar, his black denim jacket wrinkled, his dark hair falling over his face and a cigarette hung loosely from his lips, the ember glowing faintly as the ash at the tip grew precariously long, moments away from crumbling. He didn’t seem to notice, too absorbed in counting the worn bills in his hand. His fingers moved deftly, flicking through them with practiced ease, his focus unshaken by the dim light of the bar or the low murmur of voices around him.

He looked different. Not the sharp-tongued, slightly amused boy you’d met in the record shop, but tired. Hollow.

You didn’t wait. You stormed toward him, not caring about the eyes that followed your every move. When you reached him, you didn’t even give him a chance to react before your hands slammed onto the bar beside him.

“Why?”

Jungkook blinked, slow and sluggish, his movements heavy with the weight of whatever haze he was in. His dark eyes, clouded yet sharp beneath it all, lifted to meet yours. There was a flicker of recognition—brief, almost reluctant.

Silently, he took the cigarette from his lips, his fingers lazy as he tapped the long ash into the tray before him. His other hand, still holding the bills, curled slightly as if preparing for whatever was coming next.

“What?” His voice was rough, low, like he hadn’t spoken in a while. There was no immediate defensiveness, no excuse tumbling from his lips. Just that one word, sitting between you like a challenge, or maybe an invitation.

“The Walkman,” you hissed, your fingers curling into fists. “You sold it.”

A flicker of something—guilt, maybe—passed through his face, but it disappeared just as quickly. He exhaled through his nose, leaning back against the bar stool. “Yeah,” he said simply. No excuses. No explanations. Just that.

Your stomach twisted. “Why?” you demanded again, voice breaking slightly despite yourself.

Jungkook ran a hand through his hair, tilting his head as he studied you. “Why do you care?” he finally asked, his tone unreadable.

“Because I gave it to you,” you snapped. “Because it meant something. And I thought—I thought maybe it would mean something to you too.”

He let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. “You don’t get it, do you?” He reached for his drink, took a slow sip before setting it back down. “That kind of thing—it’s not for people like me. It never was.”

You stared at him, your heart hammering. “That’s bullshit.”

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Is it?”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The noise of the bar carried on around you, but it felt like a distant hum, meaningless compared to the storm between you.

Jungkook was the first to look away, his fingers tapping idly against his glass. “You should go home,” he muttered.

But you didn’t move. Because you weren’t done.

Your eyes fell on the stack of bills scattered across the counter, and before you even realized it, your hand shot out, fingers curling around them in a tight grip. “Is this what you got for my Walkman?” you spat, your voice low but sharp, each word cutting through the thick air of the bar.

Jungkook barely reacted. His expression remained impassive, a bored detachment settling over his features like you were the one making a scene over nothing. The men around you—mostly older, their faces worn from years of the same dull routine—turned slightly, curious but uninterested enough to intervene. Women weren’t here. They were home, putting kids to bed, cleaning up after dinner. And yet, here you were, standing in the middle of it all, feeling like an intruder in a place you didn’t belong.

And Jungkook was here too.

That was what made you the angriest.

He sighed, slow and deliberate, before placing his hand over yours. His nails dug into your skin just enough to make you aware of his strength, his control over the situation. “It’s mine,” he said, voice firm, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that left no room for amusement or guilt.

You scoffed. “Is it really?” Your grip didn’t loosen, even as the heat of his palm pressed into yours. “I gave it to you because it meant something to me.”

“Never asked you to.”

You clenched your jaw. “You said you’d take care of it.”

“And I did,” he countered instantly, unwavering.

You let out a dry laugh, filled with disbelief and something close to hurt. “You sold it to some fucker just to make a few bucks.”

Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose, his tongue poking against the inside of his cheek like he was holding something back. Then, with a sudden, jerking motion, he shoved your hand off the counter and held the bills up between you. “These bills might mean nothing to you,” he said, voice calm but laced with something heavier. “But because of this, I get to eat properly tonight.”

Your breath caught.

For the first time since you stormed in, you really looked at him. His sharp eyes, his slightly hollowed cheeks, the way he was holding himself together with nothing but sheer will. The space between you shrank, his face closer now, and for the first time, you didn’t have anything to say.

You opened your mouth, trying to form an apology—anything that might bring back the boy with the doe eyes and the bunny smile, the one who had looked at your Walkman like it was something precious. But before you could say a word, he was already moving.

Jungkook pushed himself off the barstool, slipping the crumpled bills behind his belt with practiced ease. “I’m sorry, I—”

He raised a hand, cutting you off without a second thought. The gesture was so dismissive, so absolute, that it sent a sharp sting through your chest. You hated how familiar it felt—how much it reminded you of your father silencing your mother. And just like then, you obeyed.

“Spare me your pity,” he muttered before turning toward the door.

Your body reacted before your mind could process it. You followed him without thinking, the weight of the men’s gazes pressing into your back like heavy stones. They were watching you the way a predator watches its prey, their interest laced with something unsettling. It didn’t matter that you were young enough to be their daughter, that they had girls your age waiting for them at home. Right now, you were just another thing to look at, to whisper about.

Panic tightened in your throat, and you grabbed Jungkook’s arm before he could step outside.

He turned, eyes flickering over your face, reading the unease you were too proud to voice. And then, without hesitation, he took your hand and pulled you in front of him, shielding you from their stares as he led you out the door.

You barely had time to step outside before Jungkook wrenched his hand from yours, pulling away as if your touch burned him. The sharp motion left you standing there, vulnerable and uncertain. He spun around, already reaching for another cigarette, his body language closed off. But before he could turn and walk away, your voice cut through the tension.

“Jungkook,” you called, your tone firm but hesitant, and he stopped in his tracks. His brows arched, clearly surprised you were still speaking.

“Your uncle told me your name,” you explained quickly, hoping to ease the awkwardness. You didn’t want him to think you were some sort of obsessive stranger. “He also told me he wasn’t your uncle,” you added, the words feeling heavier now, but you knew it was time to confront the truth.

He let out a small sigh, rolling his eyes as he shook his head. “The old man always talks too much,” he muttered, taking a slow drag from his cigarette, the smoke swirling around his face like an invisible barrier. “So what? You wanna know why I lied?”

You shook your head quickly, brushing off the question like it didn’t matter. “No, I don’t care,” you said, your voice softening. “You have your reasons.”

For a moment, there was a heavy silence between you two, thick with unspoken understanding. Jungkook didn’t meet your eyes, and you didn’t push him. You both stood there, the noise of the bar fading into the background as the quiet between you grew. It felt strange, as if something had shifted, but neither of you knew exactly what.

“I’m sorry for the Walkman,” he said finally, and the words caught you off guard. You hadn’t expected an apology. His voice was softer than before, almost hesitant, like he didn’t quite know how to say it.

“I was really grateful that you gave it to me,” he continued, sinking down onto the concrete as if the weight of the moment was settling in on him. You sat down beside him, your knees pulled close to your chest, watching him as he dragged a long, deep puff from his cigarette, the smoke swirling around his face.

“But someone saw me with it, proposed me a fair amount of money and I couldn’t…” he trailed off, the words hanging between you two. His shoulders slumped, his gaze distant as he exhaled slowly, a look of disappointment passing over his features. “I couldn’t say no,” he finished quietly, clearly regretting the decision. It seemed like he was disappointed in himself, like he’d thrown away something important for a quick fix.

You sat still for a moment, letting the silence fill the air between you. It was a raw, vulnerable moment, and you didn’t know what to say at first. But as you looked at him—really looked at him—you felt the anger from before start to slip away, replaced by something more understanding.

“Hey,” you said gently, your voice softer than you’d expected. You hugged your knees tighter to your chest and lowered your head slightly, allowing your eyes to meet his. “I was angry, but I understand.”

He didn’t say anything at first, his eyes searching yours as if trying to gauge the sincerity in your words. There was a tension in the air, but for the first time, it felt lighter, as though you’d both reached a quiet understanding without needing to fill the space with more words.

“How can you understand?” he scoffed, shaking his head. “You’ve clearly never had to sell something sentimental just to get by.” His voice was edged with frustration, but beneath it, something else lingered—something heavier. Regret. It sat in his chest like a weight, growing heavier the longer he looked at you, so he averted his gaze, focusing on the cigarette between his fingers instead.

“No, you’re right,” you admitted, nodding slightly as your eyes followed the slow burn of his cigarette. The ember glowed softly in the dim light, a small flicker against the night. “But I know what it feels like to make concessions.”

The words left your lips quietly, almost as if you were admitting it to yourself for the first time. You thought back to all the moments when you had wanted something—really wanted something—but had been told no. Not because it was impossible, but because it didn’t fit the image, because it wasn’t right for someone like you. A dream crushed before it could even take shape. A desire silenced before it could turn into action.

It wasn’t the same as what Jungkook had been through—you knew that. You had never needed to fight for money, never had to make choices between eating or keeping something precious. But you had fought, in your own way. Fought against expectations, against the invisible cage that had been built around you since childhood.

Jungkook didn’t respond right away. He took a slow drag, exhaling smoke into the air before finally looking at you again. This time, his gaze lingered. Not as sharp, not as defensive. Just… observing. Like he was trying to see what was underneath your words, beneath the surface of what you were willing to admit.

“How can I make it up to you?” he asked, his voice softer now, laced with something close to sincerity.

You blinked at him, surprised by the question. The anger you’d felt earlier, the frustration of seeing your Walkman in a stranger’s hands, had dulled. In its place was something else—curiosity, maybe. A desire to understand him better. Because despite the sharp edges he showed in the bar, you knew that wasn’t all there was to him.

Jungkook wasn’t a bad guy. You knew it.

The same boy from before was still there—the one with wide, curious eyes and a smile too soft for someone trying so hard to seem untouchable. The boy who had hesitated before taking the Walkman, who had whispered a quiet “thank you” like it had meant the world to him.

And so, instead of asking for the money back, instead of demanding an apology, you tilted your head, a small smile forming on your lips.

“Your motorcycle,” you said.

Jungkook’s brows furrowed in disbelief, his head tilting slightly as he studied you. “My motorcycle?” he repeated, his voice slow like he was making sure he’d heard correctly.

You nodded, biting back a smile.

His lips parted, a breath of laughter escaping before he shook his head. “How the fuck do you even know I have a bike?” He turned his body toward you now, his full attention on you, curiosity flickering behind his dark eyes.

You hesitated for a second, feeling the heat creep up your neck, but then you sighed, rubbing your cheek like that would somehow cool your blush. “I saw you some nights ago. In front of the motel,” you admitted.

Jungkook’s expression shifted, the teasing light in his gaze dimming slightly. He dropped his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot as he exhaled through his nose. “So you know I sleep there.”

It wasn’t a question.

You saw the way his shoulders tensed, the way his jaw clenched ever so slightly. Like the reality of his situation was settling between you both, unwelcome and heavy.

There was a moment of silence before he scoffed, shaking his head. “Well, if you’re hoping I’ll just hand my bike over, keep dreaming,” he muttered, pointing a finger at you.

You laughed, pushing his hand away without thinking. “I don’t want your bike, idiot,” you said, meeting his gaze head-on.

His posture eased a little, some of the stiffness melting away as he stared at you.

You hadn’t expected him to be this pretty up close. You’d noticed before, of course—the sharp contrast between his rough exterior and his soft, doe-like eyes—but now, with the golden sunlight catching in the dark strands of his hair, the glow of it bouncing off the silver chain around his neck over his black shirt, it was almost distracting. His eyebrow piercing was partially hidden beneath his bangs, but the one on his lip glinted, drawing your eyes there for a second too long.

“I just want to try it,” you finally admitted, quickly looking away before he could catch whatever was on your face.

Jungkook blinked, caught between amusement and suspicion. He tilted his head slightly, studying you. “You want to try it?” His voice was skeptical, but there was something else there too—a hint of curiosity.

You nodded, trying to keep your expression neutral, but the excitement was bubbling up in your chest. “Yeah. Just once.”

He let out a short laugh, running a hand through his hair before resting his arm on his knee. “You ever even been on a motorcycle before?” You hesitated, and that was answer enough. His lips quirked up into a smirk. “Figured.”

Rolling your eyes, you crossed your arms. “Well, maybe I never had the chance.”

Jungkook hummed, watching you closely before leaning in just slightly, lowering his voice like he was sharing a secret. “And what makes you think I’d let you ride mine?”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of his gaze. His presence was overwhelming when he focused on you like that, like he was peeling back the layers you kept so carefully in place.

“Because you feel bad,” you said simply, a small, knowing smile playing on your lips. “And because you’re not as tough as you pretend to be.”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head as he looked away, but he couldn’t hide the way the corner of his mouth twitched upward.

“You really think that, huh?”

“I know that.”

He exhaled through his nose, a mix of amusement and exasperation. Then, without another word, he stood up, dusting off his jeans before stretching his arms over his head.

“Fine,” he said, cracking his neck. “But if you crash it, I will kill you.”

Your eyes widened. “Wait, really?”

He chuckled, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “You asked, didn’t you?”

You stared at him for a moment before a grin spread across your face. You hadn’t expected him to actually agree.

Jungkook sighed dramatically. “Come on then, sugar. Let’s see if you can handle it.”

Your chest tightened at the pet name, the unexpected warmth of it catching you off guard. It had slipped from his lips so effortlessly, like it belonged there, like he’d said it a thousand times before.

You wanted to say something about it, tease him maybe, just to see if he’d say it again. But you hesitated, afraid that if you pointed it out, he’d take it back. That he’d smirk and shrug it off, pretend it had meant nothing.

So instead, you follow him down the street, heart pounding at the thought of what you were about to do.

Jungkook chuckled, shaking his head as he watched you struggle to keep your balance on the motorcycle. “How do you even plan to ride this thing when you can’t stay steady for two seconds?” His voice was full of amusement, eyes glinting as he leaned against the bike, arms crossed.

You had really thought it would be easier, that you’d just swing your leg over and instantly look as effortlessly cool as he did. But the second you lifted your foot off the pavement, your body wobbled, and a small yelp escaped your lips.

Jungkook laughed louder this time, the sound unrestrained, almost boyish. You weren’t even embarrassed—in fact, you exaggerated your reaction just to hear it again.

“Come on, help me!” You stomped your foot on the ground, determined but still completely stuck.

With an amused sigh, Jungkook finally stepped forward, his hands finding your waist without hesitation. The warmth of his palms against your sides sent a shiver up your spine, but he was focused, his grip firm as he steadied you. “Alright, go on. Lift your foot.”

You obeyed immediately, and with his support, you managed to keep the bike steady beneath you.

“Jungkook, fuck,” you breathed out, heart racing—not because you were moving, but because just sitting on the bike felt exhilarating. Because his hands were still on you, and you knew that if he let go, you’d probably take the motorcycle down with you.

His fingers flexed slightly against your waist, and when you turned your head, his face was closer than you expected. His lips twitched, like he was holding back another laugh. “You good there, sugar?”

You swallowed, gripping the handlebars a little tighter. “Yeah,” you lied.

He smirked. He didn’t believe you for a second.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow, skeptical but amused. “Please tell me you at least know how to ride a bicycle?”

You nodded immediately, trying to look as confident as possible. He chuckled at your determination, shaking his head slightly. “Alright, then it’s not that different. Press this to accelerate when I let go of you, and this to slow down, okay?” He pointed at the throttle and the brake, his fingers precise and steady, but your brain struggled to absorb the information. Not because it was difficult—no, it was because he was so close, his voice low and serious, his scent a mix of cigarette smoke and something warm that made your stomach flip.

“Got it?” He tilted his head, waiting for a sign of understanding.

You blinked, forcing yourself to focus. “Yeah, totally.”

Jungkook didn’t seem convinced, his grip on your waist still firm. He searched your face for any sign of hesitation, his expression shifting into something almost… protective. “Are you sure? You don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m so ready,” you assured him, voice steady even if your hands weren’t.

Still, he hesitated. His fingers lingered on your waist a second longer than necessary. You could feel the warmth of them even through the fabric of your shirt, grounding you in a way that made your pulse quicken.

Then, with a deep breath, he let go.

You were shaky at first, hesitating as you twisted the throttle just enough to keep your balance but not enough to lose control. The last thing you wanted was to crash his bike—you didn’t care if you fell and scraped your knees, but damaging his motorcycle? That was unthinkable.

“Jungkook! Look!” you laughed, your voice bright with exhilaration as you started to get the hang of it. The vibrations of the old engine rumbled through your hands, the sheer power of it making your heart race.

Jungkook was right behind you, jogging to keep up, his arms twitching forward every time you wobbled, like he could somehow catch you before you hit the ground. “Focus!” he barked, his voice sharp with concern. “Turn right! If you don’t, you’ll crash into the bushes!”

You turned the handlebars, a little too slowly, and the bike leaned sharply to the side. “Shit—!” you screamed, gripping the throttle instinctively.

“Accelerate! You’ll fall if you don’t!” Jungkook was practically yelling now, probably waking up half the neighborhood with his frantic instructions.

“Stop shouting!” you shot back, your own voice just as loud. “You’re stressing the f—AH!”

The bike jerked forward, and for a split second, you were convinced you were about to either crash or launch yourself straight into Jungkook’s arms.

The bike tipped to the side, and just as you braced for impact, strong hands caught you, steadying you before you could hit the ground. Jungkook held you firmly, his grip unyielding, while the motorcycle clattered onto its side with a dull thud. Without hesitation, he let go of you just long enough to kill the engine, ensuring no further damage was done.

“I told you to accelerate, you idiot,” he scolded, his arms still wrapped around you, holding you upright.

“You were shouting at me,” you shot back, breathless—whether from the near-crash or the feeling of his chest pressed so close to yours, you weren’t sure.

“I was preventing.”

“You were stressing me.”

Jungkook rolled his eyes, then mimicked your tone in a high-pitched mockery, which earned him a glare from you. A smirk tugged at his lips before he turned away, crouching down to inspect the bike. You watched as he ran his fingers over the body, checking for scratches, his expression softening once he saw it was fine.

Without looking up, he muttered, “You’re the one who wanted to try it.”

And yet, despite the teasing, there was no real frustration in his voice—only something dangerously close to amusement.

“It was so cool,” you said with a genuine smile, unable to hide your excitement despite the failed attempt at riding.

“You literally did nothing,” Jungkook shot back, his arms crossed over his chest as he leaned casually against the bike, looking like he was born to ride.

“Still, stop acting like a dickhead. Were you already this good the first time you learned to ride?” You raised an eyebrow, noticing the smug grin on his face. When he didn’t respond, you rolled your eyes. “Okay, of course you were.”

Jungkook chuckled, the sound low and playful, and grabbed your arms, pulling you closer to him and the bike. “I’m glad it met your expectations,” he teased, his voice smooth but with an edge of mischief. “Why the sudden interest in bikes? Not exactly a ‘woman’ thing.”

You scoffed, pushing his hands away from your arms as you looked at him incredulously. “Seriously, Jungkook? I was hoping for better from you than this sexist bullshit.”

He laughed, shaking his head in amusement, before lowering his gaze. “Alright, alright. Get on,” he said, patting the seat behind him. “You’ll see, it’ll be even better when you’re not struggling.”

You crossed your arms, not quite ready to give in to his suggestion. “Because you’re the one driving it? What a man,” you said sarcastically, trying to play it cool but secretly wanting to give it another go.

Jungkook grinned, clearly enjoying your resistance. “You’re welcome to try, but you’ll need me to show you how it’s done.”

You hesitated for a moment, your gaze flickering between him and the motorcycle, the temptation building despite yourself. “Fine, but don’t think this means I’m impressed,” you muttered, moving closer to the bike.

Jungkook gently helped you settle onto the bike, his hands guiding your legs with precision, ensuring you were positioned just right, both for comfort and to avoid disturbing him while he drove. You could feel the warmth of his touch as his hands moved over your legs, the simple act sending a strange jolt through you. It wasn’t lost on you how close you were to him now, how intimate the whole thing felt.

When he turned around to face you, the smile on his lips was teasing, but there was something softer there, too, like a hint of affection mixed in with his usual cocky bravado. He saw the uncertainty in your eyes, and it made him grin even wider. “Try not to shit on my seat, please,” he said, his voice light with amusement.

You shot him a quick, sharp look. “Why? It’s not girly enough for you?” you retorted, trying to keep the awkwardness at bay with a little sarcasm.

But Jungkook wasn’t backing down. With a quick, almost casual motion, he took one of your hands and placed it around his waist. The gesture was so natural, and it immediately made you go quiet, your hand brushing against his stomach, the feel of it far too intimate for your liking. You swallowed, trying not to overthink it.

“Hold tight, okay?” His voice was lower now, a hint of seriousness in it. His gaze flickered over his shoulder, searching for any sign of hesitation. Without thinking, you shyly slid your other hand around his waist, your fingers touching the firm muscles of his abs.

The cool cotton of his black t-shirt against your fingertips contrasted with the heat radiating from his body, and you were acutely aware of just how close you were to him now. You couldn’t even find the words to respond when he asked if you were ready; instead, you just nodded, your breath caught in your throat as your heart seemed to beat faster.

You focused on trying to steady yourself, not wanting to look like a nervous mess, but all your focus seemed to be on the way his back pressed against your chest and how his abs felt under your hands. Your nerves were completely mixed up with the warmth that settled in your chest, and you wondered if he could feel your hands trembling just slightly against his body.

As the bike roared to life, the world around you started to blur in a way that felt different from being in a car. The wind rushed past, brushing your hair and skin, but it was lighter, freer, like you were floating through the city instead of being confined to the streets you knew so well. The hum of the engine beneath you became a comforting rhythm, and with each mile, your chest seemed to relax even more.

Jungkook navigated the streets with ease, the bike moving smoothly through every turn. He didn’t seem like a stranger in this city—he rode with the confidence of someone who knew every curve and crack in the road. It made you wonder how much of him you didn’t know. A week ago, he was an unfamiliar face, and now here you were, holding onto him with nothing but the sound of the bike and the wind to fill the silence between you. The thought crossed your mind just how little you actually knew about him and how much you were starting to want to.

You let your head rest lightly against his back, watching the familiar neighborhood you’d always known slowly fade away. The sight of the mountains on the horizon made your breath catch. It was like everything had suddenly shifted; being on a bike made the world feel so vast, so expansive—like you could reach out and touch everything. There was a freedom that came with it, a feeling you’d never experienced from the safety of a car.

Jungkook glanced back at you, his grin softening when he saw your expression. He let his gaze linger on you for just a moment longer than necessary. He couldn’t help but let his lower lip fall between his teeth, a flicker of something more than just amusement flashing across his face. His tongue ran over the piercing on his lip, and he didn’t realize how deeply he was thinking until the grin faded into something more reflective.

It felt good, having someone behind him, trusting him enough to hold on as they rode together. He’d been used to riding alone, always moving, always leaving, never staying long enough to form any real connections. But now, with you behind him, the weight on his chest felt lighter. There was something comforting about it—about having you cling to him, even if it was just for this brief moment.

“Are you enjoying yourself, sugar?” Jungkook shouted over the roar of the engine, his voice playful, but with a deeper edge to it, as his hand slid down to your leg to steady you when it shifted too much. He let his fingers linger there, feeling the warmth of your skin under his touch. It was just too easy, too natural, to hold onto the moment. He didn’t want to let it go, not yet. His fingers pressed just a little longer than he should’ve, but something about the feel of your bare skin beneath his hand kept him there.

You were too focused on holding onto him, on the rush of the wind in your hair, to notice how much longer his touch lingered, how he didn’t seem to want to pull away. When you finally noticed, you quickly shouted back, your voice teasing, mocking the way he’d shouted at you earlier. “Focus!” you yelled, your laughter lost in the wind.

Jungkook chuckled, his voice rich and low, and he gave your leg a playful slap in response. You immediately wanted to swat his hand away, but something kept you from moving your arms, something kept you holding tightly onto his waist. The fear of letting go, even just for a second, kept you anchored to him, even though the sensation of being this close to him, of having your body pressed against his, sent a flutter through you.

You couldn’t tell if it was the speed or the closeness, but you didn’t want the moment to end. Not yet.

You close your eyes for a moment, letting the wind rush against your face, the sensation like a calming breath that deepens as you let go of the world you’ve been running from. For the first time in a long while, you aren’t hiding behind the comfort of your Walkman, not shielding yourself from the world with music. Instead, you’re absorbing it all—the hum of the engine beneath you, the steady rhythm of the tires against the road, the occasional whoosh of passing cars, and Jungkook’s light chatter cutting through the noise, his voice soft but steady.

In that moment, you realize how much you’ve been missing by constantly drowning out the world. Everything around you seems richer, fuller. The world isn’t as loud or as overwhelming when you just let it be, when you stop trying to escape.

The engine’s vibrations slow to a gentle stop, and without thinking, your eyes snap open. You can feel the shift in the air, the quiet settling around you. You look up to see Jungkook slowing the bike, pulling to a stop. Before you can say anything, he turns his head to you, his gaze catching yours with a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Come take a look at the view for a bit,” he says, his voice easy, like it’s something he’s done a hundred times, and yet you sense the slight invitation in his tone, the offer of something more than just the scenery.

He reaches down, putting the kickstand in place with a quick motion and then standing up, offering his hand to you. His fingers curl slightly, a silent request for you to join him. You blink, surprised by the sudden intimacy of the gesture, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels simple and natural, like a step you should take. Without thinking too much, you slide your hand into his, letting him help you off the bike.

The ground feels solid beneath your feet, but the adrenaline of the ride lingers in your chest. You glance at Jungkook, who’s already a step ahead of you, waiting for you to catch up. You follow him, your eyes still a little dizzy from the motion, but the excitement of the ride hasn’t quite faded. You’re not sure what you were expecting, but the sudden shift in pace feels right. He leads you to a spot where the view opens up before you, an expansive stretch of land framed by mountains in the distance.

Jungkook stands beside you, his hand still in yours for a moment before he lets go, his fingers brushing yours as he takes a step back. You both fall silent, the sounds of the city muffled in the distance, leaving just the gentle rustle of leaves and the faint buzz of insects in the air.

The view is breathtaking, and for a moment, you simply stand there, taking it all in. It’s vast, a world outside of the concrete and noise you’ve known, and it hits you in a way you didn’t expect. It feels freeing, like something you’ve been craving without realizing it.

“It’s beautiful,” you admit, nodding toward the view that stretches endlessly in front of you. The sight of the open land, the mountains in the distance, and the quiet hum of the world around you makes you feel like you’re seeing something for the first time. “I’m missing out so much in this city,” you confess, feeling a weight lift off your chest just by saying it aloud.

Jungkook doesn’t respond immediately. Instead, he sits down on the ground, his jeans hitting the dirt with a soft thud. He doesn’t mind the grime, clearly used to it, and he chuckles softly when he sees you following suit, sitting down beside him without hesitation.

“You do,” he says, his voice light but with an edge of truth.

You reach for the wildflowers growing at your feet, the soft petals brushing against your fingers as you pluck them gently, gathering as many as you can between your thumb and forefinger. There’s something soothing about the action, the simple connection to the earth beneath you.

“Where are you from, Jungkook?” you ask, your voice soft but curious, finally daring to ask a question you’d been wanting to know the answer to since the moment you first saw him.

He looks at the flowers you’re collecting, then glances at you before his eyes shift to the horizon. “From here, actually. Born here,” he says slowly, his voice almost distant as he gathers a handful of flowers himself. He doesn’t seem to mind the dirt under his nails, focusing instead on the simple task of picking flowers faster than you.

“I grew up here, and I’ve never seen your face,” you remark, the curiosity growing in your chest. You don’t know why you’re surprised—after all, you both grew up in the same city, but in completely different worlds.

“We didn’t grow up the same,” he says with a soft chuckle, a trace of bitterness slipping into his tone. He gestures toward the area of the city behind him, and his finger points firmly at a part of the landscape that feels foreign to you. “You were in those big-ass houses,” he says, his voice dripping with sarcasm, “while I was…” He pauses and then uses his free hand to grab yours, guiding your index finger toward the rougher, more dilapidated area of the city. “There.”

You blink, your eyes following the direction he’s pointing, and your chest tightens. You recognize the area—it’s the part of town your parents would always avoid. The kind of place they would drive through with their windows up, not wanting to see, not wanting to touch. It was the part of town they’d mention in hushed tones, warning you about the people who lived there. Your mother would tell you to stay away, always warning you about the “bad men” who lived in those parts, the ones who would do terrible things to you.

But even in your part of the city, there were men who would do terrible things.

Jungkook doesn’t seem to notice the way your gaze lingers, but his next words make it clear he knows what you’re thinking.

“It’s not surprising you don’t remember me,” he continues, his voice becoming quieter, almost as if he’s speaking to himself more than to you. He keeps picking flowers, his hands moving faster now, almost like he’s avoiding the weight of his own words. “My mom and I left when I was eleven years old.”

You sit in silence for a moment, the weight of his words settling between the two of you. Your fingers still hold the wildflowers, but the meaning behind them now feels heavier, their delicate petals in stark contrast to the intensity of the moment.

You open your mouth, but you aren’t sure how to ask what you want to know. You don’t want to push too far, not after hearing how raw Jungkook’s words sound. But the curiosity still lingers, pulling at you. You finally decide to speak again, your voice gentle.

“The old man said your mother was friends with his wife,” you say, your eyes tracing the flowers in your hands as you try to find the right words to navigate the delicate subject. You were proud of the flowers you’d gathered, yet in comparison to the conversation, they seemed almost trivial.

Jungkook hums softly, nodding in agreement. His posture relaxes slightly, but there’s still a tension in his jaw that betrays his emotions. “It’s true,” he says, his voice quieter now. He glances at you, seeing the curiosity in your eyes, and his smile is small but knowing.

His expression shifts, and before you can ask another question, he adds, “His name is Sukchul, by the way,” his tone almost teasing, like he’s giving you the answer before you can even ask. The softness of his smile makes you feel guilty, a knot tightening in your chest. You realize, in that moment, that you had been so wrapped up in your own world, so focused on your own concerns, that you never even thought to ask the man’s name when you were around. It feels like an oversight, one you hadn’t even been aware of.

“He may not be my real uncle, but I consider him just the same,” Jungkook continues, his gaze dropping to the flowers in his hands as he speaks. There’s a tenderness in his voice, but a certain heaviness too, as though the memories of Sukchul and his wife are still fresh for him. “His wife… she was really close to my mom and me before she died from cancer.”

His words hang in the air, raw and vulnerable. You can tell that talking about it isn’t easy for him, that there’s a part of him trying to hold it all together. His eyes darken for a moment, and you watch him bite his lower lip, his gaze shifting away from you, clearly struggling to contain the emotions that threaten to spill over.

He stops picking flowers, his fingers moving absently as he stares down at them, the weight of the memories settling heavily in his chest. “They were good people. They loved each other so much. But luck wasn’t on their side.”

You let the silence stretch between you both, your fingers delicately touching the petals of the flower as you watch Jungkook out of the corner of your eye. The weight of his words about Sukchul’s loss hangs heavily in the air, and you find yourself thinking of the countless times Sukchul had spoken of his late wife. He would smile wistfully, eyes filled with something that resembled both love and sorrow, as he recounted memories of her. It was a kind of grief you couldn’t fully comprehend, but you feared it was one you might never escape if you experienced it firsthand.

You shift slightly, your mind still on the question you had yet to voice, but you couldn’t help it anymore. The curiosity mixed with concern gnawed at you. You had never lost someone you loved like that—never had to grapple with the kind of ache that Sukchul carried in his heart.

“Have you lost someone?” you ask softly, the words coming out quieter than you’d intended, like you were unsure if you even had the right to ask something so personal.

As you glance at Jungkook, your gaze lingers on his face, searching for a clue, some hidden sign that might tell you more than he was willing to speak. You study him, taking in the little things you hadn’t noticed before—like the small mole under his bottom lip, or the subtle scars on his cheekbone that hinted at a past he didn’t often talk about. His nose, slightly buttoned but perfectly fitting for his face, caught your attention for a moment, but it was his eyes—those deep, bambi-like eyes—that really held you.

There was something in his eyes, something unspoken, that felt like it could give away everything he hadn’t said yet. Those rich, chocolate-colored eyes always seemed to reflect what he couldn’t voice, and you could see it now—something soft, almost pained, hiding behind his gaze. The way his eyes watered slightly made you feel like you were treading on the edge of something too fragile to touch, but you couldn’t look away.

“Luck wasn’t on my side too,” Jungkook says, his voice quieter than before, his words thick with a kind of resigned sadness that cuts through the stillness. His tone is so simple, but it holds so much, and you realize that this is a grief he’s carried for a while now. It hits you in a way you didn’t expect.

You immediately feel guilty for asking, but you try to brush it off, unsure of how to comfort him with your words. Instead, you lower your head and let it rest gently against his shoulder. You hope it doesn’t seem awkward, but you’re not good with words—sometimes touch felt like the better option. It felt like all you could do, offering him comfort in the quietest way you knew how.

After a few moments of just being there together, you grab the flower you had picked earlier and offer it to him, holding it out between your fingers, the stem lightly brushing against your palm. You can’t see his face from this angle, but you imagine that his smile—one of those soft, bunny-like grins he often wore—was making an appearance. It felt like a small, simple offering, something to brighten the quiet between you two, even if just for a second.

“Here,” you whisper softly, your cheek still pressed against his solid shoulder. You hand him the small bouquet of flowers you’d been holding, your voice teasing as you add, “And don’t even think about selling them. They’re not worth anything anyway.” You let out a small chuckle, recalling how you’d gotten here in the first place, how things started with the small exchange of the Walkman and the unexpected connection that followed.

Jungkook laughs, his low chuckle vibrating against your shoulder. “You really know how to hold a grudge, huh?” he teases, but there’s a warmth in his voice that makes you wonder if he doesn’t mind it as much as he lets on.

You roll your eyes, pulling your head away from his shoulder and sitting up straight, giving him a playful shove. “I can’t believe you sold it, though. Of all things,” you mutter, still shaking your head, though you can’t hide the faint smile tugging at your lips.

He grins back at you, clearly unfazed, his gaze softening as he watches you. “I already told you, it was a mistake,” he says, voice sincere but with that familiar edge of mischief. “And I did let you ride my bike, didn’t I? That’s a pretty big deal.”

He leans forward, bringing his hand up like he’s about to carefully place the flowers in your hair. You quickly reach up and grab his wrist, stopping him mid-action. “Just accept the gift, you idiot,” you grumble, tugging his hand away.

Jungkook raises an eyebrow, a mischievous smile tugging at his lips. “What kind of guy gets flowers?” he asks, looking utterly amused at the idea of it.

You give him a smirk, reaching up to smack his shoulder lightly. “The idiot ones who sell a gift they got, clearly,” you say, shaking your head as you try to keep your grin under control.

Jungkook lifts his shirt just enough for you to catch a glimpse of his skin before tucking the flowers behind his belt, where the crumpled bills are still stuck. It’s a casual move, but it feels like it’s carrying more weight than it should, and you feel the heat rush to your cheeks as you watch the small, intimate gesture. For a moment, you wish you could disappear from the awkwardness of it all, especially for something as trivial as flowers.

“Here,” he says, tucking his shirt back into place, his eyes gleaming mischievously. He glances at you, noticing your red face, but doesn’t comment, his smirk widening. He stands up abruptly, brushing off the moment, and with a small tilt of his head, adds, “Let’s get you home.”

You stay where you are, sinking into the grass, not ready to face the real world again just yet. “I don’t want to go back,” you mumble under your breath.

He doesn’t miss a beat, walking over to his bike and starting the engine. “Come on, don’t throw a tantrum now. I could just leave you here,” he teases, the rumble of the engine underlining his challenge.

You narrow your eyes at him, keeping your stance. “You wouldn’t.”

His grin only grows wider. Without another word, he revs the engine, and in an instant, the bike lurches forward. The sudden acceleration catches you off guard, and you find yourself scrambling to keep up. You jump to your feet, running after him, your feet barely keeping pace as you shout, “Fucking Jungkook!”

You see him grin from over his shoulder, speeding up even more, clearly enjoying the chase. “I can’t hear you!” he calls back through the engine’s roar. His speed taunts you, but you push yourself harder, struggling to close the gap.

“I swear, if you don’t stop and let me on, I’ll kill you!” You’re out of breath by now, your words coming out in a wheeze as you sprint to keep up.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he slows the bike down just enough for you to catch up. You lunge at him, grabbing his shirt with one hand, still trying to steady your breathing.

With a finger pointing at his chest, you threaten, “If I could just—”

Before you can finish the sentence, Jungkook spins around and pulls you toward him. In one swift movement, he presses his lips to yours, cutting off your words with a heated, urgent kiss. The rush of it catches you off guard, and your mind scrambles to process what just happened. The world around you falls away, the only thing that matters in that moment being the overwhelming feeling of his lips against yours.

His fingers gently threaded through the loops of your shorts, pulling you against him until your knees brushed the side of the bike. The proximity was electric, the heat of his body against yours sending a wave of warmth through you. You couldn’t help but place your hands on his neck, your fingers instinctively curling around him as if you belonged there.

It was hard to describe the connection you felt. You had never experienced anything like this—so physical, so emotional, so overwhelming in its intensity. It was as if, in that moment, you knew him in a way that surpassed words, surpassed time. The familiarity between you, despite only knowing his name for mere hours and having it not even come from his own lips, felt almost unnatural.

Your mind flickered to the harsh reality—the consequences. Your parents would never approve. They would never understand this, this wild connection you felt with someone so different from the world you were used to. Jungkook wasn’t part of the polished, perfectly controlled life they had envisioned for you. He was unpredictable, untamed in the best way. You knew they’d never accept it, and the thought of what would happen if they found out made your chest tighten.

But even with that knowledge, it felt so right. The way he held you, the way everything around you seemed to fall away as you stood there, far from the safe confines of your familiar town. The night wrapped around you like a blanket, and in that moment, it didn’t matter. Nothing outside of this moment mattered. Only him. Only the connection between you two, wild and free and untethered.

You knew it couldn’t last forever. You knew you would have to face the consequences sooner or later. But for now, it was just you and him, the world outside distant and irrelevant, and the only thing that mattered was how perfectly right this felt.

The moment his lips pressed to your neck, a shiver ran down your spine. His mouth, warm and insistent, left a trail of soft, lingering kisses that sent a jolt of electricity through you. His breath was hot against your skin, the sensation of his tongue brushing against your neck making your heart race even faster. You could feel every inch of him, every movement, every shift, and it felt as if the world had narrowed down to just the two of you.

Your fingers instinctively found their way to his hair, tangling in the dark strands as you pulled him closer, desperate for more. The way he moved against you was fluid, instinctual, like you both had always known how to be this close.

It was just you and him, tangled in a world of your own making. The rest of the world could wait.

You felt a strange tension fill the air as he stopped, wiping his wet lips nonchalantly with the back of his hand, like nothing had just happened between you. The shift in energy was so abrupt it left you confused and almost breathless. His usual cocky demeanor was back in full force as he patted the seat behind him, giving you a simple command.

“Get your ass on it.”

His tone was casual, almost too casual, and you couldn’t tell if it was a mask or if he had really just dismissed everything in that moment. You, still processing the heat of what had just occurred, did as you were told without question. Climbing onto the bike, you placed your hands carefully on his waist, trying to steady yourself but keeping your distance, as though you were afraid to get too close. It felt different now, almost like a wall had been built between the two of you in an instant.

The ride back home was unnervingly quiet, the only sound the low hum of the engine and the rush of the wind around you. Unlike before, where you felt the closeness of his back against yours, now you kept your distance, holding onto him but keeping your grip light, careful not to linger or let your thoughts stray too much to what had just transpired. There was a quiet tension that you both ignored, but it hung between you like an unspoken understanding that neither of you was willing to acknowledge.

You barely spoke, only giving Jungkook the occasional direction toward your house, your voice quieter than before. You hoped—prayed—that your parents would already be asleep, that you could slip inside unnoticed.

When Jungkook finally pulled up in front of your home, he let out a low whistle, tilting his head as he took in the sight before him. The house stood tall and pristine, its perfectly manicured lawn and warm porch lights exuding wealth and quiet superiority. It was the kind of home people worked their whole lives to afford. The kind of home Jungkook had never stepped foot in.

You swung your leg over the bike and hopped off, landing lightly on your feet. You hesitated, waiting for him to say something, maybe a teasing remark or a simple “see you around.” But he remained silent, simply watching you with that same unreadable expression.

Just as you opened your mouth to break the silence, a sudden flood of light spilled onto the front yard. The porch light flickered to life, its harsh glow cutting through the night like a spotlight. You froze.

Your name rang out through the still air, sharp and unmistakable.

A shiver ran down your spine at the sound of your mother’s voice, cold and laced with suspicion. She stepped forward, her heels clicking against the wooden steps as she descended, her gaze flickering between you and Jungkook.

“Who is that?” she asked, her voice crisp, calculated.

You felt Jungkook shift beside you, but you couldn’t bring yourself to look at him. Your mother’s gaze trailed over you, narrowing slightly as she took in the disheveled state of your clothes, the wild mess of your hair, and—oh God—the faint marks on your neck, remnants of Jungkook’s mouth on your skin.

Your breath caught in your throat. You hadn’t even realized they were visible.

The weight of her stare pinned you down, demanding an answer. But you couldn’t find the words. What was Jungkook to you? A friend? A stranger? Something else entirely? You had no idea what to say.

The silence stretched.

Jungkook, ever perceptive, seemed to pick up on your hesitation. With a casual shrug, he crossed his arms over his chest, the metal of his rings glinting under the porch light. His lips curved into a lazy smile, completely unfazed by the tension in the air.

“A friend,” he answered for you, his voice dripping with amusement.

Your mother didn’t look convinced. Her lips pressed into a thin line as she tilted her head, eyes lingering on Jungkook a beat too long.

“Of course,” she said, voice devoid of warmth. “A friend.”

She turned on her heels without another word, retreating back up the steps before settling onto the porch, watching the two of you from her perch like a queen observing an unworthy subject.

Jungkook let out a low chuckle, clearly entertained by the whole exchange. He swung a leg over his bike, gripping the handlebars as he cast one last glance at you.

“Well, goodnight, sugar,” he said, his voice teasing yet strangely soft.

And with that, he revved the engine and sped off into the night, leaving you standing there, caught between the warmth of his presence and the cold scrutiny of your mother’s gaze.

You climb the stairs slowly, keeping your head down, hoping to escape your mother’s gaze. But just as you reach the last step, her fingers wrap around your wrist, halting you in place.

“You know what I think of this guy, right?” she says, her voice cold and unwavering.

You nod automatically, still avoiding her eyes.

“Where do you even find them now?” she scoffs, shaking her head like she can’t comprehend how her daughter—born into comfort, surrounded by privilege—could possibly end up tangled with someone like that.

She doesn’t need to say it outright. You already know what she sees when she looks at Jungkook: an old bike, worn-out clothes, the easy smirk of someone who doesn’t care what people like her think.

You brace yourself, expecting her usual criticisms, the ones she always has lined up when it comes to people who don’t fit into her world. But instead, she tugs at your wrist, turning you to face her.

“I know it doesn’t always mean something about the type of man he is,” she says, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. “But please…” Her eyes search yours, filled with something unfamiliar—regret, maybe, or a warning she never dared to voice before.

“Don’t be as stupid as me and make decisions you’ll regret later.”

By decisions, she probably means settling for a man who saw her as nothing more than the woman of the house—someone to stand beside him, not as an equal, but as a necessity. A man who dictated more than he listened. And maybe, just maybe, she also meant having you too in the process, tying herself to a life she never truly chose.

She straightens up and follows you inside, her footsteps light against the polished floor. “By the way, your dad won’t approve of him,” she says, her tone neutral, like she’s stating an obvious fact.

But then, just as she reaches the stairs, her voice drops—so low you almost don’t catch it.

“So maybe it’s a good thing.”

She doesn’t wait for your reaction, just starts climbing the stairs, disappearing into the dim hallway before you can even process what she just said.

You wonder what had finally made your mother rebel against your father. Maybe it was the last straw—the slap too many, the weight of a marriage that had long since stopped feeling like a partnership. Maybe it was the realization that if she didn’t raise your awareness now, you might walk straight into the same mistakes she did.

She would never say it outright. Admitting it would mean fully accepting her own life for what it was—something she might not be ready to do. But you know she loves you, and that love is stronger than her silence.

She doesn’t want you to end up as just another woman waiting at home, playing the perfect wife while a man dictates your life. She doesn’t want you to confuse financial security with true independence. Because she knows how hard it is to stand on your own, how the world still wasn’t built for a woman to thrive alone.

Especially in that time, in the ’80s, being independent as a woman was an uphill battle. But some managed it. Some carved out their own lives despite the odds.

And she could only dream that you’d be one of them.

She knows that with a boy like Jungkook—someone who seems to have nothing—you could be something. Maybe even someone. With him, you wouldn’t just be the girl waiting at home, the one dependent on a man’s whims. You could take the lead, hold the reins, become the one who provides. And maybe, just maybe, that would be enough for him to respect you. Enough that he’d never dare raise a finger against you.

Jungkook wasn’t the prince charming she had once dreamed you’d end up with. He wasn’t the polished, well-mannered suitor with a stable job and a future already mapped out.

But he was exactly what you needed to become the woman she never got the chance to be.

After dinner, spent mostly in silence with only the occasional murmured thanks when passing the salt or water, you were quick to put on your shoes and sling your backpack over your shoulder. Your mother didn’t ask any questions—she didn’t have to. She knew exactly why you were so damn eager to leave. Instead, she just shot you a familiar glare before turning back to the sink, her hands already scrubbing at the plates with a force that told you everything.

Your father, meanwhile, sat on the sofa, swirling the last of his wine in his glass as he stared at the small TV screen. He was completely oblivious—or maybe he just didn’t care. You hated the sight of it. Hated the way your mother was stuck in a routine she clearly despised, scrubbing dishes so hard they nearly slipped from her hands. Hated the way your father smirked at the television, unbothered, as if her frustration wasn’t loud enough to be heard.

And when he finally did acknowledge her, it was only to shout through the living room, telling her to stop making so much noise.

Your stomach twisted. You knew exactly where this would lead, the sharp tension that always seemed to crack just when you were about to fall asleep. The muffled arguments, the slamming doors, the silence that stretched into the next morning like nothing had ever happened.

You couldn’t stand it.

So you did the only thing you could.

You left.

You walked the familiar path, hands shoved into your pockets, your gaze drifting toward the houses lining the street. Through the warm glow of the windows, you caught glimpses of the same routine playing out over and over again—women standing in kitchens, their heads bowed over sinks or stovetops, while their husbands were nowhere to be seen.

You kicked at a loose stone on the pavement, your mother’s voice echoing in your mind.

You didn’t want that life.

It was clear that her rebellious streak ran through your veins, burning just as fiercely. But unlike her—trapped in a time when independence was a privilege, not a right—you had a choice. The world had changed. Progress had been made. You could break the cycle if you wanted to.

And you did.

As your eyes flickered toward the old motel at the end of the street, its neon sign buzzing weakly, some of its letters darkened, your chest tightened. The familiar motorcycle usually parked outside was missing.

Jungkook wasn’t here tonight.

It had been two days since that night in the mountains—since he kissed you, since his hands pulled you closer like you belonged there.

And now, he was gone.

It couldn’t be that quick, could it? He wouldn’t just leave without saying anything. Would he?

Then again, what did you really know about him?

Nothing.

His name, the way he smirked when he teased you, the way his eyes softened when he thought you weren’t looking—that was all. And yet, you let him kiss you like your life depended on it.

Your grandmother would be so disappointed. She always warned you about boys like him, the kind that carried trouble in their pockets like loose change. The kind that didn’t stick around.

But you didn’t care.

If anything, the uncertainty only made your heart burn harder for him.

So you sat down on the worn steps of the motel, arms wrapped around your knees, and you waited.

No matter how long it took, you knew he would come back.

At first, you distracted yourself with the small stones scattered at your feet, stacking them carefully, one by one, until they formed a tiny, fragile tower. But each time you added another, your fingers shaky with impatience, it would collapse, crumbling back into a mess of scattered pieces.

So you moved on, picking at your nails, peeling at the skin near your fingertips until there was nothing left to pull. A nervous habit—one you hadn’t done in years.

And then, when there was nothing else to do, you simply rested your head against your knees, staring blankly at the cracked pavement beneath you.

It had been hours. The warm hues of the sky had melted into darkness, the motel’s flickering neon sign now the only source of light around you.

And still, he wasn’t here.

You snap your eyes open at the loud, familiar rumble of his old bike cutting through the quiet night. The sound is almost deafening, loud enough to wake the entire neighborhood, but you don’t care. The moment you see him pull into his usual spot, the knot of worry coiled tight in your chest finally loosens.

Relief washes over you like a wave, but you force yourself to keep it cool. No running—running would make it too obvious how much you’d been waiting for him. Instead, you push yourself up, ignoring the dull ache in your legs from sitting for too long, and walk toward him. Fast, but not too fast.

“Jungkook!” you call out, voice cutting through the night air.

He barely glances up from his bike, still focused on whatever he was fiddling with. Then, hearing your voice again, he freezes.

“The fuck?” he mutters, eyes squinting at you through the dim light. He brings two fingers to his temple, rubbing it like he’s trying to process what he’s seeing, before finally standing up straight.

His gaze flickers over you, taking you in—the slight pout on your lips, the crease between your brows, the way your arms are crossed like you’ve got something to scold him for. And yet, there’s something else in your eyes too. Something softer.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “You been waiting here all night or what?”

Jungkook exhales another sigh, shaking his head like he still can’t believe you. But there’s something different in the way he looks at you now.

No one waited for Jungkook. That was the life he built for himself—one where he could pick up and leave whenever he wanted, no attachments, no one to ask when he’d be back. Motels were easy, cheap, temporary. Renting a house? That meant staying. That meant stability, and stability was a luxury he didn’t have.

Yet here you were, waiting for him like he was someone worth waiting for.

His usual long-sleeved black T-shirt was gone, replaced by a heavy, oversized hoodie draped over his shoulders—still dark, still blending into the night. His denim jeans had been swapped for dark cargo pants, but his boots? Those remained the same, scuffed and worn from all the miles he had put on them.

The motel lights flickered above him, catching on the metal of his eyebrow piercing, making it glisten even in the dark. You couldn’t see his face fully, but you could imagine the way his brows were probably furrowed, his lips pressed together in something between amusement and disbelief.

“I did,” you finally admit, voice softer now.

He tilts his head slightly, eyes scanning your face, as if trying to figure you out. Then, after a beat, he clicks his tongue and shakes his head again.

“You’re crazy, you know that?” His voice is laced with something unreadable, but you catch the way the corner of his lips twitch like he’s fighting off a smirk.

“Maybe,” you shrug, shifting on your feet. “But you still came back, didn’t you?”

That gets him. His jaw clenches slightly, but this time, he doesn’t have a smart reply.

Jungkook stops in his tracks when he feels your presence lingering just behind him, his hand resting on the doorknob. He doesn’t turn fully, just glances at you over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised in question.

“You’re not actually planning to follow me in there, are you?” he asks, his voice laced with both amusement and something else—something unreadable.

You cross your arms, tilting your head defiantly. “I waited three hours for you. You really think I’m just gonna leave now?”

Jungkook exhales sharply through his nose, something between a chuckle and a sigh, before shaking his head. “You really are crazy.”

Still, he doesn’t stop you when you step past him, pushing the door open yourself.

The motel room is exactly what you expected—dimly lit, small, and carrying the stale scent of cigarette smoke and cheap air freshener. The bedsheets are wrinkled, the walls thin enough that you can hear the faint sound of a TV playing in the room next door. It’s the kind of place that makes your skin crawl, not because it’s dirty but because of what you know happens behind closed doors like these. You’ve seen too many men—married, well-dressed, with gold bands still on their fingers—walk into motels just like this, their mistresses trailing behind them.

Jungkook tosses his keys onto the nightstand with a careless clatter, then reaches for the hem of his hoodie, pulling it over his head in one swift motion. The fabric lifts, revealing the black short-sleeved T-shirt he wears underneath—but that’s not what steals the air from your lungs.

Your eyes widen, your breath catching as you take in the intricate ink covering his right arm. A full sleeve of tattoos, stretching from his shoulder down to his wrist, each design weaving into the next like a story written on his skin. You weren’t expecting it. Hadn’t even considered it. And now, faced with the sight of it, you feel heat creeping up your neck.

You quickly avert your gaze, turning your head to the side as if that will somehow erase the image already burned into your mind. But even without looking, you can still picture it. The stark contrast of black ink against his skin, the way the motel’s dim light casts shadows over the designs.

Jungkook, however, moves around the room like nothing is out of the ordinary. Like you aren’t standing there, flustered and frozen. He grabs the hem of his T-shirt next, peeling it off without a second thought, baring his broad back to you as he rummages through his bag for another shirt. He doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t pause.

It’s as if your presence doesn’t faze him at all.

And maybe that should annoy you. Maybe it should make you roll your eyes and scoff at how effortlessly unbothered he seems.

But instead, all you can do is stare at the wall, willing your heartbeat to slow down as he pulls a new shirt over his head, unfazed and unaware of the chaos he’s just stirred within you.

“You can sit, you know,” he mutters, glancing at you through his lashes as he runs a hand through his hair.

You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look anywhere but at him. The air in the small motel room feels heavier now, thick with something unspoken, but you push it aside and take a few hesitant steps further inside.

The dim lighting doesn’t do much to hide the room’s worn-down state. The walls are dull, the furniture outdated, and the faint scent of cigarette smoke clings to the air, no matter how many times the sheets have probably been washed. You try not to think about the things this room has seen. The things people come here to do.

Your stomach twists at the thought, but not because of Jungkook.

Because of men like your father.

You don’t know if he’s ever been to a place like this. You don’t want to know. But you’re not naive enough to pretend it’s impossible. He’s a man, after all. And men like him—they take what they want, consequences be damned.

You shake your head, physically trying to rid yourself of the thought. It won’t do you any good to go down that path right now. Instead, you focus on the present—on the boy standing just a few feet away, now dressed in a fresh T-shirt, moving through the room as if he belongs here.

Maybe he does.

Maybe this place, with its creaky floors and flickering lights, is more of a home to him than anywhere else.

“I hate this place,” you finally admit, slipping your backpack off your shoulders and setting it down on the floor, as if even that small contact with the room might taint it somehow.

Jungkook scoffs, amused by your sudden display of innocence. He leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest, watching as you shift uncomfortably, your gaze flickering between the stained carpet and the bed like you’re debating whether sitting down would be some kind of moral defeat.

It’s funny to him. The way you wrinkle your nose, like the very air is contaminated.

Because he doesn’t care.

He’s slept in places worse than this. Places with mold creeping up the walls, places where the sheets smelled like sweat and cheap perfume, places where the locks barely worked. This motel, with its flickering neon sign and occasional sounds of life bleeding through the thin walls, is nothing. Just another stop, just another bed to rest in until he moves on.

What men do here, what sins are whispered against these walls, isn’t his concern.

But watching you, so out of place yet still standing there, refusing to leave—maybe that is.

Jungkook snorts, kicking off his boots before collapsing onto the bed. “Yeah, well. It’s not exactly the Ritz.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue. Instead, you take a step forward, then another, until you’re standing beside the bed, looking down at him. He’s lying on his back now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other resting on his stomach. His eyes flicker to yours, his gaze unreadable.

“Why are you really here?” he finally asks, voice quieter now.

Your lips part, but the words don’t come immediately. Because the truth is, you don’t really know. You just know that ever since that night on the mountain, something inside you has been unsettled. Something about him lingers in your mind like a half-remembered dream, like a song you can’t stop humming.

“I don’t know,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… I wanted to see you.”

Jungkook watches you for a long moment, his face unreadable. Then, finally, he sighs, running a hand over his face.

“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?”

You grin, finally letting yourself relax just a little. “Yeah. But you don’t seem to mind.”

He huffs out a laugh, shaking his head. “Get comfortable, then. If you’re staying, might as well make yourself at home.”

You watch as his eyes flutter shut for a brief moment, his posture slackening just slightly, exhaustion settling into his features like a weight he’s been carrying for far too long. Now that you’re really looking at him, you realize just how tired he looks. The dark circles under his eyes, the way his shoulders seem heavier than before.

And suddenly, guilt creeps in.

Maybe you shouldn’t have come. Maybe barging into his space, into his life, was selfish.

But then again, if he truly didn’t want you here, he would’ve made it clear. Jungkook isn’t the kind of guy to tolerate things he doesn’t want. So you take a quiet breath and finally let yourself sit on the bed, though you stay perched on the very edge, as if stepping any further into his world would be crossing an invisible line.

Your fingers toy with the fabric of your jeans before you speak again, voice softer this time.

“Is this even a home to you?”

The words slip out naturally, latching onto what he said earlier. Calling this place “home” when it felt so… hollow. So tainted.

Maybe this was the closest thing to a home he had.

And that thought makes your chest tighten.

You were lucky. Born into the right side of society, never having to wonder where you’d sleep next, never having to make a motel room feel like something permanent. And yet, as you sit there, watching him, you can’t stop thinking about people like Jungkook.

People who move through life with nowhere to land.

Jungkook lets out a dry scoff, his lashes fluttering open as he shifts onto his side, propping his head up with his hand. The movement makes his bicep flex, the ink on his arm stretching with it, and your gaze lingers there for a second too long before flickering back to his face.

“There’s a bed, a shower, and even a fucking TV,” he says, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Sounds like a home to me.”

But his eyes don’t match the grin on his face.

You’ve noticed that about him. How he smiles so easily, so carelessly, yet his eyes always seem weighed down by something else. Something heavier.

He watches you for a beat, like he’s waiting for you to react, and then his smirk twitches just slightly before he speaks again.

“If your home is so great,” he murmurs, voice softer but edged with something unreadable, “then what the fuck are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

The words hit deeper than they should.

Because he’s right.

If your house was really a home, why were you sitting here on a cheap, uncomfortable mattress instead of lying in your own bed, under silk sheets and a roof that never leaked? Why did the walls of your own house feel so much smaller, so much colder, than this rundown motel room?

Your throat tightens as you drop your gaze to your hands, fingers pressing into the mattress, searching for something solid. You don’t have an answer. Not one you’re ready to say out loud.

Jungkook hums knowingly, like he’s already figured it out, and he leans back against the pillows, one arm folding behind his head.

“Yeah,” he exhales, eyes slipping shut again. “That’s what I thought.”

The silence stretched between you, filled only by the sound of Jungkook’s slow, steady breathing. You shifted on the edge of the mattress, your fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve, before finally breaking the quiet.

“Your tattoos are cool,” you murmured, eyes cast downward, your cheeks already betraying you with their warmth.

Jungkook let out a soft chuckle, the kind that barely made a sound but you could see it in the way his lips curled. He didn’t even open his eyes.

“You say that a lot.”

You turned to face him fully now, relieved that he didn’t seem bothered by the comment. If anything, he seemed amused. You hesitated for a second before scooting further onto the bed, finally lifting your legs so your feet no longer dangled off the side.

“I love tattoos,” you admitted, the words slipping out before you could think twice. “I want some.”

Jungkook finally cracked one eye open, glancing at you with a lazy kind of curiosity. His arm was still draped over his head, the ink on his bicep stretching slightly as he flexed his fingers.

“So what’s stopping you?”

You hesitated, swallowing against the knot in your throat.

Because it’s not pretty on a girl’s skin.

Because it’s not the kind of thing someone like you is supposed to do.

But instead of saying any of that, you simply shrugged, trying to sound indifferent. “I dunno. It’s just… not possible.”

Jungkook hummed at that, finally letting his arm drop to his side. He turned his head toward you now, fully looking at you in a way that made your stomach tighten. His gaze flickered down to his own tattoos, the intricate designs standing out against his skin.

“They hurt,” he admitted, flexing his fingers. “But not as much as people say. It’s… kind of nice, actually.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Nice?”

His lips quirked up, a slow grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. Feels real.”

Something about the way he said it made your breath hitch, but you weren’t sure why. Maybe it was the way his voice softened at the end, like the words meant more than he was willing to say. Maybe it was the way he looked at you, like he was trying to figure something out.

At the sound of his name, Jungkook sighed, already sensing where this was going. He knew that tone—the quiet, serious one you used when you were about to pry, when your curiosity got the better of you.

Before he could throw out some excuse—tell you to go home, say he was tired, anything to avoid answering—you spoke again, cutting off his escape.

“Why aren’t you home?” you asked, tilting your head slightly. “Your mother? Your father?”

You had fully settled onto the bed now, sitting cross-legged like you weren’t just a visitor in this dimly lit motel room but someone who belonged here. Or at least, someone who was determined to stay.

Jungkook clicked his tongue, leaning back against the wall, his gaze flickering toward the ceiling. He should’ve expected the question. It was bound to come up eventually, with the way you kept showing up, trying to understand him.

“There is no home,” he muttered finally, voice flat.

You frowned at that, shifting slightly. “But—”

He cut you off with a dry laugh, shaking his head. “There was one, I guess. A long time ago. But I don’t have parents like you do.”

The way he said it made your stomach twist.

He wasn’t saying that his parents had passed away. He was saying that, whether alive or not, they weren’t parents to him at all.

You swallowed, unsure if you should press further, but he must have caught the look in your eyes because he let out another scoff.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you feel sorry for me.” He shot you a pointed glance. “You shouldn’t.”

You bit your lip, fingers playing with the fabric of your pants. “I don’t.”

You did. Of course you did.

But you also knew that wasn’t what he wanted to hear.

“Do you miss it sometimes?” you ask, your voice softer now.

You weren’t sure why you asked. Maybe because you needed to know if it was normal to feel this way—to look at your own house, your own family, and not feel the kind of attachment you were supposed to.

Because you knew one day you’d leave. It was inevitable. And you should feel sad about that, shouldn’t you? Shouldn’t the thought of leaving your parents hurt?

But it didn’t.

And you wondered if Jungkook, with all his distance and defiance, had ever felt the same.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. Just stared at some spot on the wall, like he was sifting through old memories he didn’t really want to look at.

Then, finally, his voice came—low, quiet.

“I’d rather be here than in that house.”

You exhaled, not realizing until now that you had been holding your breath.

It was relief, you realized. Relief that you weren’t the only one who felt like this. That maybe, just maybe, not every house was a home—and not every family was something you had to hold onto.

“At least you can start something new,” you whisper, mostly to yourself. But he hears it. Of course, he hears it.

Jungkook shifts beside you, sitting up properly now, getting just a little closer. Close enough that you can feel his warmth despite the space still between you.

“You have more ressources to start something new than me,” he murmurs, searching for your eyes beneath the strands of your hair.

You scoff, shaking your head. “I’m not so sure about that.”

He tilts his head, waiting for you to continue.

“My mother was forced to marry my father because she was a woman,” you explain, voice bitter. “And that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

You didn’t mean to say that much. To let it slip so easily. But now that it’s out there, it feels oddly freeing.

Because no one talks about it—not openly. Everyone knows. Every woman sees it, feels it, suffers through it. And yet, they stay quiet. They swallow their anger and go on like it’s normal.

But you don’t want to stay quiet. Not anymore.

“We can’t do everything you can,” you add, and this time, there’s no hesitation in your voice. Just the simple, frustrating truth.

Jungkook falls silent, his mind churning with the truth of what you said. He knew it deep down, the undeniable privilege he had just because he was a man. That simple distinction gave him an advantage, one that most women never had. It made life easier in some ways, and yet, it didn’t mean everything was perfect. It didn’t mean he didn’t have his own struggles. It didn’t mean he didn’t feel the weight of things. But that’s just how life was—how it always had been. Men had power. Women had to fight for theirs. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t sometimes feel thankful for being a man, especially in a world like this.

Still, the pain in his chest, the heaviness in his heart, didn’t just go away because of his gender. It was always there, lurking beneath the surface, reminding him of the brokenness he’d witnessed. The way his mother had suffered. The way he had been forced to see her shrivel in a life she never chose. And you. Your eyes, that defiant spark, the eagerness in your every movement, reminded him of everything he had lost—and he hated it. He hated seeing that spark because it was so pure, so untainted, and he didn’t want you to lose it, like he feared you would.

He glanced over at you, sitting there on the bed, twisting the bedsheet around your fingers, lost in thought, and for a second, it hit him just how young you were. How much potential you had, how much of life still lay ahead for you. He didn’t want you to end up like his mother—sacrificing your own self for the sake of a man who saw you as nothing more than an object to be controlled.

The silence between you two stretched on until it felt like it could suffocate you. Then, he finally spoke again, his voice low, almost reluctant but firm.

“My father,” Jungkook started, his gaze shifting toward the wall in front of him, eyes distant as if seeing a memory that was always there, never fading. “My father was a douchebag. Like every goddamn man in this country, he thought his wife was something he could own.” His tone was cold, edged with resentment as the words spilled out.

Jungkook’s voice cracks as the words spill from his lips, and you can see the pain on his face—the rawness of memories he’s never truly shared before. He doesn’t try to wipe the tear that slips down his cheek, as if allowing it to fall is somehow a release.

“When I was eleven, she decided it was enough and she left the house, taking me with her.” He pauses for a moment, letting the weight of that memory settle. “Of course, he wasn’t happy. How could his property just leave him like that?” He scoffs bitterly, the words full of disgust and helplessness.

You’re surprised at how much he’s opening up, letting pieces of his life spill out that you had never imagined. The more he says, the clearer it becomes how much he’s been carrying all these years.

“His anger was out of control, he went all over the country looking for us.” Jungkook’s gaze drifts, as if he’s staring at something far away, his mind retracing those painful steps.

You’re speechless, your heart aching for him as you watch his fists clench at his sides, his shoulders tight, like he’s holding back everything he has left. Your instinct is to reach out, to offer something, anything to help him carry this burden. Without thinking, you move closer, placing a gentle hand on his thigh, hoping to give him even the slightest comfort.

He doesn’t pull away, but you can feel the intensity in his body, the way his muscles seem to tighten even more at your touch. Still, he doesn’t look at you, but the words that follow shake you to your core.

“He took my mother’s life,” he says quietly, his voice trembling, the pain still fresh. “Deciding for her that if she wanted to leave him, then that would be the only way.” His voice is barely a whisper, but it carries with it the weight of everything he’s lost.

The room feels smaller now, the air thicker, as the reality of what he’s saying sinks in. You don’t know what to say. How could you say anything? What could you say in the face of something so cruel, so unjust? Your hand remains on his thigh, your touch now a small anchor between the two of you. You don’t know what to do with the tears that have welled up in your own eyes. The overwhelming sorrow you feel for him, for the pain he’s been carrying all these years, presses on your chest like a heavy weight.

All you can do is sit there, silently offering him your presence.

You watch as Jungkook’s hand gently envelops yours, his grip firm but surprisingly tender. It’s almost like he’s grounding himself, letting your touch be a reminder that he isn’t alone in this moment. There’s something deeply comforting about the way his rough hand holds yours, like he’s trying to protect you from the pain that he’s been holding inside for so long.

“I ran away,” he says, his voice quieter now, as if the weight of those words is still something he’s processing. He shrugs, but the movement feels dismissive, as though he’s trying to downplay the depth of what he’s been through. “Still running.” His eyes flicker to the floor, almost as if he’s talking more to himself than to you. “He didn’t care about me. I’m a man, he knows he can’t own me.”

You can’t help but feel a sense of admiration for him in that moment, though you also feel the sorrow creeping in. He had to fight for his independence, to break free from the suffocating hold of someone who should have cared for him.

It’s strange to think how different his life must have been from yours. You, sheltered in a home where you’re supposed to be loved, and him—fighting for his freedom, running from his past, and trying to find a place where he can just exist. The contrast hits you hard, and the more you think about it, the more you realize just how little you truly understand about his world.

You squeeze his hand lightly, the action small but meaningful. You want him to know that you’re there, that you won’t judge him for his past, and that despite everything, he doesn’t have to carry this burden alone anymore.

“Do you ever want to stop running?” you ask softly, your voice filled with genuine curiosity. “Do you ever think about… just stopping?”

Jungkook looks at you, his expression unreadable for a moment, as if the question caught him off guard. Then, slowly, he shifts, pulling his hand away from yours, but not in a way that feels like rejection. He leans back against the headboard, looking up at the ceiling as if searching for an answer that’s buried deep within him.

“I don’t know,” he says after a long pause. “Maybe one day. But for now, running’s all I know.”

It’s a strange kind of sadness that fills the room now, the kind that feels heavy but comforting at the same time. You both know the pain of having to keep moving forward, of never truly finding a place to call home.

You settle beside him, the bed creaking slightly under your weight as you ease yourself into the space beside him. You’re surprised by how natural it feels, as if you’ve always been meant to be this close, to have your head rest gently on his chest. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat becomes a soothing soundtrack, grounding you in this moment, easing the tension you didn’t even know you were carrying.

It’s strange how comfortable you feel, considering how guarded you’ve always been with others, especially men. You’d been taught to keep your distance, to protect yourself from the kind of people who could hurt you, but with Jungkook, it feels different. There’s no need to put up walls, no need to hide behind the layers of defensiveness you’d built over the years. With him, it feels like everything softens.

Maybe it’s how he carries himself—his exterior that screams tough, with his tattoos, piercings, and guarded demeanor—but when you look into his eyes, it’s almost like you see through the armor. His eyes are round, soft, and full of emotion, always telling you what words can’t. There’s a vulnerability there that you hadn’t expected, and that pulls you in even more.

You’d always known rough men growing up—men who used their fists to communicate, who hurt the people they were supposed to love. Your father had been one of them, a man whose temper was like a storm, always unpredictable and destructive. It had made you wary of men, of their intentions, of their words. But with Jungkook, there was no violence, no anger, just a quiet understanding. He was different. Soft, in a way you didn’t know men could be.

He whispers your name, his voice soft and warm, brushing against your hair as his fingers, which you hadn’t even noticed moving, come to a stop on your shoulder. You hum in response, the sound almost instinctive, waiting for whatever it is he’s about to say next.

“Please,” he starts, his voice a little quieter now, laden with a weight you can feel even in his gentleness. “I hope that no matter what you decide, you won’t ever accept something like that.” He lets the words hang between you two, heavy with meaning.

You lift your head slightly, glancing at him, your heart tightening in your chest. His eyes are closed, but there’s a quiet intensity in his expression that you can’t ignore. You can feel the sincerity in his words, the concern for you that he’s trying to shield behind his tough exterior.

“Don’t accept things like what?” you ask gently, your voice low. You’re not sure if he’s talking about relationships, about life, or something else, but you can feel the weight of the question.

Jungkook opens his eyes then, his gaze meeting yours with an intensity that makes you hold your breath. “Don’t accept the kind of treatment you saw growing up,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “Don’t let anyone treat you like you’re less than you are, like you owe them something, like you’re not enough on your own.”

You can feel his hand resting on your shoulder again, gentle but firm, as if he’s grounding you in this moment, making sure you understand him.

His words hang in the air, and for a long second, the room feels silent, as if everything else has paused. You nod slowly, taking in his request. It’s not just a warning. It’s a wish, a hope that you won’t fall into the same traps that so many others do, that you won’t repeat the patterns of the past.

“I won’t,” you whisper back, more to yourself than to him, but you know he hears it. “I won’t.”

And somehow, you believe it.

Your mother had warned you about the dangers, told you about the life you shouldn’t accept, but hearing it from a man himself made it feel different. It made it feel real in a way that her words hadn’t quite been able to reach before. It was as if there was still hope, a shred of humanity left, even in someone who had known the harshness of life—someone who had lived through their own darkness and yet still had the clarity to see that there was something more.

His words were like a reminder, a wake-up call that maybe you didn’t have to settle for what the world sometimes told you to accept. Maybe there could be more, a life beyond the suffocating cycles you had been raised to believe in. And to hear him say it, not out of pity, but as a plea, made it all the more powerful.

You didn’t remember when or how you fell asleep—everything blurred into a quiet, peaceful haze. All you could remember was the comforting weight of Jungkook’s hand in your hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your fingertips. It felt so right, so safe, like a moment suspended in time that you didn’t want to end.

But then, suddenly, the loud knock on the door shattered the stillness, pulling you from your half-sleep. Jungkook moved swiftly, standing up from the bed without a care that your head immediately fell to the mattress with a soft thud. You blinked, groggy and disoriented, ready to scold him for not being more careful, but when you tried to focus, you saw that he wasn’t even looking at you.

He just walked toward the door, not sparing you a second glance. The door creaked open, and you could feel the tension in the air even before you heard the voice outside. Something wasn’t right, and your stomach twisted with uncertainty.

You couldn’t see who was at the door because of the stupid wall blocking your view, but the voices told you enough. Two men. Neither of them were Jungkook’s. They spoke quietly, as if trying not to let you hear, but their words still sliced through the silence in the room, creating an unsettling tension that made your skin prickle.

The conversation was hard to follow, muffled by the low volume and the distance between you, but you caught just enough to know something wasn’t right. Then, all of a sudden, the voices stopped. The door creaked shut with a soft thud, and the quiet that followed seemed almost oppressive.

Your heart began to race, the knot in your stomach tightening. You quickly stood up, feeling the weight of the situation, and moved toward the door. As soon as you stepped into the small space, you realized he was gone. Jungkook was nowhere in sight.

Your mind raced, your instincts kicking in. You rushed to the window, just in time to hear the familiar roar of his motorcycle’s engine starting up. You watched through the cracked blinds, your breath catching in your throat as you saw his silhouette fade into the daylight.

Where was he going? Why had he left without a word? And why did you feel this tight, gnawing sense of dread in your chest, like something wasn’t right?

You didn’t know the answers, but one thing was clear: you weren’t going to just sit around and let this mystery unfold without you.

You grab your backpack in a hurry, the straps digging into your shoulders as you rush out the door. Your heart beats faster with every step, adrenaline surging through your veins. The cool air hits your face as you step outside, trying to catch any trace of Jungkook or the men who had just left.

Jungkook’s motorcycle, though, was gone, the road eerily silent without its usual rumble.

Without thinking, you start walking down the street, backpack slung over your shoulder, hoping for some sort of sign that would explain it all. You had a feeling that Jungkook was in trouble, and you had no idea where he’d gone.

The city felt smaller now, each street and alleyway seeming to taunt you as you searched desperately for Jungkook. The familiar hum of the engine, the one you’d grown to associate with him, only filled you with frustration now. It should have been comforting, but the silence that followed the absence of his bike felt deafening.

You darted through every corner of the city you knew, hoping that somehow you’d see him, even if it was just a glimpse of his messy dark hair in a crowd. But nothing. The streets were empty, almost too quiet for a place that was supposed to have life pulsing through it at night.

You found yourself in front of the bar where you had saw him the some days ago. You pushed the door open, heart racing in your chest, your breath caught in your throat as you stepped inside. The atmosphere inside was thick with smoke, the air sticky with the sounds of laughter and clinking glasses.

You walked through the crowd, your eyes scanning every face, but it only made your stomach twist tighter as you realized, once again, he wasn’t there. It felt like a ghost town, even though there were people everywhere.

He wasn’t here. He wasn’t anywhere.

You swallowed hard, pushing through the crowd to get back out on the street, the sense of unease growing in your chest with each passing second.

You kick the stone harder this time, frustration bubbling up, your breath sharp as you watch it roll down the street. Idiot, you mutter again, the word feeling heavier each time it leaves your lips.

It was stupid to chase after him like this. It was stupid to let yourself care so much about someone you barely knew. Yet, here you were, standing alone in the streets, feeling like you were losing grip on something you hadn’t even fully understood.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides, and you exhale sharply through your nose. “What the hell are you doing?” you ask yourself, the question hanging in the air like a challenge.

The rain starts slow, just one drop at first, but it quickly turns into a downpour. Within seconds, your clothes are soaked through, the cold water clinging to your skin, making the fabric feel heavy and uncomfortable. The sensation against your bare arms and legs is unbearable, like the world itself is washing away any sense of warmth or comfort you had left.

You don’t care, though. You keep walking, the sound of the rain drowning out your thoughts, the water pooling around your feet as you move forward. Every step feels like it drags you deeper into confusion and frustration, but you don’t stop. You can’t. Not until you find him.

You pull your damp hair back from your face, trying to see through the downpour, but everything’s just a blur of gray. The rain is coming so hard, it’s as if the world is trying to push you back, telling you to go home, to forget it.

The moment you hear the unmistakable roar of the engine, your heart skips. You know it like the back of your hand—familiar, loud, and wild. Without a second thought, you spin around, eager to find him, but instead, your eyes lock on to another man riding the motorcycle.

You turn the corner, following the sound, until you finally see him. There he is, slumped against the cold concrete, his head buried in his hands. The sight makes your chest tighten. Relief floods you, but it’s short-lived. There’s something about the way he’s sitting, the way his fingers are pulling at his hair, that stops you cold.

In his left hand, he’s holding a crumpled bill, soaked through from the relentless rain, barely visible in the downpour. It’s clear that the rain isn’t the only thing weighing him down.

When he lifts his head, his eyes catching the sight of your sneakers on the ground in front of him, your breath catches in your throat. His face is a mess—blood smeared across his cheek, dripping from his lip, and the expression in his eyes makes your stomach churn.

You crouch down, your fingers trembling slightly as you reach for his face, gently cupping it in your hands, trying to inspect his bruises. But before you can even get a good look, he jerks his head away violently, the sudden motion causing you to lose your balance and fall harshly onto the cold, unforgiving concrete.

“Seriously, why are you following me?” he spits, his voice dripping with frustration. In one swift motion, he grabs a stone and hurls it in your direction. The rock isn’t large enough to hurt, but the anger behind the throw is undeniable.

His eyes are different now. The vulnerability from last night is gone, replaced with something darker, colder. It’s a look you have seen before—the Jungkook you confronted about your Walkman, the one in front of you, is someone whose rage has consumed him.

You reach for a stone yourself, the action impulsive, and throw it back at him. It lands softly on his chest before bouncing onto the wet pavement, but as soon as it hits, you feel a pang of guilt. You never wanted to make him feel this way. You never wanted to push him further into whatever this dark place was he found himself in.

“Don’t throw shit at me like a child,” you scold him, your voice softer now, but the hurt in his eyes doesn’t dissipate. He doesn’t respond, his head dropping lower in silence, and you can’t stand it. The quiet is suffocating.

Without hesitation, you crawl over to him again. This time, he doesn’t push you away. He lets you reach for him, raising his head gently so you can see the extent of his injuries. His right eye is swollen shut, bruises already forming around the tender skin. Blood drips slowly down his cheek, staining his skin, a stark contrast against the rain-soaked pavement.

You fight the urge to cry at the sight, feeling both helpless and desperate. He looks so broken, so far away from the person he was last night.

You press your palm against his chest, gentle yet firm enough to stop him from looking away, to make sure he meets your gaze. You weren’t going to let him hide or turn away, not this time. Not when he’s clearly breaking.

“What happened, and what the hell was that guy doing on your bike?” The words are sharp, demanding, your patience starting to run thin as you wait for an answer, your brows furrowed in frustration.

“It’s none of your business,” he snaps, swatting your hand away with more force than necessary. He stands abruptly, his movements harsh as he tucks the crumpled bills into his waistband, the rough edges of his shirt pulling up. As he does, you catch sight of bruises on his stomach, old but still dark and angry, a mark of something that had been there for longer than you cared to imagine.

“When did that happen?” you ask, your voice softer but laced with worry. You reach for the hem of his shirt again, lifting it slightly to get a better look at the ugly bruises, trying to piece together what kind of life he’s been living.

He jerks away, slapping your hand from his shirt and grabbing your wrist in a tight grip. “The fuck?” he spits, eyes narrowing, his brow furrowing in anger. You’ve overstepped, and he’s making sure you know it.

You meet his eyes, and for a brief moment, you see the walls come back up—tall, solid, like they always were. But you refuse to let them intimidate you. You don’t care if he’s angry, if he pulls away, you won’t let him shut you out.

“You told me last night that I shouldn’t shut down in front of a man,” you say, your voice steady as you follow him down the alleyway. “That’s what I’m doing right now, you should be glad.”

Jungkook scoffs, his irritation palpable as he sticks his tongue in his cheek. He’s clearly annoyed by your response but there’s a hint of something else, something resembling pride, even if he’s too stubborn to admit it. Deep down, he knows he’s just made himself a hypocrite—telling you to do something he couldn’t bring himself to do.

“Maybe I was wrong,” he mutters, turning to face you. “Maybe you should shut your mouth and just follow what—”

Before he can finish his sentence, you smack your palm against his chest, poking your finger harshly into his stomach where the bruises lie. Your eyes blaze with frustration, determination written in the way you stand tall, unwavering in front of him. You wouldn’t allow yourself to be treated like your mother was, and you sure as hell wouldn’t stand by while he tried to shut you down again, no matter how hard he tried to play the tough guy.

“Don’t act like a fucking idiot,” you warn, pointing a sharp finger at him. “I don’t follow the bullshit masochist rules.”

Jungkook stands there, the words he just uttered hanging between you like smoke, too foul for either of you to ignore. His entire demeanor shifts, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s gone too far. The hardness in his expression falters, and for a second, he looks guilty. He knows he fucked up, knows that his words weren’t a reflection of who he was. He wasn’t like that—never would be. But in that moment, he’d let something slip. And the way you stood up to him, the way you made sure he knew better, it left him stunned.

He shuts down, swallowing hard. He wouldn’t dare disrespect you further, not after that. The silence between you two is heavy, but for the first time in a long while, he’s glad for it. The guilt lingers in his chest, and he knows that you were right to call him out. He should’ve known better. You deserved more than what he’d just tried to throw your way.

He wasn’t like his father. He wasn’t like your father. He wouldn’t treat a woman like that. He’d learned from the worst, and he wasn’t about to become part of the cycle. Not with you.

The rain poured relentlessly, soaking everything in its path, but neither of you cared. The cold droplets slid off your skin, but the tension between you both kept you rooted in place. The small alleyway, with its damp walls and echoing sounds, became your battleground. Neither of you spoke, simply locking eyes in a silent challenge—waiting to see who would cave first.

It felt like hours, but in reality, it had only been moments when Jungkook, to your surprise, finally broke the silence. He leaned against the cold, brick wall, his head dropped slightly in defeat as he rubbed his temple, the weight of whatever had happened clearly pressing down on him.

“Fine,” he muttered, his voice low and reluctant. “I owe these guys money.”

You blinked in surprise, though you didn’t allow it to show too much. He was speaking now, and that was enough for you to keep listening.

“They came from Ulsan,” he continued, his tone rough as he shifted his weight against the wall, visibly uncomfortable. “And they made me pay.”

There was an edge in his voice that made it clear this wasn’t a simple transaction. You could hear the bitterness, the anger at his own situation, but also the shame. He wasn’t the type to just give up, not when it came to his pride, and you could see that this wasn’t easy for him to admit.

You took a small step closer, your eyes softening slightly. Despite the tension, despite everything, you could see he was trying—trying to be honest with you in his own way.

“How much?” you ask, your voice softer now, no longer just angry. There was concern, maybe even a trace of worry. You weren’t sure if it was for him or for yourself, but you knew you couldn’t just walk away from this.

“Doesn’t matter,” he mutters, glancing away, ashamed. “They know where to find me. And now, you too.”

He’s not looking at you, but you can tell that he’s worried. His pride may still be in the way, but the fact that he’s standing here, telling you this, means something. At least, you like to think it does.

“They fucking took my bike as a way to get to me,” Jungkook explains, his voice laced with frustration and disbelief. He scoffs, running a hand through his wet hair. The thought of losing his only means of escape, his bike, is clearly eating at him. His tone darkens. “Now I don’t even have anything to run on. Just stuck here.”

Your eyes narrow, not entirely surprised but still unsure of how to feel. “Why do you owe them money, Jungkook?” you ask, stepping closer, trying to get more out of him.

He hesitates for a moment, his gaze shifting to the ground, but you see the way his jaw tightens. When he doesn’t immediately respond, you point a finger at his bruised stomach, making your irritation clear. “Seriously, fuck?” he grumbles, lifting his palm to protect his side. “Stop threatening me. I told you to stand up for yourself, not to act like a heartless bitch—”

Before he can finish his sentence, you gently poke at the bruise again, soft enough to hurt just a little but not enough to be violent. Your eyes meet his, demanding the explanation you know he’s been avoiding.

Jungkook exhales, frustrated, but he takes your finger in his hand, squeezing it gently to stop you from poking him again. He lets his head fall back against the wall, his shoulders slumping slightly as if the weight of everything just got heavier. “You know,” he starts, voice quieter now, “when you have to run away, keep moving, keep changing places like I do… sometimes you have to do stuff you’re not proud of.”

You stare at him, waiting for more, and he lets out a slow sigh before continuing, his eyes avoiding yours for a moment. “I stole from them,” he admits, looking almost ashamed, but not quite. “It was… it was just one of those things. They were gonna hurt me either way. I thought it would be the only way out.”

“So you stole from them?” you repeat, your voice casual, almost as if it’s not a big deal. But inside, you feel the weight of it. His vulnerability is raw, and you’re not sure whether to pity him or to be angry.

Jungkook nods, a faint shame in his eyes. “Yeah,” he mutters, barely above a whisper. “Then I deserved this.”

“Then you deserved it,” you say bluntly, the words leaving your mouth before you can filter them, and you see the brief flicker of hurt in his eyes.

“Damn,” he says, almost laughing at himself. His lips curl into a crooked grin, one that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I was hoping for some empathy,” he adds, tugging you closer by the finger he’d still held in his grip.

You’re caught off guard by the way he pulls you in, not roughly, but with a sense of urgency as though he needs you closer, even if he doesn’t admit it. Despite the tension between you, his touch isn’t forceful, and you find yourself wondering if you should feel annoyed or if maybe he’s just tired of hiding behind his bravado.

But you don’t say anything. You just let the silence fill the space between you, feeling the rain fall harder now, soaking both of you further.

You rest your head on his shoulder, feeling the weight of his words sink in. His arm wraps around your waist almost instinctively, pulling you closer as if you both needed the comfort, despite the circumstances.

“So what are you going to do now?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper, but it carries the worry that’s been tightening in your chest.

Jungkook taps gently against your side, thinking over the situation for a moment, his expression still hard, but the tension in his shoulders betraying his uncertainty. “Well, I have to find money before Friday or they’ll kill me,” he admits, his voice flat but edged with the truth of his desperation.

The words hit you harder than expected, your heart tightening at the thought. You know exactly what men like that are capable of—what they’ll do for power, for control, and it makes your stomach churn thinking about Jungkook in that kind of danger.

“I’ll help you,” you say without an ounce of hesitation, the words spilling out before you can fully process them.

His grip on you tightens and, before you can even register it, he pulls you away, his hands on your shoulders, forcing you to meet his eyes. There’s an intensity there—almost too much. “I don’t want your money,” he spits out, the words clipped and sharp. “I’m not a charity case.”

You feel the bite of his words, but you stand your ground, not backing down. “I spent almost my whole life going through it alone, and it won’t change.” His words hang in the air, a raw honesty that echoes in the quiet storm between you two.

You meet his gaze, unflinching. “You don’t have to keep being alone,” you remind him, the sincerity in your voice something he can’t ignore. “How are you planning on getting the money, then?”

Jungkook doesn’t answer right away, his jaw clenched. You watch him for a moment, waiting, but frustration starts to bubble up in your chest, and you can’t help but scoff. “Are you even planning on paying your debt?”

He shakes his head, his voice low and distant. “I was just planning on leaving, going into another city, and waiting for them to find me.” He says it as if it’s the only option, as if he’s already accepted what’s to come. “I’ll just disappear.”

But it doesn’t sit right with you, the thought of him running, hiding, leaving again. You reach for him again, instinctively pulling him closer, unwilling to let him slip away.

Jungkook’s breath hitches for a split second as you cling to him. He doesn’t know what it is—maybe it’s the way you hold onto him, or the way you keep showing up, or maybe it’s the way you remind him of something, someone, he’s failed to save in his own life. His mother.

With you, there’s a small flicker of hope he’s afraid to acknowledge, afraid to allow himself to feel. You’re a light in the darkness he’s been carrying, and for the first time, he’s not sure he can just walk away from you.

He leans his forehead against yours, his breath shaky. “I was ready to leave,” he admits quietly, almost ashamed. “But with you here…” He trails off, the words too difficult to say, and yet you understand them in the silence that follows.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whisper softly, feeling the heat of his skin against yours, the rain continuing to pour around you both, but it doesn’t matter now. Whatever storm rages around you, you’re not leaving him behind, not when he’s shown you a side of him that’s so broken and raw.

Jungkook swallows, a faint trace of vulnerability flickering in his eyes as he closes the gap between you, letting his lips brush against your forehead in a silent promise.

He doesn’t need to say anything else. He knows. You’re here now, and that means something more than any plan to run away.

“I want to work,” you say, your voice cutting through the clatter of dinner for the first time in what feels like ages. It’s strange, but you don’t even feel nervous about it. You’ve made up your mind, and you want to make it known, even if it means challenging the routine that’s been suffocating you for years.

Your father’s chewing slows, and your mother’s gaze shifts toward you, her expression unreadable. Your father sets his chopsticks down, not bothering to wipe the rice crumbs from his mouth, before turning to poke your mother, his laugh ringing out too loudly in the stillness. “You hear that, darling? She wants to work,” he says with a grating chuckle, his voice full of amusement. But when he turns back to you, his demeanor shifts—mocking, condescending.

“Sweetheart,” he starts, his voice dripping with false affection as he leans closer to you, his hands stretched out toward you like he’s talking to a child. “You’re a girl,” he says, pinching your cheek in that familiar, patronizing way that always made your stomach churn.

“So what?” you retort firmly, your chin raised, defiant. “I want to work.”

Your father’s face hardens, and the laughter dies in his throat. He straightens up, furrowing his eyebrows as if you’ve just spoken in a language he doesn’t understand. His eyes narrow, a flash of something between frustration and confusion crossing his face. “Women don’t work,” he declares, as if it’s some immutable rule, an unspoken truth that’s as old as time itself.

You look him in the eye, unmoved, refusing to let him have the satisfaction of seeing you back down. “I know what women are supposed to do,” you say, voice steady, even as you feel the heat rise in your chest. “But I’m not like that. I want to work. I want to do something for myself.”

The silence hangs heavy between you all, your mother’s faint smile barely noticeable, her gaze flickering between the two of you. She doesn’t speak.

“I don’t think I’ve made myself clear enough,” he mutters, his voice dripping with condescension. You can hear the sharp inhale he takes before fully turning around to face you, as if he’s preparing to correct your perceived ignorance. Without another word, he grabs your chopsticks from your hands, pulling them away from the rice in your bowl, forcing you to stop eating. His fingers linger just a moment too long as he takes them, and you feel a tightness building in your chest, like the air has gone suddenly stale.

“You know what work for a woman means, right?” he asks, his tone dismissive, as if he’s speaking to a child who still needs everything explained.

Before you can even respond, he continues, his voice growing colder. “It means being a prostitute. It’s the only work a woman can do right now.” He spits out the last word like it’s poison.

You can’t help it. A flash of anger burns through you, and your response is instinctive. “That’s false. Things change, some—”

But before you can finish your thought, his fist slams into the table with a resounding crack. The force of the impact makes the dishes rattle, and you freeze, the words dying in your throat. Your mother flinches visibly at the violent gesture, her eyes flicking nervously to the side.

“You want to work, huh?” Your father’s voice is sharp now, like the bite of a whip. “For what, exactly? I’m providing you everything you need,” he gestures toward your mother and you. “I’m giving you both everything. What more could you possibly want?”

Your throat tightens, but you find your voice again. “I don’t care. I want my own money,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel. You want to believe that the simple act of voicing your desires is enough to make a change.

But he doesn’t give you a chance. He cuts you off, this time with his hand. A slap. A resounding sting that snaps your head to the side, leaving you in a daze. Your cheek burns, the shock of it reverberating through your body.

Your father never hit you before. Not like this. It was always your mother who bore the brunt of his anger, and you never once imagined that you would be the target of his rage. It’s like the world has flipped on its axis, and your reality is suddenly a twisted mirror of what you thought it was.

“You want your own money?” he scoffs, his voice dripping with disdain. “That’s what you think you need?” He stands abruptly, his movement so swift it almost makes you dizzy. He grabs your arms with a force that makes you stumble to your feet, his fingers digging into your skin as he yanks you up. The action is jarring, but it doesn’t stop there. He shoves you roughly to your knees in front of him, the floor cold and unforgiving beneath you.

“Aren’t you grateful for everything you have?” he demands, his voice rising, the control in it suffocating. “You have everything you want because of me.”

He forces you to bow your head down, his grip unyielding as he manipulates you into position. “You should excuse yourself,” he says, the words leaving his mouth with a cold, mocking finality.

Your mother’s eyes never meet yours. She doesn’t speak. Her silence is louder than any words she could offer. She’s watched this play out before, and she knows that in this house, speaking out has never been a winning option.

You didn’t say a word. The silence only seemed to fuel his rage further, like the absence of your voice was the final straw. He shoved you with his foot, sending you crashing to the floor with a thud, your palms scraping against the rough wood as you tried to catch yourself.

“Fine,” he spat, his voice shaking with fury. “You want to work? You’ll see how it is for a woman.”

He stormed into the living room, his footsteps heavy, and you could hear the harsh sound of him throwing something. A second later, your sneakers landed at your feet with a thud. You looked down at them, the weight of his words sinking in, and before you could react, he was back, standing over you.

“Go be a slut, then,” he sneered, his voice low and venomous. “But don’t you dare call yourself my daughter again.”

His words hit harder than any slap, and you felt a lump form in your throat. This wasn’t just anger—it was something deeper, something cold that wrapped around you like a vice. You tried to stand, but before you could, he grabbed you, pushing you roughly toward the door. The doorframe loomed ahead, but your footing was unsteady, slick from the rain that had soaked the wooden porch earlier.

Your feet slipped beneath you, sending you tumbling backward. The pain shot through your back, the impact jarring and making you wince. But before you could gather yourself, he was standing above you, his face twisted in contempt.

“This home is not your home anymore. It’s mine,” he declared, his voice final and cold. Without another glance, he slammed the door in your face.

The sound of the door’s heavy thud reverberated through you, and for a moment, you just lay there on the wet porch, staring at the place you’d always called home. It felt like everything had been stripped away in an instant, and there was nothing left but the cold, damp air and the bitter taste of his rejection.

You swallowed hard, the weight of everything pressing down on you. The storm wasn’t just outside. It was inside you too.

You felt like a fool, standing there in the rain, shivering, feeling every ounce of foolishness and regret pierce through you. Stupid for standing up when you knew it wasn’t your place, stupid for thinking that things could change, that you could somehow escape this cycle. Now you understood why your mother stayed for so long—because where could a girl like you go? What was left when all the doors were closed in your face?

Your eyes drifted up to the dark sky, but the rain didn’t give you any answers. It only fell harder, as if mocking your helplessness. The cold seeped into your bones, your shirt clinging to you, heavy with the rain. The summer heat had long since abandoned you, leaving you freezing, exposed, and alone.

You didn’t know how long you sat there on the porch, drenched and motionless. You heard the soft murmur of the house behind you, the light slowly dimming as your parents went to bed. Like nothing had happened. Like you hadn’t been left outside in the cold, abandoned by the very people who should’ve protected you.

Just as you were about to get up, to leave and find some place, anywhere, to escape the suffocating reality, the door creaked open. Your heart leapt, and despite the anger, the pain, and everything you were feeling, you found yourself running back to that door, falling to your knees. Your hands pressed into the ground, your forehead resting against the cold floor, your body shaking uncontrollably.

“I’m sorry,” you cried, the words spilling out without thought. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you repeated over and over again, as if apologizing could somehow fix everything. But no answer came. Only the sound of your own sobs and the heavy beat of your heart, echoing through the silence.

Then, your mother’s voice broke through the noise. You raised your head, blinking in disbelief, to see her standing there, her face softer than you had ever seen it. She was holding your backpack, packed and ready, a look of determination on her face.

“Is it him, right?” she asked, her fingers moving through your damp hair, almost in a way that felt like she was seeing you for the first time. The gesture was gentle, unfamiliar, but comforting. You nodded, too tired and heartbroken to answer with anything more.

“You’re brave,” she said quietly, her voice thick with emotion. “I admire you right now,” she added, her gaze fixed on your face, her eyes glistening with something you couldn’t quite place.

You scoffed, unable to stop yourself. For the first time in years, you laughed, but it was more like a reflex, a desperate attempt to hold onto something familiar. Then, surprisingly, she laughed too.

“I know I wasn’t a great mother,” she whispered, her hands tracing every contour of your face like she was learning it all over again. “But I’m so proud to have made a strong daughter.”

Her words hit you harder than anything before. You couldn’t speak for a moment, couldn’t believe what you were hearing. It was as if the weight of everything that had been unsaid for years was finally being let out, and you could feel it in the way her hands trembled against your skin.

“I wish I was strong like you,” she added softly, her gaze falling.

“Mom…” You reached up, holding her hands in yours, finally noticing the fragility in her touch. Your heart ached as you saw her, truly saw her for the first time. “It is you…”

She grinned faintly, but the smile faltered as tears finally fell from her eyes, and she pulled you into her arms. The gesture was unfamiliar, yet somehow comforting, as though this was the first time you’d ever really been held in the way you needed. Her arms. Your mother’s arms.

“I was so scared to become a mother,” she whispered, her voice breaking as she spoke in a rush. “So scared to have a little girl because I know what it meant, and…” She couldn’t finish her sentence, but you understood. You understood everything she was trying to say, everything she had been holding back for so long.

“I know,” you murmured, your own tears mingling with hers as you pulled her head to your chest. For the first time, it felt like you were the one comforting her. Like you were the protector. The mother.

“I never hated you,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “I just hate that patriarchal world so much.”

The words hit you like a punch to the stomach. They were raw, vulnerable, and so full of truth. You cried harder, finally feeling the weight of all the things she had carried alone, the unspoken fears she had lived with for so long.

And in that moment, it wasn’t just a mother and daughter finally finding peace with each other, no longer locked in a battle of silence and resentment. It was two women, standing side by side, united in their pain, but more importantly, in their strength. Together, they no longer had to fight back-to-back in isolation, trying to carry the weight of the world alone. Instead, they were ready to fight together, to scream together, to finally raise their voices in a world that had so often silenced them before they even had the chance to speak.

The weight of their shared struggle wasn’t just the pain of the past—it was the recognition that they had endured for too long, that their voices had been muffled under the suffocating grip of a society that demanded they remain quiet, stay small, and obey. But no longer. They were no longer afraid to stand up, to demand respect, to claim their right to be heard, to exist without fear.

Your feet moved almost on their own, carrying you through the familiar streets without a second thought. You didn’t even need to ask for directions or question your decision; it felt like fate had led you here. You had always despised this place, the cold, unwelcoming walls, the thoughts of things you never wanted to remember, but right now, it was the only place that felt right.

It wasn’t the comforts he had mentioned—the bed, the shower, the TV—that drew you in. No, it was him. He was the only thing that felt like home in this moment. And home, for once, didn’t need to be filled with furniture or the scent of home-cooked meals. It didn’t need walls that knew your name or a roof that kept out the rain. Home could be something much simpler—comfort. The kind of comfort that was only found in someone who cared, someone who saw you, someone whose presence made everything else fade into the background.

It was in those doe-eyed glances, the unspoken understanding, the warmth that radiated even in silence. In his gaze, you could see a softness, a promise of something safe, something real. And that was enough. Home wasn’t a place; it was a feeling, a person, and right now, that person was him.

He didn’t ask any questions when he opened the door to his room, his expression softening with relief when he saw it was only you. Without a word, he stepped aside, opening the door wider, not caring about the water dripping from your soaked clothes onto the floor. It didn’t matter to him. What mattered was that you were here, and he wasn’t going to let you stand in the cold any longer.

He didn’t ask why your backpack was so packed, didn’t inquire about the weight of your sorrow. Instead, he took it from your shoulders and dropped it carelessly by the bed, his hands gentle but efficient. His gaze flickered toward you for a moment, as if confirming that you were really here, that you were really safe with him.

When he opened your backpack, he didn’t seem surprised by the clothes your mother had packed for you, but he handled them with a quiet tenderness. He held up a pair of warm clothes, his eyes meeting yours with a silent question. The question wasn’t about permission—it was about care, about wanting to make you comfortable. And without hesitation, you gave him a nod, allowing him to proceed.

He began undressing you with a calm confidence, moving like he had done this for years, even though you both knew that nothing about this was normal. Nothing about your situation was ordinary. But when his hands touched your skin, there was no hesitation, no discomfort. Just an unspoken trust that he would treat you gently, with respect. He wasn’t looking at you like others might—like you were a body to be admired—but as someone fragile, someone needing care, someone deserving of warmth.

As he dressed you in warm clothes, his eyes only ever met yours, looking for your approval before moving. He was careful, so mindful of your vulnerability, and it struck you how different he was. How different his presence was. It wasn’t about desire; it was about respect. He didn’t glance at your bare skin, and when he did look at you, it wasn’t with any intent other than ensuring you were okay. There was no rush, no expectation—just patience, just care.

You lay there in the soft comfort of his bed, feeling the weight of his arm draped over you, his breath warm against your neck. For the first time in what felt like forever, you could actually relax. The bed was far from perfect, and you knew you’d probably wake up with a sore back, but it was more comforting than anything you had at home. It was as though, in this small moment, you were finally allowed to rest without the constant weight of fear or worry pressing on your chest.

“So, this is how it feels,” you muttered, a small smile tugging at your lips as you sank deeper into the warmth, realizing just how much you missed the simple pleasure of rest.

Jungkook’s left arm was wrapped loosely around you, pulling you a little closer as he nuzzled his head into your neck, his breath tickling your skin. “I told you,” he whispered, voice low and soothing, sending a shiver down your spine. “Those motels aren’t shit compared to the stuff we’ve been through.”

You chuckled softly, your fingers instinctively reaching up to run through his hair, now a bit longer than when you first met him nearly three weeks ago. You hadn’t realized how much time had passed until this very moment, but it was clear to you now. Jungkook wasn’t a stranger anymore. He was someone you knew, someone you cared about.

“That’s how they must feel too,” you muttered, eyes drifting to the wall in front of you. You were referring to the men who came to the motels, to the ones who sought comfort or release from their own demons.

Jungkook chuckled, the sound warm and amused as he raised his body, pushing himself up slightly, then shaking his head. “No, them,” he gestured towards the other room with a quick nod, “they’re suckers. If I had a wife, I wouldn’t do shit like that.”

His words hung in the air for a moment, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip, trying to suppress the scoff that threatened to escape. You glanced at him, feeling the warmth of his self-assuredness, the conviction in his voice, and wondered how he could be so… well, cute? So kind and yet so confident, despite the rough exterior. It was strange how he could be all of those things and still manage to surprise you with how genuine he was.

How could he be a man, so strong, yet so tender, so caring, and still leave you feeling like there was so much more to him than what met the eye?

“Is that something you’d want?” you ask, and he raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by your question. “A wife?”

He chuckles, the sound so light and carefree, almost childlike, as he falls back onto his back, his tattooed arm casually going behind his head like he’s suddenly lost in thought. His gaze turns distant for a moment as if weighing the question more seriously than you’d expected.

“Would I even make a great husband?” he muses, his voice low and thoughtful. “I don’t have a house, no money, no stable job, and I have piercings.” He scrunches up his face in mock disgust, as if imagining himself in some ridiculous sitcom version of a husband. “Not exactly the husband material,” he finishes with a dramatic sigh, making you laugh despite yourself.

You lean up on your elbows, matching his smirk. “You would make a terrible husband for them,” you say, referring to the shallow, entitled men he so clearly despises. “But a perfect one for your wife.”

His eyes shift slightly, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, and something about the way you said it—so sincere, so assured—stirs something in him. He turns his head to look at you, taking in your words as if you’ve just said something that makes everything click into place for him.

And in that moment, you realize it, too. There’s a connection between you that’s more than just the circumstances you’ve found yourself in. Jungkook, despite all the things the world had thrown at him, despite the expectations of what a man “should” be, never fit those criteria. He was different, like you. He had his own struggles, his own fight for worth, his own fight against a world that didn’t seem to understand him.

And just like you, he had been forced to create his own identity, to carve his own path in the face of adversity. He was fighting, just like you, to be seen for who he really was, not who others expected him to be.

He lets out a quiet sigh, his expression softening. “Guess I never really thought about it that way,” he murmurs, his voice just above a whisper. “But you’re right. I could be… a good husband. For the right person.”

His eyes shifted to you at your words, and without hesitation, you let out a soft laugh, dropping your forehead gently onto his chest. “You look so ridiculous right now,” you teased, your voice muffled against his shirt. He shifted, sitting up straighter in bed, pretending to be wounded by your remark.

“You with your stupid swollen eye, saying all these sappy things,” you chuckled again, watching him act all hurt. As you lifted your head to meet his gaze, you couldn’t help but smile at the sight of his grin — his rare bunny smile, the one that always seemed to make him look a little more vulnerable, a little more real. It was a smile you were growing fond of, a smile that made you feel like he was no longer just the man you met by chance.

He raised an eyebrow, giving you a teasing look as he reached for your hand, drawing it away from his chest. He brought your fingers to his lips, kissing them gently, his eyes never leaving yours. “Come on,” he murmured, his voice softer now, but still filled with that playful edge. “You don’t like it when I act all tough, and you don’t seem to like it when I’m all romantic either. So, what exactly do you like about me?”

Your chest tightened at the simplicity of his question. You wanted to answer him, to tell him how much you loved everything about him. Every little thing that made him who he was — the way he looked at the world with both cynicism and hope, the way his rough exterior hid a deep kindness, the way he never pretended to be something he wasn’t.

But words didn’t seem to do justice. Instead of answering with the things you wanted to say, you leaned in, closing the space between you, and kissed him. It wasn’t a passionate kiss, but one filled with meaning, one that spoke of everything you couldn’t quite put into words. The pressure of your lips against his was enough, and you hoped that in this moment, he would understand what you couldn’t express aloud.

The moment his lips captured yours again, it was different—more urgent, more hungry, as if he couldn’t get enough of you. His hands moved swiftly, pulling you closer, encouraging you to crawl over him. The heat between you both intensified as you let your fingers trace over his skin, feeling the pulse of his body under your touch, each movement pulling you deeper into him.

Your hands found their way to the back of his neck, your fingers threading through the damp strands of his hair. The warmth of his skin against yours was intoxicating, the slight moisture from the humid air adding to the tension in the room. Every inch of him seemed to ignite a spark within you, and you found yourself leaning into him more, unable to resist the magnetic pull between you.

He gripped your hips, lifting you effortlessly so you were positioned right over his bulge, your bodies aligned, hearts pounding against each other. The proximity only made the intensity of the moment sharper, each breath you both took mixing together as you sat there, caught in the quiet storm of emotions you hadn’t yet learned to name.

His hands wandered, but they were gentle, patient, as if he was savoring each second of this closeness. His lips trailed from yours, finding the soft curve of your neck, his breath hot against your skin as he pulled you even further into his embrace. It wasn’t just about the kiss anymore, it was about the connection, the need to be close, to not let go of the fragile moment you’d both found.

He looks deeply into your eyes once more, his fingertips gently grazing the edge of your shirt, silently seeking your consent again.

"Are you okay with this?" he whispers softly, his voice barely audible. You respond with a subtle nod, leaning in to kiss his lips again, your actions speaking louder than any words could.

With a tenderness that makes your heart flutter, he slowly lifts your t-shirt over your head, his movements deliberate and careful, as if ensuring that you feel comfortable and safe every step of the way. You've never felt more cherished or protected than you do in this moment.

You've often wondered what it would be like to experience this intimacy, but it was always shrouded in mystery, a topic rarely discussed openly. Now, as Jungkook takes his time exploring your body, every touch, every kiss, every whispered compliment feels like a revelation. Your worries and doubts fade away, replaced by a profound sense of connection and trust.

Both of you were fully aware that this moment was fleeting, a temporary escape from the harshness that loomed outside. It was like being trapped in a bubble, where time stood still, and for a brief moment, everything felt right. But deep down, you both knew that once the bubble burst, reality would rush back in, sharp and unforgiving. The weight of your actions—the intimacy, the vulnerability, the closeness—would eventually settle heavily on your shoulders. It was inevitable. You couldn’t run from it, no matter how hard you tried.

Jungkook’s mind wasn’t quiet, even in the heat of the moment. He couldn’t help but think about the ticking clock, the reality of his situation. With only a week left until Friday, the pressure to find the money was suffocating. He knew what would happen if he couldn’t come through—everything would be at risk, and the temporary solace he found in this shared intimacy would be gone in an instant. But for now, he pushed those thoughts down, focusing only on you, on the warmth of your skin beneath his lips, the soft breath between your shared kisses, and the way your body felt against his.

In that moment, the countdown was distant, far from his mind. It was just you and him, suspended in time. But even as his body moved with yours, the nagging thought at the back of his mind wouldn’t disappear. It was there, lurking, and it made the moments of peace feel even more fragile. He couldn’t help but wonder how long this could last before everything came crashing down again.

226 notes · View notes

igwb · 5 months ago

Text

Blue & Grey.

"where is my angel? the end of a tiring day, someone come and save me, please."

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (depressed!jk x editor!oc)

genre: established relationship au, angst

summary: when you met jeon jungkook, he never hid his depression from you. he wore it like a shadow, heavy and constant, and somehow, you felt the need to help him, to take on his burdens as if they were your own. but in the process, you realized something. love isn’t a miracle—it can’t magically erase someone’s pain. you wished that it could, but the truth was, the only one who could truly heal him was himself.

word count: 24K (one shot)

warnings: angst, fem!reader, fight against depression, mentions of; self-harm, self-degrading, suicide talk, bad mental health, blood, jungkook is suffering, having to see your loved one struggling, mentions of; sexual contents (no actual smut!), road to learn how to love yourself & mesuring the importance of your own life♡

playlist: i always wanna die (sometimes), uncomfortable, heavy, shot glass of tears and blue & grey

Neither you nor Jungkook can pinpoint exactly when or why it happened. However, you remember vividly the moment he revealed his feelings to you, about the demons he’s been struggling with since childhood.

At that time, you were both in university, and your relationship was still new. For you, it wasn’t anything too serious—just the warmth he offered. His head rested in your lap as you ran your fingers through his soft, dark hair, and that’s when he opened up.

“I’ve been diagnosed with depression for four years,” he said. Your hand froze, and your eyes widened. It wasn’t at all what you were expecting. The night had been going so well—you were laughing, kissing, and slowly exploring each other’s bodies without any rush.

At first, you didn’t know how to respond or what he expected from you. You’d never been in this position before. Of course, you’d heard of depression, and as a literature student, you’d read about it—it was a recurring theme for many authors.

But reading about it didn’t mean you truly understood it, especially now that it felt so real. So close.

When Jungkook felt your hand freeze, he immediately sat up and looked at you with wide, chocolate eyes. “I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said softly, a hesitant smile tugging at his lips.

You couldn’t meet his gaze. Instead, you focused on the tiny mole beneath his lip, because if you looked into his eyes now, you were certain you would burst into tears. You’d always been a romantic, always searching for beauty even in the most difficult moments, and always absorbing the weight of emotions when someone close to you seemed so vulnerable.

“I—” you began, your breath catching in your throat. “It’s not like that, it’s just—”

Jungkook let out a soft chuckle and gently tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear. He felt the need to see your face, to make sure you weren’t hiding behind your hair as if you didn’t know him anymore. He hadn’t meant to scare you, not at all. He just wanted to confess because he felt safe enough with you to do so.

“I really like you,” he began, his voice soft and sincere. “And I feel like this is something I wanted you to know before I ask you out for real,” he confessed, his gaze drifting to anything but you, a shy smile playing on his lips.

Your cheeks flushed at his sudden confession, and you couldn’t fight the smile that spread across your face. Maybe Jungkook wasn’t just some fleeting warmth you sought on some days and not others. Maybe he meant something more, because you could already feel your heart stuttering in your chest.

“It won’t change anything then,” you said softly, finally meeting his deep, boba-like eyes.

Maybe you should’ve learned more before diving headfirst into what Jungkook had implied.

Maybe you should’ve taken the time to understand depression, to go beyond what you found on the internet or the romanticized portrayals in the books you read.

Because now, standing in front of it, you didn’t know what to say or do. Your mind felt completely blank, and in that moment, you felt like the most useless person alive. There you were, watching your boyfriend of seven months—someone you cared deeply for—slapping himself roughly across the chest. His sobs echoed through the dorm room, his hair tangled from the way he had been pulling at it before you arrived. His face was flushed, red from the tears and the screams, and you had no idea how to help him.

“Kook,” you said softly, unsure if he even heard you over the intensity of his sobs. “Baby—” you repeated, trying again as you knelt in front of him, but he immediately shoved you away, shouting for you to leave him alone.

It had been two weeks since he started acting differently. In the beginning, your relationship had been perfect. He was nothing but caring, gentle, and loving. After that night at your apartment, he hadn’t talked about his depression because, honestly, he was feeling good—he felt like he was in a better place.

But he had been fighting this battle for four years, and even longer before the diagnosis. If he thought that life could be like one of those romance novels you loved, that somehow, with a miracle—you, his demons, and the dark thoughts would just disappear, he was wrong. So deeply wrong.

Because now, here he was—sitting on the cold tiles of his bathroom, his chest bare and exposed, falling apart in front of the one person he wanted to protect from his pain.

From an outside perspective, Jungkook might seem terrifying right now. Violent, even. His eyes were dark, wild, as if he were ready to lash out at anything that dared to come too close.

But for you? For you, he was the guy you fell in love with. He was the guy who held your hand while walking, always choosing the side closest to the road to protect you. He was the guy who brought you chocolate every month on the date you officially became a couple. Because he said your anniversary shouldn’t be just once a year—it should be celebrated every month, because he was so grateful to have you in his life as his girlfriend, even after just seven months together.

He was the boy you held at night when his body tensed in his sleep, as if haunted by nightmares he never spoke about. And in the morning, you pretended not to notice the dried tears on his cheeks, too afraid of the truth—afraid that when the time came, you wouldn’t be ready to face it.

But the time had come. And you had to be there. Right now.

“Come on, Kook,” you murmured, reaching for him again. You shifted, setting your bag on the cold floor so you could use both hands to hold him. “I’m here.”

His mind was a blur, his ears suffocated by the voices screaming at him—telling him he was broken, unlovable, incapable of love. That he was everything and nothing. That he didn’t deserve happiness.

And worst of all, they told him he would hurt you.

He couldn’t bear it. Couldn’t pretend he was okay while those words poisoned his thoughts. That’s why he ran to the shower, hoping the water would wash them away. But it did nothing.

And then suddenly, you were there. Crawling in front of him, your shaky hands settling on his bare shoulders, whispering in that soft voice only you had, telling him you were there.

And the voices stopped.

Because he heard three words. A raw confession. Vulnerable. A moment that would be etched into his memory forever.

“I love you, Jungkook,” you sobbed, holding him tighter, as if letting go wasn’t even an option.

Since that day, you never wanted to be far from him again. The sight of him breaking down had shattered your heart, and some nights, when you were alone in your apartment while Jungkook was in his, his sobs still echoed in your mind.

You even found yourself wandering through the medical university’s library, pacing between shelves, searching for anything that could help you understand him—help him better.

You left with five different books on depression, mental health, and other topics that felt too overwhelming to even think about.

It had been a month since Jungkook’s first outburst, yet somehow, you still felt like you hadn’t done anything to truly help him. And you hated that feeling. The next time it happened, you wanted to be ready. You wanted to do things right.

When you saw him approaching, his eyes immediately found yours as he pulled out one of his AirPods. He almost ran to you, a playful, childish smile on his lips—the one you fell in love with. The one that made him look like a soft bunny you just wanted to kiss.

But suddenly, the weight in your arms felt unbearable. You were scared to admit why you were really there, scared that he’d feel like some kind of psychological case you were trying to study. Guilt crept in as you clutched the books tightly against your chest, hoping he wouldn’t notice the bold black letters on the cover: How to Understand Depression?

“Baby,” he murmured, wrapping an arm around your side carefully so he wouldn’t crush the books you were holding. So considerate. “What are you doing here?” His gaze flickered to the medical building behind you, curiosity lacing his tone.

“You didn’t tell me you were coming,” he added, raising his eyebrows in a way that made him look so silly—yet so adorable that you swore your heart might burst.

It wasn’t unusual for you to visit him at his faculty whenever you had a break, but it was unusual for you to show up unannounced.

“Surprise—” you offered weakly, forcing a semblance of a smile.

He didn’t question your odd behavior, but when he tried to peek at the books in your arms, he immediately held his hands out.

“They must be heavy, give them to me,” he said without hesitation. You instantly refused, tightening your grip. “Why not?” he scoffed, frowning.

“I’m an independent woman, I can handle it,” you blurted, quickly finding the perfect excuse to ease the tension.

Jungkook narrowed his eyes but let it slide, falling into step beside you. After a moment of silence—filled with him insisting on walking you to your faculty—he finally asked,

“What are you reading that made you go all the way to the medical library?” His voice was casual, but you could hear the underlying curiosity.

He walked a little behind you, clearly annoyed that both your hands were full—because it meant he couldn’t hold yours.

“Some… stuff,” you muttered, swallowing hard, your throat tightening around the words you couldn’t bring yourself to say—depression, mental health, coping mechanisms. Anything would have been better than the lie that left your lips next.

“I have to write a poem,” you added hastily, grimacing at how terrible it sounded. “And I thought… medical stuff could help.”

Jungkook’s brows lifted in amusement. “You could’ve just asked me,” he said, his hands settling on your shoulders as he pulled you closer. If he couldn’t hold your hand, he’d at least keep you near somehow. “Your wonderful boyfriend studies psychology, and you didn’t think to ask him?”

His smirk was dangerous—the kind where the right side of his lips lifted just slightly more than the left. The kind that made you feel like if you looked at him too long, you’d spill the entire truth.

“Didn’t want to bother you,” you mumbled, eyes dropping to the ground.

A terrible decision.

Because the moment you did, a cyclist came speeding toward you. You barely registered the rush of wind before you stumbled back, losing your footing. The books tumbled to the ground, and you followed right after them, landing hard on the pavement.

“Hey!” Jungkook’s voice was sharp as he immediately knelt beside you, glaring after the cyclist. “Watch where you’re going, idiot!” His tone was filled with irritation, muttering curses under his breath. “Stupid guy…”

But then his attention snapped back to you. His gaze softened as he saw you wince, your hand gripping your shoulder.

“Are you okay?” he asked, concern lacing his voice. “I swear, if I see that guy again—”

He stopped mid-sentence. His eyes flickered downward, locking onto one of the fallen books.

And that’s when he saw it.

The bold, black title staring back at him.

A strange chuckle escaped Jungkook’s lips, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes—like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

“What is that?” he asked, his voice eerily calm as he pointed at the books scattered across the pavement.

Panic surged through you. Without thinking, you rushed to gather them back into your arms, clutching them tightly against your chest.

“Nothing,” you blurted out, suddenly deciding that the slight pain in your shoulder wasn’t worth acknowledging anymore.

Jungkook sighed, saying your name in that warning tone—the one that made your heart clench. His soft eyes searched yours, silently pleading with you not to lie to him.

“Are you sure it’s nothing?” he asked, his voice quieter now. “And not you… trying to study my terrible condition?”

You dropped your head in defeat, your gaze landing on one of the books—The Five Stages of Depression.

One of them was anger.

And that was the last thing you wanted Jungkook to feel toward you.

“Jungkook—” you started, ready to fall to your knees and beg him to forget about it, to tell him you were sorry for being intrusive. But before you could even utter another word, he pulled you into his arms, his embrace firm, his head burying into your shoulder. His soft hair tickled your neck, and you felt the warmth of him seep into you.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice raw, almost fragile. “But I don’t want you to overthink this. You being here is enough.”

His warm breath ghosted over your skin before he pressed a soft kiss to your cheek. Then, he pulled back slightly, his fingers tilting your chin up, his eyes serious now.

“Or,” he said more firmly, “you could just ask me—instead of reading stupid stuff like that.”

You couldn’t admit you were scared—because admitting it would mean acknowledging that, in that moment, Jungkook had scared you. And you never wanted him to think he was capable of hurting you in any way.

So you just nodded, offering him a small, reassuring smile.

“I will,” you murmured.

One day.

One day, when the thought of your boyfriend shifting between light and dark no longer unsettled you. When you finally accepted that this was just a part of him—something you had to learn to hold without letting it slip through your fingers. Something you had to handle on your own.

Jungkook could pinpoint the exact moment he fell in love with you. It happened long before you even acknowledged his existence.

There was something about you that drew people in—he could see it in the way boys looked at you, admiration laced in their gaze, and in the way girls gravitated toward you, eager to talk, to compliment, to be near you.

For someone like Jungkook, who had spent most of his life blending into the shadows, erasing himself so others wouldn’t notice the weight he carried, it was impossible not to be drawn to someone like you—someone who seemed to shine effortlessly. Someone who had light in places he never thought to look for in himself.

And yet, it was ridiculous how the moment he truly fell for you wasn’t during some grand event or breathtaking scene—it was on an ordinary day. A simple moment.

You had come to the medical faculty, apparently looking for a friend. The sun hit your face at just the right angle, making your round brown eyes squint slightly against the light. And for a second, Jungkook could swear it wasn’t just the sun making you glow—it was you.

He watched as you wandered through the campus, searching desperately for whatever—or whoever—you were looking for. And he just stood there, too shy, too caught up in his own darkness to even think about stepping into your light.

He swore he wasn’t some creep, but it was almost pitiful how consumed he had become by thoughts of you since that day. It wasn’t just a passing attraction—it was something deeper. He learned that you were often on campus, meeting friends, and all he could do was watch from afar, unable to tear his gaze away as you smiled. Your white teeth gleamed, and your laughter rang out, deep and genuine. Your entire being seemed to radiate pure happiness.

And there he was, stuck in the shadows, unable to even imagine what it would feel like to be a part of that world you lived in.

Jungkook could only dream about it—about you.

And yet, somehow, your paths crossed.

Jungkook sat quietly, as usual, engrossed in a psychology book that made him chuckle under his breath. Sometimes he thought he was a masochist for choosing a major like that, especially when he couldn’t even fully understand himself. But there was something about it—the need to understand why he was the way he was—that drew him in.

He was reading when he heard the familiar sound of giggles nearby—one of them unmistakably yours, and the other from someone he didn’t care enough to acknowledge. He glanced to his left and saw you, standing with one of your friend. The girl—who wasn’t you—immediately turned away, her cheeks flushed, playfully nudging you before disappearing.

Before he could even process what was happening, you were standing right in front of him. He instinctively started to close his book, preparing for his usual retreat, but then you spoke, and he froze.

“Jeon Jungkook, right?”

It was the first time he had ever heard your voice up close, and in that moment, he realized he had been right all along—it was the most beautiful sound he had ever heard.

He didn’t even ask how or why you knew his name; before he could, you answered for him.

“My friend over there,” you said, pointing to the girl who was now hiding her face behind her hands, “really likes you.”

Jungkook’s heart dropped straight into his shoes. It wasn’t what he had hoped for—not even close.

You looked at him with a playful smile on your plump lips, your eyes locked onto his as you batted your long eyelashes.

Jungkook knew he wasn’t always the best at handling things delicately, and before he could even think, he blurted out, “Not me.”

Your smile immediately faded, and you raised your brows at him, clearly taken aback by his bluntness.

Later, you’d admit to him that you didn’t even know how your friend could like someone like him when your first impression of him had been so off-putting.

But right now, Jungkook found himself asking the same thing. How could someone like you—someone so full of light and warmth—ever care for someone like him?

Jungkook watched you from afar as you spoke with some of your colleagues about the book that had just been released, and how you were the one editing it for the first time. They congratulated you, hugged you, and the sight warmed his heart. It had been a long time since he had seen you smile that genuinely.

Not because he was the one who caused it, but because it was simple colleagues—literal strangers to Jungkook, people he didn’t even know the names of—who made you smile like that. People you’d met only five months ago when you found your job at the editing firm.

And it stung. Not even your boyfriend of five years could make you smile that way anymore.

Jungkook set the champagne glass on the table as he saw you walking toward him. The moment you were no longer surrounded by your colleagues, your smile faded, and he couldn’t help but notice the distance between you.

He reached out his hands, asking if you were ready to leave. You nodded without a word, walking in front of him, ignoring his hand completely.

You entered the car silently, letting Jungkook settle into the driver’s seat. He started the car without saying anything, and the silence between you two was deafening.

It had been like this for a couple of years now—everything you did had become mechanical. It wasn’t the same as it had been before, and both of you were aware that this shift was expected after so many years together, living in the same space and spending every day side by side.

But it hurt. It hurt so much because you could see it—the way Jungkook had slowly sunk deeper into his own dark thoughts, day by day. And you couldn’t reach him anymore. He wasn’t pushing you away on purpose; it wasn’t that he didn’t want things to improve—it was that he simply didn’t have the strength to fight for it anymore.

And it was breaking you, because you knew him. You saw how he was disappearing, and you could do nothing to pull him back.

It all started two years ago when Jungkook decided to drop his psychology studies. You tried to convince him not to, but he was determined, as he always was. He just wanted to let everything go, except for you—somehow, you were the one thing he held onto.

Then, it was the way he started falling asleep at odd hours, like 5 AM, and waking up only at 2 PM, as if the world had no place for him.

And the most noticeable change—he stopped leaving the house. He just stayed there, letting the days slip by, waiting for time to pass him by without any real intention.

You knew it was bad again, but this time, it was worse. He wasn’t even trying anymore. He had given up, and you felt it in every quiet moment between you.

It almost felt like a miracle that he agreed to come to the small party your colleagues had thrown for you. But he came, even though you could tell his heart wasn’t really there. You could feel it in the way he distanced himself, sinking into the background, staying silent and observing from a distance. He wasn’t participating, just existing in the space, a shadow of the person he used to be when he’d engage and enjoy those moments with you. The gap between you both grew with every passing minute, and you could feel the distance pulling at your chest.

“Jungkook,” you said softly, your voice heavy as you stared out the window at the passing scenery. “What if you start therapy again?”

He gripped the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles going white at the suggestion. He didn’t like it, but he couldn’t bring himself to be angry with you for trying.

“I’m scared,” he muttered, his gaze fixed on the road ahead, his voice flat. “It’s always the same shit over and over again. I’m done fighting.”

Hearing those words felt like a blow to your chest. It was the first time the truth between you both had been laid bare, no beating around the bush anymore. It should’ve been said long ago, but you never had the strength to bring it up, and he… he didn’t have the strength for anything anymore. The weight of his words broke you in a way you didn’t expect.

Over the five years you spent with Jungkook, you slowly learned how to navigate his world. You became attuned to when you could step into his thoughts and when it was better to hold back. You discovered the delicate art of helping him through his darkest moments, though it never made it easier. Every time he suffered, every time the world seemed to crush him, the images of him hurting himself lingered in your mind, haunting you like scars that wouldn’t fade.

But what once terrified you, no longer did. You’d learned how to steel yourself when it all came crashing down. When the despair crept in, you stood firm, your posture a silent promise to him that you wouldn’t waver. You’d keep your chin up, your voice steady, and you’d be the one to remind him that you were there—that you weren’t going anywhere. You would repeat it like a mantra: The voices in your head aren’t true. You’re not broken. You’re wonderful. You’re worthy of love. You’d hold him through the pain, speaking the truth of how deeply you loved him, of how glad you were to have him in your life.

And somehow, after those words, things would get better. For a while, at least. For a few weeks, you’d see a glimpse of the Jungkook you loved, the one who smiled without a weight in his eyes. But it always came back. The darkness would return, the cycle would repeat, and you would find yourself standing tall once more, trying to carry him through it again.

It was a dark, endless loop he had thrown himself into each day, a loop that had become so familiar he no longer fought it as he once did. At first, you fought with him, trying to help him escape the suffocating grasp of his thoughts, but as time went on, you found yourself fighting for both of you. He had stopped trying, worn down by the years of battling with something he felt would be a part of him forever.

For Jungkook, it started at thirteen. He didn’t know why it began, but he couldn’t remember a time when the thoughts hadn’t been there. In the beginning, it was small—denying himself food, punishing his body just to feel something, anything, that would distract him from the noise in his head. As he grew older, the need to escape deepened. He would lock himself in his room, choking himself, holding his breath until the world blurred and the silence in his head was enough to make him forget—if only for a few moments—what was clawing at him. Afterward, he would slip out to join his family for dinner, pretending everything was normal, pretending he wasn’t just on the verge of losing himself entirely.

Then came the sharp objects. He had never meant for it to get so far, but it was like the sharpness against his skin provided a release, a temporary relief from the pressure. And soon, it was a constant cycle, one he couldn’t break free from. The loop tightened around him, and he found himself circling through the same actions, day in and day out, unable to stop. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was that he didn’t know how to anymore.

Jungkook had never felt at peace like this before, not in the way he did when he met you. At first, it was as if your light was something he could hold onto, something he could follow with an innocent smile that hid the darkness he had carried for years. It was a brief reprieve, a fleeting illusion that maybe, just maybe, he could escape the spiral that had consumed him for so long. But the peace was always temporary. The thoughts—of dying, of hurting himself—always found their way back, lurking in the shadows just when he thought they were gone.

Your suggestion pulled him from his thoughts, your voice soft, yet hopeful as you looked at him. “What if we go there together?” You asked, your gaze meeting his. You had noticed his hand resting on the gear shift, your fingers brushing over his, and you offered him a way out, a way to face this together.

He hesitated, biting the inside of his cheek as he thought over your words. Therapy had always been something he did alone. He’d been going since he was sixteen, ever since his parents found him unconscious in their bathroom, blood staining his arms from a wound too deep for him to remember. They had been terrified, worried enough to send him to a therapist. Since then, he’d kept it to himself, thinking that no one could understand the things that ran through his mind. Not anyone, at least, who wasn’t a professional.

But with you… you made him feel safe in a way no one else ever had. He felt comfortable with you, like maybe—just maybe—he could open up, share the darkness that still clung to him.

“I—” His voice faltered for a moment as he squeezed your hand around the gear shift. “I don’t want you to be hurt by what you might hear,” he admitted softly, his voice tinged with uncertainty. The last thing he wanted was to drag you into his mind, to expose you to the pain he carried.

You had never pushed him about his therapy sessions. He’d always told you that it wasn’t worth talking about, that right now, all he wanted was to be with you. The intimacy you shared, the quiet moments together, had been enough for you to respect his space, to let the subject fade away when you were lost in each other. A kiss on your lips, making love to you—it was all enough to make you forget about the weight that hung over him.

But now, as you sat in the car, waiting for him to answer, you realized that maybe it was time for you to step into the shadows with him, not as someone who could fix him, but as someone who could walk beside him through it all.

Jungkook kept his eyes on the road, his fingers gripping the steering wheel tightly, but his mind was elsewhere. He could feel your gaze on him, could sense the vulnerability in your voice, yet he still couldn’t bring himself to meet your eyes. The weight of your words hung in the air, and despite the walls he had built around himself, there was a crack, a small but noticeable shift inside him.

“I have to,” you reassured him, your voice soft but firm, your eyes never leaving his profile. “I know that those thoughts do not define the man I’m in love with. It won’t hurt me, Jungkook.”

The words settled into his chest, lingering there, something tender and almost fragile stirring in him. His heart skipped, and for the briefest moment, he allowed himself to believe it. He stole a subtle glance at you, the gentle curve of your lips, the sincerity in your eyes, and a soft smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Your words always had a way of reaching him, cutting through the armor he’d built around himself.

Sometimes, he couldn’t understand why you were still here with him, why you stayed when you could have someone else. Someone who could give you more than the broken, bruised version of him.

But you were here. You were still here. And when you whispered those words, so simple yet so profound, it was as though you were offering him a lifeline.

“I love you, Kook,” you said, your voice cracking just a little as your eyes watered. It made his heart tighten, a pang of guilt and gratitude flooding him. You’d always been sensitive when it came to your feelings for him. It reminded him of the first time you had told him you loved him—when he was at his lowest, when everything felt like it was slipping away.

“And I want you to let me truly in,” you continued, your voice quieter now, but no less determined.

He could feel the weight of your love in those words, the unwavering support you were offering him. He wanted to tell you everything, to open up, to let you in fully, but the fear—of burdening you, of dragging you into his darkness—held him back.

But you were already there, weren’t you? You had been all along.

With a deep breath, Jungkook reached over, his hand gently finding yours, the warmth of your skin grounding him. He squeezed your hand softly, as though trying to convey everything he couldn’t say. Maybe it wasn’t the grand confession he thought he needed, but it was the beginning of something. Something that might take time, something that might hurt, but something worth fighting for.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turned your hand in his, intertwining your fingers, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Jungkook allowed himself to feel just a little bit of peace.

You tried to convince yourself you were ready for this moment, that hearing whatever Jungkook would say in that room wouldn’t break you, but deep down, you knew the truth. You weren’t.

You took the whole day off, determined to be there for him, to support him in a way you hoped would help. Jungkook told you not to, insisted you didn’t have to come, but you couldn’t let him face it alone. With a soft smile, he kissed your cheek, and that was enough to make you feel like everything would be okay.

Walking through the long, sterile corridor, you felt the heaviness of the walls closing in on you. Everything was white—too white, too clean, too impersonal. Jungkook seemed almost at ease in this space, his steps unhurried as if this place, these cold rooms, had been a part of him for years. And that thought tore at you. He had been coming here for so long, battling his demons alone, trying to make sense of a world that felt too harsh to belong to. You wanted to stop his pain. You wanted to erase it completely, to make it go away, but all you could do was follow him, offering the only comfort you had: your presence.

In the waiting room, you clung to Jungkook’s hand, your fingers interlaced tightly. You read everything on the walls to distract yourself from the sinking feeling in your chest. Messages about caring for your loved ones, numbers to call if the thoughts became overwhelming, tips to prevent the darkest moments from swallowing you whole. But nothing held your gaze like one particular poster.

Every life is precious, even yours.

The words were bold, bright, and so painfully raw. Right beside it was a suicide hotline number, and you could feel your heart freeze. The thought of losing him—of losing Jungkook—was unbearable. The idea that this number was a lifeline for someone who might not be able to see the worth in themselves was too much to bear.

You squeezed Jungkook’s hand tighter, trying to ground yourself, but it didn’t help. Your throat tightened, and the lump in your chest felt like it was suffocating you. You didn’t want to think about it. You didn’t want to imagine a world where he wasn’t in it. But the truth was, you couldn’t keep ignoring the fact that he had been on the edge for so long. And the fear of him slipping away from you gnawed at your insides.

Jungkook must have known exactly where your mind had gone, because without a word, he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your hair. You felt his warmth, his love, and it was both a comfort and a torment. He was here, right here with you, but you were scared—scared of what he might say in that room, scared of what might happen after.

“I love you,” he whispered, his voice soft, yet full of meaning. It was simple, but it was everything.

And in that moment, you realized that despite all the fears, all the doubts, and all the pain, you were willing to face this—whatever it was—together. You were ready to hear him. Ready to be there for him, even if it meant facing the parts of him that terrified you the most. Because you loved him, and in the end, that was enough to hold on to.

You had never imagined this moment would feel so heavy. Everything about the room felt foreign—the warmth, the soft lighting, the gentle atmosphere. Dr. Kim’s office was nothing like the sterile, clinical space you had envisioned for a therapy session. There were no white coats, no cold stares, no judgements. He wore simple, comfortable clothes and smiled with kindness that seemed to erase any tension in the air. His eyes, warm and welcoming, never once made you feel out of place.

Dr. Kim had greeted you with genuine interest, his voice filled with warmth as he asked, “Are you the one Jungkook always speaks about?”

You smiled nervously, a little surprised by his openness. Jungkook had spoken about you to him? He’d told his therapist how much he appreciated you, how grateful he was for you. Dr. Kim even told you about the photos Jungkook had shared, and in that moment, you felt like maybe you were the one who didn’t deserve the love he so freely gave.

The session began smoothly, with Dr. Kim and Jungkook discussing everything from his current emotional state to his recent activities. There were small, easy conversations at first—how his days were going, what made him feel good or bad, how he was coping with his darker thoughts. But then, suddenly, the conversation shifted. Dr. Kim asked a question that seemed so simple but carried so much weight.

“Have you tried anything to hurt yourself? To…,” Dr. Kim hesitated, noticing the sudden tightness in your body, before continuing with a softer tone, “To kill yourself?”

Your breath hitched in your throat, and everything inside you went cold. The room seemed to shrink, the air thick and heavy. You weren’t prepared for this. You hadn’t expected the conversation to go in this direction so suddenly, and the words felt like a punch to your gut. You squeezed Jungkook’s hand under the table, your fingers interlocked tightly with his, a silent plea for him to be okay.

You looked at him, hoping, praying that he would say something to reassure you, to make this feel less real. But as your eyes met his, your heart sank. His gaze was soft, almost distant, as if he was ashamed of what was about to be said. His hair fell into his eyes, and he didn’t meet your gaze for long. He was already retreating into himself.

You felt your pulse race in your ears. You couldn’t breathe. You couldn’t focus.

“Yeah,” Jungkook’s voice was soft, barely above a whisper. But those two syllables felt like the heaviest weight. His words hung in the air, suffocating you.

Everything seemed to freeze around you. The realization of what he had just said hit you with a force you weren’t prepared for. He had tried—he had tried to end it all. The thought of it, of him hurting himself, overwhelmed you completely.

You held on to his hand tighter, as if that physical connection could keep both of you grounded in the moment. You wanted to speak, to scream, to ask why, to fix it, but your throat was tight, your words caught somewhere between your chest and your lips.

You never wanted to hear those words. Not from him. Not from the love of your life. The person who you thought was just… so much more than his pain.

But you couldn’t look away. Because he was still here, with you, trying, and that was enough.

Even if it hurt more than anything.

You couldn’t forgive yourself for not seeing it sooner. He admitted he had tried two weeks ago, and the realization hit you like a wave. It had been so close, yet you hadn’t noticed a thing. You felt a deep, bitter sting of guilt, wanting to slap yourself for being so blind—so naïve about his struggles.

Your boyfriend had tried to take his own life, in your shared apartment, probably in your bedroom or the bathroom. Dr. Kim asked him how and why, his questions clinical but jarring. You hated how necessary they were, even if it was part of the process. They felt like a violation, a raw intrusion into a pain you hadn’t even fully understood.

Jungkook hesitated, unsure if he should say more, especially seeing how still you were, your face pale, and your eyes wide in disbelief. He couldn’t feel your breath beside him, just the tension in the air, thick and suffocating.

“Are you okay?” he asked gently, his voice quiet and concerned as his hand found its way to your knee.

The question nearly broke you. How could he ask if you were okay? You were the one sitting there, shattered, while he was the one who had tried to end everything. His tenderness towards you, so selfless, made the weight of it all feel even heavier. You wished he could see how much he was worth, how much he deserved to love himself the way you loved him.

Tears began to pour down your cheeks, and you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the overwhelming pain rise in your chest. You reached for him, pulling him into you, desperate to hold him, to somehow fix everything.

“I just wish you would’ve told me,” you whispered into his neck, your words a jumbled mess as your sobs came quicker, harder. But through it all, Jungkook heard every word, felt every ounce of your pain as you clung to him.

Jungkook felt his chest tighten as you wept in front of him. His heart shattered into pieces, each of your sobs echoing in his mind, louder than any words he could say. He had never wanted to see you like this—broken, distressed, helpless—and yet, here you were, crying because of him, because of something he thought he could keep hidden.

His hand moved from your knee to the back of your head, gently pulling you closer into his chest, his heartbeat racing with every tremor of your body. He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, as if he could somehow absorb your pain, even though he knew he couldn’t. Not completely.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I didn’t want you to find out like this…”

But the words were too late. You were already drowning in the realization of it all, and the weight of the secret he had been carrying was now too heavy to ignore. You wanted to scream at him, to shake him, to make him understand how much you would have fought for him. How you would’ve done anything to help him, to take the burden from his shoulders. But you couldn’t, and it made everything worse.

“I just… I just don’t understand,” you cried, lifting your face to meet his, your voice strained with confusion and anguish. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you try to do it alone?”

Jungkook couldn’t meet your gaze. He looked down at his lap, as if trying to shrink into himself. He couldn’t stand the thought of you seeing him like this, so vulnerable and broken. He didn’t want you to see the ugly parts of him, the darkness that he could never escape.

“I thought… I thought it would be easier for you if I kept it to myself,” he said quietly. “I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want to burden you.”

You shook your head, pulling away slightly, but still holding on to him, your grip desperate as if afraid he might slip away. “Jungkook, you are my burden. But you’re also my love. My life. You’re everything to me. You’re never a burden. I want to help you, not carry this alone… but I can’t do that if you don’t let me in.”

Your voice cracked, and the words you had been too scared to say for so long finally came pouring out. You had always been there for him, always done your best to be the strong one when he needed it, but now, in the middle of this storm, you needed him to let you be strong for both of you.

“I love you,” you whispered, tears still flowing freely. “Please, let me help you. Let me carry this with you.”

Jungkook felt a knot tighten in his throat as he looked down at you. His eyes were filled with guilt, shame, and love all at once. How could he let you love him when he could barely love himself?

But the tenderness in your eyes, the desperate need for him to trust you, finally broke through the wall he had built so high around his heart. His fingers traced the back of your hand, intertwining with yours, his touch barely a whisper against your skin.

“I’m so sorry,” he said again, his voice trembling as he pulled you back to his chest. “I never wanted to hurt you. I just… I don’t know how to handle this sometimes.”

You wrapped your arms around him, not wanting to let go, not wanting to lose him to the dark thoughts that had controlled his life for so long.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered into his chest. “I’m here. Always.”

Dr. Kim watched the interaction between you and Jungkook with a scrutinizing gaze, his heart filled with a mixture of admiration and caution. He couldn’t deny that it was a beautiful thing to witness—how you cared for him, how you were there for him in a way that seemed unwavering. It was clear to him that Jungkook had found someone truly special, someone willing to help him pick up the broken pieces that had been there long before you came into his life. The way you loved him, with such purity and patience, felt almost like a dream—an idealized version of what healing could look like.

But Dr. Kim was a professional. He had seen enough cases over the years to know that hope could be a dangerous thing. He couldn’t allow himself to be swept up by the tender scene unfolding in front of him, no matter how deeply it touched him. He had learned long ago that love wasn’t always enough to heal the deepest scars, and that sometimes, when one person relied too much on another to save them, it could lead to devastation.

What worried Dr. Kim, what unsettled him deeply, was the certainty in your voice, in the way you held onto Jungkook like he was your lifeline. He couldn’t help but be terrified that, someday, that light you carried so brightly would be too blinding for Jungkook, making him believe that he was fine, that he was whole, when in reality, the darkness inside him was still there, waiting to resurface.

He had known Jungkook for years—since he was sixteen. Dr. Kim had watched him grow, slowly spiraling deeper into himself, becoming more fragile and withdrawn with each passing year. Jungkook was sensitive, vulnerable, and far more complicated than anyone could see on the surface. His lifeline had become you, but Dr. Kim feared that the way Jungkook’s world revolved around you could become an unhealthy attachment, one that wouldn’t allow him to truly heal.

In the end, Jungkook wouldn’t be able to fully heal if he didn’t learn to love himself first. His life couldn’t continue to revolve around someone else, not in this way. He needed to find the strength within himself to stand on his own before he could fully give his love to anyone else. Dr. Kim couldn’t shake the fear that if this lifeline—this beautiful bond between you and Jungkook—wasn’t grounded in something stronger, something more stable, it could break. And when it did, he feared Jungkook might never open his eyes again.

Jungkook seemed to be doing okay, or at least that’s what you wanted to believe. But who were you to be so certain when you hadn’t even seen the moment he tried to take his own life? You couldn’t ignore the lingering doubt that perhaps you didn’t really know the full extent of his struggles, no matter how hard you tried to be there for him.

Still, those two months after the therapy sessions felt like a fresh start—like the beginning of your relationship all over again. There was something tender about it, as if you both were learning each other anew, slowly rediscovering what it meant to be together.

If Jungkook felt that you were being too suffocating, too invasive, he didn’t say anything. The silence between you both seemed more comfortable now, but it also felt like there was an unspoken understanding. He didn’t push you away, not like before. Maybe it was because he missed you, needed you more than ever, especially since you had been working a lot lately. Even when you mentioned taking some months off to focus on what truly mattered, he didn’t argue. He simply accepted it.

You told him about all the things you wanted to do during your time together, and as you spoke, he didn’t always catch every word. But that didn’t matter, because what he remembered most was how safe and content he felt in those moments, with his arms around your naked body and your fingers drawing invisible hearts on his bare chest as you spoke.

You talked about getting a dog, going on a trip to the mountains, doing body painting, sleeping under the stars—things that felt so simple, so hopeful, so full of life. And as you spoke, you could tell he was slipping into sleep, his breath steady and warm against your skin. But what he didn’t hear—what he had fallen asleep before you could finish telling him—was that you also dreamed of getting married.

In July, you both went to a shelter, your hands tightly intertwined as you walked through the rows of cages. The day felt full of hope, like it was the start of something simple but profound. When you left, you had a small Doberman by your side, its leash firmly held in Jungkook’s hand, the other still wrapped around yours.

Jungkook was surprisingly taken with the little puppy, his eyes lighting up as he playfully interacted with the dog. It was impossible not to smile at how genuine his excitement was, so pure and unguarded. He was practically glowing with joy, and you couldn’t help but let him choose the name for the dog. He was so animated, so childlike in the best way, that it felt like a moment worth letting him have.

After some back and forth, you both quickly agreed on the name: Bam. It felt right, fitting for the little guy. Jungkook explained it with a little chuckle, saying that the name was a reflection of what he wanted to escape—night, darkness, all the things that haunted him. He said that if something as pure and innocent as this dog could carry such a name, then maybe he could start seeing his own struggles differently. Perhaps he could find a way to paint them with something a little softer, a little cuter, just like the brown Doberman that was now bouncing happily at his feet.

And so, Bam it was. The name wasn’t just a label for the dog; it was Jungkook’s small, hopeful way of reclaiming the darkness. A step forward in the way he was learning to face his own battles.

You watched them both from your spot in the garden, the book you had started reading now forgotten in your lap. The sight before you—Jungkook sitting on the grass with Bam, laughing as the puppy showered him with affection—was far more captivating than any story in your book. The reality was better than anything you could’ve imagined, and it made your heart swell in ways you hadn’t expected.

“Are you really planning on teaching him tricks?” you asked, a playful smile tugging at your lips. Jungkook was on his bottom, his hands full of puppy fur as Bam licked his face. The dog was way more affectionate with Jungkook than with you, but you couldn’t blame him. You were just as smitten by those big round eyes, eyes that seemed to hold the whole universe in them.

Lately, you had been seeing those stars in Jungkook’s eyes more often than before. They made your heart ache with a love so deep, it felt as if it might overflow. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes, but you quickly wiped them away, not wanting to ruin the moment.

“I know he can do it,” Jungkook said confidently, turning his attention back to Bam. “Bam! Pow!” He pointed his finger in a playful gun gesture, trying to get the puppy to follow along.

You couldn’t help but smile as you stood up, walking over to them. Gently, you patted Bam’s head, your hand lingering on his soft fur for a moment. “Maybe you could start with the basics first,” you suggested lightly. “Like, ‘sit down’?”

Jungkook shook his head, laughing. “Too boring,” he said, his voice filled with determination. “I want my son to be a smart boy.” He pointed again, shouting “Pow! Pow! Pow!” over and over, but Bam was far too excited, wagging his tail and bouncing around, clearly too distracted to learn any trick.

“If your son is anything like his dad,” you teased with a grin, “then he’ll definitely be very stubborn.” You leaned down to kiss him softly on the lips, then quickly pulled away, running off before he had a chance to catch you.

“Hey! Wait up!” Jungkook called after you, laughing as he scrambled to get to his feet. Bam, of course, was right behind him, barking happily as they both chased after you.

It didn’t take long before Jungkook caught up to you, his arms wrapping around your waist, pulling you close to his chest. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his slender waist, the proximity so comforting, your heart racing as Bam’s playful licks tickled your feet. But honestly, the whole situation was just a perfect excuse for you to be as close to him as possible.

“He’s truly like his father,” Jungkook chuckled softly, shifting his grip on your legs so you could lift your feet higher to keep them out of Bam’s reach. The playful gesture had you both laughing.

“You’re disgusting,” you teased with a mock glare, squirming a little in his hold. “I’m never letting you near my feet. It’s a Bam privilege.” You glanced up at him, your head settling comfortably on his shoulder as you let out a small, content sigh.

Jungkook’s chest rumbled with a low chuckle. “How I wish I was Bam right now,” he whispered, his voice full of affection and admiration. The thought of being the one to receive all your love, to be the one you held so close, made him feel like the luckiest man alive.

As your laughter echoed softly against his chest, he thought to himself that if being alive was like this—wrapped in warmth and love with you—he’d be ready to live not one but three lifetimes. One for each moment shared with you, one for every moment of joy, of feeling alive, of building a future together. With you. Always with you.

“You know,” his voice dropped an octave lower as he pressed a soft kiss to the side of your head, his lips lingering just a little longer than necessary. “I remember that night you said you wanted to try body painting.”

Your face immediately heated up as you hid it against his shoulder, a quiet groan of embarrassment escaping you. “I really thought you were sleeping that night,” you mumbled, a shy smile still tugging at your lips.

Jungkook chuckled, shifting slightly so he could look at you better. “I hear everything you say, you know that,” he teased, his fingers tracing mindless patterns on your back.

He laid you down carefully on the soft grass, his gaze never once leaving yours. The sight of you beneath him, surrounded by wildflowers and bathed in the warm golden light of the late afternoon, made his heart stutter. If there was such a thing as heaven, he was convinced nothing could come close to this moment right now.

Bam wiggled his tail excitedly near you, trying to nuzzle into your side, but Jungkook held up a warning finger. “Bam, not now,” he said, furrowing his brows.

The serious expression on his face made you burst into laughter. His round cheeks puffed out, lips slightly pursed, and big doe eyes attempting to look stern—it was the most adorable thing you’d ever seen.

“Look at you, ditching your son like that,” you teased, rolling your eyes before cooing at Bam, scratching gently behind his ears. “You have a terrible father, right?”

Jungkook opened his mouth to protest, but the words never came. Instead, he just stared at you—his mind drifting elsewhere, to places he never used to allow himself to go.

Father.

The word had never been something he imagined for himself. It never felt like a possibility, not when he spent so long unable to picture any future at all. But now, watching you with Bam, your touch so gentle, your voice so full of love—it didn’t seem like such an impossible thought. The idea of something made from the both of you, something so pure and full of love, was oddly comforting.

But would he even be enough?

Before his thoughts could spiral too deep, he leaned in, pressing his lips to the curve of your neck. He felt the way your breath hitched, your body instinctively arching under him when he found that soft spot behind your ear.

“You said you—” Your voice broke off, a sharp inhale replacing your words as Jungkook rolled his hips into yours, his hands firm on your waist.

The sensation sent a shiver down your spine, your fingers tangling into his hair as you pulled him closer, losing yourself in the warmth of his touch.

It had been a long time since you’d felt him this close, since his unpredictable sleeping schedule always kept you apart, since exhaustion weighed down on him so heavily that he barely had the energy to do anything but rest. And you never blamed him for it. You never needed physical intimacy to feel close to him. But now that he was here, fully present with you, touching you, holding you, loving you—it made you feel just like the first time.

That first time had been messy, full of nervous laughter and whispered reassurances, both of you scared of doing something wrong. But even in its clumsiness, it was perfect. Because it was him. Because it was love. And love, no matter how imperfect, was the most beautiful thing you had ever known.

That day, he made love to you with a tenderness that left you breathless, his gaze locked onto yours like he was afraid to look away, afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he did. The only time he closed his eyes was when he got lost in the overwhelming pleasure, his lips parting to release quiet, breathless moans.

Between whispered confessions of love and gratitude, he moved against you with growing desperation—his thrusts deepening, his hands gripping you tighter, as if trying to merge himself with you completely. As if he could disappear inside you, drown in your warmth, and become something whole. One soul. One body. One mind—only yours. Because his own still felt like a dangerous place to be.

He wasn’t sure if he was truly getting better. Some days, he felt stable. Other days, he felt like he was standing on the edge of a crumbling cliff, barely holding on. But with you beneath him, surrounding him, whispering his name like a prayer, he let himself believe—just for a moment—that he was safe.

But if he ever voiced his thoughts out loud—the desperate wish to erase himself, to exist only as a shadow behind your bright light—you would be quick to shake your head, a stubborn crease forming between your brows. Because your love would never be complete without him. Without his pain, his dark thoughts, his flaws, and the jagged edges of his soul.

You had never loved him in pieces. You had always loved him whole.

You may not have done body painting the way you originally imagined—the playful strokes of color across each other’s skin, the laughter, the mess—but in a way, that night became its own kind of art.

The way he kissed your body like it was a canvas, the way your nails traced over his back—not deep enough to hurt, but just enough to leave something of yourself on him, something softer than the scars he had given himself. Marks of love, not pain. It was as if, little by little, you were painting over something broken, turning a dark stain into something beautiful—not by covering it, but by making it a part of the masterpiece.

And when he finally released himself inside you, trembling against you, it felt just like the first stroke of a brush on a blank canvas—a moment of pure creation, something intimate, something new.

It wasn’t the body painting you had planned.

It was something much better.

When Jungkook felt your breath even out against his chest and your body relax completely, he knew you had fallen asleep. Moving carefully, he slipped out of bed, making sure not to disturb you. You looked so peaceful, and he didn’t want to take that away.

Standing beside the bed, he let his eyes linger on you—your body sprawled across the sheets, hair still slightly damp from the shower, strands sticking to your cheek. You were wrapped in one of his old shirts, the same one he had given you back when you were still in university. You had never stopped wearing it.

The sight of you like this did something to his heart—something deep, overwhelming, and impossible to put into words. He wished he could carve this moment into his memory, etch it into his skin, so that even when he closed his eyes, you would still be there. And if they were ever to close forever, he thinks he would be okay if this was the last thing he saw.

Yet, beneath the warmth in his chest, something unsettling lurked—a weight, an ache, a feeling he couldn’t quite name.

He quietly stepped out of the room, careful not to make a sound, and slipped into the bathroom, locking the door behind him.

Jungkook watches his own reflection, his breath unsteady, his fingers gripping the edge of the sink as if it’s the only thing keeping him from collapsing. Just moments ago, he had felt weightless—like he was floating, lifted by you, by your love, by the warmth of your body pressed against his. But now, staring at himself under the harsh bathroom light, he feels like he’s sinking.

His feet are stuck in the mud, his knees buried deeper and deeper, as if the very earth beneath him is swallowing him whole.

The contrast is suffocating.

He blinks at his own reflection, at the tired eyes, the shadows beneath them, the slight redness at the tips of his ears from the heat of your shared moment. He should still feel warm. He should still feel safe. But instead, that old, familiar heaviness presses down on him, curling around his chest, whispering things he doesn’t want to hear.

It’s never enough. You’re never enough. She deserves better.

Jungkook clenches his jaw, shaking his head as if he can physically reject the thoughts. He grips the sink tighter, his knuckles turning white. His heart is still racing from being with you, but now it’s for a different reason.

The high never lasts.

He knows this feeling too well—the way joy is something temporary, something borrowed, and how reality always comes crashing down eventually. How no matter how much love you pour into him, it can’t stop the way his mind works, the way it twists things, turns them into something painful.

His breathing grows uneven, and for a second, he considers waking you up—because you always know what to say, because your voice is the only thing that cuts through the noise.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he sinks to the floor, his back against the cold bathroom tiles, and exhales shakily. He doesn’t want to wake you. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.

Not again.

When his eyes met his reflection again, he couldn’t stand the sight. He felt like a stranger in his own skin, as if it didn’t belong to him but to the demons wrapping themselves around his organs, his mind, his muscles—suffocating him. He felt ugly. Disgusting.

His hand lifted to his cheek. He had never liked them—too round, too soft. The only time he tolerated them was when you kissed them or pinched them playfully, adoring them in a way he could never understand. His fingers pressed against them now, as if he could tear them away, reshape them into something else.

Then, his fingers traced over his lips. He hated them too. Hated the words that came from them, hated how they always failed him. He could never seem to say what he truly wanted, never find the right way to express what was clawing at his chest.

His touch traveled to his eyes, and the urge to dig his nails into them, to rip them out, crept up his spine. He despised the way they always looked so full of pain, so childlike, so weak. The thought made him snap. He slapped himself—hard—wishing he could wake up as someone else. Anyone else. Someone stronger, someone more put together, someone worthy of your love.

Because how could you love him when all he saw in himself was filth? How could you look at him with such warmth when the voices in his head screamed that he was unworthy?

The only time he ever felt beautiful was when he saw his reflection in your wide, adoring eyes. The version of him that lived there always seemed better than the one staring back at him now.

He slaps himself again. And again. Until his cheeks burn red, until his breathing turns ragged, until his eyes fall onto something else he despises—his body.

His scars.

They run across his arms, his stomach, his thighs—everywhere. A map of every moment he tried to escape, every time he sought relief through pain. When you truly want to disappear, you find every inch of your body willing to suffer.

Even now, the ghost of your lips lingers on those scars, reminders of the way you tried to love them away. But tonight, even that isn’t enough.

His fingers claw at his arms, nails digging into the flesh, desperate to tear it away—this skin, this body, this evidence of all the times he failed to leave.

He scratches and scratches, until the pain dulls, until it isn’t enough anymore. He needs something more—something deeper, something that cuts through the noise in his head.

And then, his mind goes blank.

That’s when the demons take over. When his body moves without him, when he becomes a passenger in his own skin.

He looks at himself again.

His eyes seem darker, less round, less soft. His chest appears broader, his scars less like wounds and more like the marks of someone who has survived. The voice in his head purrs, telling him he looks better like this—stronger when he surrenders to them.

He teeters between disgust and admiration, caught between fear of the reflection and the temptation to let it consume him.

“Fuck!”

The scream rips from his throat as his fist slams into the mirror, shattering his own image, breaking his skin. Blood drips from his knuckles, seeping into the cracks of the fractured glass.

In a daze, he crawls toward the shards of broken glass scattered across the floor. His fingers tremble as they close around a jagged piece, gripping it so tightly that it bites into his palm, splitting skin, drawing blood. The sharp sting barely registers—almost welcome, almost grounding.

Against the door, he hears Bam barking. The puppy isn’t stupid; he knows something is wrong. He can sense the suffocating weight in the air, the darkness creeping in. Whatever is happening inside that bathroom—it isn’t good.

It’s Bam’s desperate barking that wakes you.

Your eyes flutter open, and immediately, you feel it—the cold emptiness beside you, the absence of his warmth. Your heart lurches. Sleep is forgotten as you throw off the covers and rush toward the sound, toward Bam, who stands anxiously in front of the locked bathroom door.

You try to open it, but it won’t budge. Your breath catches as you press your ear against the wood, straining to hear.

Then it hits you—his ragged sobs, his muffled shouts, the agony spilling from him in broken cries.

Your heart shatters into a thousand pieces.

He’s lost to the voices again.

“Jungkook?” You call again, your voice fragile, barely audible, but laced with desperation. The fear that you might do something wrong, say the wrong thing, sends a tremor through you. You can’t bear the thought of losing him, not like this. “Kook, it’s me, can you open the door, please?” You bang your fist against it, your heart thundering in your chest.

On the other side, Jungkook can’t hear you. The voices—so loud, so demanding—drown everything else out. His mind is a chaotic storm, each voice fighting against the others, battling for control. The noise is deafening, unbearable. His hands, trembling, press against his ears, trying to block out the sounds, the pain, but it’s no use.

He slaps his hands against his ears, but it only intensifies the agony. A piercing, shrill sound claws its way through his skull, making his head throb with such force that he collapses onto the floor. The broken glass beneath him cuts into his skin, but he doesn’t feel it. The pain is a distant echo, overwhelmed by the torment inside his mind.

Frantically, you glance around, your mind racing, trying to find anything that could help you get inside. Your hands tremble as you search the hallway. You spot the spare key to the bathroom, hidden on the shelf above the coat rack. It’s meant for emergencies, but never did you imagine you’d be using it for something like this.

You rush over and grab the key, your pulse racing, a desperate need to get to him consuming every part of you. You push the key into the lock, but your hands are shaking so violently it takes a couple of tries before the door finally clicks open.

With a deep breath, you push the door open, your heart in your throat. The sight that greets you makes your breath catch—Jungkook, collapsed on the floor, surrounded by shards of broken glass, his hands bloodied, his body shaking uncontrollably. He’s not aware of you yet. His eyes are wide, but lost in the chaos of his mind.

You ignored the sharp sting of the glass cutting into your feet, your focus entirely on him—on Jungkook. His cries echoed in the room, and the sight of him trembling, lost in his own chaos, tore you apart. You reached out to him, your hands trembling but determined as you cupped his face, making him look at you.

“Jungkook!” You rush to him—ignoring the sharp sting of the glass cutting into your feet, your focus entirely on him—kneeling beside him, your hands trembling as you gently try to lift him up, wiping away the glass from his skin. You speak his name again, louder this time, your voice full of panic but laced with love. “Please, Kook, I’m here. I’m here. Look at me.”

Your heart breaks seeing him like this, seeing the darkness that still clings to him. You hold him, your arms around him, whispering over and over again, trying to bring him back, trying to remind him that he’s not alone.

You pressed your forehead against his, your hands gently moving to cradle him, holding him as if you could protect him from all the pain and demons that still haunted him. He didn’t react at first, his body still shaking violently, his eyes distant as he clung to his own broken thoughts. But you held on, refusing to let go, even as the blood from your feet mixed with the tears that streamed down your face.

“I love you, Jungkook. I love you, please… let me help you,” you murmured through the pain, trying to hold him steady, trying to remind him of the love that surrounded him, that always surrounded him. The love that was still strong, even through all of this.

After what felt like an eternity, sitting together amidst the broken glass, Jungkook slowly came to his senses, his head pressed into your chest. You held him tightly, your fingers gently running through his hair, brushing away the tears from his cheeks.

“My baby,” you whispered, your chin resting on the top of his head. “If only I could take all your pain away.” Your own eyes brimmed with tears, and they fell silently onto his hair as you buried your face into it, trying to hide the ache in your chest.

The sound of your sobs mixed together as you felt his hand slide to your waist, his body inching closer to yours, as if he needed to be even nearer.

“Why are you staying?” His voice cracked, hoarse from the weight of his sobs, barely audible—but you heard him. You always would.

“Because I don’t think I could breathe without you,” you replied, your voice steady and certain, no doubt in your words. You cupped his face gently, gazing into his eyes. The sight hurt you, but it was still your Jungkook. The love of your life. “And because I love you so much that I can’t imagine a world without you in it,” you continued, brushing your thumbs over his eyes, pushing his hair back so you could see them clearly. “And because you are worthy of everything I can give, I would give you my whole life without hesitation, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s body shudders against you as your words settle into the quiet space between you. He inhales shakily, and despite the rawness of his emotion, there’s a sense of calm that begins to settle over him just from the warmth of your presence, the sincerity of your love.

“I don’t deserve that…” he whispers, his voice a broken whisper that only you can hear. His hand reaches for yours, gripping it like he’s afraid you might slip away.

“Jungkook, don’t say that,” you reply softly, cupping his face in both hands, forcing him to look at you. His eyes are still red, still full of pain, but now they search yours desperately, like he’s trying to find something—anything—to hold on to. “You are worth everything, all the love in the world. You’ve always been. I don’t care about the scars, the pain. You’re worth every single thing, Jungkook.”

You lean in, pressing your forehead against his, your breaths mingling as you share the silent comfort of the moment. “We’ll get through this, together,” you murmur.

“But how long? What if I never get better?” he whispered into your shoulder, his voice breaking with uncertainty. “I won’t blame you if you decide—”

You tightened your arms around his back, cutting him off. “Don’t you dare finish that sentence, Jeon,” you murmured, a soft smile tugging at your lips despite the heavy, suffocating weight of the atmosphere. You wanted to ease his pain, if only a little. “One day, you’ll see yourself the way I see you. One day, you’ll love yourself as much as you love me. I’ll make sure of it.”

Carefully, you helped him up, your body pressing against the shards of glass, the pain digging into your thighs and bottom as blood began to trickle out, but you ignored it. His well-being was all that mattered now.

“But you have to trust me, okay? Whatever I decide, it’s for your own good.” Your voice wavered as you spoke, though you tried to keep it steady, like you had everything under control. But deep down, there was a thought buried in your chest, one that you had locked away and refused to let surface—something you weren’t sure you could ever say aloud. But what if that was the answer? What if that was what Jungkook needed? The catalyst that would finally push him toward healing, to love himself without needing to love you first?

What if your light was preventing him from finding his own?

If that were the case, you wouldn’t let it continue, even if it meant letting him go.

When you saw Dr. Kim again, you weren’t with Jungkook. You gripped your bag tighter, steeling yourself before you could chicken out and run away. Your eyes fixed on the damn poster on the wall.

Every life is precious, even yours.

Why couldn’t Jungkook see that? If only you could show him.

“Mr. Jeon, it’s your—” Dr. Kim’s voice faltered when he saw not the man he was expecting, but you. His expression shifted from surprise to something softer, more understanding. He didn’t question why it was you standing there instead of Jungkook, just opened the door and gestured for you to enter.

“Come in,” he said gently, his voice welcoming.

You sat down in the chair, unsure of why you were there in the first place. Just that morning, you’d told Jungkook you wouldn’t be long, lying through your teeth when you said you needed to go to work to verify some things. You had kissed his cheek, told him to keep sleeping, and assured him you were fine on your own when he asked if he should come with you.

“I’m guessing you want to talk about Jungkook, right?” Dr. Kim asked, twirling his pen between his fingers, his tone calm and patient.

You nodded quickly, the weight of the moment pressing down on you. His eyes softened, a small understanding smile forming on his lips, dimples appearing as his expression turned empathetic. “How is he?”

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat thickening before you spoke. “Bad,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. You knew there was no point in lying about his condition now. “Yesterday night he had an outburst.”

You went on to explain everything that had happened, the broken glass, his sobs, and the overwhelming pain he was carrying. Dr. Kim listened intently, writing everything down in his notebook without interrupting.

Dr. Kim’s gaze didn’t waver. His eyes were steady and gentle, yet intense, as if he was pulling something from deep within you that you hadn’t even realized was there.

“And how are you?” he repeated, his voice steady but carrying a weight that made your heart skip a beat. His hands were crossed on the desk, but his presence felt much larger, almost like he was trying to see into the very core of you. It made you feel exposed, vulnerable.

“I—” you shifted uncomfortably in your seat, suddenly unsure how to answer. How were you? It felt like such a loaded question, one that you didn’t know how to untangle. What you did know for sure was that you wanted Jungkook to get better, and you were willing to do anything to help him with that. “I’m trying to hold on, but it’s nothing compared to Jung—”

Before you could finish, Dr. Kim cut you off gently but firmly, “No. I’m not asking about Jungkook right now. I’m asking about you.”

Your eyes drifted, avoiding his gaze for a moment as you fumbled with your thoughts. He noticed your discomfort, and with a small sigh, he leaned forward slightly, his voice softening as he tried to clarify his question. “You know that when you spend many years with someone suffering from depression, you don’t realize how it can get under your skin too. You might start carrying some of their weight without even noticing.”

You felt a knot form in your stomach as his words hung in the air. It was like a sudden revelation that you hadn’t fully considered. Could it be? Were you carrying the burden too?

“I don’t see Jungkook as a burden,” you assert, your voice firm, “I want to help him because I love him so much.”

Dr. Kim watched your expression soften as you spoke about Jungkook. Without even realizing it, and without him prompting you further, you began to recount the story of how you first met him, how he asked you out, and the journey that followed. You shared how he never kept his depression hidden from you, and how, despite the pain, it made you love him even more deeply.

The therapist gave a small smile as he listened, but the curiosity in his eyes didn’t fade. He leaned in slightly, his tone gentle but probing. “So, why are you here today? What made you feel the need to come and talk to me?”

He dug deeper, not leaving any stone unturned, until you could feel the weight of his question pressing on your chest, forcing the truth to finally come out.

You paused, your thoughts swirling for a moment as Dr. Kim’s question lingered in the air. It wasn’t easy to put into words what had brought you here. You’d been focused on Jungkook for so long, trying to be strong for him, trying to help him heal, but now, in this room, with Dr. Kim’s calm but piercing eyes on you, the weight of your own feelings became undeniable.

You shifted in your seat, feeling the weight of your words before they even left your mouth. “I’m scared that I’m suffocating him, like maybe he’ll never truly see his own worth because he’s too focused on loving me,” you confessed quickly, wanting to get the burden off your chest.

“And I’m scared that I can’t help him the way I think I can. I don’t know how much longer I can pretend that I’m not constantly on edge, holding my breath, waiting for the next thing. When he has those episodes, it feels like I’m losing him, and when he’s better, I try to be strong for him, but… it’s getting harder. I’m scared, Dr. Kim.”

You took a shaky breath, your heart heavy as you finally admitted what you had been too afraid to say. “I don’t think I can be the one to save him. I think it’s something only he can do.”

Dr. Kim nodded slowly, giving you the space to let the emotions flow. He could see the depth of your care for Jungkook. “I’m glad you’re aware of it,” he said softly, his voice reassuring. “It shows how much you love him, and that’s what matters. Jungkook is lucky to have someone like you.”

You buried your face in your hands, overwhelmed with the weight of it all. “But I—” you choked on the words, the sobs breaking free before you could finish your sentence, “I don’t want him to think I’m abandoning him. But why does it feel like it?”

The sight of you in so much pain tugged at Dr. Kim’s heart. Even though he had witnessed similar situations countless times, it didn’t make it any less heartbreaking. He took a deep breath, his tone gentle as he handed you a tissue, his eyes filled with empathy. You took it with a grateful smile, trying to regain some composure.

“If anything,” he said, his voice steady and calm, “you’re not abandoning Jungkook if you want him to focus on himself first. It might feel like you’re stepping back, but that’s what he needs right now—space to heal on his own.”

He paused for a moment, ensuring you understood, and then continued. “Jungkook has always struggled with his self-worth. He’s never truly learned to like himself. That’s the root of his pain. He’s projected the love he couldn’t give himself onto others, and that’s where the cycle of self-doubt and self-destruction comes from.”

Dr. Kim then went into the medical side of things, explaining Jungkook’s depression and self-destructive tendencies with more technical terms, while making sure you understood it clearly.

“He has what we call dysthymia, which is a long-term, chronic form of depression that causes persistent low mood. It’s not always obvious to others because he’s learned to mask it, but it takes a serious toll over time. His tendency to push people away or retreat into himself when he’s struggling comes from a place of deep insecurity. Jungkook’s also dealing with self-destructive tendencies, which means he might turn his pain inward, sometimes even in harmful ways, as a way to cope with the emotional turmoil he feels.”

He looked at you, his eyes softening. “But this isn’t about you not being enough for him. It’s about Jungkook learning to feel worthy of love, and that’s something only he can work on, no matter how much you wish you could fix it for him.”

The weight of Dr. Kim’s words hung heavily in the air, and despite your best efforts to absorb everything, your chest tightened with the painful realization that Jungkook’s journey to healing was something only he could walk alone. You thought about how much you longed to comfort him, to hold him, to take away his pain, but now you knew the truth—no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t be the one to fix it for him. Not unless he found a way to heal himself first.

A soft ache blossomed in your heart as you thought about how desperately you wanted to run home to him, wrap him in your arms, and just hold him tight, feeling his heartbeat against yours. But deep down, you knew that no amount of physical closeness could change what needed to happen inside him. You had told him countless times that he was worthy of love, but he had to believe it for himself. If he didn’t, those words would remain just that—words—falling on ears that couldn’t yet hear them.

“Jungkook needs to find a way to love himself,” Dr. Kim’s voice cut through your thoughts, bringing you back to the present. “Before he can truly give love to someone else, he has to learn how to give it to himself first. He needs to find what makes his heart beat when you’re not there, and learn to be okay on his own, so he doesn’t rely on others to fill that void.”

The pain was still there, the ache in your chest growing stronger as you thought about letting go of him, even if just for a while, to give him the space to heal. It felt like a cruel paradox. You loved him more than anything, but you knew that if you didn’t let him go, he’d never be able to fully heal. And the more you thought about it, the more you realized that you wanted him to be happy, even if it meant not being by his side through every step.

Dr. Kim’s words seemed to settle into the deepest parts of you. “I don’t want to pressure you into anything,” he continued gently, sensing the internal struggle in your silence. “But Jungkook needs to focus on himself first, before he can fully give himself to you. He can’t truly love you if he doesn’t love himself.”

You nodded slowly, trying to let the words sink in, feeling the weight of them. It was hard, but you knew deep down that you couldn’t force him to heal. As much as you wanted to be his everything, you couldn’t be the one to save him. He needed to save himself.

Even if it meant letting him go. Even if it meant stepping back and allowing him to find himself before you could truly be together the way you both deserved.

Your heart ached at the thought of it, but you knew this was the only way forward, for both of you. Jungkook needed to find peace within himself, and you had to learn to give him the space to do that, no matter how much it hurt.

“And if you’re worried about him,” he continued softly, his hand resting gently on yours, “I’ll make sure to be there for him—not just as a therapist, but as a friend. You’re strong. Not everyone could make the decision you’ve made. To give up something you love for the sake of the other’s well-being… that’s a kind of strength not many possess.”

His words seemed to linger in the air, and for a brief moment, you almost felt like you weren’t alone in this, that someone else understood the weight of what you were going through. It didn’t completely erase the pain, but it gave you the reassurance you didn’t know you needed.

“When the time is right, you and Jungkook can find happiness again. I promise you that,” Dr. Kim added, his voice steady and sincere.

You nodded, the tears that had been threatening to fall slowly subsiding, though a faint, fragile hope flickered within you. Maybe things weren’t as broken as you thought. Maybe, just maybe, there was still a chance for everything to be okay again. A small part of you believed it—believed that, despite the hurt, there was a path forward. And even if it was a long road ahead, you knew now that you wouldn’t have to walk it alone.

Talking to Jungkook about the decision you felt was best for both of you was one of the hardest things you’d ever done.

Tears streamed down both of your faces as he clung to you, whispering that he couldn’t bear the thought of you leaving, that he loved you more than anything. You whispered the same in return, trying to be strong, though inside, you were just as shattered as he was.

“Promise me you’ll wait for me,” he whispered into your shoulder, his warm breath brushing against your neck, his tears soaking into your skin.

Without a second of hesitation, you nodded fiercely. “I promise, I’ll wait for you, no matter how long it takes,” you said, taking his face into your hands, making sure he could see your sincerity. “I don’t want to love anyone else. You’re the one I want. I want to spend the rest of my life with you, Jungkook.” Your eyes locked onto his, willing him to believe every word.

Jungkook didn’t need any more reassurance. The way you held him, the way you looked at him, told him everything he needed to know. But still, he asked, “And promise me, if I can’t heal, you’ll be happy too.”

That was a promise you couldn’t make. The thought of a world without Jungkook was unimaginable to you. You couldn’t even remember who you were before him; every part of your life had become intertwined with his.

“Baby,” he whispered, lowering his head so he could look into your eyes, his hands gently gripping your cheeks. “Please, I need you to say you’ll be happy,” he pleaded, his forehead resting against yours. “Use your words.”

As much as it hurt, as much as it tore you apart to even think about it, you managed to say, “I will be happy, Kook. I promise.”

Jungkook’s grip on your cheeks tightened, as if he was trying to hold onto this moment, to the love and the promise you made. His eyes searched yours, his expression softening as he processed your words, and though you could see the vulnerability and pain in them, there was something else too—trust.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice cracking as more tears fell. “I just don’t want to lose you.”

The rawness of his emotions tore at your heart, but you did your best to comfort him, your hands caressing his face as you held him tightly. You felt his pain, his fear of losing you, and yet, you also understood the importance of this space. This was something he needed to do for himself, even if it broke your heart to say goodbye, even for a little while.

“I know, Kook,” you murmured, your voice trembling. “I don’t want to lose you either, but I need you to heal. I need you to find yourself again… and when you’re ready, we’ll be together.”

Jungkook pressed his forehead against yours, his breath shaky as he whispered, “I’ll never stop loving you. No matter what.”

And in that moment, you believed him. As much as it hurt to part ways, you both knew that love couldn’t just fix everything. It couldn’t heal wounds that were deeper than either of you could touch, but it could be the foundation to help rebuild. You knew that no matter what happened next, your love for each other would always be there, even if you had to find it again in different ways, at different times.

You both decided that you would be the one to leave the apartment. It felt right, especially because you didn’t want to shake Jungkook up any more than he already was. You couldn’t bear the thought of telling him to leave his own home.

You also agreed that Bam would stay with him. It never crossed your mind that you would take the dog from him. Bam had always been more attached to Jungkook than to you, and Jungkook loved him so much. Taking him away would’ve been selfish, and you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. That small happiness was something you couldn’t take from him.

As you packed your things, Jungkook helped, always asking if you were sure you had everything. There were no angry words, no shouting—just understanding. That’s what your relationship with him had always been, and in some ways, it made leaving feel just a little bit easier.

But as you stood there, packing up your life, you had no idea where you would go next. Where would you live for the next month, year, or even longer? It felt like you were being thrown back into independence again, but this time, it was different.

“Wait!” he shouted from the hallway just as you were about to turn around. You froze, heart racing.

“I love you,” he said, his voice raw from all the emotions that had been building up.

He stepped closer, and without a word, he cupped your face in his hands, leaning in and pressing his lips to yours. The kiss started soft, tentative, but soon deepened, passion overtaking both of you. Your tongues tangled, your teeth clashing as you both fought to hold on to each other, not wanting to let go.

You had no idea how you’d live without him. You’d never imagined this moment, and you weren’t sure you were ready to face it. But maybe, deep down, you knew it was what was best for both of you. You’d lost yourself in the process of trying to save him, and now, perhaps, it was time to find yourself again.

For both your sakes, maybe it was for the best.

Jungkook wouldn’t lie, the first five months without you had been nothing but tears, therapy sessions, and him pouring his heart out to Bam, as if the dog could somehow respond with the answers he desperately needed.

But the dog, in his own silent way, seemed to understand. Bam would always settle close to him, resting his head on Jungkook’s lap or licking his face gently, offering what little comfort he could. Jungkook would laugh every time Bam did it, the sound bittersweet. He couldn’t help but remember how you used to say it was gross, but now, in the absence of your teasing, he welcomed it, even if just for the comfort it gave him in that moment.

Honestly, Jungkook hadn’t made much progress. If anything, he felt like he was regressing. He thought about calling you often, his thumbs hovering over your number, knowing that you’d pick up right away. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, not like this. He knew that if he reached out, it would only make things worse, so he told himself he’d wait until he was fully healed, ready to love you again, even though a part of him knew he’d never stopped.

“What about finding something to do?” Namjoon suggested, breaking the silence in the apartment as he sat on the sofa. Over the past five months, Dr. Kim had become more than just a therapist to Jungkook. He had slowly, but surely, become his friend—his only one. And though it didn’t fill the hole in Jungkook’s chest, it did ease his loneliness, just a little.

Jungkook thought about it for a moment, his mind heavy with uncertainty. It had been so long since he did anything other than wait for the days to pass, simply surviving. Since he dropped out of university, he’d felt lost, not knowing what he was supposed to do. If it wasn’t you, then what? Maybe Bam could fill that emptiness, but even that felt uncertain.

His eyes wandered to his dog, who was nestled beside him, gently purring as Jungkook absentmindedly ran his hand through his fur. And suddenly, Namjoon’s voice cut through the silence.

“What about working in that shelter?”

Namjoon shifted on the sofa, his excitement bubbling over like he’d just stumbled upon the solution to everything. Jungkook looked up, and for the first time in a long while, his eyes sparkled. Something about the idea clicked—maybe it was because it involved something tangible, something he could care for without feeling lost in his own head.

He hadn’t realized it until that moment, but it felt like a possibility, a way forward.

“Yeah… Yeah, I could try that,” Jungkook murmured, his voice gaining strength. For the first time in a while, it felt like he was stepping towards something instead of just existing. Maybe this could be the beginning of figuring things out.

The next morning, Jungkook took a little extra time to prepare himself. The usual dark hoodie he’d worn so often lately felt too familiar, too comfortable in a way that made him feel stagnant, stuck in his own thoughts. He switched it for something a bit more presentable—a white shirt you’d bought him for his birthday, paired with some jeans. You used to tell him how handsome he looked when he wore that, and for a moment, the memory of you saying those words made his chest tighten. He could almost feel your arms around him again, the way you straddled him that night after the restaurant, kissing him like you meant every word.

That birthday had been the best one of his life, and the memory of it brought a bittersweet warmth. But he pushed those thoughts aside, not wanting to get lost in them now. He couldn’t afford to get distracted, not today.

He knelt in front of Bam, scratching behind his ears as the dog lay at his feet. “Daddy will leave for a bit,” he murmured softly, his fingers stilling when Bam rolled onto his back, showing his stomach. Jungkook couldn’t help himself; he leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Bam’s belly. “Be a good boy,” he whispered before standing up, taking a deep breath. He was about to leave the apartment, the first step towards something new, something unknown, but maybe, just maybe, it could be the beginning of healing.

With a final glance at the apartment, Jungkook stepped outside, feeling the weight of the world on his shoulders, but with a tiny spark of hope in his heart.

The moment Jungkook stepped out of the house, he couldn’t remember the last time he had done anything outside of his routine—whether it was running errands or heading to his usual therapy sessions with Namjoon. It all felt foreign, but as soon as the sun began kissing his golden skin, a warmth spread through him. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the sunlight wash over him, and for the first time in a while, he felt something close to peace.

He walked steadily towards the shelter, his heart picking up pace with every step. Each one brought him closer to something he wasn’t quite sure about yet, but there was a strange pull, a feeling that maybe this was the right thing to do.

It wasn’t long before he saw the sign: Hope Shelter. It was a small, humble building, but something about it felt right. As he pushed open the door, the soft jingle of a bell echoed in the room, signaling his arrival.

Almost immediately, a familiar face appeared. The boy he had met when Bam first came into his life—his energetic smile wide on his heart-shaped lips.

“Hi!” the boy greeted with a sing-song voice, quickly wiping his hands on his jeans. His eyes locked onto Jungkook, and it took only a second for recognition to hit.

“Wait—” he paused, holding up his finger as if trying to place where he had seen him before. “Bam, isn’t it? The cute Doberman?”

Jungkook’s heart did a small leap at the mention of Bam’s name. He nodded quickly, feeling the tension in his chest start to ease. “Yeah, Bam. That’s my dog,” he said, his voice a little lighter now. The familiar name had broken through the knot of anxiety inside him, making it easier to breathe.

Hoseok’s face twisted with concern, his eyes widening. “Wait— is he okay?” he asked, and Jungkook quickly reassured him that Bam was perfectly fine, his tail wagging happily at home.

“Oh, thank god,” Hoseok sighed in relief. “I was a little worried there.” He paused for a beat, his tone shifting into something more casual. “I’m Hoseok, by the way. I think I forgot to mention my name when you came with your girlfriend.”

Jungkook’s eyes dropped to the floor at the mention of you, the weight of the words hitting him in a way he wasn’t prepared for. His chest tightened, but before he could get lost in the sea of thoughts that suddenly flooded him, Hoseok continued talking.

“Anyway, why’d you come by today? You look like you have something on your mind,” Hoseok asked, his voice kind but direct.

Jungkook hesitated for a second, but something about the easygoing way Hoseok spoke made it easier to open up. “I… I wanted to work here,” he said before he could second-guess himself. “I think I can help.”

Hoseok’s eyes went wide, and his mouth formed a surprised ‘o’. “For real?” he said, a grin quickly spreading across his face. “Wow, it’s like you’re some kind of miracle! I could really use a hand around here,” he added, before stopping himself with a chuckle. “Especially some strong hands.”

The light-heartedness in Hoseok’s voice made Jungkook smile. He hadn’t expected this interaction to be so easy, so natural. It felt good, like he could finally exhale, the weight of the past few months loosening its grip on him just a little bit. The thought of working here, doing something with purpose, felt like a step in the right direction.

“Thanks,” Jungkook said softly, a bit more at ease now. “I think I could do it.”

Hoseok showed Jungkook around the shelter, explaining everything with patience and enthusiasm. He made sure to cover every detail, from feeding schedules to cleaning routines, and Jungkook couldn’t help but notice how easy it was to talk to him. There was something about Hoseok’s energy—he was genuine and approachable, never rushing, always making sure Jungkook understood what he needed to know.

At one point, Hoseok casually mentioned that there were two people working there. “My former assistant left a few months ago,” Hoseok said with a smile, “He followed his dream of becoming a guitarist. Pretty cool, right?” Jungkook didn’t ask too many questions about that. He didn’t want to pry into someone else’s life, especially not when it came to personal decisions. But the fact that Hoseok was willing to share a little bit made Jungkook feel more comfortable, like maybe he wasn’t just an outsider here.

After some time, the conversation shifted to something Jungkook didn’t expect: dogs and their tricks. Hoseok mentioned how much he enjoyed teaching dogs new tricks, and it sparked something in Jungkook. He hesitated for a second before admitting, “I’ve tried to teach Bam some tricks, but… I don’t know. He never really seems to get them.”

Hoseok laughed, a soft and comforting sound, before jumping into teaching mode. “It’s all about patience and knowing how each dog learns. Bam’s a smart dog, I bet you just need to find the right way to communicate with him.” He explained a few simple techniques and gave Jungkook advice on how to approach training. It felt like a small step in the right direction, not just for Bam, but for Jungkook himself.

And then, out of nowhere, the conversation shifted again—this time to you.

“So,” Hoseok started, almost as if he was tiptoeing around the subject, “How’s your girlfriend doing? She still helping you with Bam, or…?”

Jungkook froze for a moment. The mention of you caught him off guard, like a sudden shift in the air. He wasn’t expecting to talk about you, not yet, not in this setting. His stomach tightened, but he didn’t want to seem too distant or closed off, so he forced a small, neutral smile.

“She’s… doing good,” Jungkook replied, though his voice sounded a little more distant than he intended. “We’re not… together anymore.” He caught Hoseok’s eye, not sure how the other man would react.

Hoseok, ever the easygoing presence, didn’t press further. He just gave Jungkook a small, understanding nod, as if he could see the weight of the words without needing an explanation. “It’s tough, man. Breakups suck, but sometimes, it’s what’s best for both people.”

Jungkook let out a slow breath, feeling a little lighter somehow. It was strange, talking about you like this, but it also felt good to say it aloud, to let someone else know what he was going through.

He was about to open his mouth, to argue that it wasn’t exactly a breakup like most people would think, that it wasn’t as simple as that, but something in him told him to keep it in. Maybe, it wasn’t the right time to go into all of that. It felt like it was a conversation for another day, another moment when he wasn’t still sorting out his feelings.

Seeing the way Jungkook’s gaze dropped again, Hoseok quickly tried to shift the atmosphere. “Hey,” he said, a light tone in his voice, “Maybe next time you bring Bam here, we could work together on those tricks you want him to learn? I bet he’s got it in him. Plus, I think a little extra practice might help you too.”

Jungkook felt a small, grateful smile tug at his lips. It wasn’t much, but Hoseok’s attempt to lighten the mood worked. The conversation shifted, the air feeling a little easier to breathe. It was like a fresh start for him, a new focus on something simple, something manageable.

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, nodding slowly, “That sounds like a good idea. Maybe Bam will listen to you more than me.”

Hoseok chuckled, a bright, genuine laugh. “I doubt it. But we’ll see,” he said, giving Jungkook an encouraging pat on the shoulder.

For the first time in a long while, Jungkook didn’t feel the weight of his past dragging him down. Maybe this was just what he needed—a small step forward, one trick at a time.

Jungkook settled into the rhythm of the shelter quickly. It had been a month since he started working there, and for the first time in a long while, he found himself genuinely enjoying his days. He wasn’t great with words or socializing with people, but with the dogs, it was different. They didn’t need much from him—just patience, love, and consistency. Those were things he could give without hesitation, and they responded in kind.

Bam, his loyal dog, also adapted slowly but surely. At first, Bam stayed close to him, too shy to socialize with the other dogs, but as the days passed, he began to trust the others. He became more playful, even learning some new tricks. Jungkook smiled as he watched Bam roll over on command.

“Bam!” he called, holding his hands out in the shape of a gun, and said with a grin, “Pow! Pow! Pow!” His fingers mimicked gunshots, and Bam immediately rolled onto his back, playing dead as if he’d been shot.

Jungkook laughed softly, bending down to pet Bam’s soft fur. “We will have to show mommy that you finally learned it,” he murmured, his lips curling into a deep, fond smile. His heart ached a little as he said it, the familiar words slipping out without thought. He knew, deep down, he would always want to share these moments with you.

Hoseok, who had been observing from a distance, saw the exchange and didn’t ask any questions. He understood now, after a month of working closely with Jungkook, that despite everything, Jungkook spoke about you often. It was clear that whatever had happened between the two of you, it wasn’t the end. Hoseok could tell that there was still so much love there, even if Jungkook wasn’t ready to admit it.

So, Hoseok just smiled. There was no rush, no pressure to fix anything. He had learned that sometimes people just needed time to figure things out, and maybe, just maybe, this shelter, these dogs, and the bond between Jungkook and Bam were the first steps on his path toward healing.

Jungkook had learned a lot about himself—things he never even thought to explore before. One of those discoveries was his surprising talent for painting.

“What does it represent?” Kim Taehyung asked, tilting his head as he studied the canvas in front of them. His boxy grin was ever-present, but his eyes held genuine curiosity.

Jungkook met Taehyung at the shelter a few months ago. The guy had been looking for a Pomeranian, and Jungkook introduced him to Yeontan. That day, Taehyung found not only his “dream dog,” as he excitedly called him, but also two unexpected friendships.

The bond between Jungkook, Taehyung, and Hoseok had formed naturally. At first, it revolved around their shared love for dogs, but soon, their conversations stretched beyond that. They talked about everything—music, movies, life. Jungkook never really knew what it felt like to have friends, not like this. Of course, Namjoon was close to him, but their relationship was different. Namjoon knew him too well—sometimes better than Jungkook knew himself. He knew about the depression, the struggles, the darkest parts of him.

But Taehyung and Hoseok didn’t. If they noticed his scars, they never said anything. Maybe they assumed it was something he had struggled with but was overcoming. And in a way, they were right.

Because Jungkook was healing. He realized it when he counted the days—two months since he last hurt himself. Two months clean. It was a long time. It meant he was getting closer. Closer to healing, closer to loving himself, closer to you.

It had been seven months now since he last saw you. Of course, he still thought about you every day. But it wasn’t painful anymore. It wasn’t an aching wound—more like a quiet presence, something that gave him strength rather than pulling him under. He didn’t feel the overwhelming urge to reach for you anymore.

Not yet.

Because he knew he wasn’t fully ready. But one day, when the time was right—he would be.

Jungkook tilted his head, studying his painting as if shifting his perspective might help him understand what his hands had created. He rarely painted with intention—his heart spoke louder than his mind when he held a brush. Sometimes, that meant beauty. Other times, it meant something much darker.

Like this one.

Before him stood a black shadow, its form ambiguous but undeniably human. The face, if it could even be called that, had a wide-open mouth, round eyes, a soft nose, and puffed cheeks. The more Jungkook stared, the more it began to resemble… himself. The shadow looked like it was screaming, dark tendrils spilling from its mouth, like it was vomiting out something toxic. It was abstract, eerie, yet painfully familiar.

It was exactly how he felt.

Taehyung, who had been watching quietly, placed a steady hand on Jungkook’s shoulder. He didn’t ask for an explanation anymore. As a professional painter himself, he knew that sometimes art didn’t need words. And if it did, those words belonged to the artist alone.

So he didn’t press.

“You’re really talented at that,” Taehyung said simply before refocusing on his own painting.

Jungkook didn’t respond, just hummed in acknowledgment as he continued adding strokes to his canvas. While they painted, they shared bits and pieces about themselves—small things, nothing too deep. Jungkook preferred it that way. He listened more than he spoke, occasionally answering or adding a comment, but never giving too much away. It felt good, light, easy.

Still, he couldn’t help but wonder—how had he found the courage to tell you about his depression so quickly? There must have been something about you, something that made him feel safe enough to spill the parts of himself he usually kept hidden. And when he really thought about it, he almost couldn’t believe he had done that. He had handed you his darkness and somehow still wished you would love him despite it.

And you did.

That was something Jungkook still couldn’t quite understand. Because if the roles had been reversed—if he had been the one hearing all of that from someone else—he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t have been afraid.

After saying goodbye to Taehyung and his small dog, Jungkook left, already looking forward to their next meet-up. It made him smile—he was filling his days with things that gave him purpose. His work at the shelter with Hoseok, his painting sessions with Taehyung, and now, his weekly meetings with Namjoon.

It felt strange, in a good way. For someone who once spent his days just waiting for them to end, waiting to get closer to nothingness, he now had things to look forward to. And that realization made him smile.

He didn’t even think of these meetings as therapy sessions anymore. At some point, they had shifted from Namjoon’s office to more casual settings—sometimes a walk in the park, sometimes at Jungkook’s home, and today, a coffee shop.

As he walked in, he spotted Namjoon right away, sitting by a booth with a cup in front of him. His dimples showed as he smiled, watching Jungkook over the rim of his glasses.

“Your banana milk is on the way,” Namjoon said as Jungkook settled into his seat. Jungkook thanked him, a small warmth spreading in his chest. There was something comforting in the fact that people around him knew his preferences—what he liked, what he didn’t. It made him feel seen, like he was no longer just drifting through life. He was someone with his own tastes, his own choices, slowly shaping the world around him rather than just moving through it.

“So, how was your day?” Namjoon asked, his dimples showing as he smiled. Just seeing Jungkook sitting across from him, breathing and present, was enough to fill him with quiet relief. He had known him since he was sixteen, had watched him struggle, fall, and fight his way back up. To see him getting better, little by little, made Namjoon’s chest feel lighter.

“It was good. I spent time with Taehyung—we painted,” Jungkook said before lowering his gaze as the waiter placed his banana milkshake in front of him. He stirred it absentmindedly before continuing, “I painted something kind of dark… but it felt good, you know?”

Namjoon nodded, stirring his coffee as he listened. “That’s the thing about art,” he said. “It doesn’t always have to be pretty to be meaningful. Sometimes, the darkest things we create are the ones that help us the most.”

Jungkook hummed, taking a sip of his banana milkshake. It was sweet, familiar. He felt the corners of his lips twitch up slightly. “Yeah… It was weird. I didn’t even know what I was painting until I was almost done. But when I looked at it, I just… understood.”

Namjoon smiled knowingly. “That’s progress, Jungkook.”

Jungkook tilted his head, his brows furrowing slightly. “How?”

“Because you’re expressing instead of suppressing,” Namjoon said simply, setting his cup down. “Before, you used to bottle things up until they consumed you. Now, you’re letting them out—through work, through painting, through friendships. You’re finding outlets instead of drowning in them.”

Jungkook let the words sink in, stirring his drink absentmindedly. He hadn’t thought of it like that, but Namjoon was right. He was living now, not just existing.

After an hour of conversation—mostly about his feelings, but also lighter topics—Jungkook left the café, feeling the pull to return home to Bam. Socializing was still something he was getting used to, and he found that he needed time to himself afterward. But unlike before, being alone with his thoughts didn’t scare him as much anymore.

Namjoon watched him go, a small smile on his lips as he pulled out his phone and quickly dialed your number. The moment you answered, he spoke.

“Hey,” he greeted softly.

At the sound of his voice, you exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

“I just saw him. He’s doing good,” Namjoon reassured you, smiling at the way he could practically hear your relief through the phone.

Because what Jungkook didn’t know was that Namjoon wasn’t just close to him—he had also grown close to you. Before you left, you had insisted on getting updates about Jungkook, checking in on him even from a distance. At first, Namjoon wasn’t sure if it was the right thing for you, but after seeing how much it mattered to you—after hearing you beg—he couldn’t bring himself to say no.

You thanked Namjoon before saying goodbye, finally releasing the breath you had been holding. A small smile crept onto your lips. Even if you didn’t know the details of Jungkook’s progress—how he was healing or what had changed—just hearing from Namjoon that he was doing well was enough for now. You didn’t need explanations yet. You would hear it all from Jungkook when the time was right, when he was ready to tell you himself. And more than anything, you wanted to hear his voice as he shared everything he had discovered while you were apart.

You were preparing yourself for whatever came next—if you ever saw Jungkook again. Because as much as you longed for that moment, a small, nagging fear remained. What if, once he truly learned to love himself, he no longer felt the need to love you? And as much as you wanted him to reach that place of healing, the thought of him moving on from you made your stomach twist.

Then there was another fear, one more grounded in reality—what if, in his journey of healing, he met someone else? What if he found a girl or a boy who fit into his new life, someone who didn’t remind him of his darkest days? What if you became nothing more than a distant memory, a part of his past he no longer needed?

And yet, strangely, you felt ready to accept that possibility. Because if Jungkook was happy—whether it was with you or without you—you knew you could never be angry. You had loved him enough to let him go, and if this was what he needed to heal, then you would find a way to be at peace with it too.

Jungkook didn’t expect to face his depression again—not like this. It wasn’t triggered by his own reflection in the mirror or by the weight of his past pressing down on him. No, this time, it came from someone else.

A man walked into the shelter, his dark hair falling over his forehead, sharp cat-like eyes scanning the room. He carried a guitar case slung over his shoulder and asked for Hoseok. Jungkook could tell immediately—this must have been the former assistant, the one who had left to chase his dreams. There was a familiarity in the way he moved, like he had never really left.

But Jungkook’s attention wasn’t on his face or the way he spoke. It was on his arms. The faint but unmistakable scars running along his skin. Scars just like Jungkook’s.

For a moment, he forgot how to breathe. He had always known there were others like him, others who carried the same marks of pain, but he had never met one. Never seen someone else wearing their past the way he did.

“He—” Jungkook started, his voice slightly shaky as he forced himself to look away. He didn’t want to seem intrusive. He knew how it felt to have people stare like you were something broken, something they didn’t understand. He didn’t want to make this guy feel that way. “He isn’t here right now. Can I get your name so I can let him know you stopped by?”

He reached for a pen, quickly scribbling the name down, but in the process, his sleeve shifted, just enough for his own scars to peek through. The man’s sharp eyes caught it immediately.

Jungkook froze. Their gazes met.

For a second, he felt exposed. Vulnerable. But then, instead of pity or shock, the man simply smiled—a quiet, knowing smile. A smile of understanding.

“Min Yoongi,” he said.

And just like that, another friendship was born. One built on shared hardships. On survival. On the quiet, unspoken understanding of two people who had made it through the darkness.

Min Yoongi fit into their little group with ease. He already knew Hoseok, so getting to know Taehyung and Jungkook wasn’t difficult. But with Jungkook, it was different. It wasn’t just about introductions or casual conversations—it was like they already understood each other without needing to say much.

Jungkook admired Yoongi. He carried himself with confidence, never hiding his scars, wearing short sleeves like they were nothing. Jungkook, on the other hand, was still learning to accept his own. He was starting to love them, to see them as proof of his survival, but he still kept them hidden beneath baggy clothes and long sleeves.

“You’ll get there,” Yoongi said, casually sipping his drink.

Hoseok and Taehyung had left them alone at the table, off at the bar ordering another round. It hadn’t been easy for Jungkook to agree to come here tonight, but Hoseok had insisted—pouty lips, pleading eyes, impossible to refuse. Jungkook still wasn’t sure how he felt about bars. The last time he had been in one, it was with you. He had been anxious, uncomfortable, but you had held his hand the entire time, grounding him. Making it lighter.

Now, he realized with a small smile, he didn’t need your hand.

He finally turned to Yoongi, meeting his steady gaze.

“It took me years before I could show them,” Yoongi admitted, swirling the whiskey in his glass.

It was the first time they had ever talked about it. Their scars. Their past. The silent war they had both fought.

Jungkook nodded, his fingers tightening around his glass, but his eyes softened. He understood. He knew that his time would come, just like Yoongi’s had. It wouldn’t happen overnight, but he had enough hope now to be patient, to wait for the day when he could let go of the shame and embrace what made him who he was.

Jungkook kept track of the days, and today marked one year since he last saw you. He never thought he’d make it this far, but now, a year later, he was proud of how far he’d come. He was better, and with each passing day, he felt himself getting closer to you again.

There were moments when doubts crept in, when he wondered if you’d even want him in your life after everything he’d put you through. But you promised. What he knew for certain, though, was that he still wanted you in his life. He dreamed of the day he’d see you again. He wondered if your hair was still the same, if you still wore that floral perfume, if you still loved fried chicken, and if you were still obsessed with books. He hoped, more than anything, that you were still that same smiling girl he fell in love with.

He was beginning to drift into those thoughts again when a sharp punch to his face snapped him back to reality. “Yah!” a voice shouted. “Jeon, you were daydreaming again,” said the boy with the blonde hair, grinning at him.

Jungkook shook off the daze, now fully aware of his surroundings. He was at the gym, a place he frequented often, having developed a newfound love for boxing and sports.

“Sorry, Jimin,” he muttered, holding his gloves up to his face, ready to get back into it.

It was Namjoon who had introduced him to boxing, suggesting it as a way to channel his anger into something productive. With a little courage, Jungkook had given it a try—and now, it was one of the things that helped him keep going.

Jimin took off his gloves and walked over to the bench, dropping onto it with a loud sigh. Jungkook followed, grabbing his water bottle and taking a long sip.

“What had you so distracted?” Jimin asked, a teasing grin playing on his lips—one that could probably make anyone spill their secrets.

“Nothing,” Jungkook replied, a small smile tugging at his lips. He had been thinking about you, and that reaction felt natural.

Jimin raised his eyebrows playfully. “Is it a girl?”

Jungkook scoffed, punching Jimin’s shoulder lightly before shaking his head, trying to hide the way his cheeks were heating up.

“Shit, I didn’t know you were in love,” Jimin laughed. “I shouldn’t have told my friend you were available.”

Jungkook turned to him, eyes wide. “What?”

“A friend of mine asked for your number,” Jimin explained with a dramatic roll of his eyes. “She said you were the hottest guy she’s ever seen.”

Jungkook felt his heart clench at that. He never thought of himself as someone who could attract that kind of attention. He never saw himself as “hot” or particularly handsome. The only time he ever felt beautiful was when you told him so. But now, knowing that someone else could be drawn to him, his heart pounded louder than he expected.

“I doubt that,” Jungkook said, trying to brush it off, though the confession had shaken him more than he expected. He hadn’t meant for it to affect him, but it did. And it felt wrong. Because he was still waiting for you—because he was going to be there for you. The thought of someone else making his heart react like this felt like a betrayal.

“No, for real,” Jimin insisted, turning his body toward him. “You just have that kind of look that draws people in.” He whistled playfully, flashing a teasing grin. He was like that—lighthearted, fun. Jungkook was always laughing with him when they weren’t throwing punches at each other. “So? What do you say?”

Jungkook bit the inside of his cheek. He had no idea how to answer that. He didn’t think he could ever give his trust to another girl—to open up, to give himself, his body, and everything that came with it.

“I can’t,” he admitted, staring at his fingers.

“Why not?”

“I have someone,” Jungkook said, then immediately regretted how it sounded. “Well—I mean, not right now, not here, but…” He sighed, struggling to explain the situation without sounding like a madman waiting for someone who might never come back. Without diving into everything that had led him to this moment.

Jimin clapped a hand on his shoulder, his expression softer now. “It’s okay. There’s someone else. I get it.” Then, with a knowing smile, he put his gloves back on, signaling that the conversation was over.

But the thought kept circling in Jungkook’s mind all day. Even as he wandered through the grocery store, scanning the shelves, his mind was elsewhere.

Because now, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t sure what would happen between the two of you.

What if you didn’t want him anymore? What if you had found someone else?

The thought made his chest ache. His grip tightened around the basket handle. He had spent so much time healing, convincing himself that when the time was right, he’d find his way back to you. But what if you had already moved on?

If only he could have some kind of sign. Some news about you. Something to hold onto.

And that’s when he heard it—your giggles.

His favorite sound. The one he could recognize anywhere, the one that used to make his world feel lighter.

But it wasn’t just your laugh. It was that loud, terrible, over-the-top laughter that followed. A man’s laugh. One that was far too comfortable, too close.

Jungkook hated it.

Because what could he—whoever he was—have said to make you laugh like that? The kind of laugh that made your eyes crinkle, the kind that used to be his to hear.

His first instinct was to turn around, to leave before you could see him. To run.

But then—

“Jungkook?”

His feet stopped dead in their tracks, his body frozen like a deer caught in headlights.

And when he finally turned, his gaze didn’t land on you.

It landed on him.

The man standing beside you.

Same height as Jungkook. Same dark hair. But somehow, he seemed… better. His features were sharper, his posture effortless, his presence so at ease beside you.

Jungkook had never felt this small before. And it wasn’t because the man had broader shoulders or a stronger stance.

It was because—

He had you.

“Jungkook?”

The guy said his name like he was tasting it, like he recognized it but wasn’t quite sure yet. Then, realization flickered across his face.

“Wait, the Jung—”

Before he could finish, you shoved your basket into his hands so fast he barely had time to react. And then you were running.

Straight to Jungkook.

He barely had time to process before your arms wrapped tightly around his waist, your face buried against his chest. He felt the warmth of your body, the familiar way you fit against him.

And he knew that with your ear pressed right there against his chest, you could hear how fast his heart was racing.

But Jungkook’s eyes weren’t on you.

They were still on him. The other man. The one who had been standing next to you just seconds ago.

He was watching the scene unfold, but strangely, he didn’t seem all that surprised. Not angry. Not even uncomfortable. Just… there. Observing.

And that only made Jungkook’s stomach churn harder.

Because if that guy was your boyfriend—if you were his—then he was a terrible one.

Because if it were Jungkook, if he had you, if he loved you the way he still did—he could never just stand there and watch while you ran into another man’s arms like this.

His hands hesitated before they found their way into your hair, fingers gently pressing against the back of your head. His body was still frozen, his mind scrambling to catch up.

But one thing was clear.

He had missed you. More than he even knew was possible.

Jungkook’s mouth worked faster than his brain. “Your boyfriend is watching.”

The second the words left him, he wanted to slap himself because you immediately pulled back to look at him, confusion flashing across your face before you burst into giggles. That same sound he knew by heart, the one that had haunted him for months.

“My what?” You turned, pointing at the guy who was now laughing too—the same obnoxiously loud laugh Jungkook had heard from the other aisle. “Seokjin? He isn’t my boyfriend.”

Jungkook let out a breath he didn’t even realize he had been holding. And without thinking, his hands found your arms again, tugging you back into him.

This time, he didn’t hesitate. He hugged you properly, arms wrapping tightly around your frame, holding you like he’d never let go.

“Fuck, you scared me,” he murmured into your hair, eyes squeezing shut as he breathed you in.

There was so much to say. So many things left unsaid. So much time lost between you. But none of it mattered right now.

Because he was here. And so were you.

You didn’t want to think about the past, about the pain or the time apart—not when he was this close, not when he felt so different.

You leaned back slightly, taking him in properly for the first time. His hair was longer now, curling slightly at the ends. His chest looked broader, stronger. But what caught your attention the most were his arms.

Bare.

Out for the whole world to see. Not hidden behind layers of clothing. Not hidden at all.

Your fingers reached out before you could stop them, tracing the muscle of his forearm, the skin that had once been covered in sleeves no matter the season.

“I promise I was waiting for you,” you whispered, voice barely audible.

Jungkook swallowed hard, his grip tightening around you, as if grounding himself.

“Me too.”

You left the grocery store together, Seokjin trailing behind—his arms full of shopping bags, huffing dramatically about being ignored. But you barely noticed.

Jungkook was right beside you. That was all that mattered.

As you walked, he learned more about Seokjin—the man he had been so quick to despise in the span of a few minutes. He was your roommate, your colleague. The one who had taken you in when you left. The one who made sure you were okay.

Jungkook immediately bowed to him in gratitude, his chest tight with something unspoken. Because you were safe, and it was thanks to him. He almost felt bad for wanting to punch the guy’s too-perfect face. Almost.

Still, he couldn’t believe this was real. That you were here, walking beside him, chatting like no time had passed at all.

You mostly talked about lighthearted things—Seokjin’s habit of screaming too loud while playing video games, how you had to bang on his door at night to make him shut up.

Jungkook listened as you and Seokjin bickered over who was actually the loudest, letting the familiar sound of your laughter sink into his bones.

And finally, he let himself look at you properly.

All the questions that had haunted him for months—answered in an instant.

Your hair was different. Lighter. And longer too—a quiet reminder of the time you had spent apart. Your cheeks were rounder, fuller. You looked healthy. Happy.

And as the sunlight hit your face just right, illuminating your bright, shining eyes—Jungkook felt something shift.

Because he remembered the exact moment he had fallen in love with you.

And somehow, standing beside you now…

It felt just the same.

You weren’t sure how long you spent getting ready. It had been a while since you took this much time to make yourself look pretty.

Finding the perfect outfit wasn’t easy either. You kept changing, staring at yourself in the mirror, second-guessing every little detail. And maybe you were more anxious than you thought you’d be.

Because tonight, you were meeting Jungkook. And your heart hadn’t stopped racing since the moment you said yes.

“Is this a date, or just an excuse to see your dog?” Seokjin asked, lounging on your bed, watching you pace around the room.

It had been two weeks now of him laughing at you, teasing you endlessly about Jungkook. Ever since the grocery store, you hadn’t stopped talking about him.

You shot him a glare, smacking his shoulder as you crouched to put on your heels.

“I really do miss my dog,” you huffed, even as you swapped your sneakers for heels at the last second. Because heels made it feel like a date, didn’t they?

Technically, neither of you had called it a date. Jungkook had just texted: hi! bam wants to show you the tricks he learned! :) And how could you not say yes?

You had jumped on the opportunity, replying almost immediately that you couldn’t wait to see Bam. (And Jungkook too. But you hadn’t told him that part.)

Seokjin raised an eyebrow, a knowing smirk playing on his lips. “The dog or the owner?”

You glared at him. And yet, you didn’t answer.

Seokjin sprawled out on your bed like he owned the place—well, technically, he did. But still, it was your bed.

“I can’t wait for you to finally go back to your loverboy,” he said, smirking devilishly to himself.

You huffed, throwing a t-shirt at his face. “Shut up and close your eyes, I’m changing again.”

“Again?” he groaned but obeyed, covering his face with a dramatic sigh.

You turned back to your wardrobe, sifting through your options with a frown. “Maybe nothing will happen,” you murmured, more to yourself than to him. “Maybe he doesn’t want me anymore.”

Seokjin let out a sharp laugh. “Uh, he was literally glaring at me at the grocery store the other day.”

You told him he could open his eyes, and when he saw what you had settled on—a plain white tee—he scoffed.

“For real? After all that? Just a boring white shirt?”

You sighed, sitting down beside him on the bed. “I don’t want to get my hopes up. I just… I want to play it safe. And I don’t want to pressure him into anything either.”

For once, Seokjin didn’t have a joke ready. Instead, he nudged your shoulder.

“You’re overthinking,” he said simply. “Just go see him.”

As you knocked on the door that was once your home, you clutched your bag tighter against your side. When Jungkook didn’t answer right away, you seriously considered running away and sending a terrible last-minute excuse about why you couldn’t make it.

But just as you were about to turn, the door swung open.

Jungkook stood there, breath slightly uneven, his hair messily tousled. His shirt was buttoned all wrong, and the sight made you chuckle.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed out, only to be shoved aside by a blur of brown fur as Bam bolted toward you.

You barely had time to react before the large dog was on you, his tail wagging excitedly as you crouched down to pet him.

“That little traitor,” Jungkook grumbled, crossing his arms as he pointed at Bam, who was soaking up all your affection. “He threw up at the last minute, and I had to clean up everything. Because of him, I didn’t have—”

“Kook,” you interrupted with a smile, looking up at him from your spot on the floor. “It’s okay.” Then, turning your attention back to the dog, you cooed, “You gave Dad a hard time, Bam?”

Your voice was soft, affectionate—the kind only Bam was lucky enough to receive. And for some ridiculous reason, Jungkook felt jealous of his own dog.

“He was probably excited to see you,” Jungkook murmured, more to himself than to the dog.

“I’m sure he was,” you replied with a playful smile, rising to your feet. “I was, too.”

Jungkook’s cheeks flushed a little, and he stepped aside, holding the door open wider for you to enter. His gaze lingered on you as you walked in slowly, taking in the apartment. It felt so right to have you back there, even after all this time. You’d always belonged in this space with him.

Although the place had changed, Jungkook had felt the need to make a fresh start, switching out the furniture and changing things up so he wouldn’t associate it all with the past. Still, a part of him worried you might not like all the changes.

“You did a great job,” you commented, sitting down on the new dark leather couch and gently bouncing on it as if testing its comfort. “I didn’t know you had an eye for interior design.”

Jungkook smiled softly, though there was something more behind his expression. “Yeah, I guess… I had a lot of help. A friend of mine gave me a hand with it, even though his taste can be a little… unconventional. But it worked out.” He talked about how Taehyung helped him pick out the new furniture for the apartment.

At the mention of his friend, a small smile tugged at your lips. It was the first time Jungkook had spoken about anyone close to him, and hearing him mention Taehyung made you curious. You suddenly wanted to know more about his life, how much he had changed, how his world had shifted while you’d been apart. The little glimpses Namjoon gave you were just the beginning, and you wanted the whole story now.

You laughed as Bam jumped onto you, nearly knocking you back into the couch. You scratched behind his ears, and then turned to Jungkook with a playful glint in your eye. “So, this friend of yours. How did you meet him?”

Jungkook hadn’t expected you to dive right into that, but he didn’t mind. The quicker he told you about everything—from his work at the shelter to his new friends and hobbies—the quicker you’d understand the changes in his life. And maybe, just maybe, he could be yours again. If you still wanted that.

“We met at the shelter a while ago,” he began, sitting down on the couch as Bam quickly shifted from you to him. Some things never changed—Bam still preferred his dad. “He’s kind of… quirky sometimes, but he’s a good guy, you know?” Jungkook smiled at Bam, scratching his head absentmindedly.

“Oh yeah,” he continues, “You remember the shelter we got Bam from?”

You nodded immediately. Of course, you remembered—Jungkook had been smiling so brightly that day, something you didn’t see often, so it stuck with you.

Jungkook’s smile widened, and you couldn’t help but smile back. “Yeah, well, I actually work there now. It’s pretty cool,” he continued, his tone casual but there was a warmth in his voice. “Bam comes with me most days.”

Seeing the smile on his face as he talked about his job, how much he enjoyed it because it allowed him to avoid too much socializing, you felt relieved that you had let him take Bam. He clearly thrived in the environment, and it was good to see him happy.

He continued talking, sharing more about his friends and how they had helped him discover what he truly liked and didn’t like. He seemed genuinely happy to have a group of people who cared about him. It made your heart lighter knowing he wasn’t alone anymore.

Then he mentioned his new hobby of hitting the gym, and you couldn’t help but laugh as he showed off some boxing moves he’d learned. You had to admit, he was impressive. You tried to calm your heart as it raced, especially when he casually said you should try boxing with him next time. Next time—that meant he still wanted to see you, and for a moment, everything else faded.

After a long, quiet minute of exchanging shy glances and soft smiles, you finally found the courage to ask, “How are you feeling now?”

At that, Jungkook froze for a moment, clearly thrown off guard by the question. But you knew it was one that needed to be asked, and he knew it too.

“Let’s just say… I want to keep doing what I’m doing,” he said, a smile tugging at his lips.

And in that simple answer, everything was clear. He wanted to continue, to keep living, to keep moving forward. He was happy with where he was now, and that was all you needed to know.

The night unfolded just as you had hoped—laughter, playful teasing, and those light touches that both of you were too shy to take further. Your hands brushed against each other, and yet, it was enough to send your heart racing. Every moment felt like it was building towards something, something you couldn’t wait for.

But you both knew it was important to take things slow. There was no need to rush. Step by step, you’d rebuild what was once lost. You were certain of one thing now—you would be together again, and it would happen soon enough.

As you walked back to your home, a sudden realization hit you, making you gasp. You had completely forgotten about the one thing Jungkook had promised to show you—what Bam had learned.

You smiled to yourself, shaking your head a little. You were so caught up in the moment, that you hadn’t even thought about it.

“Come on, punch!” Jungkook commands, holding his hands out in front of you. After a month of seeing each other, you finally agreed to join him for one of his boxing sessions. Now, here you are, gloves on, feeling a little silly as you throw punches into his palms.

“Yeah,” he nods, clearly proud of how well you’re doing. “Just like that,” he encourages, and you can’t help but laugh because you’re so happy to be there with him, doing something he loves.

“Don’t lose focus!” he calls out, his brow furrowed in concentration, and you burst out laughing. “Bab—” he catches himself mid-sentence, quickly swallowing his words. “I mean—don’t laugh! I’m trying here,” he says, looking at you as you collapse onto the floor, exhausted from his rigorous training.

“I know,” you whine, pulling off your gloves. “You’re a great teacher, it’s just… you’re so cute,” you admit with a soft smile.

“How am I cute?” he asks, genuinely confused, sitting cross-legged beside you. “That’s because you still haven’t seen me throw punches and dodge them—I look really cool doing it, you know?” he says with a playful raise of his eyebrows.

You turn your head to him, letting your eyes roam over his face. He looked so beautiful, more than you remembered. You had always thought Jungkook was the most handsome man you knew, but seeing him so happy made him even more stunning. In that moment, you wished time would freeze so you could stay like this forever.

But Jungkook had other plans. He quickly stood up and held his hand out to you.

“It’s not over, come on, stand up,” he said, his voice full of determination.

You shake your head, whining because it had been two hours of non-stop training, and you definitely didn’t have his stamina.

“Please, wait a second, The Rock,” you groan, closing your eyes, exhausted.

Jungkook finally dropped his teacher mode, chuckling at your words. His laughter rang out, and it was so perfect to your ears, you couldn’t help but smile.

And so, it went on like that for a month—the two of you rediscovering each other, starting fresh, but with the comfort of old memories woven into the new ones. The feelings had never really gone away, they had always been there, simmering just beneath the surface, so undeniable and raw that neither of you needed to say a word. Jungkook felt it too, the unspoken connection between you, as if time had paused and everything was falling back into place without effort.

Jungkook couldn’t shake the feeling of selfishness creeping in, a longing that deepened with every passing day. He wanted you, completely—your presence, your touch, your love. He wanted you to come back home, to him and to Bam, to kiss you, to hold your hand, to just be by your side, always. And in that moment, he knew it was time. He wanted to ask you out.

The timing might not have been perfect, but watching you talk to his friends—whom you’d just met tonight, but somehow fit in like you’d known them forever—he couldn’t help but feel a warmth spreading through him. His heart lightened, and without thinking, he reached for your hand under the table, his fingers brushing yours gently. You didn’t say anything, just accepted it, and in that simple, unspoken exchange, he knew you felt the same.

As you both walked to your home, hand in hand, it felt like the world had stopped. Jungkook hadn’t let go of your hand since he took it, and the weight of the moment felt like something precious. Finally, with a nervous but hopeful tone, he asked, “I don’t want to be pushy, but… when will you come back home?”

You smiled, trying to hide the grin spreading across your face, and turned your head away slightly. “I was waiting for you to ask,” you said softly. “You know I will always wait for you.”

Jungkook froze in his tracks, and you stopped with him, turning to face him. His hands found both of yours again, pulling them gently to his chest. “I’m ready,” he whispered your name, his voice low and full of sincerity. “I want you back.”

Looking into his eyes, those doe eyes full of vulnerability and love, you nodded eagerly, feeling your heart race. And before you could say anything else, his lips were on yours—soft, then urgent, then full of passion. His hands found the back of your neck, pulling you closer until it felt like you were melting together.

But with two hearts and two minds. Not just yours, because now Jungkook didn’t feel the need to hide himself anymore.

He wanted to be beside you, walk with you, live with you—not just through you, but as equals, as two people who had found their way back to each other.

an: hiii!! tysm for reading, it really means a lot to me and pls dont hesitate to let me know what you think! :) and always remember that you are loved, no matter what ♡ take care xx

#bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #jungkook x reader #jungkook imagines #jungkook #bts fanfic #jungkook fanfic #bts imagines #jungkook angst #bts #jungkook x oc #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook fic #bts x reader

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igwb · 5 months ago

Text

Hyung.

hyung (n.) : more than just a title, hyung signifies a bond of trust, guidance, and often deep emotional connection. it can represent brotherhood by blood or by choice, carrying the weight of both protection and admiration.

pairing: kim namjoon x kim taehyung (hyyh!nj x hyyh!th)

genre: bromance au, angst

summary: living at the very bottom of the unforgiving society, they could only cling to fragile dreams of a better future. hope became a distant comfort, something they held onto even as they knew the odds were stacked against them. denial wrapped around them like a thick fog, masking the harsh reality of their lives. they saw glimpses of what a life with a future that didn’t feel like a constant struggles but that was never meant for them. not for people like kim namjoon and kim taehyung. the moment they were born, their fates were sealed. now, all they could do was wait for the inevitable.

word count: 7K (one shot)

warnings: angst, mentions of; depression, mental health, family & money issues, violence, child abuse, alcoholism, blood, death […] hyyh storyline; taejoon focused ♡ and no romance/shipping (romance here is only bromance!)

Lately, Taehyung had been having terrible nightmares—visions of everything and everyone he loved dying in horrific ways. In his dreams, he tried to reach them, to save them, but he was always stuck. Helpless. Forced to watch as they died over and over again. Each death felt crueler than the last.

Sometimes, it was his older sister, her agony unbearable as she locked eyes with him—the same brown eyes they shared—before the life drained out of her. Sometimes, it was his mother, struck by a car, crushed beneath something heavy, gone in an instant. And sometimes, it was Namjoon, his best friend.

Tonight, it was Namjoon again. Dying in ways so gruesome, so unthinkable, that Taehyung couldn’t even speak them aloud. The images clung to him, the weight of them suffocating. The worst part? Knowing that his own mind had created them. That thought alone made him feel sick.

He opened his eyes, blinking against the dim glow of the streetlights filtering through his window. His room—a monochrome space he never had the heart to decorate—felt cold, distant, almost unfamiliar. He preferred it that way.

With a shaky breath, he reached for his phone, his fingers dialing a number he knew by heart. Namjoon had made him memorize it, insisting that if anything ever happened, he should call right away. No hesitation. He had always been aware of Taehyung’s bad habit of staying out late, getting himself into trouble.

The line barely rang twice before a groggy voice answered, laced with sleep.

“Hyung,” Taehyung breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. He could hear Namjoon shifting on the other end, probably sitting up, already alert despite the abrupt wake-up call.

“You okay?” Taehyung asked, his chest tightening as the images from his nightmare flashed through his mind. He needed to hear it—to be sure. The vision of Namjoon dying, over and over again, was still too vivid, too real.

“Hyung, are you okay?” he asked again, his voice quieter this time, laced with unease.

“I’m okay,” the older boy assured, his voice now steadier, more confident—like he didn’t want to leave even a sliver of doubt in Taehyung’s mind. “I’m okay,” he repeated, softer this time, almost like a mantra. “Go back to sleep now.”

Taehyung mumbled an apology for waking him before promising that he would try to sleep, and with that, Namjoon ended the call. But it was too late. Sleep had already slipped away from him.

With a quiet sigh, he sat up in bed and glanced at his phone screen—4 AM. It was always 4 AM. Every time Taehyung had one of his nightmares, it was at this hour. And every time, Namjoon found himself unable to sleep afterward.

Running a hand through his hair, he leaned back against the headboard, staring at the faint patterns of moonlight on the ceiling. He wondered what kind of nightmare had shaken Taehyung so badly this time—what terrible images his mind had forced him to endure. But he didn’t ask. Taehyung never talked about them, and Namjoon never pushed.

All he could do was be there when the call came.

He knew he wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep—not that it mattered. His alarm would go off in an hour anyway.

He had to get up for work. A stupid, miserable job at the gas station that barely paid enough to survive. But when you grow up in poverty, you take whatever money you can get without complaint. You swallow your pride, keep your head down, and work. If it meant survival, you’d even drop to your knees and thank your boss, knowing full well that by the end of the week, there’d be nothing left.

Namjoon was the sole provider for his family. His father was terribly ill, and the medical bills kept piling up. His mother was so consumed by despair that some days, she could barely stand.

He never even considered asking his younger brother to work. That responsibility fell on him alone—the only able man in the house. It wasn’t a choice; it was simply what had to be done.

Namjoon never complained about his situation. It wasn’t anyone’s fault that his father had fallen ill. How could he be angry at a man who was fighting for his life every single day? And he couldn’t blame his mother either—if he were in her place, watching the person he loved slowly slip away, he knew he would break just the same.

He couldn’t be angry at his younger brother, either. Even though he was only a year younger, he didn’t have the shoulders to bear this weight. He was unpredictable, restless—desperate to escape. Unlike Namjoon, he let his anger consume him. And for him, escape meant trouble. It meant reckless choices, nights spent in jail, and bail money they didn’t have.

Namjoon’s younger brother was far too similar to Taehyung for his own good—same age, same recklessness. Sometimes, it felt like he had two younger brothers to worry about. But he couldn’t blame Taehyung either; his life hadn’t been any easier.

Taehyung wasn’t the type to keep things to himself. He talked a lot, never hiding his struggles. And his biggest struggle had always been his father.

There was a time when Taehyung’s family had been happy—when he lived with both his parents and his older sister in a home filled with warmth. But that life shattered the moment his father found comfort in alcohol. The addiction consumed him quickly, and with it came a violent temper that only grew worse each day.

The two women in the family—his mother and sister—chose to escape for their own safety, leaving Taehyung behind. Not because they wanted to, but because he refused to go. He couldn’t leave his father. Someone had to take care of him, even if it meant enduring his anger, no matter how brutal it became.

Namjoon and Taehyung both knew they had been forced to grow up faster than they were supposed to. It was never a choice—it was simply their fate.

When Namjoon turned eighteen, he realized his innocence had slipped away without him even noticing. The lollipops he used to absentmindedly suck on had been replaced by cigarettes, the sweet taste of childhood long gone, replaced by the bitter burn of adulthood.

And Taehyung, still in his teenage years, knew his innocence had faded the moment he was forced to abandon his dreams to become a father to his own father.

Namjoon had a long shift tonight. He would start work before the sun even rose and finish long after it had set. That was how hard he worked. But it was still better than nothing. He was just grateful to have found a job—even if it wasn’t what he had once dreamed of.

Who ever dreams of working at a gas station?

That wasn’t what he was meant for, either. His teachers used to tell him he was too intelligent for his age, that he was destined for something bigger. Someone important. Someone respected.

He let out a dry chuckle at the thought. If only he had the luxury of dreaming.

Leaning back in his chair, he let his thoughts drift—until his phone rang, pulling him back to reality.

It could only be one of two people: Taehyung or his younger brother. Either way, it was important. He never made a distinction between them. Blood didn’t matter—Taehyung was just as much his brother as the one he shared a name with.

However, tonight, it was his real brother—Joohan.

Unconsciously, his fingers went to his mouth. Just like Taehyung, if they were calling him, it was never for something good.

“Joon,” his brother’s voice came through the line, quiet but urgent, muffled by background noise that made it hard to understand. “I’m at the police station. Can you bail me out? Please?”

Namjoon didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there.” Of course, he would.

With a sigh, he counted the money he had earned today—just enough to cover Jooan’s bail. With this, he could have paid off part of their father’s medical bills. He could have bought something small for his mother, maybe even for Joohan, or Taehyung. A rare little moment of kindness in a life that had so few.

But not today.

Not this time.

On autopilot, Namjoon paid for his brother’s mistake—graffiti vandalism on a wall with some friends. Only two of them had been caught. The other two ran.

Now, he stood outside the police station, cigarette between his fingers, waiting. When he saw Joohan approaching, he instinctively hid it behind his back, as if shielding him from something so small could somehow preserve his innocence.

Namjoon was in denial, really. Jooan had lost that innocence a long time ago. But still, this was what an older brother was supposed to do.

“Spare me that look,” Joohan spat, his brows furrowed as he glared at his older brother with disdain.

“I’m just worried about you,” Namjoon said softly, his voice steady—never one to raise it, never one to let anger take over. “I told you to stop hanging out with them. One day, I won’t have the money to—”

Before he could finish, before he could explain his rational fears, Joohan cut him off.

“Stop with your bullshit! You’re not my father, Namjoon,” he snapped before turning on his heel and walking away.

As much as Namjoon wanted to follow him, to ask—no, plead for him to go home and check on their mother and father, he knew he couldn’t. He understood, truly, if Joohan wanted to do something else, to be with his friends. He wanted the same, too. But sometimes, he just wished Jooan would help.

Guilt washed over him immediately, and before his mind could spiral into thoughts he didn’t want to entertain, he turned and walked back to the gas station. He would work extra hours tonight. It was the only thing he could do.

It was a familiar boxy smile that greeted Namjoon as he entered the gas station, not the usual rude, indifferent customer.

“Hyung!” Taehyung said, his boxy grin wide as he stood up from the small curb he always sat on when he came to visit Namjoon at work. “Are you okay?” he asked, just like he always did.

It was a habit for Taehyung—he was just that kind of person. Always caring, always asking if everyone around him was okay, if there was anything he could do to help. The same way he’d check on his mother and sister. Even with his father. There was this constant need inside him to play the hero, to protect everyone and everything—except himself.

“I’m fine,” Namjoon replied, as usual. “Joohan got into trouble again,” he added without thinking. He didn’t notice how Taehyung shifted on his feet, subtly hiding his right hand inside the sleeve of his denim jacket.

Taehyung chuckled slightly at that, suddenly feeling embarrassed. He wondered if he sounded the same way when he talked about him—like it was just another burden.

Taehyung masked his thoughts with a bright smile, before running to the counter with too much energy. “My father made progress,” he said, touching everything on Namjoon’s desk, absentmindedly playing with one of his literature trophies—something Namjoon kept there, almost like it held some kind of meaning.

“It’s been a week since he stopped drinking,” Taehyung continued, his face lighting up with a smile. “My mom and sister will come for dinner tomorrow night.”

Namjoon smiled, his dimples showing as he spoke. He was truly happy for Taehyung. He deserved this. But deep down, a buried part of him couldn’t help but feel something else—jealousy. He wondered if, one day, he could say something like that with that much happiness, just like Taehyung did.

“I’m happy for you, Taehyung,” Namjoon said, focusing on putting everything Taehyung had touched back into place. “Someday, you won’t need me,” he added with a chuckle, trying to make light of it.

“Ah!” Taehyung exclaimed, playfully hitting Namjoon on the shoulder with his right hand. “Don’t be greedy, hyung.”

But then something caught Namjoon’s eye for a moment—something on Taehyung’s hand. Paint. The electric blue he had seen earlier on his brother’s clothes.

“Taehyung?” Namjoon asked, his voice low, the atmosphere suddenly shifting into something heavier. “Where were you tonight?”

Taehyung stopped moving, his body stilling for a moment. He was an expressive boy, unable to hide anything—whether it was lying, sadness, happiness, or anger. He wore his emotions like an open book, a perfect canvas for whatever he was feeling at the moment.

“The usual,” Taehyung began, the words carrying an unspoken meaning. The usual meant doing stupid things in the streets, getting into fights, and running away. Running away. Taehyung was good at it, Namjoon thought, wondering how he hadn’t been caught by the police yet.

Namjoon clenched his jaw, keeping his voice soft, controlled. “You didn’t tell me you were doing graffiti now.”

The teachers had been right about him. He was too intelligent for his own good, and sometimes, that made things harder to ignore.

“Were you perhaps one of the two boys that ran away?” Namjoon asked, his voice calm but carrying a challenge. He wasn’t angry, not yet. He just wanted to know if Taehyung would lie to him or admit the truth.

Taehyung, as always, couldn’t lie. He met Namjoon’s gaze, his expression softening. “I was,” he admitted quietly.

Namjoon ran his tongue inside his mouth, trying to suppress the anger that simmered just below the surface. Taehyung had been surrounded by anger all his life—his father, and the chaos he had grown up with. Namjoon couldn’t let his own emotions take over. But sometimes, just sometimes, he wished he could explode. If only he could. He hated feeling like he had to keep everything buried, like he had to be the calm one all the time.

He didn’t even want to know how Taehyung and his brother had crossed paths. He guessed it was inevitable when two boys their age were left to wander the streets, unsupervised and lost in their own reckless worlds.

“Whose idea was it?” Namjoon asked, keeping his gaze away from Taehyung. He knew if he looked directly at him, he would see the truth—or perhaps the lack of it—and he didn’t want to face it. Denial was easier.

And, as expected, Taehyung didn’t admit to it being his idea. He was with an other boy when they found some cans of spray paint. They were waiting to use them when they met Joohan and his friend, sitting on a bench, doing nothing too illegal. Somehow, Taehyung and his friend dragged them into it, convincing them to join in.

Taehyung knew Joohan was Namjoon’s brother. He had seen the pictures on Namjoon’s desk, after all. But still, he didn’t stop them from joining. He genuinely thought nothing bad would happen. It was just graffiti. Just something stupid.

Taehyung had never considered the consequences of his actions in the way Namjoon had. The thought that someone might call the police on them, that his own brother would end up caught in the fallout, never crossed his mind. For Taehyung, it wasn’t even a possibility. He just acted without fully understanding the ripple effect it could cause.

“I— We weren’t doing—” Taehyung stammered, trying to find the right words, but the more he spoke, the more the situation felt out of his control. His desperation grew, as he tried to downplay the mess they had gotten into. He wanted to make it seem less serious, less like it was his fault that Namjoon’s younger brother had gotten into trouble and that Namjoon had lost his hard-earned money on a stupid mistake he had initiated. “I didn’t think about—”

But Namjoon couldn’t do it anymore. He couldn’t keep hiding behind the calm mask, suppressing his anger like he had always done in the past. Not when Taehyung’s reckless actions were dragging his brother—and his family—into a mess they couldn’t afford.

Namjoon had put up with Taehyung’s usual habits before. Not that he ever liked them, but they were Taehyung’s choices, and he understood that. Taehyung had his own life to lead, and Namjoon had learned to accept that, even if it pained him to see his friend constantly pushing boundaries. But now? Now it was different. Taehyung’s behavior was no longer just affecting him. It was affecting his family. Namjoon’s real family—the people who depended on him, the ones he had to protect. He couldn’t stand by and watch as Taehyung kept making decisions that threatened everything they had.

That night, Namjoon made a hard decision. He couldn’t keep seeing Taehyung as his brother, not in the way he saw Joohan. The person he needed to protect first, above all, was his own flesh and blood. He had to step up and put his real family first, even if that meant distancing himself from someone he had once considered his own brother. It hurt, but it was necessary.

He had tried to justify it, tried to avoid drawing that line, but tonight he couldn’t deny it any longer. There was a difference between the bond he had with Taehyung and the responsibility he held toward his real family. Joohan was his priority now, and he would do whatever it took to protect him.

The fight—if we can even call it that—had happened a week ago. There were no screams or shattered glass, no physical blows exchanged, nothing like the violent outbursts Taehyung was used to. It wasn’t that kind of confrontation, yet it still felt just as raw.

Taehyung couldn’t shake the guilt. He knew he had messed up, that he should’ve told Joohan to go home, should’ve stopped dragging him into his mess. But now it was too late for that. He had hurt Namjoon and his family, and while he would eventually apologize, he couldn’t bring himself to do it tonight. Not when tonight was too important.

His mother and sister would be coming over. They’d sit around the table together and share a meal, as a family, something Taehyung had been dreaming about for weeks. He’d spent the entire day preparing the meal, wanting everything to be perfect. The last thing he needed was his guilt ruining this precious moment with the people he loved most.

When the knock came at the door, Taehyung rushed to answer. His father was still in the bathroom, trying to make himself presentable. He wanted to show that he was improving, that he was getting better. But deep down, Taehyung knew his father still felt the weight of his past actions, the damage he had done to his family. He could see it in the way he acted, the nervous energy in his every movement.

Still, Taehyung couldn’t help but feel a flicker of hope. Tonight was different. Tonight, his family would be together again, and that’s all he really wanted. He desperately wanted to make things right, to prove that he could be a good son, a good brother, and a good father figure for his own dad.

He had worked hard for this moment. It had been a whole month since he last drank, and though it wasn’t much, it was something. The battle against the temptation still raged inside him, but he had held strong. Even more importantly, he hadn’t raised a hand to his son since—the one thing he was most proud of.

As he opened the door, he could feel the weight of the night ahead, but for once, he wasn’t going to let his past mistakes define it. Tonight, he would focus on his family. Tonight, he would try to be the man they deserved.

It felt strange. Taehyung had spent the entire day looking forward to this dinner, hoping—like a child—for warmth, for laughter, for the kind of effortless conversations that made a family feel whole. He had imagined them sitting around the table, exchanging stories, maybe even hugging before they left. But none of that happened.

Instead, there was an uncomfortable distance between them, something heavy in the air that he couldn’t quite grasp. His mother and sister felt different, like strangers wearing familiar faces. They had been a family once, hadn’t they? So why did it feel like they never were?

Taehyung tried to understand. He really did. He knew his father had made mistakes—terrible ones—but he was trying to be better. He was changing. Wasn’t that worth something? Wasn’t that enough to give them hope?

Dinner ended in that same quiet tension, and when it was time to say goodbye, Taehyung walked them to the door. He had insisted his father come too, to stand beside him and show them that he was really trying. But his father refused, weighed down by guilt so heavy that he couldn’t even meet their eyes.

Outside, his mother turned to him, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. Her touch was warm, but her words were not.

“Taehyung,” she said softly, “don’t you want to come with us? You know you have a room waiting for you. I want you there, with me and your sister.”

Again. The same question, the same plea. She had asked him so many times before, trying to pull him away, to bring him to an unfamiliar town, an unfamiliar home—away from his father.

Taehyung swallowed. His answer never changed.

“I can’t,” he said, his voice firm. “I can’t leave dad alone. He’s getting better—you see that, don’t you?” His eyes flickered to his sister, searching for something in her expression. Agreement. Understanding. Anything.

But she only looked away.

His fists clenched at his sides, the same anger bubbling up inside him—the same anger he had felt the day they left.

“We can be a family again,” he shouted, his voice cracking slightly, raw with desperation.

His mother flinched, taking a small but noticeable step back. She had always hated anger, always feared the way it coursed through the men in her life, how it seemed to be something inherited, something inescapable.

“Taehee,” he turned to his sister, his voice softer now, almost pleading. “Dad wants to have you with him.”

He could understand why their mother had left. She had endured too much, seen too many broken promises. But Taehee? His own sister? He couldn’t understand how she could walk away so easily.

“I’m scared of him,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. Her eyes met his, filled with something close to regret, but also finality. She was begging him—please, let me go.

But Taehyung was stubborn.

“Please,” he whispered, his voice trembling now. “For me.”

“Tae, I can’t. I don’t want to see him again,” Taehee murmured, her gaze fixed on the ground as if looking at him would break her resolve. She had spent too many nights listening to their father’s drunken rage, watching as he lashed out at Taehyung, knowing she was powerless to stop it. She couldn’t go back to that—not even for her brother.

“Come with us,” she pleaded again, her voice trembling. She reached for their mother’s hand, pulling her close, as if grounding herself in the presence of the one person who had managed to escape. Their mother remained silent, but her eyes were full of sorrow. She wanted Taehyung with them, away from the chaos, away from the burden he had placed on his own shoulders. She wanted him safe.

“Fuck! No!” Taehyung snapped, his voice rising with frustration. His teeth clenched so tightly it hurt. “I have to take care of him! If you’re not capable of doing it, then I have to!” His hands trembled as he pointed an accusatory finger at them both, his chest heaving.

How could they just leave? How could they walk away so easily and expect him to do the same?

They said their goodbyes and left—again. Taehyung stood there for a moment, watching as they disappeared into the night, his hands clenched into fists at his sides. He should’ve been used to this by now. But it never got easier.

When he stepped back inside, the first thing that hit him was the smell—sharp, bitter, unmistakable.

Then, his eyes landed on the bottle by the door, lying on its side, its contents spilled across the floor.

And then—the feet.

His father’s feet, sprawled out lifelessly on the ground.

“Dad!” Taehyung’s voice cracked as he rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside him. His heart pounded so loudly it echoed in his ears. Just minutes ago, he had been fine. He had been trying. How had he fallen so fast? How had everything gone wrong so quickly?

“Come on,” Taehyung pleaded, gripping his father’s shoulders, shaking him as if he could wake him up from this nightmare. “Dad, wake up.”

His father’s head lolled to the side, his eyes bloodshot and unfocused, his body limp like a discarded puppet. Taehyung could smell the alcohol clinging to his clothes, seeping into the air around them.

His father had been trying.

But tonight, he had lost.

“Leave me alone,” his father grumbled, shoving Taehyung away with a weak but deliberate push. His bloodshot eyes flickered toward the slightly open window, his expression twisting into something bitter. “I know you’re just waiting for me to die so you can run off and join them,” he spat, his words slurred but sharp.

Taehyung’s breath hitched. His father had heard.

“Don’t say things like that,” he pleaded, his voice trembling, eyes stinging with unshed tears. He couldn’t even bear the thought of losing him—not like this. No matter how broken he was, he was still his father. The man he had once admired. The man he had spent years believing in.

His father let out a hollow laugh, full of resentment. Then, without warning—

Smack.

“Shut the fuck up!” he roared, his palm colliding with Taehyung’s cheek.

Taehyung barely registered the sting before the shock settled in. His head snapped to the side, his cheek burning where his father’s palm had struck.

“I…” Taehyung started, his voice small, trembling. But what was there to say?

His father scoffed bitterly, stumbling back as he reached for the bottle again. His hands fumbled against the floor, desperate, pathetic. “I know you want to leave, just like them,” he slurred. “You all do. You all look at me like I’m some kind of—some kind of monster.”

“I don’t.” Taehyung swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “I stayed.”

His father let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Yeah? And look where that got you.”

Taehyung wanted to argue, wanted to scream that he wasn’t regretting it—that he wasn’t like them. That he wouldn’t leave.

Taehyung didn’t fight back. He didn’t raise his hands to shield himself or try to escape. He just let it happen.

His father shoved him to the floor, and the first blow landed hard—then another, and another. The force sent shockwaves through his body, but he didn’t make a sound. He didn’t cry. He didn’t beg.

He had learned a long time ago that it was easier this way. That struggling only made it worse. So he stayed there, curled up on the cold floor, taking each hit in silence.

“What do you mean I’m not doing enough?” Namjoon’s voice echoed through the cramped walls of his small room near the gas station. He gripped the phone tighter, his knuckles turning white. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

Here he was, working himself to exhaustion, barely sleeping, barely living, just to make sure his family had something—and now his mother was calling to tell him it still wasn’t enough?

His chest ached with frustration. He had given up everything. His dreams, his future, his own well-being. He was the only one bringing money home, the only financial support they had, and yet somehow, it still wasn’t enough?

“I haven’t slept for days because I keep working,” he snapped, his voice rising despite himself. The walls seemed to throw his words right back at him, amplifying his anger. “How is that not enough?”

He didn’t even want to hear her explanations. His patience, already hanging by a thread, snapped. In a rush of anger, he hung up.

It had been days since he’d last closed his eyes properly. First, it was Taehyung calling him in the middle of the night. Then, his brother getting into trouble—because of Taehyung. And now, extra shifts piling on just so he could make ends meet. He was exhausted. Beyond exhausted. His body ached, his head throbbed, and his emotions felt like a storm barely held back by a dam that was seconds from breaking.

A sharp knock on his window cut through his thoughts. He exhaled, long and slow, dragging a hand down his face. Not now. He just wanted to be alone, to shut everything out, even if just for a moment.

But then he saw that familiar boxy smile on the other side of the glass.

Taehyung.

It had been a week since they’d last spoken, since that night. But looking at him now, Namjoon realized—he wasn’t angry at him anymore. He was just tired. Tired of everything, of everyone, of holding himself together when all he wanted to do was fall apart.

Namjoon opened the window, and Taehyung easily climbed through, but it was the bruises on his face that immediately caught Namjoon’s eye.

“Hey, hyung,” Taehyung greeted, pacing around the cramped space, deliberately avoiding Namjoon’s gaze. “I had dinner with my family tonight,” he said, his words coming out without much thought. “I really thought it’d be like before, but—”

Namjoon couldn’t take it anymore. The anger, exhaustion, and frustration he’d been bottling up for days finally erupted. He couldn’t bear to hear Taehyung talk about his problems, not right now.

“Stop,” Namjoon whispered, his hand clutching his temples, as if he could hold himself together that way. “I can’t keep listening to you complain over and over again.”

Taehyung froze, the words hitting him harder than any of the bruises on his face. His mouth remained slightly open, his unfinished sentence hanging in the air between them.

Namjoon exhaled sharply, he didn’t mean to snap. He really didn’t. But he was exhausted—physically, mentally, emotionally. He had nothing left to give.

“Hyung…?” Taehyung’s voice was smaller now, uncertain.

Namjoon sighed again, this time through gritted teeth. “It’s always about you, Tae.” His voice wasn’t loud, but the weight behind it was crushing. “Every time you come here, it’s the same thing. Your dad. Your problems. Your fights.”

Taehyung took a small step back, his gaze flickering between Namjoon’s tense shoulders and the floor. “That’s not—” He stopped himself, swallowing thickly. Because maybe it was true.

Namjoon let out a humorless chuckle, shaking his head. “I don’t have time to sit here and listen to you complain, Taehyung. I’m barely keeping myself together.”

It wasn’t fair. Taehyung knew it wasn’t fair. But the words still stung like ice against an open wound. He lowered his head, biting his lip. His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

Namjoon’s words were sharp, slicing through the heavy air. “I have too much on my plate right now to listen to you,” he said, his voice thick with frustration. It felt like he couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Maybe you should try to handle things on your own for once,” he added, his words full of bitterness.

Taehyung’s brows furrowed, his eyes wide with confusion. He never once asked for Namjoon’s help, never expected him to carry his burdens. Maybe he talked too much about his problems because Namjoon was his closest friend, someone he trusted. But he never meant for it to feel suffocating.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t think it’d—”

“That’s your problem!” Namjoon snapped, his anger flaring even more. “You never think! Like that night with my brother—did you think about the consequences? You’re too wrapped up in your own world to even care about anyone else, Taehyung!”

“That’s not true, I care about you,” Taehyung defended himself, his voice shaking slightly. He wasn’t used to seeing Namjoon like this, to seeing him so on edge, ready to explode. It felt like a stranger was standing before him, not the calm, thoughtful friend he had known.

Namjoon’s eyes darkened, a mixture of exhaustion and anger brewing within them. “I don’t need your help!” he shot back, his voice growing sharper. “Stop trying to act like some kind of hero!” His words were heavy, every syllable carrying the weight of everything he had been holding inside for so long.

“I don’t want you near me or my family again,” Namjoon said, his voice low and dangerous as he grabbed Taehyung by the shoulders, pushing him toward the door. “Don’t come near my brother ever again. You’re nothing but trouble, Taehyung.”

Taehyung’s eyes widened in shock, but Namjoon couldn’t look at him anymore. He knew he wasn’t being fair, knew that Taehyung wasn’t entirely to blame for everything. But right now, it was easier to lash out at him, to direct all his frustration and anger at someone who seemed to be the root of it.

He could feel the weight of his words, the way they hung in the air between them, but he couldn’t stop himself. It felt like the only way to regain some semblance of control.

Before Taehyung could say anything else, the door slammed shut in his face, the sound echoing in his chest. His backside hit the cold pavement with a dull thud, and all he could do was stare blankly at the door that had just closed on him.

He never expected this—never expected to be sent away like this, not after everything that had happened. It wasn’t just a bad night; it felt like everything had been crumbling around him. His father’s violence, the failed family dinner, and now this. All he wanted was to find comfort in his best friend, but here he was, alone, abandoned on the street.

Why had Namjoon been so angry? It couldn’t have been just about him, could it? Was it his fault?

Taehyung stared at the door for a long time, lost in his thoughts, his fingers curling into the fabric of his pants as a cold breeze brushed past. Maybe it was him. Maybe it was the way he always seemed to mess everything up, the way everyone around him seemed to get frustrated with him. Even his father was angry at him. Maybe he was just that person—the one who always triggered anger in others without meaning to. The one who couldn’t get anything right. The one who always made things worse.

Namjoon wasn’t okay.

His nerves had been frayed since his mother’s call, and exhaustion was creeping in, threatening to pull him under. His body was on the verge of giving out, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him harder than ever.

He had always tried to be the strong one—the calm, rational one. The one who held things together when everything else was falling apart. He had spent his life protecting, fixing, sacrificing. But tonight, it felt like none of it had mattered.

He had failed.

And nothing made him feel more like a failure than the way Taehyung had looked at him through the doorway—eyes wide, filled with something between disbelief and silent pleading. A look that begged him not to do what he had just done.

But he had done it anyway. He had turned his back. Pushed Taehyung away. Abandoned him.

Being around Taehyung was exhausting. Namjoon couldn’t keep up the calm façade anymore—not when everything inside him was cracking under the weight of it all.

He knew Taehyung looked up to him, saw him as some kind of father figure. But Namjoon wasn’t a father. He wasn’t responsible for raising his younger brother, and he certainly wasn’t responsible for Taehyung. He was just an eighteen-year-old boy trying to survive, trying to make it through each day without completely falling apart.

He had never asked for this life, never asked to be the one everyone depended on. But despite it all—despite the anger, the exhaustion, the overwhelming need to push everything away—he still felt guilty.

Namjoon clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around the crumpled bills on the ground. For a brief second, he had forgotten where he was—forgotten that he was supposed to be working, supposed to be swallowing his pride like he did every day.

The car in front of him was sleek, expensive—something he could only dream of. And the man inside? Dressed in a sharp suit, oozing arrogance, he barely spared Namjoon a glance as he tossed the money carelessly, like he was throwing scraps to a stray dog.

“Do your job,” the man ordered, his voice dripping with condescension.

Namjoon bent down to pick up the money, but before he could stand, the man laughed—a sharp, mocking sound that made Namjoon’s stomach twist.

“You haven’t seen that much before, have you?” the man sneered, his tone filled with disdain. His laughter wasn’t just at Namjoon’s expense; it was a declaration. Look at you. You’ll always be on your knees in front of me.

Namjoon felt the heat rise to his face, his fingers trembling as he held out the extra bills. He forced himself to keep his head down, to swallow back the bitterness burning in his throat.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened. He had dealt with men like this before—people who thought money made them untouchable, who looked at him like he was nothing more than dirt under their feet.

“There’s too much,” he said quietly, his voice controlled, almost emotionless. He straightened his back and bowed his head slightly, offering the excess money back.

The man scoffed, shaking his head in amusement. “You see, that’s the problem with the poor,” he drawled, his voice carrying that same smug superiority. “Ungrateful.”

Before Namjoon could react, the man’s arms shot out, kicking the cap off his head. It tumbled onto the pavement, landing at Namjoon’s feet like an insult.

Namjoon inhaled sharply through his nose, his nails digging into his palms. Ungrateful? If anything, Namjoon was the opposite of that. He fought every single day, trying to keep his life from unraveling, holding it together with sheer willpower. He never complained, never asked for more than what he had, because he knew life wasn’t easy. It never had been.

So how could people look down on him so easily? First his mother, now this stranger—both making him feel like he wasn’t enough, like all the effort he put in meant nothing. It didn’t matter how hard he worked, how much he sacrificed. People only saw what they wanted to see.

And the problem with bottling up all that anger, all that exhaustion, was that when it finally exploded, it wouldn’t be controlled. It wouldn’t be quiet. It would be ugly. And unforgivable.

Namjoon threw the money back onto the ground, the bills scattering like worthless scraps, and without thinking, he kicked the side of the man’s pristine dark car. The metallic thud echoed in the night.

Shouts erupted. Then fists. Namjoon didn’t remember who threw the first punch, only that suddenly there was chaos—gritted teeth, swinging arms, the sharp sting of knuckles against skin. It was messy, unrestrained.

And then, silence.

Then sirens.

They didn’t ask questions. Didn’t hesitate. The officers took one look at the scene, at the man in his expensive suit and the other in his worn-out uniform, and decided who the criminal was.

The one who looked more like a vagabond.

The cold metal of the handcuffs burned against his skin as they shoved him into the back of the police car.

Namjoon had truly failed.

Taehyung had spent a terrible night. His nightmares had felt too real—too vivid, too cruel. He saw Namjoon dying in a way only a manic, broken mind could conjure.

Not just Namjoon. His sister too. Again.

In his dream, he had wanted to switch fates, to be the one choking on blood, the one suffering. Anything but watching the people he loved be on the receiving end of that agony.

What was worse than waking up in a trance, heart hammering, head throbbing, was the crushing realization that he couldn’t even call Namjoon to hear his voice and steady his breathing. Namjoon had made it clear—Taehyung was suffocating him. He had no right to reach out anymore.

His phone buzzed against the nightstand. He barely had time to register the sound before his fingers grasped for it, already desperate for relief.

But it wasn’t Namjoon.

His brows furrowed when he saw his sister’s name on the screen. She almost never called.

“Noona—” He barely got the word out before he heard her sobs.

That sound. The one that haunted his nights. The one that echoed in his dreams, looping endlessly, a ghostly reminder of everything he had failed to protect.

A cold, sinking feeling gripped his chest.

Something was happening. Something bad.

And if his nightmares had taught him anything, it was that someone was going to die tonight.

But not his sister.

Not this time. He would make sure of that.

As Taehyung ran through the dimly lit streets, his sister’s voice echoed in his head, her violent sobs blending with the distant screams outside.

“I’m scared, Taehyung,” she had choked out between ragged breaths. “He’s here.”

His feet pounded against the pavement, his lungs burning, but he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. His entire body moved on instinct—desperation fueling every step, every frantic heartbeat.

“Mom and I are hiding in my room,” she had continued, her voice trembling, her sobs growing harsher.

“I’m scared, Taehyung. I’m scared.”

Again and again, like a broken record.

He had to get to them.

No matter what it took. No matter what he had to do.

Without hesitation. Without doubt.

Taehyung barely registered the burning in his legs as he sprinted up the stairs, taking them two, three at a time. He had never run this fast in his life—he didn’t even know he could. But nothing mattered more than getting to them. Not the ache in his chest, not the breath he couldn’t catch.

The only sound louder than his pounding heartbeat was the choked sobs of his sister and mother still echoing through the phone.

He reached the seventh floor and slammed the apartment door open, his vision blurring with sheer panic.

His eyes darted immediately to the open bedroom door.

His father stood there—tall, looming. His presence alone was suffocating.

But what sent ice through Taehyung’s veins was what was in his father’s hands.

A sharp object.

His sister and mother were huddled on the floor, knees tucked to their chests, gripping each other as if letting go would shatter them completely. Violent, gut-wrenching sobs wracked their bodies, fear written in every trembling movement.

Taehyung didn’t think.

He didn’t need to.

His eyes landed on the counter.

A bottle.

He lunged for it, grabbing it with both hands and smashing it against the hard surface. Glass exploded, shards scattering across the floor.

Then, gripping the broken neck of the bottle tightly, he turned and ran straight for his father.

The first stab was instinct.

The second was desperation.

The third was certainty.

Taehyung didn’t know when he started crying. He barely registered the screams of his mother and sister, their voices blending into the chaotic rush of blood pounding in his ears. His body moved on its own, his grip tightening around the shattered bottle, his sobs mixing with his ragged breaths.

He had promised. Promised he would protect them no matter what.

And if this was the price—if taking his own father’s life was the only way to keep them safe—then so be it.

“You will never hurt us again,” he choked out between frantic gasps, his hands trembling but unwilling to stop.

It wasn’t until his father’s body collapsed to the ground, still and unmoving, that the weight of it all crashed into him.

His knees buckled. The broken bottle slipped from his fingers, clattering against the blood-stained floor.

And then, Taehyung screamed.

A raw, agonizing sound that tore through his throat, shaking with grief, relief, and the overwhelming horror of what he had just done.

He had saved them. But at what cost?

The desperation in Taehyung’s voice echoed through the silence that followed. His hands, slick with blood, trembled as he desperately shook his father’s lifeless shoulders. He begged, pleaded—prayed for a miracle that would never come.

“Dad, please…” His voice cracked, the words tasting like acid in his throat. His father’s body didn’t respond. He couldn’t even pretend anymore. He couldn’t hope anymore.

The man who raised him—the man who had hurt him, broken him, and shaped him into something dark—was gone.

But it didn’t matter now. All that mattered was the blood on his hands. The same blood that was supposed to connect him to his father was now a symbol of his betrayal.

He had crossed a line. He had become the monster.

Taehyung fell back on his knees, his chest heaving with silent sobs. His body shook uncontrollably as the weight of it all crushed him. In trying to protect his family, he had destroyed the last part of his innocence.

He couldn’t look at himself. He didn’t want to.

He was no better than the man who raised him.

He left the room, his mother and sister unable to look at the horrific scene, their eyes turned away from everything—turning away from him.

Taehyung fumbled for his phone in his pocket, his bloodstained hands trembling as he tugged at his jeans. His fingers left smears of red on the screen as he dialed the number he knew all too well.

The phone rang, but when it hit the second ring, there was still no answer.

“Hyung,” Taehyung whispered, unaware that his message would never reach its destination. He sank to the floor, his back pressed against the cold wall. “I know I hurt you,” he murmured, his voice trembling.

The final sob breaking his composure, before dropping the phone to the floor.

“Hyung, I really need your help—”

Namjoon stared at his phone, still lying on the desk at the police station. Taehyung. The name burned in his chest, a constant reminder of everything that had been left unsaid, of everything that had gone wrong. He wanted to reach for it, to hear his voice, but he couldn’t bring himself to.

His hands stayed frozen, a painful weight pressing on his chest. His fate, his actions—they were being sealed in that moment, and the consequences of his choices felt inevitable.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. And he knew, deep down, he might never have the chance to again.

And just like that, they both became criminals.

One in a moment of blind desperation, driven to violence by the weight of a broken family and an even heavier heart. The other, crushed by guilt and years of bottled anger, pushing himself beyond the point of no return. The line between right and wrong blurred for both of them, as they sank deeper into a reality they couldn’t undo.

What they had once hoped for—healing, redemption, peace—now seemed like distant dreams. Their paths, though separate, had converged in the same dark place, and neither knew how to pull themselves out. Each was bound by the consequences of their actions, and no matter how much they regretted it, the past couldn’t be erased.

They were criminals now. And neither knew where the journey would take them next.

#bts hyyh #bts fanfic #bts imagine #hyyh taejoon #hyyh namjoon #hyyh taehyung #bts angst #bts imagines #kim namjoon #kim taehyung #bts taehyung #bts namjoon

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igwb · 5 months ago

Text

drabble.

25 July, Year 22.

you can find the whole fic here!♡

Jungkook had always been blinded by hope, his innocence and naivety leading him forward even when the world kept proving him wrong.

He truly believed that growing older would change him—that time would somehow fix the cracks inside him. But now, at twenty-two, he realized he was still the same broken boy he had always been.

Turning twenty-two had terrified him for as long as he could remember. It meant he had lived longer than him. Longer than Min Yoongi. The thought left a bitter taste on his tongue, one he couldn’t shake off, no matter how much he tried—no matter how much alcohol burned against his throat, failing to drown out the weight of it.

He really hated alcohol.

The sour, burning taste always dragged him back to that night—to the last time he saw his face. The heavy stench on his breath, suffocating and sharp, still clung to Jungkook’s memory like a scar that wouldn’t fade. Every sip, every bitter swallow, only reminded him of how it felt to have those words, cruel and laced with regret, thrown at him—before Yoongi burned alive, swallowed by the very flames that took him away.

But lately, it seemed like alcohol was the only thing that could quiet his thoughts.

Because despite everything—despite how much better he thought he was doing—there was still an emptiness in his chest, something missing. Someone missing. A bond severed three years ago, leaving behind a wound that never really healed.

At first, he convinced himself he was okay. He fought blindly, for himself, for Yoongi, fueled by a force so intense it felt almost euphoric. Like he was running toward something bigger, something meaningful—like he could become one of the heroes he used to admire.

But euphoria never lasts.

For a year and a half, he had been lost in that illusion, high on the idea that if he just kept going, just kept fighting, then maybe—just maybe—he could make it all mean something.

And then reality hit. Hard.

Yoongi wasn’t coming back.

Yoongi was dead.

His body was nothing more than ashes, sealed away in an urn Jungkook knew too well. And no matter how much time passed, no matter how much he tried to move forward, he realized the truth—he wasn’t healed. Not even close.

He felt so guilty.

Here he was, drinking alcohol in an empty garage with some older boys he thought were cool. He followed them, hoping to fit in, hoping that maybe if he acted like them, did reckless things like they did, he could somehow feel cool enough, like he mattered. But the guilt sat heavy in his chest. He hated this feeling, the deep-rooted sense that he didn’t belong here, that this wasn’t him, wasn’t who he wanted to be.

Jungkook had gotten bolder, yes. He wasn’t the same scared kid people used to target. He could blend in, make friends like the ones around him now. But inside, he was so detached.

He didn’t talk in situations like this. He was just there. Existing, but not really living. His body was present, but his soul? That felt like it had been gone for years.

When had it left?

He didn’t know. But somewhere, back in that stupid motel three years ago, it felt like it had slipped away for good.

For the first time in three years, Jungkook didn’t go to the columbarium on March 9th. He didn’t bring Yoongi one of those lighters that reminded him so much of his brother. And now, sitting on a chair in this garage, he could only feel disgusted with himself. If he could see himself from the outside, he would throw punches at his own reflection, beat it until blood stained his face. It had been a long time since he had taken a beating like that, since he had felt that raw sense of release.

His father didn’t find it funny anymore, not now that Jungkook had found the strength to stand up for himself. The bullies, too, had stopped coming around. They knew better than to try.

But still, there was something about it that he missed. As masochistic as it might sound, he longed for that punishment. The feeling of pain, of being struck down for something he hadn’t even done—it made him feel something. Anything. Right now, he needed that kind of release. A violent one. Because for the first time in years of devotion to Yoongi, he had failed him. He had let him down, and the guilt felt like it was suffocating him.

He needed something to hurt. Maybe then he’d feel like he could breathe again.

That’s how Jungkook found himself in that place, his back pressed against the cold, harsh garage door, one of his so-called friends’ arm tightening around his throat, forcing him to stay still. He had started the whole thing over something as stupid as throwing a full bottle on the ground. The guy, clearly as intoxicated as he was, couldn’t believe his eyes. In the blink of an eye, Jungkook was slammed against the door, pinned by the weight of the other boy.

“The fuck is your problem?” The words came out slurred, the guy’s breath warm against his face, before he threw the first punch. It landed hard on Jungkook’s cheek.

“Stupid weird shit,” the guy muttered as he pulled his fist back, ready for another swing.

Weird. It was a word Jungkook hadn’t heard in a long time, a word that dug into him like it always did back in high school. It was the word that people used when they wanted to make him feel like an outcast, like his very existence made them sick. He could still remember the way they’d say it, how they’d look at him with disgust as if his very bones weren’t like theirs.

Jungkook didn’t even try to defend himself. He allowed them to hit him, his body tossed around like a ragdoll, each punch landing harder than the last. The boys didn’t even need to speak—there was an unspoken challenge between them: who could throw the hardest punch, who could make him feel the most pain. Jungkook was nothing more than a toy to them, a lifeless puppet, giving himself over to whatever they dished out. It didn’t matter. The pain wasn’t what he cared about. It was the emptiness that filled him, that desire to feel something, anything, because the weight of his guilt crushed him from the inside out. He deserved it.

He had failed Yoongi. He could have saved him, Jungkook was sure of it. In some way, he could have. If only, back then, he hadn’t been so naive, so desperate, so obsessed with Yoongi. If only he hadn’t been so consumed with wanting to protect him. Maybe then Yoongi wouldn’t have been scared away by his innocent love. Maybe he wouldn’t have pushed him away.

And maybe, if he hadn’t tried so hard to make Yoongi care for him, to make Yoongi see him as someone worth protecting, he wouldn’t have felt the unbearable weight of loss now.

Jungkook was sure that if that night, he had fought back just a little bit more—if he hadn’t let his fear get the best of him, if he hadn’t acted like a helpless kid—maybe Yoongi wouldn’t have felt like he had to erase himself, to disappear, just to protect him. Maybe Yoongi wouldn’t have carried that burden alone, thinking that by pushing him away, he’d be sparing him from the hurt.

Jungkook couldn’t shake the feeling that, in some twisted way, he had been the one to kill Min Yoongi. That he had somehow forced him into making that decision. It gnawed at him, the thought that his actions—or inactions—had been the final push, the thing that had made Yoongi believe he needed to leave.

And that thought, that deep, suffocating guilt, was slowly killing Jungkook bit by bit. Each day, it weighed heavier on his chest, every breath feeling like it came with the burden of Yoongi’s absence. No matter how hard he tried to move on, to convince himself that it wasn’t his fault, the doubt lingered, whispering cruelly in his mind.

The boys stopped, staring at Jungkook’s limp form sprawled out on the grimy garage floor, his chest rising and falling with shallow, labored breaths. Their eyes flicked over his battered body before they silently turned away, leaving without a word, without a second glance.

Jungkook wanted to scream, to shout for them to come back, to finish what they’d started because he deserved it. But the pain was too much. His chest, bruised and broken, screamed louder than any words he could muster. He couldn’t even find the strength to lift his head, let alone call out.

All he could do was lie there, gasping, feeling his soul shatter more with every passing second.

Jungkook eventually found the strength to push himself up, his body shaking violently as he stood. The world around him felt distant, distorted. His feet moved, almost without his permission, dragging him through the emptiness like a puppet whose strings were frayed. He wasn’t sure where he was going, but it didn’t matter.

He didn’t feel like himself anymore. The person he used to be, was slipping away with each step. Every thought, every memory, was swallowed up by Yoongi. It was as if his entire existence had become an echo of Yoongi’s absence.

Jungkook felt himself fading, losing his own identity, as if he were merging with Yoongi’s spirit. Their thoughts on death, once so separate, were now intertwined, tangled into a single, consuming idea.

Jungkook stood in front of the columbarium, the cold air biting at his skin as he stared down the familiar, worn path. His feet carried him without thought, making the same turns, walking the same route he had so many times before. The long corridor stretched out before him, and every step seemed to drag him deeper into the heavy weight of his memories. When he reached the corner where Yoongi rested, he stopped.

The inscription burned into his mind like a cruel joke. It was the same one he had seen countless times before, yet today it felt like an accusation. Like the letters were staring back at him, daring him to look long enough, hoping he would stop pretending.

And then, a horrifying thought crossed his mind: What if he was the one who should be here instead of Yoongi? What if it was meant to be him, the boy who never quite belonged?

The words, Jeon Jungkook, 1997-2014, seemed to materialize in his mind, a grim reflection of everything that had been lost. That was how it should’ve ended, right? He should have been the one to go first, the one to leave this world behind. He had never been meant to live without Yoongi.

But here he was. And Yoongi wasn’t.

The pain hit him like a wave, and he could feel his breath catch in his throat. The thought of trading places with Yoongi seemed so real, so visceral. If only he could. If only he could do something, anything, to reverse this twisted fate. He stood there in silence, too broken to speak, too lost to move.

He slammed his hands against the cold, unforgiving door of the small box, where the urn and Yoongi’s belongings were kept. His palms pressed hard against it, as though trying to push through, to feel closer, to touch what he could no longer have. His forehead followed, resting gently against the surface, desperate to feel the connection again, even in the most hollow of ways.

“I wish I could forget about you,” he repeated, his voice cracking as if the weight of his own words was too much to bear. The anger twisted inside him like a knot, tightening around his heart.

He had never felt this angry before, and it was like he could almost see Yoongi’s face in his mind, burning with the same fury that consumed him.

“Fuck,” he spat aloud, his hands turning into fists so tight his nails dug into his palms. His body trembled with the force of his emotions. “I wish I’d never met you.”

The words tasted bitter on his tongue, sharper than anything he’d ever said. They left a hollow echo in the air, as though the universe had heard his admission and felt the weight of it. He didn’t want to feel this way, didn’t want to resent the one person who had meant everything to him.

“You really thought you knew better than me what I needed?” he asked, his voice dripping with manic disbelief, his fingers tangled in his dark hair as he pulled at it in frustration. The picture of Yoongi—one he once cherished—taunted him now, the smile on the older’s face almost mocking him. He wanted to rip it from the frame, tear it apart, and scream at him, tell him to fight for himself, to stay here, to stay alive.

“You really thought that—” Jungkook’s words faltered for a moment, his chest tightening as the anger threatened to choke him. He took a deep breath, fighting to steady the storm inside. His hands clenched at his sides, but the fury still clawed at him, relentless. “You really thought that somehow killing yourself was better than me having to suffer alone?”

The words hung in the air, a weight too heavy to carry, as if he was questioning the very essence of Yoongi’s decision. His mind swirled with confusion and resentment, trying to understand how the person he had loved so deeply could have made that choice.

“I feel like I killed you!” Jungkook shouted, his voice shaking with a mix of fury and anguish, as his finger pointed accusingly at the urn. The anger and pain in his chest were too much to contain. “How is that protecting me, huh? Tell me, Yoongi,” he spat, his eyes burning with unshed tears, waiting for some sign, for some answer that would never come.

He stood there, frozen for a moment, his breath ragged as if he were trying to will Yoongi’s ghost to speak, to explain. But there was nothing. The silence of the room mocked him, and his chest grew tighter with every passing second.

“You’re selfish, weak,” he hissed through gritted teeth, the words dripping with disdain. “I don’t even know why I keep living for you, because I think that somehow, by doing that—you’re living too.”

The words were sharp and jagged, cutting through the darkness in his heart. He could feel the weight of his own contradictions, the guilt and the anger, pushing him further into despair. He had loved Yoongi with every ounce of his being, but now… now, it felt like nothing but a cruel joke. Jungkook didn’t understand anymore. And it was killing him.

Jungkook collapsed onto the floor, his knees drawn to his chest as the weight of his grief crashed over him. His body trembled with every sob that wracked his frame, and he couldn’t stop the tears from flowing. The dam he had built for so long had finally shattered, and the flood was unstoppable.

“I’m hurting,” he whispered through the rawness of his voice, his hand pressing desperately against his chest, as if trying to hold the pain inside. But it was too much. Too heavy. His vision blurred with every tear that fell, the pain in his heart too intense to bear alone.

“I’m trying so hard to live for you, but what if I failed you again?” His voice cracked, the fear of repeating the past, of losing Yoongi all over again, clawing at him. He felt like he was drowning in the guilt, suffocating under the weight of it.

He stared at the urn before him, his breaths shallow and shaky. “I just want to see you… to know where you are, to be with you. To be wherever you are right now,” he whispered, his voice barely audible, as if the words alone could somehow summon Yoongi back to him.

He closed his eyes tightly, wishing for a sign, anything that could make this unbearable ache go away. But nothing came, and he was left alone with his grief, his guilt, and the crushing weight of loss that seemed to consume him whole.

Between his choked sobs and a weariness that weighed him down like a heavy blanket, Jungkook eventually drifted off to sleep. It wasn’t the first time he had done so in this place. The columbarium, open around the clock, had become a strange kind of refuge for him—a place where he could breathe without the burden of the world around him. Here, Yoongi was always with him, and the thought of that was the only thing that made him feel like he wasn’t truly alone.

When he finally stirred, the first thing he felt was a pounding headache, a direct consequence of the alcohol he had consumed the night before. He had known better, but in that moment, the numbness had felt necessary—anything to drown out the weight of everything he was carrying inside. His head was heavy, his vision blurred, and the pain from the hits he’d taken earlier in the night still lingered throughout his body like a cruel reminder of his own helplessness.

But as the fog of sleep began to clear, it wasn’t just his body that ached. His heart felt hollow in a way that couldn’t be explained—an emptiness he didn’t know how to fill. The conversation from last night, the harsh words and the admission of feelings he couldn’t take back, echoed in his mind. The guilt and sorrow from that exchange wrapped themselves around his chest like a vice, tightening with every breath he took.

Opening his eyes, the first thing he noticed was the harsh light of the sun streaming through the windows, its rays sharp against his skin like a cruel reminder of the world he had to face. He raised his hand to shield his eyes, squinting against the brightness as he tried to focus on the woman standing in front of him.

She spoke softly, her voice gentle as she shook his shoulders lightly, waking him from the daze he had slipped into. “You’re in front of—” she said, her words trailing off as she gestured to something behind him. Jungkook’s stomach dropped when he realized where he was and who he was intruding upon. He had been asleep in front of someone else’s loved one, their final resting place—something he knew Yoongi would have never wanted.

Immediately, an overwhelming sense of guilt washed over him, and he bowed his head in apology, repeatedly muttering his regrets. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” His words faltered, unable to find the right thing to say. What was there to say? He had been lost in his own pain, too consumed by his grief to notice the boundaries of the space he was in.

The woman smiled softly, a kindness in her eyes that he didn’t quite deserve, and without saying another word, she continued her task, placing flowers into the box that held her loved one’s ashes.

The woman’s question lingered in the air as she continued with her task, her movements steady and practiced. She didn’t glance up at him, instead focusing on the delicate arrangement of flowers in her hands. But Jungkook couldn’t help but feel the weight of her question pressing against him.

“Who is it?” Her voice was soft, as though she already knew the answer, as though she understood the quiet grief that tied them all together in this place.

Jungkook found himself standing there, a stranger to his own emotions. It was strange, how surrounded he was by the sorrow of others and yet felt like he was the only one truly carrying the weight. Everyone around him, every person who had left their loved ones in this cold, silent place, knew what it was like to lose someone. And still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his grief was different. Like it was the only grief that truly mattered. Like he was the only one who knew what it felt like to lose something so irreplaceable.

His gaze fell to his hands, clasped tightly against his stomach, a gesture of discomfort and lost control. The emptiness that gnawed at him in this moment seemed to grow even deeper as he struggled to find the words to explain the relationship he once had with Yoongi.

“My—” he paused, unsure of how to categorize the boy who had meant everything to him. Was Yoongi his friend? His brother? His soulmate? Lover? Lifeline? Jungkook felt his heart clench at the thought that none of those labels felt like they were enough. Yoongi had been all of those things to him, and more. He was everything and nothing all at once.

The words caught in his throat, and for a long moment, he stood in silence, the weight of the question heavy on his shoulders.

“Yoongi,” he whispered, barely audible, as if saying his name was somehow enough. The two syllables felt like the answer to all of his questions, to all of the confusion he had carried since that night.

Jungkook didn’t need to explain more than that. Because Yoongi, in the end, was everything.

The woman’s smile was gentle, but it only made the ache in Jungkook’s chest grow. She didn’t understand, of course she didn’t. How could she? She wasn’t Yoongi. She didn’t know the way Yoongi’s laugh still echoed in his ears, or how his name felt like a prayer stuck in the back of his throat.

She couldn’t know the bond they shared, the kind that wasn’t just friendship or love, but something deeper, something woven into the very fabric of his being.

“Yoongi must be lucky to have someone to sleep beside,” she said, her words light, a soft attempt at warmth. Her smile lingered as she finished placing the flowers in the small box, a simple act of care. Then, she stood up, her movements graceful as she closed the door to the small memorial with a soft click.

Jungkook didn’t want to look. He didn’t want to pry, but there was something about her quiet sorrow that made him wonder if she, too, understood what it was like to lose someone so vital to your existence. He tried to keep his gaze away, but his eyes betrayed him, darting to the spot she had left behind, wondering if her grief was anything like his.

But the question hung in the air, unanswered. Did she know? Was her loss as consuming as his?

He couldn’t stop the words that left his lips, his voice quieter than before, laced with the kind of intimacy that only grief could bring. “I am lucky to sleep beside him.”

The woman didn’t say anything in response. Maybe she didn’t know how to, maybe she understood more than he could ever tell. But for Jungkook, it didn’t matter. The words he had spoken were his own truth.

The silence between them stretched, heavy yet strangely comforting, like an unspoken understanding neither of them needed to explain. The girl had been watching him, her gaze flickering between the picture of the two boys inside Yoongi’s memorial and the real boy standing in front of it, his expression unreadable, his grief something too vast to be contained in words.

After a long moment, she spoke again, her voice quiet but steady.

“I don’t know if it can help, but… I like to think they’re better where they are,” she said gently, her eyes drifting back to the one she had come to visit, the pain in her own heart evident in the softness of her tone. “That they’re always watching us. Even if we can’t see them, they’re still there.”

She wasn’t saying it to comfort him, he could tell. She truly believed it. It was a thought she carried with her, a way to cope with the weight of absence.

Jungkook exhaled sharply through his nose, not quite a scoff, but not quite agreement either. The idea of Yoongi watching over him felt… wrong. Yoongi wasn’t the type to stay behind and linger like some guardian spirit. If there was an afterlife, he was sure Yoongi would’ve gone somewhere far, somewhere peaceful, somewhere he wasn’t shackled by the weight of a past he never wanted.

But still, the thought of it, even if he couldn’t bring himself to believe it, was oddly grounding.

“If he’s watching,” Jungkook murmured, voice thick with exhaustion, “then he must be pissed at me.” A humorless chuckle left his lips, bitter and self-deprecating. “I don’t think he wanted me to end up like this.”

He didn’t know why he was saying this to a stranger. Maybe because she was the only person around who might understand, even if just a little. Maybe because grief made people desperate to be understood.

The girl tilted her head slightly, considering his words before offering a small, knowing smile. “Then maybe it’s time to show him something different.”

Jungkook looked at her then, really looked at her, as if trying to find the meaning in her words. But she didn’t elaborate. She simply gave him one last glance, as if committing him to memory, before stepping away, leaving him alone once again with the only person who had ever truly mattered.

Her words lingered, though.

Maybe it’s time to show him something different.

Jungkook let out a breathy chuckle, shaking his head as he wiped at his swollen eye with the sleeve of his hoodie. The whole interaction had been strange—too coincidental to ignore. A girl, out of nowhere, telling him exactly what he needed to hear, right when he felt like he was unraveling. It almost felt like a setup, like some divine intervention that had Yoongi’s smug fingerprints all over it.

He pointed a lazy, accusing finger at the name etched into the marble urn, a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“I swear, Yoongi, if you had the nerves to send a girl as a sign for me to move on, I’ll kill you again,” he muttered, voice laced with something caught between amusement and disbelief.

He could almost hear Yoongi’s dry laugh in response, the way he’d scoff and call him an idiot before flicking his forehead.

Jungkook sighed, running a hand through his messy hair. It was ridiculous, really. He was talking to a name on a wall, to someone who wasn’t here anymore. But somehow, it felt right.

The thought of last night—the desperation, the anger, the way he had fallen apart in front of Yoongi’s memorial—felt distant now, like a bad dream. He wasn’t okay, not by a long shot, but the weight in his chest felt just a little bit lighter.

Maybe it was a sign.

Maybe Yoongi was still looking out for him, in the only way he knew how.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, a quiet laugh leaving his lips. “Fine. I’ll think about it. But don’t get any ideas, old man,” he murmured, shaking his head before shoving his hands into his pockets and glanced at the sun peeking out of the window, letting the warmth of the sun sink into his bruised skin.

That night, Jungkook found himself drawn to the shore, as if the waves had been calling him back all this time. It had been years since he last stood there, since he last felt the damp sand beneath his feet and the salty wind brushing against his skin. The last time he was here had also been the last time he saw him.

He tried not to think about it, about him, about the way things had ended. But as he stepped closer to the edge, the past rushed in like the tide, refusing to be ignored.

The echoes of their laughter still lingered in the air, haunting and bittersweet. He could almost see them there—two silhouettes against the night, pretending they weren’t drowning in their own pain. He remembered how he used to talk endlessly, filling the silence with words that probably never mattered, but at least they had kept Yoongi there with him. He had always been the one to talk more, to ramble on about anything and everything, afraid that if he stopped, if he gave Yoongi even a moment to slip away into his thoughts, he might lose him.

But there had been screaming too.

Because their relationship was never just soft words and quiet moments. It was raw, messy, tangled in emotions they didn’t know how to name. They pushed and pulled, hurt and healed, fought and forgave. Their love—if that’s what it was—had never been gentle.

Jungkook inhaled deeply, the cold air stinging his lungs. The waves crashed against the shore, just as relentless as his memories.

He wasn’t sure why he came here tonight.

Maybe he wanted to remember.

Or maybe, for the first time, he wanted to say goodbye.

Jungkook exhaled, his breath shaky but steady, as if for the first time in years, he was letting go of a weight he didn’t even realize he had been carrying.

He didn’t want to live for Yoongi anymore. It was suffocating him. Somewhere along the way, he had lost himself in the equation, drowning in Yoongi’s absence, in his lingering thoughts, until all that remained was a shadow of what he used to be.

But if Yoongi was watching him, like that girl had said, he wouldn’t want this. He wouldn’t want Jungkook to be trapped in grief, living a life that wasn’t his own.

If Yoongi had made the decision to leave, it wasn’t so that Jungkook could follow him into the dark—it was so that he could find the light.

And by holding onto the idea of living for Yoongi, Jungkook realized he had been betraying his last wish all along.

So, with the sound of the waves crashing in the background, he finally said his last goodbye.

“I won’t forget about you,” he began, his voice quiet but firm, hands buried in his pockets, fingers fidgeting with a familiar object he had taken before coming here. “But I can’t forget about me either.”

Slowly, he pulled the object from his jacket pocket, letting his gaze fall onto it—the white lighter, its surface worn and familiar beneath his fingertips. The same one he had taken from the columbarium before leaving.

He let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head as he traced the dark ink on its surface.

“You made me realize how beautiful life is,” he murmured, voice barely above a whisper. “How it’s worth living… because I met you in the process.”

He rolled the lighter between his fingers, his grip gentle, almost reverent.

“You made me realize I was worth it too. Because somehow, you loved me.”

The wind carried his words into the night, but he didn’t need an answer. He already knew.

“And most importantly, you made me realize that there’s nothing more valuable than our own life.”

His own life.

Not Yoongi’s. Not the one he had tried to live for someone else.

His.

With a deep breath, Jungkook pulled his arm back and let the lighter slip from his fingers, watching as it spun through the air before plunging into the water below. The small splash was barely audible over the crashing waves, but to him, it was deafening—a quiet yet final farewell.

Just like they had once done with his red lighter, this too was a ritual of letting go.

A last page turned.

A book closed.

A beautiful and painful story—one that would always stay with him, carved into the deepest parts of his soul. But now, it was a story he could carry with peace, one he could speak about with a soft smile instead of a heavy heart.

Jungkook exhaled, feeling the weight in his chest slowly lift, the air around him feeling lighter, clearer.

“Thank you, my brother,” he whispered, his voice steady. “Have a nice stay.”

With quiet reverence, he lowered himself to the ground, placing his left hand over his right. His fingers touched the cool earth first, forming a small triangle with his index fingers and thumbs, before his knees followed.

A bow—not of grief, but of gratitude.

Of love.

Of acceptance.

And twenty-two years later, after his first breath.

On March 10th, Jeon Jungkook was born.

#bts hyyh #bts angst #bts yoonkook #bts imagine #bts fic #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #hyyh jungkook #yoonkook #bts #jungkook #jungkook angst

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igwb · 5 months ago

Text

drabble.

25 July, Year 22.

you can find the whole fic here!♡

There were times when Yoongi thought life might be worth it.

Like when the sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in soft, fading hues, and for a brief moment, everything was still. The world outside—the people, the noise, the chaos—faded into the background.

And all that remained was Jungkook.

It was the kind of night when Yoongi found himself thinking, Maybe I could go for another year.

When he looked into Jungkook’s round eyes, wide with something between curiosity and understanding. When he listened to the softness of his voice, that familiar little lisp slipping through his words. Or when the right corner of his mouth would lift just slightly in excitement, a fleeting expression so pure it almost made Yoongi believe in something better.

It didn’t matter if Yoongi spoke or not, because what truly mattered was that he listened. And hell, he did.

If he could drink Jungkook’s words, let them sink deep into his bones, he would do it without hesitation. There was something about the way he spoke—his thoughts tumbling out as fast as his lips could form them, raw and unfiltered. Yoongi could see everything flashing through his beautiful mind, every spark, every fleeting idea, and he loved every inch of it.

It was one of those nights. The kind where the cold had begun to settle in, creeping through the cracks of autumn as November neared its end, December looming just around the corner. Yet, despite the biting air, they still found themselves by the shore.

Yoongi sat on a worn-out bench, shoulders hunched, hands buried deep inside his pockets. His beanie was pulled low over his ash-blond hair, shielding his ears from the chill. He hated the cold—hated the way it settled into his bones, stiffening his joints, making every movement feel like a fight. It was a terrible sensation.

But Jungkook… Jungkook seemed to love it.

Dressed in nothing but a dark hoodie and a thin jacket draped carelessly over his shoulders, he stood a few steps away, facing the waves. The wind toyed with his dark, untouched hair, sending strands flying in different directions, and his cheeks were dusted with a soft red from the cold.

He looked beautiful like that. Carefree. Alive.

Yoongi watched him, feeling something warm stir in his chest—a small, fleeting comfort in the middle of the freezing night.

“Are you even listening to me?” Jungkook finally asked, his voice laced with mock annoyance as he turned to face Yoongi.

The older boy blinked, seemingly pulled from whatever thoughts had trapped him. Jungkook didn’t want to ask what they were—he was afraid of the answer. He had learned, over time, that some of Yoongi’s silences were darker than others. The kind that made him disappear for days, locking himself away like a ghost trying to fade completely.

But tonight, it wasn’t one of those silences.

The mindless, almost amused smile still lingered on Yoongi’s lips, even as the cold had begun to chap them. It was a small reassurance, one that eased the tightness in Jungkook’s chest.

“You weren’t listening,” Jungkook accused, narrowing his eyes.

Yoongi huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. “I was,” he lied, the corners of his mouth quirking up just enough to give him away.

Yoongi hadn’t been listening—Jungkook was right about that. But not for the reasons he might have feared.

It wasn’t because his mind had spiraled into that familiar abyss, the one filled with thoughts he still refused to voice. Not because he was already thinking of the next time he’d have to isolate himself, locking the world out for a day or two. It still happened, sometimes. Even after coming back—after choosing to come back—on Jungkook’s eighteenth birthday three months ago, there were days when he simply couldn’t show up. Days when even the shore, the one place that felt like a safe haven, seemed too overwhelming. When he couldn’t bear the thought of meeting Jungkook’s gaze, knowing it would be filled with so much trust, so much belief in him.

But tonight wasn’t one of those nights.

And maybe he was getting better. The thoughts of death, once an unrelenting presence in his mind, hadn’t come knocking as much in the past two weeks. It wasn’t a miracle, and it wasn’t a cure. But it was something. A fragile, almost invisible thread of hope.

For the first time, Yoongi thought that he wasn’t entirely lost.

Seeing the way Jungkook shut down, biting the inside of his cheek until the metallic taste of blood coated his tongue, made something heavy settle in Yoongi’s chest. The younger let his feet dangle off the bench, eyes cast downward, lost in whatever thoughts Yoongi had unknowingly pushed him into.

And Yoongi knew he had failed again.

But this time, he didn’t run from it. Didn’t let the guilt consume him whole like he once would have. He didn’t let the fear of his own impact—the weight of his existence on Jungkook—send him spiraling. No, this time, he stayed.

With a small sigh, he tapped Jungkook’s thigh with the toe of his worn-out black Converse. The same pair he’d been wearing for years now, scuffed and faded, but still holding on—much like him.

“I swear I was listening, Guk,” he murmured, voice softer than usual.

Jungkook only hummed in response, noncommittal, clearly unimpressed. And that—that made Yoongi laugh.

Because sometimes, when he really looked at Jungkook, he could see just how young he still was. How soft. How, despite everything, there was still something gentle and untarnished within him.

And Yoongi would rather die than be the one to take that away.

Jungkook turned his face away, but Yoongi wasn’t having it. Without hesitation, he dipped his head lower, just enough to catch a glimpse of him. And the moment he did, he felt a grin tug at his own lips.

Because there it was—that familiar bunny smile, the one that made Jungkook’s nose scrunch up slightly, the one that softened the sharp edges of Yoongi’s world without even trying.

Yoongi shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “Idiot,” he murmured, but there was no real bite to it. Only warmth, only fondness, only the kind of love that settled deep in his bones.

Because Jungkook was anything but an idiot. He was the brightest, sharpest, most stubborn person Yoongi had ever known. And Yoongi—no matter how much he tried to deny it—was so damn glad to have him.

“Then tell me—what was I saying?” Jungkook challenged, his voice laced with playful defiance as he pulled his knees to his chest, finally stilling his restless legs.

Yoongi hummed, dragging out the moment as if deep in thought. A smirk ghosted over his lips—one that had been appearing more and more these days, so much that he was sure his cheeks would start aching from it soon.

“You said…” he trailed off, then suddenly straightened up, attempting a terrible impression of a deep, heroic voice. “You wanted to become Iron Man.”

Jungkook stared at him, unimpressed.

Yoongi grinned wider, barely holding back his laughter. “What? You totally would.”

Jungkook scoffed, rolling his eyes. “I never said that,” he muttered, hugging his knees tighter to his chest.

Yoongi gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest like he’d been personally offended. “Are you saying I wasn’t listening? Me? Min Yoongi? The most attentive person you’ve ever met?”

Jungkook turned to him, deadpan. “You thought I said I wanted to be Iron Man.”

Yoongi bit back a laugh, leaning back against the bench. “Honestly, wouldn’t put it past you. You do have the whole genius, billionaire, playboy, philanthropist thing going on.”

Jungkook scoffed again, but Yoongi could see the corners of his lips twitching.

“You weren’t listening,” Jungkook accused, but his voice was softer now.

Yoongi sighed, tilting his head back to look at the sky. “Maybe not. But I was watching.”

Jungkook frowned slightly, confused. “Watching what?”

Yoongi turned to him, his gaze steady. “You.”

And for a moment, neither of them spoke. The wind carried the sound of the waves crashing in the distance, and Jungkook felt his heart stutter in his chest. Because Yoongi wasn’t teasing anymore. He wasn’t just messing around.

He was being honest.

Jungkook felt the warmth creeping up his neck, a soft blush coloring his face as he tried to suppress the laugh threatening to escape. It wasn’t because he was embarrassed by the unexpected honesty—no, it was more because he never imagined Yoongi would say something like that. Yoongi, who always built walls so high that Jungkook could barely see past them, had let down his guard for just a moment.

Those moments, the rare and precious ones, were the ones Jungkook treasured. The times when Yoongi would admit, in his own subtle way, that he cared.

And Jungkook loved that feeling—that quiet assurance. Even if it wasn’t something as explicit as “Hey, Jungkook, I love you,” something that would sound so foreign coming from Yoongi, it didn’t matter. It was enough. Because it was Yoongi.

“You were right, though. I said I wanted to be someone, something, but I never said I wanted to be Iron Man,” Jungkook admitted after what felt like a long pause. His voice was softer now, as if he was speaking more to himself than to Yoongi.

Yoongi tilted his head slightly, resting his chin on his hand as if deep in thought. And he was—going over every conversation they had ever had. Every dream Jungkook had whispered into the night, from the small fourteen-year-old boy who barely reached his shoulder to the now eighteen-year-old who had long since outgrown him.

“I don’t know,” Yoongi admitted, almost shamefully, as if he had just failed the most important exam of his life. He had never cared about grades; he always figured they wouldn’t matter much in the long run—he never planned on growing old anyway. But this? This was different. This was Jungkook. And he wanted to get this right.

Yoongi parted his lips, ready to say something, anything, to ease the sudden tension that settled between them. He felt it the moment Jungkook lowered his gaze, fingers absentmindedly twisting the straps of his hoodie, the way he always did when he was trying to hold something back.

But before Yoongi could get a word out, Jungkook beat him to it.

“I said I wanted to be your brother.”

Yoongi felt his heart stop. His mind stilled, as if everything around him had frozen in time—everything except Jungkook, who was shifting restlessly where he sat on the ground. Like he was regretting saying it out loud. Like he was afraid of how Yoongi would react.

What if he had crossed a line? What if Yoongi never wanted to talk to him again?

Jungkook swallowed hard. The thought alone made his stomach turn. He thought, rather dramatically, that he’d rather throw himself into the sea right then and there if that were the case.

“My… brother?” Yoongi finally said, voice quiet, almost hesitant. He had heard Jungkook the first time, clear as day, but he needed to hear it again. Just once more. To make sure it was real. To make sure the warmth swelling in his chest wasn’t just a fleeting dream.

Jungkook nodded, his dark hair falling into his eyes, making him look younger than he was—too soft to be carrying the weight of such emotions, too soft to be hurting the way he did.

“Your older brother, even,” he added in a quiet, almost timid voice, like he was confessing a secret he had kept locked away for too long.

Yoongi scoffed, trying to mask the way his heart was hammering in his chest with a deep chuckle. “I should be the older one. You’re the baby here,” he teased, reaching out to ruffle Jungkook’s hair like a real older brother would.

It was such a simple, natural gesture, but to Jungkook, it was foreign. If someone had ever touched his hair before, it had only been to yank his head down, to shove him against the ground, to hurt him.

“No.” His voice came out sharper than intended as he instinctively swatted Yoongi’s hand away. Not because he didn’t like the touch—God, he loved it—but because he needed Yoongi to really listen. To understand the weight of what he was saying.

“I want to be your older brother,” he repeated, firmer this time. “So I can protect you. Shield you from everything.”

Yoongi stilled, his hands no longer fidgeting, his mind no longer searching for an escape from the weight of the moment. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, really thinking about what Jungkook had just said.

Because in a way—without even realizing it, or maybe he did, Yoongi wasn’t sure—Jungkook was already doing exactly that. He was already protecting him. Shielding him. Not in the way an older brother would, maybe, but in the way only Jungkook could.

He was a barrier against the demons in Yoongi’s head, a light in the darkness he had long accepted as home.

Jungkook was younger, but he was undoubtedly the strongest. Because even though he was hurting, even though Yoongi knew the pain ran deep, he still always put Yoongi first.

And Yoongi hated it. Hated that Jungkook carried that weight when he didn’t have to. But he also knew there was no stopping him. The kid was stubborn, and if he had decided something, there was no changing his mind.

So instead of fighting it, instead of rejecting the idea like he might have done once before, Yoongi let out a breath and simply said the truth—the unspoken truth that had always been there, lingering between them.

“You’re already my brother.”

It was everything. A confession without needing to be one. A vow that had existed long before either of them had dared to say it out loud.

Because Jungkook was his everything. His brother, his best friend, his soulmate, his lifeline. The reason he was still breathing despite every promise he had made to himself that he wouldn’t be here by now.

Jungkook was the reason he had started to imagine a future.

Not just twenty-one.

Maybe even twenty-five.

In that moment, they felt the same—like nothing in the world could come between them. Like the love of two brothers was strong enough to keep every violent demon at bay, to shield them from the darkness that had tried to consume them time and time again.

For the first time, they both felt that kind of happiness—the one they had only ever heard about but never dared to believe in.

The kind that settled deep in their bones, whispering that this, right here; it was the Most Beautiful Moment in Life.

#bts #bts yoonkook #hyyh yoonkook #bts hyyh #bts fanfic #bts imagine #bts jungkook #bts yoongi #jeon jungkook #min yoongi #sugakookie #bts angst #yoongi angst #jungkook angst #yoonkook

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igwb · 5 months ago

Text

25 July, Year 22.

yoongi. 25 july, year 22 : […] "why didn’t you go see jungkook? don’t you know what you mean to him?" of course i knew.

pairing: min yoongi x jeon jungkook (hyyh!yg x hyyh!jk)

genre: bromance au, angst

summary: min yoongi had always known he would die young. it was a terrible, lingering thought, one that had settled into his mind when he was just a child. he had accepted it, planned for it, carried it with him like a quiet promise. what he hadn’t planned for was jungkook, who was just as lost, just as broken. a boy who carried his own darkness, his own weight. and that was the cruelest part of it all—because yoongi could welcome the end with open arms. but leaving jungkook behind? that was something yoongi wasn’t sure he could bear.

word count: 17K (one shot)

warnings: angst, abusive relationship, mentions of; self-harm (in any forms) su!cide, depression, mental health, violence, fire, emotional & physical abuse […] hyyh storyline; yoonkook focused ♡ and no romance/shipping (romance here is only bromance!)

Tsk. Tsk.

The flickering flame cast trembling shadows across the dimly lit room.

Tsk. Tsk.

His thumb rolled over the lighter’s ignition almost mechanically, the repetitive sound blending with the silence. He had no idea how long he had been sitting there, cross-legged on the cold floor, but it was long enough to watch the night shift into something darker, something heavier. Beyond the glass of his window, the sky stretched out in an inky black.

Tsk. Tsk.

His gaze remained locked on the small object between his fingers, unblinking, unwavering. He was too lost in the dark, spiraling thoughts that coiled around his mind like smoke.

Tsk. Tsk.

His somber eyes traced the delicate flame, almost obsessively. It was a strange habit he had picked up over time. He didn’t even smoke. But there was something about fire—something mesmerizing. Something terrifying. A force so small, yet capable of consuming everything in its path. Of consuming him.

It could be so easy, he thinks.

To end everything. Right here. Right now. In this empty hotel room that feels more like a grave than a place to rest.

He could do it. He could silence the chaos in his head for good. It wouldn’t even hurt—not really. Not after everything he’s been through. He’s known suffering in so many forms, worn pain like a second skin. This would just be one more. The final one. The most visible. The most beautiful.

His body, swallowed by the flames, the room bathed in deep orange and gold. There’s something almost poetic about it—the way fire consumes, the way it turns everything to ash. It destroys, but in its destruction, there’s beauty. There’s peace.

The fire would creep along the room first, slithering up the walls, devouring everything in its path before finally reaching him.

Then, it would kiss his skin—gentle at first, almost deceptively soft—before sinking its teeth in, consuming flesh, muscle, bone. It would burn through him, hollow him out from the inside, reducing him to nothing but heat and agony. His voice, swallowed by the crackling flames, his silent cries lost in the inferno.

And then, he would turn to dust.

Nothing more, nothing less.

He wasn’t new to self-destruction.

He had known pain in all its forms, each method more punishing than the last. Digging his nails into his palms until blood pooled in the crescent-shaped wounds. Slamming his fists against his own chest, over and over, as if he could force his heart to stop beating. Pressing anything sharp against his stomach—not deep enough to end it, but just enough to watch the blood bead, to leave behind scars that whispered his suffering back to him whenever he stood bare, vulnerable.

But the worst wounds were the ones no one could see. The invisible ones.

His mind. His thoughts. His heart.

The most dangerous weapon he had ever known.

Himself.

He knew it was his time. His time to go.

He had spent his whole life fighting—against what, he couldn’t even say. Something shapeless, something untouchable, something that always seemed just out of reach. He had thrown himself into a deep, endless loop, and no matter how hard he searched, he couldn’t see the way out.

People always said that things would get better. That one day, the weight would lift, the darkness would fade. But when? How much longer did he have to fight? How much more did he have to lose? To hurt?

And even if he did manage to grasp that fleeting thing they called happiness, how long before his demons found him again? Before they dragged him back down, whispering in his ear that he was never meant to have it in the first place?

He was sure he had felt it once.

There must have been a time when smiling wasn’t so difficult, when it was nothing more than a reflex—a simple movement of muscles, effortless and natural. There had to be a moment, buried somewhere in his past, when happiness didn’t feel like a distant, unattainable dream.

Maybe it was when he was a child. His first laugh—a milestone, a proof that joy had once been within him. Or maybe it was the days spent playing recklessly in the playground, his lungs burning from laughter rather than screams.

It had to have existed.

But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t pinpoint when it faded. Or why.

He stopped the movement of his thumb for a moment, the familiar tsk, tsk of the lighter ceasing as he turned his gaze toward the window.

The landscape was breathtaking—almost unreal in its beauty. Like a painting, something to be admired but never touched. Never entered. The city stretched out before him, buildings standing tall, their windows glowing softly in the dark. Some were lit, others remained shrouded in shadows.

And he thought about the lives inside them. The people.

Each one carrying their own stories, their own struggles, their own fleeting moments of happiness. Were any of them like him? Sitting alone in a dimly lit room, staring at the world outside, wondering if tonight was the night they said their final goodbye?

His depression always made him believe he was alone in the darkness.

His demons wrapped around him, suffocating, slipping through the cracks of his body, forcing their way down his throat until every inch of him was tainted. Until his thoughts turned just as dark, whispering cruel lies—telling him he was the only one incapable of happiness.

That everyone else had found a way to live. That he was the only one left behind.

And for a long time, he believed it.

Believed he was the only one drowning in the dark. That no one else carried the same weight, that no one else had demons whispering in their ears, tightening their grip around their throats.

Until he met him.

Someone just as tainted by the darkness. Someone who, despite it all, still carried a light within him.

He thought about him for a moment—because when his mind wasn’t spiraling with suicidal thoughts, it always seemed to drift back to him.

His face. His soft smile—the kind that made him look like a bunny, youthful and bright, almost childish in its innocence. And his eyes. Those round, starry eyes that somehow still held onto hope, as if the world hadn’t managed to break him completely. There was a certain naivety in them, one that he both admired and despised.

How could someone just as damaged as him still have hope—when he himself had none?

He set the lighter down, his fingers lingering over it as he stared, for once without flicking it.

It was nothing special—just a simple white lighter, slightly worn, a little broken at the edges from how often and forcefully he had used it. But the inked letters on its surface remained, standing out against the pale plastic.

He didn’t remember exactly when or where his plain white lighter had become something more. But he did remember who made it special.

Him.

A simple Y.K. scrawled onto its side.

He had smiled as he wrote it, saying it was his way of reminding him that he wasn’t alone. That no matter what, if he ever felt lost, he just had to look at it—and maybe, just maybe, things would feel a little less heavy.

He thought it was stupid, really. A silly gesture, nothing more than a small symbol, a meaningless note on a lighter. But when he handed it back to him, a smile tugged at his lips—just a little one. Not one that reached his eyes, not one that spoke of true happiness, but it was enough. The only kind of smile he could muster.

But now, in the darkness of the room, that same lighter with the mark on it seemed to mock him. The Y.K. no longer felt like a comforting reminder of someone who had been there. Because he wasn’t here anymore. And the comfort he once sought by simply looking at it was gone too.

The weight of that absence was suffocating.

All he could feel was anger.

A heavy, suffocating kind of anger, the kind that coiled around every part of him, tangled up in his chest, his stomach, his heart. Not the kind that made you want to scream, not the explosive kind that burned in your throat. No, this anger was deeper—so deep that it didn’t even have the energy to make noise. It just settled into his bones, grinding into his skin like a constant, unrelenting pressure.

The kind of anger that slowly eroded you from the inside out.

He couldn’t stand the view of the sun setting on the city anymore.

What was once beautiful—majestic, even—was now a cruel reminder of everything he didn’t have. Everything he could never have. The colors that once filled him with awe only deepened the darkness inside him.

He was fully submerged in that darkness now, the faint streetlights offering no comfort, no relief. His room was a void, a reflection of the emptiness inside him.

Too exhausted to walk, he crawled back to the bed, his body heavy and powerless.

The lighter was still in his hand, the Y.K. taunting him. He tried, desperately, to rub the marker off with his thumb, as if he could erase the memory, erase everything it stood for. But no matter how hard he pressed, it wouldn’t fade.

Manic, he kept running his thumb over the white plastic, faster and faster, trying to make it disappear, as if removing the mark could somehow make everything go away.

He rested, powerless, on the bed, his arms over his eyes, desperately trying to hide the tears that slipped down his cheeks. He was alone. It was the only time he could cry, but it still felt shameful.

The lighter flicked between his fingers, the sound of it—tsk, tsk—echoing in the silence of the room. Over and over again. Tsk, tsk. A sound that had once been a small, almost comforting rhythm. But now it only served to remind him of how far he had fallen.

Tsk, tsk.

The last sound he would hear.

He started with the bedsheets, the flame from the lighter catching on the fabric quickly, spreading with a terrifying speed. The fire consumed the material, devouring it in seconds. In a rush, he found the strength to stand, stumbling to his feet, his body trembling, but it was already too late. The room was already succumbing to the flames.

The fire spread, relentless, as the heat began to fill the air. It was swallowing everything, the room, the darkness, the pain. Soon, the whole room would be consumed, just as he had wanted.

His gaze flickered to the picture he had thrown onto the bedside table just two hours ago, the same moment he had entered the room, consumed by thoughts of dying there.

It was a picture of two boys. One was him—older, burdened. The other, the younger one, was grinning with that innocent, carefree bunny smile. His smile was full of life, of joy, the kind of happiness that now felt like a distant memory.

Looking at the picture from where he lay, he smiled—a subtle, fleeting smile. His last smile. A smile that said, Yes, I had once felt happiness.

The flames began to lick at his thighs, the heat creeping up his body. He closed his eyes, surrendering to the fire, letting it consume him. His stomach burned, and soon the fire reached every part of him. He didn’t care. His body had been dead for a long time, as had his mind. But his heart…

The organ he thought had long been cold and lifeless suddenly ached with unbearable intensity as he saw the photo catch fire.

A cry of desperation tore from his throat. He reached for it, his hand moving as if he could save the last shred of his past. But the flames were already too strong, his body too weak.

He couldn’t save it. He couldn’t save him. He never could.

His last breath was trapped, consumed by the fire that tore through the motel room, leaving nothing but ashes in its wake. The flames had swallowed him whole, taking not just his body, but the remnants of a life once lived.

On May 2nd, Min Yoongi died.

Jeon Jungkook was special.

Special in the way he isolated himself, always lost in his own world, hiding from everyone as if the world was too much to bear. He was special in the way he observed everything around him—quiet, distant, but always analyzing, always seeing.

He was special to others too, though not in the way he might have wanted. People were unsettled by his silence, by the way he seemed detached, as if he existed just slightly out of reach.

But most of all, Jeon Jungkook was special to Min Yoongi.

Special in the way he was an unwanted presence—yet a hopeful one.

Yoongi never intended for Jungkook to become more than an acquaintance. He preferred solitude, found comfort in his own darkness. Letting someone in was dangerous. He knew that too well.

The older didn’t want anyone near him, too afraid that his own weight would drag them down with him. He had too much on his plate, too many burdens pressing against his chest. He didn’t think he could handle someone else’s presence, so he did what he always did—he shut everyone out.

But the younger one was different.

Not just in the way a seventeen-year-old boy should be, but in a way that unsettled Yoongi—because Jungkook reflected his own struggles back at him.

There was something in his eyes, something painfully familiar. A quiet weight, a heaviness that didn’t belong on someone so young. It was as if Jungkook carried the same kind of darkness Yoongi did, but instead of letting it consume him, he held onto it, studied it, refused to be swallowed whole.

And that made him different.

Jungkook was soft—too soft for this world.

He let the darkness wrap around him, creeping in like ivy, weaving itself into his skin. And the worst part? He didn’t even know how deep he was in it. Or maybe he did, but he refused to acknowledge it.

Min Yoongi, on the other hand, was fully aware of his own misery. He had stared it in the face, let it settle into his bones. He knew what it meant to be drowning. But Jungkook—Jungkook chose to look away. He carried his burdens quietly, pretending they weren’t there, as if ignoring them would make them disappear.

Yoongi was caught between two emotions—amazement and frustration.

He was amazed by the way Jungkook carried himself, by the way he moved through life as if he weren’t drowning. But at the same time, he couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand watching him pretend to be okay when Yoongi knew, knew, that he wasn’t.

It wasn’t jealousy. Yoongi was too consumed by his own darkness to envy anything. It was pity. Pity that Jungkook refused to see the truth, refused to fight, choosing instead to stay silent and endure.

Yoongi couldn’t bear it. He wanted to shake him, grab him by the shoulders and scream, You’re not okay! Life isn’t kind! The people around you are hurting you! He wanted to force him to see that coming home with bruises wasn’t normal, that he didn’t deserve it, no matter what lies he told himself.

But Jungkook would only smile—that smile, the one that made Yoongi’s stomach twist with something unbearable. He’d say it was okay. That Yoongi should focus on himself instead.

And it wasn’t a dismissal, not the way Yoongi often pushed people away. It wasn’t a way to tell him to mind his own business. It was Jungkook’s way of saying, Let’s do this together. Let’s get you out of this first.

That was how soft Jungkook was.

Soft enough to put others before himself, even when he was the one bleeding. Soft enough to smile through the pain, not because he wasn’t hurting, but because he didn’t want anyone else to carry the weight of his suffering.

And that was exactly what broke Yoongi the most.

It was overwhelming—the way Jungkook cared for him.

He cared with everything he had, with his whole being. His mind constantly urged him to help, his heart ached in sync with Yoongi’s pain, and his body moved instinctively toward him whenever he sensed he was needed.

It was too much for both of them.

Yoongi didn’t want help. Jungkook needed help.

And somehow, in the mess of it all, they kept missing each other.

They didn’t really know how this mess started—how they became entangled in each other’s darkness, how their lives intertwined in a way neither of them had planned.

But Jungkook… Jungkook remembered.

He remembered all too well the first time he felt the urge to help, to matter to someone. To be useful. To give his hands, his heart—his whole self—to someone who seemed to need it more than he did.

And that someone was Yoongi.

It could have been anyone, he thought at first. Anyone who needed saving. But no one ever came close to Yoongi.

Jungkook was fifteen when he first saw him, and Yoongi was seventeen. Back then, it was nothing more than admiration—pure, simple curiosity, the kind a younger boy might feel toward someone older. They were both in high school, Yoongi in his final year, Jungkook just starting out.

What drew him in at first was something as simple as Yoongi’s hair—a washed-out mint color. It wasn’t particularly special, yet it made him stand out effortlessly, even when it was clear he didn’t want to.

Jungkook, like a possessed boy, began to follow Yoongi—discreetly, carefully.

It was almost an obsession, this relentless need to understand him. To peel back the layers of mystery that surrounded him.

Min Yoongi had an aura that kept people at a distance—cold, untouchable, sharp around the edges. But Jungkook, ever observant, saw past the carefully crafted persona. He noticed the cracks in his armor, the subtle shifts in his expression, the weight in his gaze when he thought no one was looking.

And what he saw wasn’t just the toughness Yoongi projected—it was something fragile, something raw. Something that felt eerily familiar.

Something that reflected the very thing Jungkook felt within himself.

Something sensitive. Pure. And devastating.

It should have terrified him—the devastating aura that Yoongi carried with him, like a storm, relentless and destructive. The kind of storm that, if it spun too wildly, would tear everything in its path apart.

But Jungkook wasn’t scared. He never had been. He liked to think of himself as brave, courageous, and intrepid. So, instead of running, he stepped right into the heart of that storm.

He let himself be swept away by it, drawn in by something he couldn’t quite explain but knew was pulling him closer with each passing moment.

Yoongi noticed the boy not long after he started following him. At first, it was subtle—just the feeling of someone always lingering in the corners of his awareness. A presence that never fully faded, no matter where he went or what he did. It was like Jungkook had quietly inserted himself into his world, and Yoongi couldn’t quite shake him off.

At first, Yoongi let him be. There was no clear reason why—he should’ve been bothered, unsettled, maybe even angry at the intrusion. But instead, something in him allowed the boy to get closer, despite the storm inside him telling him to push people away.

It wasn’t until four months later that the two of them finally began speaking. It was a restless night, and Yoongi found himself aimlessly wandering the streets, unable to sleep, trying to quiet his racing thoughts. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, his fingers grazing the new red lighter he had just bought—he’d lost his old blue one and had been desperately searching for a replacement.

That was when he heard it. The shouting, the harsh laughter—one that sent a chill down his spine—and then, the unmistakable sound of the first hit.

Yoongi’s eyes widened at the sound. The hit was sharp, and it made his stomach twist—he was all too familiar with that kind of violence. The lighter in his hand flickered, almost amplifying the brutal rhythm of someone being pummeled. Normally, he’d keep walking, brushing off the noise. Things like this happened at night, it wasn’t his problem. But then his gaze locked with those round, starry eyes—Jungkook’s eyes.

The sight sent a wave of something he couldn’t quite place into his chest. Jungkook was on the ground, his face pressed to the floor, knees drawn tightly to his chest as they kicked him relentlessly. He didn’t scream. He didn’t even flinch. He just stared at Yoongi, as if he were waiting for the moment to pass, like it was just another bad day, like the pain was something he had to endure until it was over. Like tomorrow, his muscles wouldn't ache and everything would go back to normal.

Of course, Yoongi interfered. He couldn’t just stand there. He knew he was bad—his demons whispered that to him every night, reminding him of everything he was and wasn’t. But in that moment, as he saw Jungkook on the ground, looking so helpless, so naive, he couldn’t let it happen. It was too painful to watch.

Jungkook didn’t deserve this, not this kind of cruelty. And Yoongi couldn’t bear the thought of him taking it, enduring it in silence. Despite all his flaws, all the darkness that clung to him, Yoongi couldn’t turn away this time. He wasn’t sure why—maybe it was the way Jungkook looked at him. Whatever it was, he couldn’t let it slide.

The three boys fled immediately, of course they did. The thrill was gone now that someone was watching. Yoongi’s gaze dropped to the ground, to the figure of the boy on the pavement. He was young, too young, and his face was a canvas of bruises. One of his eyes was swollen shut, blood seeping from the cut at his lip. Yoongi winced involuntarily at the sight, his hand instinctively reaching out to the boy.

“I don’t have all night,” he muttered, the first words he ever spoke to Jungkook.

Jungkook looked up, and despite the pain, despite the bruises and blood, a smile tugged at his lips. His split lip made it hurt to smile, but he couldn’t help it. After months of watching him from a distance, stalking his every move, here he was—right in front of him.

And he spoke to him.

Words that would unknowingly begin a path of destruction, leading him into something far deeper than either of them anticipated. Naive, Jungkook threw himself in, trusting in the simplicity of the moment, of Yoongi’s voice.

After that night, they were drawn to each other, like magnets that couldn’t pull apart. Yoongi didn’t want that. He didn’t want to care for anyone, especially not someone like Jungkook, when all he could offer was pain. He knew that his own existence felt like it was hanging by a thread, that he didn’t want to keep living, not really. He didn’t know when or where his last breath would come, but he could feel it creeping closer every day.

But there it was. This feeling. Something he hadn’t expected, something he couldn’t ignore, no matter how hard he tried. Jungkook’s presence seeped into his life, soft and insistent, a light that Yoongi couldn’t shut out, no matter how dark he wanted to remain.

And so, despite every part of him that wanted to push the younger boy away, he let him in.

On Jungkook’s fifteenth birthday, Yoongi caught a fleeting glimpse of what life was like for the younger boy. They had never spoken much about their pasts—Jungkook was always the one to fill the silences with chatter, sharing everything and anything that came to his mind. Yoongi, in turn, would listen, offering the occasional hum to assure the boy he was paying attention. Jungkook’s voice became a comforting background noise, a distraction from the storm that constantly raged in Yoongi’s mind. It was a relief at first—perhaps he should have let him in sooner, though that might have been for selfish reasons.

They often found each other near the shore, not too far from the spot where their first real conversation had taken place. Yoongi loved sitting there, watching the waves crash against the sand, the cool water brushing gently against his feet. Sometimes, he entertained the thought of just stepping into the ocean, letting it carry him away, his body drifting aimlessly in the water. He knew he had always wanted to die by fire, but the idea of drowning—something so soft, so quiet—seemed just as fitting for someone like him. Maybe that was what he needed, or maybe it was just the calm of the waves that lured him.

In the end, he loved the view, and so Jungkook did.

Jungkook loved it for reasons that were almost entirely different. There was something about the freedom he felt when his feet dangled just above the water, the coolness of the breeze lifting the weight off his shoulders. He often found himself on his rooftop, walking too close to the edge, just to experience that rush. The way the wind would caress his skin, tug his hair away from his face, and make him feel alive in a way nothing else could. It was the closest he could get to feeling weightless, like he was free from everything that tied him down.

On the 1st of September, Jungkook didn’t show up at their usual spot by the shore. At first, Yoongi tried to brush it off. He remembered Jungkook mentioning, in one of his rambling, one-sided conversations, that it would be his birthday that day. Maybe he was with his family, spending time with them, or perhaps with friends—though Yoongi quickly dismissed the latter thought. He knew well enough that Jungkook didn’t have many, if any, real friends. After all, if he did, what was he doing here with Yoongi instead?

Still, despite his attempts to convince himself otherwise, there was something gnawing at him, a tightness in his chest that wouldn’t go away. It wasn’t normal for Jungkook to miss their daily meetings by the shore. Yoongi found himself pacing, his thoughts circling back to the boy. He wanted to tell himself it was no big deal, but a part of him—something deep, something that wasn’t supposed to be there—was worried.

He had always tried to keep his distance, to keep his emotions in check. But that day, Yoongi realized he had been more affected by Jungkook’s absence than he cared to admit.

And that realization, as simple as it seemed, struck Yoongi harder than he expected. Jungkook was special. Not in some superficial, fleeting way, but in a way that Yoongi couldn’t quite explain.

On the day of his fifteenth birthday, Jungkook was happy. He was excited to meet Yoongi by the shore, to spend the day chatting and talking about his hopes and dreams, about what he wanted for his birthday. He couldn’t wait to share everything with him, to finally have a day that felt like it was truly his. But as he stepped toward the door, reality crept in like a shadow, and with it, the joy that had been bubbling inside him quickly evaporated.

His father’s voice echoed through the house, sharp and sudden, and before Jungkook could even react, the first punch landed. He didn’t remember what he had done to deserve it. It didn’t matter. Nothing ever mattered when his father was in one of those moods. It wasn’t the first time. The anger in his father’s eyes wasn’t new, but it still felt like it could crush him every time it happened. That was all it took. A punch. A hit that sent him reeling, both physically and mentally.

Jungkook didn’t even have the chance to celebrate his birthday. His father didn’t care. The celebration, the joy, everything that had been building up inside him was gone in an instant, replaced by the sting of pain and the hollow feeling that always followed. Another punch landed, harder this time, and he stumbled back, feeling the familiar burn of fists on his skin. Everything spun.

The next thing he knew, he was in a hospital bed. His body was sore, bruised, and aching, and his mind was foggy. The room felt like a blur, the sterile smell of it suffocating. The doctors had asked him questions, but he didn’t answer. What was the point? They had seen it all before, the black eyes, the bruises. Nothing ever changed. His dad would apologize, and then it would happen again, over and over. And that’s when it hit him—his birthday didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. He had just wanted one thing—a peaceful day, a day with Yoongi—but instead, he found himself here, caught in the same cycle of pain and neglect that had marked every year of his life.

Two days later, Jungkook finally made his way to the shore, his body already recovering from the blows, though the emotional scars felt heavier than ever. The years of experience had taught him how to heal quickly, how to push the pain aside, even if only for a while. As he approached, he spotted Yoongi sitting there, just like always, the familiar flicker of his lighter’s flame casting a warm glow in the evening air. Jungkook felt a wave of relief wash over him, but it didn’t last long.

Something had shifted.

Yoongi wasn’t the same. Jungkook could sense it immediately—the way the older’s shoulders were tense, almost as if he was carrying a weight, even though he was sitting still. He didn’t greet Jungkook with his usual nod of acknowledgment. Instead, he remained quiet, the gap between them stretching out. Jungkook sat beside him, trying to ignore the cold silence that settled between them, but it felt different.

The most obvious change was in Yoongi’s hair. The mint color that had once captivated Jungkook, that bright shade he loved so much, was gone. In its place was a deep, familiar black. It was simple, it was dark, and it made Jungkook’s chest tighten. The mint hair had been a symbol of something free, something bright in Yoongi’s life. But now, with the change in color, it felt like Yoongi was retreating into himself, closing off more than ever before.

Jungkook didn’t know what to say. He wanted to ask what happened, why things felt so different, but he couldn’t find the words. His own body still ached from the bruises, his mind weighed down by everything that had happened. He couldn’t even begin to understand why Yoongi was acting this way, why he was pulling back. But sitting there beside him, feeling the space between them grow, Jungkook couldn’t help but wonder if he was losing him, too.

Yoongi was consumed by anger. It was an overwhelming, suffocating feeling that gnawed at him from the inside. He was angry at the world for making him this way, angry at the world for shaping him into someone so broken and lost. He was angry at his mother for bringing him into a life filled with cruelty and disdain, a life that hated him before he even had the chance to understand what love was. Every single part of his existence felt like a mistake, and that rage spiraled out of control.

He was angry at Jungkook. The anger wasn’t because of anything the younger boy had done. It was the way Jungkook had become everything Yoongi never wanted, everything he had pushed away. Jungkook’s smile—his constant childish laughter and his endless, naive optimism—only reminded Yoongi of the light he had once yearned for. But Yoongi had taken it for granted. He had let the boy’s innocence and kindness wash over him like a tide, only to drown in it.

And then there was the anger at Jungkook’s father. Yoongi had never asked, never pried into the boy’s life, but he knew. He saw it, two nights ago, when he was wandering the streets in a haze of his own thoughts. Jungkook had been there, too, though not in the way Yoongi expected. He had been with his father—dragged along, powerless, bruises marking his skin. The sight had hit Yoongi like a punch to the gut. The realization had come crashing down on him. All the subtle signs—the bruises he had noticed on Jungkook, the way the boy hid them under his hair or covered them with scarves or long sleeves. Yoongi knew. He’d seen it all along, but he never asked. He never pushed. And now, the guilt clawed at him, because he couldn’t help but wonder if he could’ve done something sooner.

But the worst part of all was the self-loathing. He was angry at himself, for all the things he had done and failed to do. For every moment he had allowed his darkness to swallow him whole, while Jungkook stood there, offering him light without question, without hesitation. Yoongi had taken that light, used it to pull himself from the darkness, only to discard it the moment it no longer served his purpose. And now, guilt coursed through his veins like poison. He had used the boy’s naivety, taking advantage of his warmth and his care while Yoongi had drowned in his own self-pity and misery. Jungkook didn’t deserve that. No one did.

But Yoongi had no idea how to fix it. He was too far gone, lost in the fog of his own mind, and he had dragged Jungkook down with him. And now, as the silence between them stretched out like a chasm, Yoongi knew, deep down, that he had ruined the one good thing he had.

That day, Yoongi swore to himself that he would let Jungkook live—let him have the chance to grow without being weighed down by his darkness. He didn’t want the younger to care about him anymore, not when he had so much of his own pain to deal with. Yoongi didn’t want Jungkook to put him first, to prioritize him over his own well-being. So Yoongi made the hardest choice of all—to disappear.

The next day, Yoongi wasn’t at the shore. The day after that, he wasn’t at school either.

Jungkook heard the rumors—the whispers behind his back. They said Yoongi had been expelled for too many absences, for getting into another fight. The details didn’t matter. What mattered was that Yoongi was gone, just like that. Vanished from the school, and gone from the place that had once felt like their only shared space.

Jungkook kept going to the shore every day. Every day, he hoped to see Yoongi sitting there with his lighter, or maybe just standing at the edge of the water, lost in his thoughts. He sat there alone, staring at the water, waiting for something that never came.

Jungkook learned how to live alone again. He had spent fifteen years of his life in solitude, but Yoongi had been there—silent, distant, but present. Every day, at their shared spot, Jungkook never asked for much. Those little nine months were enough, but even with the little time they had, Jungkook still found himself craving for more sometimes. The older simply listened to Jungkook’s stories, offering a quiet presence that, for a long time, was all Jungkook needed. But now, Yoongi was gone, and the loneliness that had gnawed at him since childhood came rushing back in full force.

He had never had a friend, not a real one. Too shy, too vulnerable, too naïve to make connections when he was younger. And when you don’t have a friend at school, there’s always the possibility of seeking comfort in your family, right? But what if your family is the very thing that darkens every part of you, the thing that pulls you further into the abyss? What if the place you’re supposed to feel safe only brings you pain?

Jungkook didn’t have the answer. All he knew was that he was alone, and it hurt more than he could ever put into words.

Yet, Jungkook kept going to the shore every day. It became his ritual, a small hope he held on to, the silver lining he clung to. Maybe one day, Yoongi would come back, and maybe he would ask Jungkook to tell him one of his ridiculous stories again—the ones that were born from his wild imagination, the ones that were silly enough to make Yoongi smile, even just a little.

Every night, before he closed his eyes, Jungkook would imagine new stories, new adventures that he could tell the older boy when they crossed paths again. He kept them, locked away in the back of his mind, as if they were all waiting for the day Yoongi would return. Because no matter how many days passed, no matter how much the world seemed to move on, he still believed that one day, Yoongi would be there. And when that day came, he’d be ready with his stories, as if they never stopped.

“Happy birthday to me,” he murmured as he tossed a few rocks into the water, watching them skip across the surface. Today was his eighteenth birthday. Two birthdays had passed without Yoongi, but he had spent both of them here, by the shore, just as he had every day since.

Jungkook couldn’t quite believe he had made it to eighteen. He had imagined this age, fantasized about it, but now that it was here, it felt… anticlimactic. He had thought he’d be different, bolder, happier, maybe more sure of himself. But as he stood there, alone, he realized he was still the same boy—the same eight-year-old who learned early that life meant taking hits and keeping quiet. He had learned back then that being a victim was a part of his existence, a part of his identity that he couldn’t escape, no matter how hard he tried.

He expected something to change by the time he reached eighteen, but all he felt was the weight of what had been, and what could never be.

“Happy eighteenth,” Yoongi’s voice broke through the silence, rough and low, like he hadn’t spoken in years. It was the first time he’d spoken to Jungkook in two years.

For a moment, Jungkook froze. He was afraid that the sound of his voice would fade from his memory, that he’d never hear it again. But the instant he heard Yoongi’s voice, deep and familiar, all those fears vanished—just like that. The warmth of it, despite the cold distance between them, brought a lump to his throat. But before he could process it fully, his body reacted first. He turned away, too overwhelmed by the sudden rush of emotions to even look at him.

Yoongi sat down beside him, as if nothing had changed, as if he hadn’t just disappeared from his life without a word, without any explanation. Jungkook’s heart pounded, every inch of him wanting to turn and face him, but his body froze. His mind raced with doubts, questioning if this was real or just another cruel manifestation of his imagination.

Imagination had been his escape for so long. It was the only thing that kept him going when he was ignored, when he was left alone in his room for days, when he was told he wasn’t worth being seen. His imagination had created a world where he could escape from the pain, a world where Yoongi had never left, where they never stopped talking, where things never broke between them.

But now, as Yoongi’s presence felt so real beside him, the fear crept in. What if this wasn’t real? What if his mind, desperate for something to hold onto, had conjured up this moment, making him believe he was still here? It terrified him. The possibility that Yoongi might vanish again, leaving him in this endless loneliness, was too much to bear. He wanted to believe, but the pain of losing him once before made it hard to trust that this moment was truly real.

Jungkook’s breath hitched at Yoongi’s words, a strange mix of relief and anger flooding his chest. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The teasing tone, as if nothing had ever happened, made Jungkook’s heart twist in a way he didn’t expect. It was like Yoongi was brushing everything under the rug, as if those two years of silence, of abandonment, meant nothing at all.

For the first time in a long time, Jungkook didn’t feel pity for himself. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the weight of all the pain he’d buried rising up in him like a tide. Anger, hot and sharp, replaced the numbness that had overtaken him for so long. How dare Yoongi act so casually? How dare he pretend like everything was fine, like he hadn’t disappeared, like his silence hadn’t torn Jungkook apart bit by bit?

Jungkook had spent two long years holding onto the hope that one day, Yoongi would come back. He had let his thoughts wander back to the shore every day, imagining the moment they would finally see each other again. And here Yoongi was, as if nothing had ever changed, as if he hadn’t left him without a word, without explanation.

“You think it’s that easy?” Jungkook’s voice came out more forceful than he meant, but the anger was too much to contain. “You think you can just disappear for two years and come back like nothing happened? Like I’m supposed to just… accept it?”

He turned to face Yoongi, his eyes wide with the mix of frustration and hurt. “You left me. And you think you can just act like it never mattered?”

Jungkook’s breath came out in short, shallow gasps, his pulse racing. His body was trembling with the aftermath of his own actions. His mind couldn’t catch up with the anger that had driven him, the same anger he had buried deep inside for so long. For so many years, he had been the one to take hits, to stay silent, to let others push him down. But now, for the first time, he had struck back.

His fist had connected with Yoongi’s jaw, and the sound of it echoed in his mind, as if the impact itself was still ringing through his bones. The force of it was almost too much, a release he hadn’t even realized he needed until it was already done. His whole body shook with adrenaline, with the realization of what he had just done.

When his mind cleared enough to focus, he saw Yoongi. Yoongi’s face was grimacing, his hand on his jaw where the punch had landed. The older boy was breathing heavily, the shock in his eyes mixing with something else—pain, maybe? But more than that, there was understanding.

And then, in the blink of an eye, regret hit Jungkook like a ton of bricks. His stomach dropped, and the anger that had pushed him forward suddenly faded, leaving nothing but guilt behind. He wasn’t like this. He wasn’t the kind of person to act out in violence, to hurt others, especially not Yoongi. He had always been on the receiving end. He had sworn to himself he would never become like his father, like the bullies who had tormented him. But here he was, just like them.

“Yoongi…” His voice was small, a whisper of remorse as he reached out, the reality of his actions crashing down on him. His hands were still shaking, trembling with the intensity of his guilt. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean to—”

He stuttered, unable to find the words to make things right. His mind was still spinning, trying to make sense of the fact that he had just hurt the one person he cared about more than anyone.

“Stop playing the victim,” Yoongi said, still rubbing his sore jaw, taken aback by the strength the boy he once knew now possessed. The words hit Jungkook like a slap in the face. He hadn’t even realized how much of a victim he had been, how much of that victimhood had defined him. Yoongi’s words stung more than the punch he had thrown.

Seizing the moment when Yoongi’s gaze dropped to his lap, Jungkook dared to look at him. He always observed, but this time it was different—this time, he realized how much he missed seeing him. Yoongi’s hair wasn’t dark like it had been the last time Jungkook saw him; it was now ash blonde, a striking color for someone as pale as him. But it reminded Jungkook of the mint shade he once adored.

Jungkook opened his mouth to apologize again, but Yoongi beat him to it. “I’m sorry.”

The words hung heavy in the air. Jungkook turned away, not daring to meet Yoongi’s eyes who, refused to meet his gaze too. He stared blankly at the water, his eyes distant, avoiding the raw emotion. Jungkook couldn’t blame him. Yoongi had always been good at hiding, good at putting up walls to protect himself, to keep people at a distance. And Jungkook had never been able to cross those walls—until now.

Yoongi could come up with a thousand excuses for his absence, but in truth, he had none. The reality was far simpler, and much harder to admit: he had been struggling for two years. Nothing had really changed since the last time he saw Jungkook, except for the color of his hair. The ash blonde he wore now was a poor, desperate attempt to convince himself he was different, but deep down, he knew he wasn’t. He was still the same person, wrestling with the same dark thoughts, the same suffocating depression that never loosened its grip.

He could tell that he wasn’t far away, still living in the same city, just like him. If he truly wanted to, Yoongi could’ve reached out, could have tried to reconnect, but he never did. He had made a silent promise to himself, a promise to stay away, to protect Jungkook from the darkness he carried within.

But now, standing here, face-to-face with the boy he once cared for so deeply, Yoongi found himself questioning everything. He regretted coming here, regretted breaking the distance he had fought so hard to maintain. But, despite the regret, despite the pain, he couldn’t stop himself. He was still the same selfish person, clinging to a fleeting hope of happiness, just one last time, before it would all end. Before he would end it all.

Yoongi had already made his decision: he wouldn’t turn twenty-one. He didn’t want to. The only thing he wanted, the only thing that still tethered him to this world, was one last glimpse of Jungkook before he burned everything away.

“I thought you were dead,” Jungkook broke the silence in a whisper, finally voicing the fear that had been clawing at him for the past two years. The idea that he might never see Yoongi again—not because he had simply left, but because he was truly gone—was unbearable. It was a thought so suffocating that every time he lingered on it for too long, it sent him into a spiral of panic attacks, his entire body wracked with pain far worse than any bruise or wound he had ever endured.

But as long as he could convince himself that Yoongi was alive somewhere—anywhere—he could keep going. It gave him something to hold onto, a sliver of hope that maybe, just maybe, Yoongi had found a reason to keep living. That somewhere out there, he had found something worth caring about, something that made him want to stay.

He thinks he’d rather hold on to the idea of Yoongi being far away but happy than have him close, only to find him lifeless.

Yoongi simply laughed—a dry, throaty sound, like Jungkook had just told the most absurd joke.

“Dead?” He shook his head, the word rolling off his tongue as if it were completely foreign to him—like he hadn’t thought about it a thousand times a day.

“I’ll never die,” he said, almost as if it were a fact, something undeniable. Then, with the same ease as before, he slung an arm over Jungkook’s shoulders, grinning like he hadn’t just lied straight to his face.

Jungkook wanted to say something—to tell Yoongi he didn’t believe him, that his words felt hollow. But if he said it out loud, it would mean admitting the possibility that one day, Yoongi might truly be gone.

He couldn’t handle that thought.

So, instead, he swallowed his doubt, pushing it to the farthest corner of his mind. And like he had done so many times before, he masked it with a smile—his bunny smile, full of forced naivety, as if pretending hard enough would make it real.

Yoongi turned twenty-one.

He had spent the last seven months with Jungkook, just like before—like nothing had changed. He laughed more than he ever had, not because he was happy, but because he wanted Jungkook to remember him that way. When he was gone, he didn’t want to be a ghost lingering in Jungkook’s memory as someone to pity. He wanted to leave behind the sound of his laughter, the curve of his gummy smile—something warm, something worth remembering.

But despite everything, despite his resolve, his carefully laid plans, he woke up on the morning of his twenty-first birthday, still breathing.

And just like that, he broke another promise to himself.

“You’re old now,” Jungkook teased, approaching the shore where Yoongi sat, something hidden in his hands.

Yoongi furrowed his brows. The thought of growing old had always been foreign to him. He had been so sure he wouldn’t make it this far—that he would stop himself somehow. And yet, here he was. Still breathing. Still existing.

For the first time, the idea of aging didn’t seem so terrifying. Maybe he could picture himself a little older than he was now. He still couldn’t imagine how he’d grow old, what kind of life he’d lead, but at this moment, it didn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.

What he was sure of, though, was that if he ever had to grow old, he hoped Jungkook would be by his side. His friend.

No—Jungkook was more than just a friend. Yoongi was certain of that now. The younger boy had carved out a space within him, deep in his heart, woven into the fabric of his existence. He was another part of himself.

But it wasn't love—not in the way people might assume. Not a lover. But still, he swore he loved him just as much. Maybe like a brother, the kind of person you could never truly part from, no matter how far you tried to run. Someone whose presence lingered in the smallest things—the curve of a stranger’s smile, a familiar laugh in a passing crowd, a warmth you didn’t know you were missing until it was gone.

Jungkook and Yoongi didn’t share the same blood. But somehow, they shared the same wounds. And that felt just as unbreakable.

Jungkook sat cross-legged on the shore, for once not letting his feet dangle over the water like he always did. Today, he didn’t feel the need to.

“Take that, old man,” he teased with a chuckle, holding out a small package he had carefully wrapped himself before coming.

Yoongi took it from his hands, turning it over thoughtfully. He wasn’t used to receiving gifts—had never really received any before. And, come to think of it, he had never given one either. He made a quiet promise to himself: next September, he would give Jungkook something in return.

It was little gestures like this that reminded him just how full of love Jungkook was. He had received so little of it in his life, yet somehow, he carried more than anyone Yoongi had ever met.

Jungkook watched eagerly as Yoongi unwrapped the package, his smile so wide his front teeth showed. There was something special about giving, something warm and soft that filled his chest. He had never really had the chance to do something as simple as this before. And the fact that it was for Yoongi, of all people, made it even better.

He wanted to keep this feeling forever.

He wanted to do it again when Yoongi turned twenty-two, and twenty-five, and even thirty.

As Yoongi unwrapped the gift, his chest tightened, but not in the usual way. It wasn’t the familiar ache of sadness he often felt, but something warm and unexpected.

He looked at the white lighter in his hand, his fingers tracing the smooth surface. It wasn’t something extravagant or flashy, but to Yoongi, it felt like something precious. He glanced up at Jungkook, who was watching him eagerly, his eyes full of hope, as if the lighter was the most meaningful gift in the world.

At first, Jungkook had watched with quiet wonder the first time he saw Yoongi staring at a flame, wondering why his friend seemed so captivated by the small electric flame. But he understood when he saw how the flickering light reflected so beautifully in Yoongi’s dark eyes, casting shadows and highlighting the depth in his gaze. It wasn’t just about the flame—it was something deeper, something that spoke to Yoongi’s soul, and Jungkook realized that the fire mirrored the quiet strength and turmoil that Yoongi carried with him. In that moment, Jungkook knew that the flame wasn’t just a simple object—it was a part of Yoongi, something that made him feel alive, even in the darkest moments.

“Your old one was old, it was running out of gas,” Jungkook explained, his voice soft but sincere. “And the white one looks better. Take that as a blank sheet, a new beginning,” he continued, his gaze fixed on the lighter in Yoongi’s hand, not daring to meet his eyes.

Yoongi was taken aback by the words, the simplicity yet depth of the gesture. It wasn’t just a lighter; it was a symbol, a quiet encouragement, a reminder that things could start fresh, even when the past felt too heavy. The white lighter wasn’t just a gift—it was Jungkook’s way of offering hope, even if he didn’t fully understand the weight of it. Yoongi wanted to say something, but he could only stare at the gift, feeling something stir inside him that he hadn’t felt in a long time.

The older boy rummaged through his jeans pocket, pulling out the red lighter. Yoongi paused for a moment, his fingers tracing the worn edges. It was true—the lighter had seen better days. The flame wasn’t as bright as it once had been. He could still remember the night he first got it, the night he met Jungkook. It had marked the beginning of something important, something he had cherished. But now, that same lighter was a reminder of the two years he had spent apart from Jungkook, of all the suffering and loneliness he endured in silence, far away from the one person who had made him feel alive.

He glanced at Jungkook, the weight of those memories pressing heavily on his chest. “Have the honor,” Yoongi said, his voice quiet but firm. He held the red lighter out to Jungkook, a silent request. With a tilt of his head, he gestured to the water, telling him to throw it in.

Jungkook hesitated, his eyes flickering between Yoongi and the red lighter in his hand. He understood the unspoken meaning behind the gesture—this lighter, with all its history, no longer had a place in their lives. It was time to let go.

They both stared at the red lighter sinking into the water, the ripples spreading out as it disappeared from view. For a moment, the world was quiet, just the soft sound of waves lapping at the shore. Then, Jungkook reached into his jacket, pulling out something else, a hesitant look crossing his face. “Oh, I have that too,” he said, not sure how Yoongi would react. He held out the small picture, carefully folded, almost like it was something fragile.

Yoongi’s gaze flickered to the photo, his brow furrowing in curiosity. It was a picture of the two of them, taken that day after Yoongi had finally given in to Jungkook’s persistent requests for a photo. The older boy had grumbled and complained, but in the end, he had smiled that gummy smile—the one that couldn’t be faked, the one that Jungkook would remember forever. Even Yoongi’s eyes were smiling in that picture, something so rare, a moment captured in time that felt too precious to let go.

Jungkook chuckled softly, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his lips. “I knew you would do some romantic shit like that,” he said, trying to sound nonchalant, but the way his fingers traced the edges of the photo gave away the quiet affection he felt for it. He had never cared much for photos, but this one? It meant something. It meant everything. It was proof of a time they shared, a moment of pure connection.

If one day Yoongi had to see the light fade from his eyes, Jungkook knew he would want to look at that photo first. He would want to hold onto it—just for a little longer—before he had to say goodbye. It would be his reminder that his life wasn’t a waste of time, that even in the dark moments, there had been something worth fighting for, someone worth holding on to. It was the kind of memory that would outlast the pain, the kind of love that would stay with him no matter how far they went or how much time passed. And Jungkook wanted Yoongi to know that, even if he never said it aloud.

Jungkook knew there was so much he wanted to say to Yoongi—how deeply he cared for him, how his heart ached at the thought of ever being apart. But words always seemed to fail him, getting stuck in his throat as if they were too heavy to carry. It was always easier for him to show his love through small gestures: a simple touch, a hug, even if Yoongi never really liked them, always letting him hold on. The way Yoongi would gently tap his shoulders, whispering playful complaints, made Jungkook smile every time. It was their way of being close, their silent way of saying “I’m here.”

Jungkook didn’t need grand declarations; he wanted something tangible, something that could capture this moment forever. He looked at the white lighter in Yoongi’s hand, and with a sudden idea, he said, “Give me the lighter.”

Yoongi hesitated for a second but then handed it over without question. Jungkook rummaged through his backpack, pulling out a marker. “I want you to remember your twenty-first birthday,” Jungkook said, a playful smile tugging at his lips. He added, almost jokingly, “And of course, remember me too.” He immediately crinkled his nose and made a face of disgust at his own words, but Yoongi’s laugh filled the air, making it lighter. Jungkook laughed too.

Yoongi might forget the exact moment, he would never forget the boy who gave him this gift.

Jungkook paused for a moment, his fingers hovering above the lighter as he thought about what to write. The perfect words or symbol hadn’t come to him yet, but after a second, his hand moved, and with a quiet nod to himself, he started writing. It was simple, just two letters, Y.K. in dark ink, but the weight of their meaning was heavier than anything he could put into words. The history behind those letters was theirs alone.

As he finished, he clipped the marker shut and looked up at Yoongi, his voice soft but firm. “I know your lighter brings you comfort,” he said, watching Yoongi’s eyes linger on the small object in his hands. “But I hope you know I’m here too. And if you ever feel the need to, come to me.”

He turned Yoongi’s attention back to him, gently tilting his head so that Yoongi’s gaze finally met his. Jungkook’s voice softened further, “One day, you won’t need the lighter anymore.”

For a moment, the air between them seemed to still, like the world was holding its breath. Jungkook didn’t expect a response, not really. He didn’t need one. He just wanted Yoongi to know that, no matter what happened, he was there. And that one day, maybe, Yoongi would find comfort in something else. Something that wasn’t a crutch, but a reminder that he wasn’t alone.

Yoongi wanted to say the same, to tell Jungkook that if he ever needed him, he could come to him, run to him. But as the words formed in his mind, they felt like a lie. Why couldn’t he trust himself to help? After all, he’d spent his life fighting alone, never able to pull himself out of the darkness. He had only managed to make it through because of Jungkook—the younger was his lifeline. If he couldn’t even save himself, what made him think he could save someone else?

The truth was, he couldn’t. And he couldn’t bring himself to lie to Jungkook again. So, he stayed silent, and for the first time, Jungkook saw the uncertainty in their bond. He noticed Yoongi’s familiar habit of touching his neck, a nervous gesture he’d learned came from embarrassment.

Jungkook had always been there for him, but now, he couldn’t help but wonder: would Yoongi be there for him, too?

The younger wasn’t so sure anymore, and with that doubt, he turned his gaze toward the water, letting his legs dangle over the edge, lost in his thoughts.

They spent the rest of the day at the shore, watching the sun dip below the horizon, the sky shifting into shades of purple and orange as the night crept in. The air was quieter than before, yet there was a sense of ease between them—unspoken, but still there. They were both lost in their own thoughts, Yoongi flicking the lighter in his hand absentmindedly. The soft weight of Jungkook’s head on his lap was a small comfort, a brief distraction from the dark thoughts that had been creeping up on him for months. They came softly, but with the sharpness of an impending storm.

Tsk. Tsk.

The sound began to fill every corner of his mind, pushing away the peace around him.

Tsk. Tsk.

The soft hum of Jungkook, the gentle rustling of the wind, all drowned out by the insistent click of the lighter.

Tsk—

Before he could process, the flame was extinguished by Jungkook, who had blown it out and was looking at him with a soft, almost melancholic smile. Not his usual bright bunny smile, but something quieter, a little sadder.

“You won’t need the lighter someday,” Jungkook whispered, his voice barely above the sound of the waves.

Jungkook shifted, settling back onto Yoongi’s lap, his head finding a familiar place there. He looked up at Yoongi, his eyes filled with that quiet hope, waiting for the older boy to reassure him, to tell him that he would be there—that they would be okay.

But Yoongi didn’t say anything. Instead, he stared at the unlit lighter in his hand, the flame gone, and felt an overwhelming urge to see it again.

Jungkook closed his eyes, his breath catching in his chest as he fought to keep the tears at bay. He could feel them, hot and pressing against his eyelids, but he didn’t want Yoongi to see. Not like this.

For the first time, Yoongi had hurt Jungkook.

It was painful.

Painful how the truth, harsh and unforgiving, was suddenly in their faces, unavoidable and raw. The reality of it crashed down on them both in a way that made it impossible to ignore, like a slap from the very world they tried to escape.

Jungkook could feel it—the weight of everything Yoongi had been hiding. He saw it almost immediately, though it wasn’t something that could be read on Yoongi’s face. His eyes still held that same distant, bored expression, and his cheeks, round and full, didn’t betray the turmoil inside. No, it wasn’t in his face. It was in his hair.

Yoongi’s now dark locks were tangled and messy, falling over his forehead like a curtain of neglect. His pale skin seemed even paler against the chaos of his disheveled appearance. There was something darker, something harder to look at. Something deeper than just tiredness.

And then Jungkook noticed the bottle. It wasn’t the lighter, the object that usually comforted Yoongi. No, this time it was a liquor bottle, the sharp, bitter scent of alcohol mixing with the evening air. Yoongi, sitting on the edge of the shore, took a long swig from it, the sight unsettling and unfamiliar.

Jungkook’s stomach twisted at the sight. This was wrong. He had never seen Yoongi like this before. This wasn’t the person he knew. This was something different. Something he didn’t like.

It felt like a breaking point, like something inside Yoongi had cracked, and Jungkook wasn’t sure if he could fix it this time.

He tried, despite not knowing what to do or how to approach him. Yoongi hadn’t noticed his presence yet, hadn’t even spared him a glance. The older boy was distant, a wall that Jungkook couldn’t figure out how to break through.

With trembling hands, Jungkook placed them on Yoongi’s shoulders, unsure of how to proceed but desperate to reach him. He braced himself for the inevitable rejection, expecting Yoongi to push his hands away, to tell him to go. He had been preparing for this, for the distance, for the coldness. But Yoongi didn’t move. His body remained stiff, rigid—like he was fighting some internal war—and then, the words came

They were harsh. Bitter. Like they’d been festering in his chest for so long that now they were just spilling out, sharp and raw.

“What are you doing here again?” Yoongi spat, his voice flat, unfeeling. He didn’t even turn to look at him. His eyes remained locked on the water, searching for his reflection, but the waves were too violent tonight, too unforgiving. The wind whipped through the air, harsh and relentless, just like the space between them.

Jungkook felt his chest tighten, the weight of the words sinking in. He would’ve preferred Yoongi to push him away, to scream at him, to make him feel the sting of being unwanted—anything other than this cold indifference.

Before Jungkook could respond, Yoongi stood up abruptly, his posture straightening as his chin lifted, challenging the younger boy with an intensity that felt like a physical force. He was suddenly towering over Jungkook, who, despite being the taller of the two, now felt incredibly small. The weight of Yoongi’s presence seemed to press down on him, making him feel like a shadow of himself.

Jungkook’s heart pounded in his chest, and for a moment, he wanted to collapse, to fall to his knees, and beg for something he couldn’t even name. He wasn’t sure what he was asking for—anything, really, to make the hurt go away, to make this moment feel less like a punishment. The old, familiar sense of being a victim flooded back to him. It was as if he was suddenly that small, helpless boy again, facing those who tore him down—his bullies, his father, the ones who always made him feel insignificant.

But this wasn’t just anyone standing before him. It was Yoongi. His friend. His brother. The one person who, despite everything, had been his anchor. Yoongi wasn’t like those others. Yoongi wasn’t supposed to make him feel like this. Jungkook swallowed, fighting the overwhelming rush of emotions threatening to choke him. Yoongi’s silence and distance were cutting deeper than anything he could’ve imagined.

Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat as Yoongi’s voice dropped lower, sending a chill down his spine. “Hm?” Yoongi murmured again, this time his words sharper, dripping with something darker. “Tell me what the fuck are you doing here, Jungkook?” The way Yoongi spat his name made it feel like a foreign thing—something unwanted, a weight dragging him down. It wasn’t the name he used to say with fondness, but now it felt as though Yoongi was pushing it away, as though Jungkook was a bother he never asked for.

The air between them thickened, and Jungkook wanted to respond, but the words lodged in his throat, suffocating him. His whole body tensed as Yoongi pushed him lightly by the shoulders, an almost physical challenge, daring him to react. The tension in the air crackled like static, and Yoongi’s voice continued, cold and biting. “You just can’t see it, right?” he said, his eyes burning into Jungkook’s. “You’re alone just like I am.”

Jungkook’s chest tightened as those words hit him like a punch. Alone. It was something he didn’t want to hear. It was something he already feared—Yoongi had been there and hearing him say that made it seem real.

Yoongi’s breath was heavy, tainted with the harsh scent of alcohol that clung to his every word. Without warning, Yoongi grabbed the bottle from the ground, his fingers gripping it with an intensity that made Jungkook’s heart race. In one violent motion, he hurled it to the floor. The sound of glass shattering filled the air, each shard a sharp reminder of how fragile everything was.

Jungkook flinched, instinctively raising his hands in front of his face to shield himself from something that wasn’t even coming. The old reflex, the one he thought he’d buried, surged back through his body in a rush of fear. His mind screamed at him to protect himself, to retreat, to make himself small, to endure whatever was coming. He was familiar with this—familiar with the panic, the way his body would lock up, waiting for the blow to come.

But Yoongi froze. The moment he saw Jungkook’s defensive posture, his anger seemed to evaporate, the room going eerily quiet. The tension hung in the air like a thick fog. Neither of them moved, both stuck in the silence of that moment, one waiting for the other to speak, to break the stillness.

Yoongi stood there, shaking slightly, the reality of his actions starting to settle over him. The rage, the frustration that had bubbled up so quickly, now felt so far away. He had never meant to scare Jungkook—not like this. Not after everything. But there they were, caught in the aftermath of his own turmoil, his inability to control what had been simmering inside for too long.

Jungkook’s body trembled as he stayed frozen, his arms still guarding his face, his sobs quiet and jagged. He didn’t know what he was expecting—maybe the worst, maybe another hit, but it never came. It wasn’t the physical blows that cut him this time. No, it was the weight of Yoongi’s words that tore into him, the raw truth laced with bitterness. The silence between them felt suffocating, a void filled only by the echoes of Yoongi’s emotional turmoil.

Yoongi’s voice softened, but it was laced with something darker, something that made Jungkook’s heart pound in his chest. The words were like daggers, piercing him deep. “We were never meant to cross paths,” Yoongi murmured, his voice far too quiet for the venom it carried. “I was supposed to die quietly, softly. No one was waiting for me. My death would be buried, sealed away like a forgotten story of a lost soul.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. His worst fear, the thought of Yoongi’s death, now hung between them like an inescapable shadow. He’d pushed it away for so long, pretending it wasn’t there. But now it was undeniable, standing tall and ugly in front of him, and it made his chest feel as though it were being crushed under its weight.

“But you had to come,” Yoongi continued, his voice bitter, laced with self-loathing. “And now I feel like shit!” The words were spat out with frustration. Yoongi’s hands clenched at his sides, his body rigid, but he didn’t reach for Jungkook this time. He was holding himself back, trembling not from anger, but from a rawness that left him exposed, vulnerable.

Jungkook flinched as Yoongi grabbed his arms, his grip firm and insistent, pulling him closer when all his instincts screamed to pull away. He didn’t want to look at him, not like this—not when the words coming from Yoongi were ripping him apart. His heart thudded in his chest, each beat screaming in protest, urging him to do something, to stop this, to fight back against the suffocating weight of Yoongi’s words.

But Yoongi wasn’t finished. His voice was cold, final, and it felt like a slap to the face. “You can’t save me, Jungkook,” he said, and it was like the air was knocked out of him. It wasn’t the words themselves, but the way Yoongi said them, so certain, so filled with a kind of resigned pain that Jungkook couldn’t argue with.

“Look at me.” Yoongi’s voice was softer now, but the command still held weight.

Jungkook slowly lifted his gaze, feeling as if he were being dragged into a storm, into something he couldn’t stop. His chest tightened with every inch of eye contact. Yoongi’s eyes were hollow, heavy with the weight of everything he was hiding, everything he was carrying alone. His face, the one Jungkook knew so well, was strained, eyes glassy from tears he refused to shed, pain he refused to show. The older boy was fighting a battle within himself, and Jungkook couldn’t help but feel like he was losing.

“Look at me, because this is the last time you’ll see my face.”

The words cut through him like a blade. Every syllable felt like a promise—one that echoed with the finality of everything Yoongi had been carrying for so long. It was a blow to the chest, to the heart, to everything he had hoped for.

Jungkook’s breath caught in his throat, his hands trembling as he looked at Yoongi, unable to look away, even though he wanted to. This wasn’t just a goodbye. This wasn’t just the end of a moment. This was the end of everything they had fought for, everything they had shared. And no matter how hard he tried to convince himself, he knew that the weight of those words wasn’t something he could carry alone.

The pain was unbearable. The silence between them was deafening. The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air, suffocating, as Yoongi’s words echoed in Jungkook’s mind, his heart shattering with the realization that this—this—was how it would end.

Jungkook stayed on the ground long after Yoongi had left, his body still and broken, consumed by a hurt that no one could heal. He didn’t know how long he knelt there, the night wrapping itself around him like a shroud, suffocating every breath he tried to take. His mind was too scattered, thoughts too blurred by the overwhelming pain that was clawing its way through his chest, making him feel as though he was being torn apart from the inside out.

His heart, the very thing that had been holding him together for so long, felt like it had been ripped out and crushed under the weight of Yoongi’s words. He could still feel the phantom touch of the older boy’s hands on his arms, the grip that once held him up now casting him down. But what hurt the most was not the physical absence of Yoongi, but the emptiness that lingered where their bond used to be.

The loneliness was unbearable, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake off. He had been used to pain. Used to feeling the sting of life, the burn of rejection, the cuts from the past that left scars all over his body. He wore them like armor, the marks of battles he fought on his own. But this pain—this was different. This was a wound that would never close.

On May 1st, Yoongi had hurt him for the second time, and this time, there was no way to fix it.

Yoongi walked aimlessly through the empty streets, the city’s silence enveloping him like a thick fog, suffocating every thought he had. He had wandered for hours, but it felt like time had stopped altogether. The weight of the alcohol in his system had long faded, but the numbness remained, as if he was moving through the world without ever truly being present in it. His thoughts were sharp, jagged, cutting deeper with each step.

The bitterness inside him was overwhelming. He had meant every word he said to Jungkook. There was no escaping it. He couldn’t deny how much those words had stung, how much he had felt them in his bones as if they were an inescapable truth. His demons had finally caught up with him, and Jungkook—Jungkook had been nothing but a weight, pulling him back from the edge he had been trying to reach for so long. It was almost cruel, the way his presence had given him moments of hope, hope that Yoongi didn’t deserve.

He wasn’t supposed to live this long. He was supposed to have stopped at twenty-one, maybe even nineteen. But Jungkook had come into his life, and everything had shifted, though not in a way Yoongi had hoped. Jungkook’s insistence on being there for him, his unwavering support, had kept him tethered to a world he no longer wanted to be a part of. Every gesture, every word, every smile felt like a reminder that he wasn’t alone, and yet the loneliness inside him never faded. It only deepened.

Yoongi’s mind was spiraling. He had been dancing with the idea of death for so long that it no longer terrified him—it was the only certainty he had left. His death was inevitable, something he had kept close to his heart ever since he learned that some people passed because it was their time, while others chose to end it themselves. He had convinced himself it was the only way out, the only control he had left over his life.

He, who had never had much control over his own life, his mind being constantly consumed by dark thoughts, gnawing at him relentlessly, pulling him deeper into a place he couldn’t escape. He hadn’t asked for these thoughts. Yet death? Death was something he could choose.

It wasn’t about the suffering. It wasn’t about the pain. It was about the power. The power to choose when it would end, how it would end, where it would end. To control his final breath, to decide how it would feel, whether it would be quick and sharp, slow and drawn out, or surprisingly soft—like a fading whisper. It was the one thing in his life he could dictate.

His existence had become a slow march toward a destination he had already accepted. He couldn’t fight it, not anymore.

The weight of those thoughts was crushing, and Yoongi couldn’t help but wonder if it was all leading to one inevitable conclusion: that death would be the only thing that would make sense of everything. It was the only escape he had left.

Yoongi had thought about his death more times than he cared to admit, and by now, it felt like he had the entire plan mapped out. He’d been carrying this burden since he was eleven. Back then, he had already decided that if it came to it, his death would be public, visible to everyone, a final scream of defiance in a world that hadn’t given him much else.

He wanted the pain to be real—raw and undeniable. Not the kind of invisible suffering that gnawed at him from within, the kind that others dismissed with empty reassurances like “It’ll get better” or “It’s normal to feel like this.” He didn’t want a pain that could be brushed off, that others would trivialize. No, he wanted something tangible, something that would force people to acknowledge his hurt.

The kind of pain that would make it impossible for anyone to say, “It’ll get better.” Physical pain, something so excruciating that even the harshest words couldn’t silence it.

And for Yoongi, burning was the answer. He had been captivated by fire ever since he was a child. He remembered his mother sitting by the window, cigarette in hand, the smoke curling around her face as she stared into nothingness. She had always said that her smoking was his fault—because of him, she had started. “Stop crying,” she’d tell him, “I smoke because of you, and when I die because of it, you’ll be the reason.”

She had died when Yoongi was fifteen. And after that, he was left alone, surrounded by memories of her harsh words and the ashes of the cigarettes that killed her. The fire, he thought, would give him the closure he craved. It had taken her life, and it would be the thing that ended his.

Fire was the only thing that could bring meaning to his existence. His death had to matter, it had to be a statement, a final act of rebellion. So he promised the little boy he once was that he would finish what had been started with a fire that would consume him whole.

A promise he could now keep with a kind of dark satisfaction.

Yoongi’s gaze shifted to the first motel he came across. The neon lights flickered above the entrance, barely illuminating the worn-out sign. The letters were barely legible, but he could still make out enough to know what it was—an unkempt place, something that seemed to reflect his state of mind. It was the kind of place that had seen better days, just like him. He figured a tragic accident might be the only thing that could truly shake things up for both of them, give them the fresh start they so desperately needed.

The woman behind the reception desk looked up from her phone as he walked in. She had been lost in some mindless game, and when she finally set the device down, her face bore the kind of exhaustion only years of monotonous work could bring. She smiled at him, but it was strained, practiced. “Have a nice stay,” she said, her voice flat and hollow, a sentence she’d probably spoken thousands of times before, to customers who’d come and gone without leaving much of a mark.

Yoongi nodded, offering a tight smile of his own before accepting the room key—number 7. He didn’t know if he believed in luck anymore, but he couldn’t help but think it was ironic. A number that could bring joy to some if there were three of them, but here he was, alone in a dingy motel room, with a number that seemed more like a joke. Three sevens could symbolize something lucky, something worth hoping for, but this… this felt like the universe was pointing its finger at him, mocking his every move, taunting him with little signs that he had no control over. He couldn’t help but wonder if whoever was pulling the strings in his life was enjoying this twisted game they had him trapped in.

He shook his head as he walked down the hallway, passing rooms with doors that all looked the same. None of them mattered.

Yoongi tossed the key onto the bedside table with a force that matched the restlessness he couldn’t shake off. His jacket followed suit, landing carelessly on the bed in a heap of fabric, as if it too had no more will to stay neat. His sneakers came off next, the motion mechanical, as his mind wandered to the thought that when he finally reached the end, everything would have to burn just right, from the strands of his hair to the soles of his feet. A strange thought, but one he couldn’t shake.

Then, something caught his eye—a glimpse of something peeking out from his jacket pocket. He froze for a second, staring at the edges of the crumpled picture he had refused to look at for the past two months. The one Jungkook had given away so easily, but couldn’t bring himself to touch again since that night. The one with his soft face on it.

Yoongi’s breath hitched as he pulled it from his pocket, the edges bent from being buried there for so long. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t smooth the creases, and the photo remained warped in his hand. His fingers trembled slightly as they traced the lines of the picture, every movement slow and deliberate as if he was afraid the image would slip through his fingers, as if touching it would make it disappear. His thumb brushed over the face of the boy he couldn’t forget—the boy whose eyes now felt like a distant memory.

Jungkook seemed so far away now, the time between them stretching out into a void. But even then, it was like he was still there, a part of Yoongi’s every thought, lingering like a shadow even in the darkest moments. The weight of his absence was suffocating, yet his presence was still imprinted on Yoongi’s heart, suffusing his every breath with regret and longing.

He couldn’t help but wonder about Jungkook, even as the night stretched on. It was almost 2AM, and Yoongi knew just how much Jungkook hated walking alone at night. He had walked him home countless times, despite Jungkook’s insistence that he didn’t need to. Deep down, Yoongi understood why—Jungkook didn’t want to bring Yoongi into the shadows of his own pain. He never wanted his friend to associate him with that darkness.

But tonight, as Yoongi sat alone in his dim room, he couldn’t shake the thought of Jungkook’s face. It was the way he’d pulled away earlier, hiding from him as if Yoongi could hurt him. And in that moment, Yoongi felt the weight of those words—felt the terrifying truth that one day, if he wasn’t careful, he could hurt him. He could hurt Jungkook, the person who had been his anchor when he had nothing left. That thought made him shudder, and he knew it would destroy him far more than the flames ever could.

He could accept his own suffering. He had learned to. It was a quiet companion in his life, one he had grown accustomed to. But making Jungkook suffer? That was something Yoongi couldn’t live with. Jungkook didn’t deserve that—he deserved more than Yoongi could ever offer. He deserved someone who could protect him, not someone who might break him.

Even with the masks Jungkook wore, with the quiet sadness that hid behind his smiles, Yoongi knew that there was still a flicker of hope within him. A hope that maybe, just maybe, he could get better. A hope that didn’t belong to Yoongi, but to someone much stronger. And Yoongi couldn’t be the one to extinguish that light.

For the first time in a long while, Yoongi felt like he had done something right. No matter how difficult it would get, Jungkook would never leave. He couldn’t—no matter how far the distance or how deep the pain. That stubborn, impossible kid. Yoongi knew it in his bones, even if he could never bring himself to say it out loud. Jungkook would always stick by him, even when the world around them seemed to be crumbling. The thought of it both warmed and broke him. The knowledge that Jungkook, despite everything, would always be there—like a tether that Yoongi didn’t deserve but couldn’t bear to sever.

And maybe that was why, at that moment, Yoongi thought he knew what he had to do. The only way he could protect Jungkook, the only way he could keep him safe, was to leave. To take himself out of the equation.

In death, he could protect Jungkook from the worst of him. And that thought, however tragic, felt like the only choice that made sense.

Yoongi placed the picture on the bedside table, the single tear slipping down his cheek unnoticed as he reached for the lighter. Sitting down on the floor, his back pressed against the edge of the bed, he flicked it. The small flame burst to life with each flicker, casting soft, dancing shadows against the room’s walls. It was hypnotic, the sound of the lighter’s spark, a brief and flickering escape. He stared at the flame, his mind lost in the emptiness it brought, a momentary distraction from everything that pressed down on him.

“Thank you for making me feel alive, Jungkook,” he whispered to himself, his voice trembling with each word, his chest heaving as quiet sobs escaped him.

Before dying, he was thankful. Thankful for a bond that had been forged in the quiet moments, in the places where words weren’t needed to express everything. He had never experienced a connection like this in his life. A brother, even if by choice, had filled a hole he never thought would heal. And now, as he faced the end, Yoongi felt a bittersweet sense of peace. For the first time in a long time, he knew that Jungkook would carry on, living for both of them. A younger brother—his brother—would live for him.

When Jungkook finally made it home that night, the clock read somewhere around 5 AM—though he couldn’t quite be sure. His mind had been a blur since he left the shore. His thoughts were tangled in a haze of raw emotion—his heart pounding from the fight, the words they’d exchanged, and the image of Yoongi walking away.

The pain was still fresh. His body ached, his throat sore from sobbing, but somehow, he’d managed to fall asleep on the shore. The rhythmic sound of the waves had lulled him into an exhausted slumber, an escape he hadn’t known he desperately needed until he woke up with a start, his body stiff from the cold.

Everything came rushing back in an instant. The fight. The anger. Yoongi’s face, twisted with frustration, walking away, disappearing into the night. Jungkook’s stomach churned at the thought, and his heart twisted with regret and fear.

Panic shot through him like a bolt of lightning. He jumped to his feet, his legs shaky from the restless sleep, but his thoughts weren’t on his own exhaustion. He had to find Yoongi.

Jungkook had never liked walking alone at night—too many dark corners, too many unknown dangers lurking in the quiet. He wasn’t like the others, unaffected by the shadows. He was too sensitive, too aware of the vulnerability that came with the darkness. He knew how easy it would be for someone to strike when no one was around to hear. The thought of being alone out there made his skin crawl.

But this time, he didn’t care.

No matter how terrified he was, he had to find Yoongi before it was too late. His chest ached with a hollow kind of pain, the kind that made him feel like everything was already slipping away. The unease gnawed at him, a whisper in his mind telling him that maybe it was already too late. The damage was done. There was no going back.

The only sound that echoed in his mind from that night was the wail of sirens as he took a sharp left turn and stumbled upon an old motel.

The only scent that lingered in his memory was the pungent, suffocating stench of something that had burned—something horrific, a tragic accident that had unfolded. The smell made his throat tighten, each breath sharp and painful as he inhaled the air around him.

And the only image that haunted him was the sight of a body, draped in a dark sheet, being carefully carried out of the motel.

And the only sensation he could grasp was the cold, unyielding feel of his phone pressed against his fingers as he desperately dialed Yoongi’s number. Hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, his friend would pick up. The phone rang. And rang. And rang.

There was no answer.

Then his heart stopped.

“Yoongi,” Jungkook’s voice broke, barely a whisper, but he knew the words would never reach him. “I’m not mad at you for earlier. For anything, really. I’ll be at the shore tomorrow… will you come?”

The tears came without warning, crashing down his cheeks in torrents. He hadn’t known he could cry this hard. But it felt like his heart was tearing, splitting wide open. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he choked out, the words barely escaping through the tightness in his throat. “I love you, my brother. You were the best thing I could’ve hoped for. I never had a family… but I had you.”

The words hung in the air, fragile and unfinished, as he looked up to see the van pulling away from the scene. People were gathering on the streets now, murmuring, speculating, unaware of the quiet devastation unfolding around them.

Jungkook turned away, his heart a hollow weight in his chest. He wanted to scream, to run after that van, but he stayed rooted to the spot. He couldn’t escape what was already done.

And as he walked away, the finality of it all crashed down on him.

Right then, an innocent soul—lost in the torment of their own mind, suffering in silence—had taken their life. A life stolen away at just twenty-one, before anyone could truly see the depth of their pain.

Jungkook found himself on the rooftop again.

It had been a long time since he sought comfort there, having long replaced it with the shore, his legs dangling freely into the void below.

But now, the thought of returning to the shore felt impossible. The weight of his loneliness settled heavily in his chest. He was truly alone now. No matter how long he waited, he was certain Yoongi wouldn’t come. It wasn’t like that day on his eighteenth birthday, when Yoongi had appeared out of nowhere, a stupid grin plastered on his face. That seemed so far away now, like a lifetime ago.

He knew he wouldn’t come because before climbing the stairs to the rooftop, Jungkook had visited the columbarium.

There were so many urns there, so many people who once lived and breathed. Yet there was only one that Jungkook felt truly connected to. His feet moved almost automatically, leading him to that familiar spot, his heart heavy with the knowledge of what he would find.

Min Yoongi, 1993-2014.

The inscription stared at him, and he couldn’t tear his gaze away. The silence around him felt oppressive, and the emptiness of the columbarium mirrored the emptiness he felt inside. He was the only one who ever visited here. He had never seen anyone else near Yoongi’s urn. He didn’t want to, either. No one had been there for him when he was alive. No one had cared enough to take his pain seriously.

He opened the box gently, almost afraid to disturb the stillness, as if Yoongi might wake up and grumble about being woken up. He could almost hear it: Yoongi’s voice complaining about how much he hated being disturbed. Jungkook’s movements were soft and cautious, as if every action could somehow undo the bond they’d shared.

“Wake up, shithead,” he whispered, a weak smile tugging at his lips. His laugh was shaky, barely audible, but it escaped nonetheless, trying to mask the trembling of his fingers, of his entire body. Over time, Jungkook had learned that it was easier to laugh while he was there than to let his heart break with tears. He didn’t want to cry in front of Yoongi; there had been already too much sadness in his friend's life to let it spill in front of him.

Jungkook carefully opened the small bag he had been holding tightly, as if afraid it might slip away from him. Inside, he retrieved the little object he had kept hidden away for so long in the drawer of his bedroom.

He gingerly took the lighter in his fingers, cautious not to damage it any further than it already had been.

There was a time, when Jungkook had gifted Yoongi the lighter, when it was pristine white, with only the dark ink marking it. But after everything it had been through, the lighter was now a dull, painful grey, with the scars of the fire etched deeply into its surface.

Yet, almost mockingly, the dark ink remained. It wasn’t as bright as before, but it hadn’t faded. The Y.K. was still there, strong and unyielding.

When Jungkook had gone to the mortuary two days after that night, he didn’t know what to say. They wouldn’t let him say his final goodbye to Yoongi’s body, which was now beyond recognition, burned beyond hope. So, he dropped to his knees and begged, his words jumbled and incoherent, too consumed by his sobs to form a coherent thought. The staff must have felt pity for him, for after thirty minutes of crying and pleading, they handed him a small box.

They told him it was everything that remained from the room—the rest had turned to dust.

When he opened the box and saw the familiar lighter, he couldn’t stop the smile that broke through his tears. He pressed it to his chest, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clung to it. He didn’t care. It was Yoongi’s, and that’s all that mattered.

When they asked him who he was to the deceased, Jungkook answered without hesitation, his voice steady, even if his heart was anything but. “His younger brother.”

He had kept the lighter for so long, but now, it was time to give it back to its rightful owner. “Happy birthday, Yoongi,” Jungkook whispered softly as he placed the worn lighter inside the box, his hands trembling slightly. “I wanted to buy you a new one, but then I thought, you weren’t really deserving one.” He let out a small laugh, trying to force the lightness into his voice as he gently cleaned the urn, rearranging everything as if he had the right to do so. He was the only one who came here, after all. No one else took care of it. He could do whatever he wanted.

His gaze lingered a little longer inside the box, resting on the familiar photo of the two of them—the only one he had left of Yoongi. It was the same picture Jungkook had once given him, now scorched by the flames. Jungkook had printed another, the image of Yoongi’s gummy smile staring back at him through the photograph.

He felt his eyes water, and before a single tear could fall, threatening to break the fragile composure he had left, his hand brushed against something else in his bag.

“Just kidding,” Jungkook murmured, his voice shaky, unsure if he was even joking anymore. He took out a new lighter, bright and new, extravagantly decorated with cartoon cats. It was nothing special—just a small trinket, but it was something Yoongi would have found ridiculous. Still, it made Jungkook laugh through the tears that were already building, because it felt so much like him. So deeply Yoongi’s.

But then, the first tear fell. Hot and swift, it slid down his cheek as he quickly wiped it away. He couldn’t stay any longer. His heart was aching too much to be in this place, surrounded by his memories of Yoongi. With one last look, he turned and left the columbarium, his body trembling with the weight of everything he couldn’t say, everything he couldn’t fix.

It was Yoongi's twenty-two birthday today.

As Jungkook paced around the edge of the rooftop, his arms stretched out, catching the wind, feeling the rush that urged him to let go, to surrender to the pull of gravity. In one reckless movement, he could fall. Crash to the ground. His body would become nothing more than a lifeless puppet. But somewhere in that chaos, he’d find himself—somewhere new. Heaven, something he’d heard people talk about. He didn’t know if he even had the right to go there, if he could.

But wherever he would end up—paradise, hell, or something in between—it wouldn’t matter, because he knew one thing for sure: he would find his brother there. Paradise, after all, was where Yoongi had always been.

He closed his eyes and let the wind play with the edges of his flannel, the fabric billowing as if it, too, was tempted to take flight. For a moment, he let himself drift—not physically, but in his thoughts. He thought about the past year, about the progress he had made. He couldn’t say for certain that he was getting better, not really. But he was getting bolder.

He was growing older, and the people around him didn’t scare him as much as they used to. He was almost twenty now, and soon, he would leave. Leave the house that haunted him, that dragged him down like heavy chains around his ankles. He didn’t know where he would go yet, only that he had to. But he also knew he couldn’t go too far—Yoongi was still here, and Jungkook had promised himself he would never abandon him.

He liked to think he was getting stronger. That maybe, just maybe, he had found a reason to keep fighting, a force pushing him forward even when everything inside him begged to stop. He couldn’t quite explain it, this strength that seemed to settle in his bones. But he knew one thing for sure—it was colored in soft mint green. A shade that could only ever belong to one person.

With a swift jump, Jungkook landed back on the rooftop, leaving the void behind—for another day, another year, or maybe forever.

He was ready.

For what? He wasn’t sure. But whatever was waiting for him, whatever life had in store, he would face it head-on. If he ever doubted, if he ever faltered, he would push forward—for him.

On May 2nd, Min Yoongi died.

His heart may have stopped beating at twenty-one, but his thoughts, his words, the essence of who he was—they still lived. And they would continue to live for a long time.

Jungkook would make sure of it. Because now, they lived in him.

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