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dailynnt · 1 month ago

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LOVE ME, EVEN IF I DON’T DESERVE IT

☽ ݂ ໋Summary: He didn’t believe in love. You wasn’t looking for a one-night stand. But sex became a trap. Feelings a mistake. Jungkook thought he could keep you, even when he kept disappearing whenever he wanted. You stayed, until got tired of waiting. And when you left — he finally understood what losing truly means. He wants you back. Not just your body — your heart. This is a story about passion, pain, and a second chance…

☽ ݂ ໋Couple: Jeon Jungkook/ The Reader, Jungkook/Y/N

☽ ݂ ໋Age restrictions: 18+

☽ ݂ ໋Size: one shot

☽ ݂ ໋Tags: established relationship, toxic relationship, breakup, from ex to…lover?, makeup sex, possessive jungkook, emotional smut, second chance romance, nsfw, smut, heartbreak, angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, soft moments, he falls first, he falls harder, dom jungkook, passionate sex, emotional reunion

☽ ݂ ໋From author: The note to this fic was too big 🤭 So read it below after the story 👇🏻💜

☽ ݂ ໋Dedication: To every of my subscribers 💜 You are my strength, inspiration and priceless love 💜

☽ ݂ ໋Permanent tag list: @kelsyx33, @curse-of-art, @someoneelse0109, @kooklovee, @kookiesncreamri, @kooko009, @bhonbhon, @smokinghotstargirl, @mskookie, @minimoninini, @medstudentlifestyle, @bhonbhon, @indigomoonchild09, @goldenboysmuse, @hisdecalcomania17, @ggingerismm, @tranquilreign, @asyr97, @mar-lo-pap, @diame93

☽ ݂ ໋Warning: This fanfic contains strong language, explicit sexual content, emotional manipulation, jealousy, toxic dynamics, and angst. Please read with caution if you’re sensitive to themes of heartbreak, regret, and complicated relationships. English is not my first language, so you may find some grammar mistakes or oddly structured sentences. Thank you for your understanding and kindness. 💜

Jungkook was not a fan of serious relationships. He saw sex as a game, as a way to release tension, as entertainment. So when he met you for the first time, you were supposed to be just another girl for the night.

It was his usual evening, with hookah smoke drifting across the tables and music playing too loud to hear his own thoughts. He was sitting with his friends, relaxed. His appearance was a magnet for girls and he knew that his tattoos and piercings were a kind of beacon. After drinking enough alcohol, he decided to find himself the one for the night. His eyes scanned the room looking for the most attractive one. He spent almost the whole hall with his eyes until he saw you.

You weren't laughing out loud, or dancing defiantly like the others. You were just sitting with your friend, holding a glass of tequila and looking out into the hall, as if you were familiar with everything here, and at the same time, as if you were above it.

He was impressed by this.

And then you met his eyes - briefly, coldly, sharply looking away. And he realized everything: you're not one whom interested in cheap tricks.

He came over ten minutes later.

"You look so bored."

You shrugged your shoulders without looking at him:

"Find yourself another victim. I'm not looking connected for a one-night stand."

Jungkook smiled. He liked complicated girls. But not for their emotional depth, no. It was the excitement. Because of the desire to prove that even those who are not "looking" will eventually end up in his bed.

And you did. He managed to get you to engage in a dialog, and at some point he was even interested in listening to you, he ordered you a few more cocktails, and you became softer. Finally, in the morning, he offered to take you home. Just to take you home, but in same time hoping to kiss you in the hoping for more. And when he got you to your house, he kissed you at the door, as if to save you from falling, and he realized that you had worked exactly according to his plan.

It was only supposed to be one time. He thought he was going to fuck you like everyone else-fast, vivid, and the next day he would forget your name.

But sex with you was different.

It was like you knew his every limit. As if you weren't afraid of its dark, wild side. On the contrary, it seemed to excite you.

After that night, he wrote to you himself. A few days later. And when you agreed to meet him, Jungkook was secretly happy. He knew he could enjoy great, wild sex with you again.

Then he came again. And then again.

You had a temper, you had character, you challenged him, and he loved it. And one day it happened. You started dating. No agreements, no serious words. He just didn't sleep with other woman anymore-at least not at first. You just became his girlfriend. By default. Even though he didn't see himself as a boyfriend.

Especially not a serious one.

He didn't promise love. And he didn't plan to. Only sex that could be obtained anytime, anywhere. You were the kind of girl who liked to experiment, wasn't boring in sex, and could make Jungkook want you all the time.

But then, as with everything that made him quickly catch fire, he lost his passion for your sex, the euphoria wore off, and he demanded something new. And he started cheating. He justified himself by saying that "it happens". That it doesn't mean anything. That he was just a man.

Jungkook started responding to your messages late. He would not show up for days. And every time you had a fight, he followed the usual scenario: he silenced you through kisses, through sex, through his ability to undress you, kiss you, break you into sweet oblivion.

Because he knew you liked having sex with him. Because it had never been like that with anyone else. Jungkook liked your body. Your wet eyes after a fight. Your supple skin. You were different from the others. But he was sure that you, like everyone else, would stay.

And you did. Until in one day something changed.

After another fight and your typical reconciliation, Jungkook agreed to go to Busan with his friends to the ‘Busan Rock Festiva’, which he attended every year. Why didn't he invite you to go along, because it wouldn't have been a vacation for him then. If you were there, he would have to restrain himself, and that's not a place where you need to restrain yourself.

So when he was already there, having a good time with his friends, when the new girls joined them, he got the first call from you that day.

Jungkook didn't answer the first one. When you called him again a few minutes later, he decided to answer you, saying that he there only for a day. Jungkook assumed that you would be angry, but he knew how to calm you down when he returned from Busan.

So Jungkook stepped away from his company and pressed the green button.

"Hey, my babygirl," he said, his voice soft.

"Hey," you said into the phone. Jungkook smiled lightly.

"What's wrong? Are you tired?" he asked, sensing the fatigue in your voice. You exhaled heavily into the phone.

"The day at work sucks," you said. "That's why I desperately need my boyfriend," your voice standing more playfully, but not without a trace of fatigue.

Jungkook is about to say that he's not in Seoul, but he doesn't hear Taehyung appear behind him and unceremoniously shout in his ear.

"Jungkook-ah! Come back to us. There are more girls to come. Why are you stuck here?"

Jungkook knocked Taehyung's arm away with the one he had managed to hug he and quietly showed him that he was talking to you with an angry face. Taehyung put his hand over his mouth and cursed silently.

"I'll be right over," Jungkook said and pushed Taehyung in the back. He apologized quietly, but Jungkook waved his hand and moved on. You were silent into the phone the whole time. "Babygirl, I would love to come to you. But I left for Busan this morning. Didn't I tell you?" the lie came out of Jungkook's mouth as easily as ever.

"No," you answered shortly and calmly. "You didn't tell me you were going to Busan."

Jungkook exhaled theatrically into the phone.

"Didn't I tell you? I told you yesterday when we were together that today is the ‘Busan Rock Festiva’, which my friends and I go to every year," Jungkook convinced you.

"We didn't being together yesterday," you said, still calmly, "We last seen on Monday, and today is Friday."

Jungkook didn't even panic. He knew that if you started to get angry now, he would accept it, and when he returned to Seoul, you would immediately make up.

"Really? Oh fuck, I was so wrapped up in this damn job that a week seemed like one day. Then I told it you on Monday."

"No, and you didn't mention it even on Monday," you insist. Jungkook notices that you are not angry. Your tone is even and calm. Perhaps because you are tired, you don't have the energy to be angry with him? Or have you finally accepted his constant pranks and disappearances?

"Oh sorry doll, I was planning to tell you, and seems to I forgot. It's only for a day, I'll be back tomorrow night. Damn it, we haven't seen each other for a week, I missed you like hell. As soon as I get back to Seoul tomorrow, I'll come see you first," Jungkook said, lowering his voice and moving further away from his group of friends. There was loud music and shouting from the festival participants around him, so he walked to a place where the sounds would be less loud.

"Okay. I'll be waiting for you," you said in the same tone, "Have a fun, Kook," you wished.

"Thank you, babygirl. See you tomorrow?" he asked, and he already caught himself thinking that he didn't like the fact that you didn't react to the fact that he went to Busan. You didn't even ask about the girls Taehyung mentioned.

"I'll see you tomorrow," you replied, and you were the first to hang up.

Jungkook stood there looking at his iPhone screen until it went off. He was really impressed by your reaction. Normally, you would have been interrogating, angry. But your calm reaction was not typical, and for some reason, it touched him. Jungkook put his phone in his pocket and returned to his friends thinking about you and your conversation.

Taehyung apologized to Jungkook that he was going to get in trouble with a girl because of him, but Jungkook brushed it off and continued drinking. The girls in the company were pretty, but for some reason none of them made Jungkook feel like having someone tonight.

One pretty blonde, even knowing that Jungkook had a girlfriend, did not hesitate to flirt with him with obvious hints of sex. She spent the rest of the evening and night hanging around Jungkook, but he didn't respond. He didn't want to have sex. But the girl did not lose hope, and when she asked Jungkook to take her to her camping tent because she could barely stand, she offered to give him a blowjob on the way. He refused even that, even though at any other time he would have shoved his cock deep down this whore's throat.

The next day, Jungkook returned to Seoul late at night. It was eleven o'clock in the evening, and he drove up to your house and texted you that he was there. You repeatedly made many times Jungkook to memorize the password to your house, but he wouldn't even try. He didn't want to bother with the password to your house. Usually when he was here, it was enough that you were with he and you would enter the password yourself.

The answer from you came almost immediately, as if you were waiting. You wrote that you were in the park near your house, sitting by the fountain, waiting for him. Jungkook raised his eyebrows wondering why you were in the park so late instead of at home. He didn't wear his helmet, because the park was close, so he started the bike and rode off.

While he was riding to you, he caught himself thinking that he really missed you. Especially your body and your hospitable pussy. The thought of fucking you tonight made his cock in jeans hard.

He got there in less than five minutes. Jungkook parked his bike in the parking lot near the park entrance and walked to the fountain.

It was almost deserted. You sat on a bench by the fountain, cross-legged and wrapped in a light cardigan. The lanterns cast a soft light on your face. You noticed him and he smiled at you. But in return, he saw coldness in your eyes. Not resentment - no. That would have been easier. Not anger, because he knew how to calm it down. It was the coldness of distance.

He approached to you slowly, confidently, as if he didn't feel anxious. But something inside him was shrinking. He stopped a few steps away, looked at you, and tilted his head slightly to the side:

"My babygirl looks like she didn't miss me," he said with a soft smile, but you didn't smile back. "Hey..." Jungkook sat down next to you, very close, "But I missed you," his voice lowered and his hand dropped to your knee. He put his other arm around you, pulling you closer. Jungkook touched his nose to your jaw and ran it all the way up to your ear, inhaling your scent. He really missed you, even your scent, which had always seemed ordinary to him. Pleasant, but not as evocative as it was now.

"I really missed you," he whispered in your ear. Then Jungkook grabbed your chin with his fingers and turned you to kiss you. You immediately, by inertia, let his tongue into your mouth, touching it timidly with your own.

Jungkook deepened the kiss, feeling a wave of excitement. He didn't understand how, but you rekindled the passion and desire he had at the beginning of your relationship. And just as he was about to pick you up by the waist and carry you to his lap, you gently but firmly pulled away.

"No," you said without raising your voice. You simply stopped his touch, as if it were not Jungkook but someone else. His eyes narrowed. He licked his lips, as if trying to collect himself.

"What's wrong, baby?" he asked quietly.

"We're in the park," you said just as quietly, turning away. Jungkook leaned down to your ear.

"We haven't had sex in this park yet. I wouldn't mind fucking you right here," he whispered. You were frozen, unresponsive. Jungkook kissed your earlobe, and when he realized that you weren't responding to his actions at all, he concluded that you were upset about his trip. "Hey," he called out, "What's wrong? Are you mad at me for going to Busan without you?" Jungkook asked bluntly. You looked in front of you, and then looked down at your lap, at his hand, which was at a dangerous distance from your fly.

"I want to break up," you said firmly. Jungkook felt a twinge inside, but he didn't show it in any way. He pulled away slightly and looked at your face.

"What did you say?" he asked again, unsure. You turned your head to him and looked him in the eye and said clearly and distinctly.

"I want to end our relationship. Let's break up," you said, barely keeping your voice steady. Jungkook held you for a few more seconds and then let go.

"Why?" he asked. He was curious to know the reason. Because your relationship had been going on for six months, the longest Jungkook had ever been in, and you had put up with everything until now. Jungkook thought you didn't mind the relationship like this, and he didn't promise to marry you, but you had great sex and it seemed like that should be enough. Right?

"What's the point, Kook?" you asked instead of answering him right away.

"What do you mean, what's the point?" Jungkook didn't understand, raising his eyebrows. You laughed hysterically but quietly.

"You only come to me when you want to fuck. And I'm not sure it was ever anything special to you. So I'm letting you go, that you were free to do it all you wanted and not hide."

Jungkook exhaled an exasperated breath. You've fought many times, you've asked him to leave, you've suspected him of cheating, but you've never asked him to end the relationship. Something unpleasant stirred inside him. You're asking for an end to the relationship, and it's a good opportunity to finally get rid of your boyfriend's responsibilities.

But why doesn't he want to? Is he used to you being around all the time? That he can come to you at any time and you always accept him? Or is he angry that you asked for a divorce first? He was always the one who left girls first, not the other way around.

Jungkook was silent. His jaw was tense, and there was something dangerous in his eyes-not anger, but that deep, aching annoyance that comes through when you don't expect to be defeated. He stared at you for several long seconds, as if trying to read if that was really all. But you didn't look away.

"Do you really want this?" he asked slowly. His voice was low, dull, and he was trying to hold back his emotions and his pride that you had managed to hurt.

"Yes," you answered simply. Not in a trembling voice, not through tears. And that was worse. It was convincing. Jungkook smiled, and he reached out to hug you. He convinced himself that you were just mad at him as usual.

"Come on, babygirl, you love me. How can we part?" he says confidently, and he wants to kiss you so that you succumb to his charms, but you turn your head away and Jungkook barely manages to avoid kissing the back of your head. He freezes and then pulls away. Jungkook waits silently for you to turn around. You slowly turn your head straight and don't look at him.

"Yes. I loved you. But does that bother you? You've never cared about my feelings!"

It was true. Your feelings didn't mean anything to him. But now he felt his chest tighten. Why? You're just a girl. For whom he can easily find a replacement. But will those girls be like you?

"I'm tired of everything. I'm tired of you." you said honestly.

Jungkook felt as if something sharp was slowly scratching him from the inside. His gaze dropped down to your fingers curled into a fist in his lap, and suddenly he thought he was seeing you for the first time. Without the pink haze of sexual fantasies. Without a convenient role. Just a living, tired girl who loved him and was tired of waiting for a response. But it made him angry. Angry that you take everything so radically now, but not the way you used to.

"What are you tired of?!" he asked, somewhat irritated. You continued to ignore him with your eyes.

"Of your silence, your betrayals, your apologies with your body. I'm not sure if that sex ever brought me anything other than the feeling that you only wanted me when I was naked." A silence fell between you and it was painful for both of you. You were the first to break it. "Pretend like I never existed," you asked, "You're a master at this. You've been doing it our whole relationship."

Jungkook let go of you. He exhaled heavily and ran his hand through his hair. He turned to you and saw that you were sitting there with an indifferent expression.

He slowly stood up from the bench, something inexplicable still pulsating in his chest - it was not anger, not resentment. It was that rare feeling that comes only when you lose something... that you've had for a long time.

He looked down at you for a few seconds, as if trying to find a gap, a crack, a chance to bring you back. But there was none. You sat with your back straight and your fingers slightly trembling, but your eyes were no longer thirsty for him. And in that certainty was your strength.

"Okay," he said dryly, and the word seemed to crunch in the air. He gave you one last glance, trying to look as indifferent as you were, but you didn't even look at him to appreciate it.

Jungkook turned around and walked toward his bike. His figure disappeared among the night lights, and you remained seated, trying not to let the tears break through.

When he was almost out of sight, something stopped him. He looked over his shoulder. You didn't look back at him. And it was this indifference - not fake, not tortured, but real - that made him take a confused breath.

"I didn't cheat on you, this time," he threw into the darkness. "I didn't even touch her."

You couldn't hear him. And those words were empty, because Jungkook had done this many times before, without noticing how each time he left deep cuts in your soul.

He got on his bike without starting the engine, just looking at the empty park. And again he caught himself thinking: why the hell does it hurt?

It was the first night he came back from his trip, when he didn't stay in your bed.

Jungkook did not go home that night. He didn't want to see the walls of his apartment or the mirror where he could look himself in the eye. He drove around the city without a goal. He smoked one cigarette after another. He stopped on a bridge and looked at the black water of the river, which reflected the streetlights.

It was only then that his phone screen lit up with a message from another girl who wrote: "Are you coming to see me tonight?" he realized for the first time that he didn't want to. No. He didn't want to see any of them at all.

A few weeks have passed. No news or messages from you. For some reason, Jungkook was hoping you'd write. That you had made an impulsive decision and would still come back.

When a week passed without you, he was still holding on. He was trying to get back to his normal life, but everything irritated him. He wanted to know another girl to get over you, but none of them evoked any emotion in him. When he talked to some girl, he compared her to you: what would you say? And how did you behave? She didn't have the same hair, didn't have the same intoxicating scent, didn't have the same laugh. There was nothing in any of them that caught his eye.

Jungkook started drinking more, staying out in clubs until the wee hours of the morning just to avoid coming home sober and remembering how he fucked you in his bed, on the kitchen table, in the bathtub. Everything in his apartment reminded him of you. And when he found your things one day, he was completely torn. He shoved his pride up his ass and realized that he feels something for you. And he desperately needs you. Not your body. But your whole self.

He opened his phone and found your number. You signed yourself in his phone as "My babygirl". He typed a message, a simple one: "Hi. Let's meet?" and sent it. But the message was not delivered. He tried a few more times and realized you had blocked him.

Jungkook laughed. Did you really do that? He dialed your number, but the call kept dropping. It made him completely angry. With all this tension and anger, he threw the phone at the wall without controlling his emotions, smashing it to pieces.

Another week passed and Jungkook tried not to think about you again. He immersed himself in work, went on business trips for a few days, and whatever he did, you were always on his mind. And it was starting to drive him crazy.

When he returned to Seoul after a business trip, he went into his apartment and got tired. He went to the shower and stood under the stream of water. His thoughts were chaotic, and his chest felt like it was tearing him apart. Jungkook laughed hysterically. He touched with his hand the wall of the shower stall, his head down. The water hit his back, and he continued to laugh hysterically.

"Fuck..." he gasped out loud. "I'm an asshole," he called himself. "Did I really fucking fall in love with her?"

Jungkook couldn't believe it, but his state and his desire to see you, to at least touch your hand, spoke louder than he did.

Jungkook got out of the shower. He quickly dressed in a black T-shirt, similar black cargo pants, and threw on a jacket. He walked into the garage, passing his car, and got on his bike. Jungkook pulled on his helmet and rode purposefully to your house.

He turned off the engine and walked to the fence. Jungkook was tall and could easily see over it. You lived on a quiet street in a rented house. Jungkook found your bedroom windows without fail. The lights were off. Your whole house was in darkness. You must have been asleep because it was almost midnight.

Jungkook rang the bell several times, but you never showed up at the door. He cursed and went to his bike, which was parked in the shade of a streetlight. He sat down and smoked a cigarette out of nerves.

Jungkook had managed to take a few pulls when a car parked a few houses away. Jungkook's eyebrows furrowed, straining his eyesight. And when he noticed you in the front seat, something broke inside. You were smiling and saying something to the man behind the wheel. Your conversation didn't last long. After a few minutes, you got out of the car and waved goodbye to your friend, or maybe your new boyfriend.

Rage and jealousy clenched his throat as the car disappeared before his eyes, and you waited for it to drive away, headed for your house. You were so beautiful, so calm - Jungkook felt horror. Because someone else had already been in your life.

You had no sooner touched the combination lock than you heard a voice from the outside.

"You found a replacement for me quickly."

You froze when you heard Jungkook's voice. You turned your head and saw him sitting on his bike. He finished his cigarette and threw it on the asphalt, crushing it with his sneaker.

Jungkook smiled and slowly stepped out of the shadows, approaching you. He stopped a step away from you and couldn't help but think that you seemed to have become even more beautiful. Jungkook looked at you without shying. You were dressed in a white blouse, a long skirt with a small slit at the hip and a jacket because it was cool outside. You were wearing high-heeled shoes, which made you a little taller than he was used to looking at you.

"What are you doing here?" you said coldly, not commenting on his previous words.

Jungkook smiled his usual seductive, cocky smile. But inside him was a real hurricane.

"I've come to see you," he said as if it were a completely normal thing. Your eyes darkened. You gave him every indication that you weren't happy to see him, but Jungkook knew you weren't. He could see how nervous you were and how your breathing was quickening.

"I'm not asking why you're here. I'm asking what are you doing here?" you spoke sharply and Jungkook felt his patience to stay away from you and not kiss you was getting shorter.

"Was that your new boyfriend?" Jungkook ignores your question. You click your tongue, but answer the question.

"I'm not that one who’s successful at finding someone to fuck right after a breakup. Or even during a relationship," you pause and then continue, "This is my coworker. We're working on a project together," and you quickly trailed off, obviously catching justifying yourself to Jungkook. And he liked your answer and your justifying.

Jungkook smiled even wider. He took half a step closer to you, forcing you to take the same half step back. Now there was only half an arm's length distance between you. Your back was almost against the fence door, but you tried to keep your composure. Unlike Jungkook, who had already lost his patience with being away from you.

"Did you miss me?" his voice was velvety and low.

"What do you want?" you asked coldly, but not so confidently. And Jungkook heard it. He caught the way your lower lip trembled, the way your hands clung to your jacket to keep it from shaking.

"I don't know if I want anything... except you," he admitted honestly. His eyes, normally dark and deep, as if pulling you in, were now burning. Your eyes darted between his, and he bet you were struck by these words, but you suddenly laughed. Mockingly, quietly.

"And when did you understand that? After another girl? Or when I blocked you everywhere?"

"When I imagined you with someone else. And I couldn't stand it," he didn't look away. You huffed and turned away.

"That sounds nice. But it seems too late for such words. It's over between us," you said without any emotion in your voice.

Jungkook's face did not flinch, but something changed in it. In his eyes. In the chewing of his jaw. For a split second, Jungkook felt like he was breaking down-but he immediately pulled himself together again.

"It can't be too late," he argued. "You love me. Your feelings couldn't have disappeared in two weeks." Jungkook moved a little closer.

You angrily turned your head toward him, not realizing that he was closer than you wanted him to be.

"Shut up," you said threateningly. "Don't you dare say I love you. You don't deserve these feelings!" Jungkook pushed you against the door, and only now you realized how close he was. "Let me go, get out," you protested. Jungkook put one hand on the door and held you close with the other. He breathed in your scent, the same scent he missed so much, the same scent that intoxicated him.

"I don't want to leave. And I don't want you to hate me. I want you to love me, even if I don't deserve it," he said against your lips. You froze, looking at his lips. You were breathing fast and hard, and these sounds excited Jungkook. He leaned down and kissed you. He couldn't hold back any longer.

Your mouth was warm and sweet, and your hand clutched the fabric on his chest. He kissed you greedily, emotionally, without any self-control - as if these two weeks without you were an eternity for him. As if every second without you caused physical pain.

"I was an asshole," he whispered through the kiss. "But... please, let's try again. Start from the beginning."

You trembled in his arms. Your heart was beating so hard that it seemed like it was about to jump out of your chest.

"I'm afraid..." you confessed quietly. "I'm afraid you're going to hurt me again..."

"I won't," Jungkook interrupted you, cupping your face in his hands. "And if I do anything to hurt you again, I'll disappear. I'll be gone forever. Just... give me a chance. Just one. I'll make it right."

You looked away, full of tears, but Jungkook touched your lips again. His kiss was gentle, almost pleading, as if it contained his entire vow. And you gave in. When your lips parted, you whispered:

"Jungkook... make it right."

That was enough. He dug into your lips again, with more hunger. You entered the house. As soon as the door closed behind you, Jungkook pounced on you without another word. His hands were everywhere: he pulled off your jacket, unbuttoned your blouse, whispered in your ear that he missed you, not giving you a second to think.

His kisses were bold, deep, and with every second, all the pain and longing that had accumulated over the weeks came out of him. He undressed you right in the hallway, as if he couldn't wait any longer... Because he really couldn't.

When your skirt fell to the floor, you were left in nothing but your underwear. He pushed you against the wall, kissing you without stopping. Jungkook pulled away from your lips for a moment to look at you. He looked at your body with greed. His hands reflexively reached for your breasts, and without taking off your bra, he pulled one of them out and smiled. He couldn't help but rejoice in the moment that you his again.

Jungkook looked up at you, and he kept looking at you with a winning smile as he reached for your nipple.

When his wet tongue touched your aroused nipple, he was ready to moan. He adored the taste of your skin. Jungkook played around, licking your nipple, making your heavy breathing turn into moans. Your other nipple got plenty of attention, too. And when Jungkook wanted to kiss you again, his hand went down between your legs at the same time.

He easily slipped his palm under the fabric of your lace thong and touched the sensitive center, pushing apart your folds. You gasped and closed your lips as he pressed on your clit. Jungkook ran his finger up and down it, with gentle, blissful movements. A few more strokes and his finger plunged into your passage, feeling the tightness and wetness he had missed like crazy.

Jungkook froze for a second, two. He could feel your flesh clenching around his finger, and this contact made him lose the last vestiges of self-control.

His gaze slid down your face, stopped at your half-open lips, from which a soft moan escaped-sweet, intoxicating, just as he remembered. His heart was beating wildly.

"You don't know how much I missed this... you," he whispered, slowly removing his finger and gently running it along your thigh, leaving a wet trail. "Every night I imagined touching you again. In my dreams. In the shower. During meetings. Even when I was working."

His fingers dove under your panties again, this time along with his kisses. And when he'd had enough of your plump lips, Jungkook knelt down, never taking his eyes off you. He slowly pulled off your underwear, letting it fall to your ankles. He took off your shoes and kicked them to the side.

"Do you know what was killing me?" he looked up, holding his breath. "That I didn't know if I'd ever be able to kneel before you like this again."

You held your breath at his words. Those words affected you, and Jungkook could see it. And he was really afraid that you would never let him touch you again.

His tongue touched your most tender part - gently at first, stretching out the moment, as if enjoying every second of it. Then harder, wider, more rhythmic. You screamed and leaned back against the wall, clutching his hair as if you were holding on to your last bit of sanity.

Jungkook worked his tongue with such precision, as if it were his only meaning in life. His fingers penetrated you again-synchronized with the movements of his tongue-slowly, deeply, each thrust like a confession.

"You're mine." His voice was muffled but confident. "And you can't leave me anymore."

Your body shook. Your hair fell over your shoulders. Your chest rose in an accelerated rhythm. And as the orgasm grew, as your every cell screamed for pleasure, Jungkook stopped. Just for a moment. To look at you. To feel it with you - with all the depth. You were breathing heavily, looking up at him.

"I want to be inside you," he said, standing up, kissing you on the lips, leaving a trace of your own taste on them. "Now."

And you couldn't say no. Because your whole body was screaming yes.

Your hands unbuckled his belt, your fingers shaking, and when his cock came free-hot, hard, full-you ran your palm over it. He closed his eyes and moaned your name.

"Y/N... fuck... I want you," he leaned his hand on the wall, enjoying your movements. "Mine," he moaned in your hair somewhere near your ear, "Only fucking mine."

He lifted you up and you wrapped your legs around his waist. He carried you over to the couch, which was the closest comfortable place to fuck you.

Jungkook laid you down. He quickly freed himself from all the clothes he was wearing and approaching you without taking his eyes off you, he spread your legs. He pressed the head of his cock against your entrance and entered you with one deep, slightly sharp, impatient thrust, and the moment seemed timeless. You both froze.

Your nails dug into his strong shoulders, and your breaths intertwined in the darkness.

"God..." he whispered. "You were always meant for me."

He thrust his hips, feeling the instant pleasure of the tightness of your pussy.

Jungkook started moving slowly, pulling each thrust with sweet pleasure, as if he wanted this moment to last forever. His gaze never left your face - you looked as if you had just returned home after a long, painful journey. Your eyes sparkled, your lips were slightly open, and with each new penetration you dug your fingers deeper into his back.

"You're so... tight," he whispered, squeezing your hips. "For me, it's all for me, baby..."

His movements became deeper. Sharper. And everything in him was screaming - not just about desire, but about the need to restore the connection that seemed to have been lost.

You responded to his every thrust. Your hips arched to meet him, your neck opened for his kisses. He kissed it greedily, leaving wet marks and light bites. You felt your body tremble again - this orgasm was coming like a storm, and Jungkook knew it. He felt your every shudder, your every breath.

"Tell me..." he mumbled, not stopping, "Do you still love me?" he wanted to hear it. He needed to know that you hadn't lost those feelings. Your behavior and the fact that you had forgiven him so quickly had already answered that question, but he wanted... he wanted to hear it again.

"I love you," you breathe out. "I love you, Kook." you said, no doubt in your voice. Jungkook was happy. He wanted to confess too. But he didn't know if he really did. He didn't know if he knew the feeling the way you knew it. He stopped and came closer to your face. Inches separated your lips.

"I think I do, too," he said in a trembling voice. "I love you too."

Your eyes instantly filled with tears and they flowed down your face. It was the first time in six months of relationship that Jungkook told you that he loved you. And he only realized that he loved you when you left. He realized that only your warmth was the one he always wanted to return to and stay in forever.

He made a deep thrust with his hips that made you scream. He continued to move sharply, bringing you deeply to the edge.

"I'm sorry," he said as he fucked you, "I'm sorry baby. I've been an asshole. I've caused you so much pain. I'll make it all right… I'll make it right," he promised again. He spoke as sincerely as he could. He wanted you to believe him. That these were not empty words, but a promise he was going to keep.

Jungkook changed his angle - he lifted your legs higher, placing them on his shoulders, and he thrust deeper, right to the point that made you moan with a force he hadn't heard before. You bit your lip, but he grabbed your jaw, forcing you to look at him.

"Don't be silent, I want to hear you," he wheezed. His voice sounded like thunder, low and raspy. "I want to hear you cum for me."

And you couldn't hold back. Your walls clenched around his cock, and you arched in orgasm, losing control. He caught your every breath as he continued to move, taking you through wave after wave.

But Jungkook didn't want to stop. Not yet. He hadn't had enough. His cock was still hard, aroused to the point of excitement. He flipped you over onto your stomach, gently but firmly. And before you knew it, he was entering you from behind again. His hands gripped your hips and then slid down to your breasts, squeezing them tightly in time with his thrusts.

"Fuck... it feels so good inside you, my love. I could live here forever," he growled behind you. You moaned as you felt his big cock from a new angle. It felt like he was penetrating you deeper than before.

You could feel your body coming to the limit again, even though you had just felt the discharge. His moans merged with yours. His pace increased. Jungkook wanted to mark you. To prove that he had a right to you, as he always had. He stopped, halfway out, and leaned down to whisper in your ear:

"I'm going to come inside you."

You didn't object. You couldn't. You didn't have the strength. Only the desire. And Jungkook was glad you didn't object. And when he entered you again, quickly and ruthlessly, you felt his hands tremble and his body tense. You came first. Jungkook felt it well. Your loud and long moan and the walls as if they wanted to strangle him.

"Y/N... I..." he groaned, and with one last deep thrust, he spilled inside you, leaving you both completely exhausted.

He didn't pull back immediately after that. He stayed inside you, trembling, breathing into your neck. His body was still covered in a light sweat, and his heart was pounding in unison with yours.

After a few minutes, when his breathing became calm, he came out of you. Jungkook didn't let you get up, he lay down next to you, hugging you. The couch was narrow, and in order for both of you to fit on it, you had to almost lie down on top of Jungkook. He put his arm around you, and you laid your head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. Your leg touched his thigh without touching his crotch. You both lay there naked and exhausted, and incredibly content.

His hand gently slid down your back, as if trying to calm the residual tremors. He didn't say anything, just breathed with you, as if he was afraid to disturb this fragile harmony. Jungkook leaned down and kissed you on the forehead, gently, not at all like he had just made love to you. His lips lingered, and you felt him sigh, heavily, like a man who had just let go of something very heavy.

"I've never had anything like this," he whispered. "I didn't even think I could feel this."

You looked up at him, and he looked back.

"I was really afraid I'd lost you," he said quietly. He had never spoken so sincerely before. He had always given the impression of strength, dominance, control-but now he was just a guy who had just allowed himself to be loved for the first time.

"I'm not leaving anymore," you whispered, touching his cheek. "Not unless you destroy everything we have."

He hugged you tighter.

"I won't do it again," Jungkook said firmly. "I promise. Even if I have to change everything in the whole damn world."

Silence fell over the room again. Only your breaths and the warmth of your bodies remained. His hand rested on your stomach. An unconscious gesture. But you noticed it. And your heart sank.

"What?" he asked when you tensed a little.

"Nothing," you smiled, closing your eyes. "It's just... if we can keep this together, nothing else will matter."

Jungkook kissed you again. Gently, softly, like a seal, he sealed the promise. A new beginning awaited you, and you both hoped for a happy ending.

📝 Author's note:

Hello my dear Army. It's been a while since I posted my work here. I wrote to you that I am going through a difficult time in my life. And it's really hard for me mentally (especially mentally) and physically. I don't want to deepen you into my problems, the only thing I will say is that I will feel better very soon because I will visit a psychologist who will help me unwind the tangle of thoughts and nerves that I have wrapped up 🧶🤭

I promised all of you the story to the thousand followers on my blog. I even announced the cover with the title "Control Me". But as you can see, this is not the story I promised you 🥺

I'll try to explain it briefly. I wanted to write "Control Me" for you, but I didn't like it the whole time I was writing it. I gave it read to my sister Marichka, who is also a good writer, I consider her the best writer for me, and she evaluated it objectively. And she told me that such a story has a strong plot and it cannot be contained even in 15 thousand words for one story. She advised me to focus on "One Night..." and "No Mercy" and to write "Control Me" after these two stories.

Why wrote this fanfic like a series, because for CM I came up with a plot where Y/N will be a psychologist who specializes in sexual disorders. Jungkook will seek her help because he suffers from a phobia of emotional and physical intimacy. That is, in short, it will not get aroused from women (although physiologically everything will be fine). That's why it can't be summed up in one story. Because the process of his treatment is going to be long. That's why the story has to be unfolded. By the way, let me know if you like this idea? And should I write it?

And as for story which I wrote for you now 💗 It appeared in my head literally in a moment when I was listening to The Rose's song "Back to me" ❤️‍🔥 This story is about a love that was originally a default. It's about a guy who thought she would always be waiting for him and a girl who finally learned to let go, even though her heart screams otherwise.

It's about the gloomy, unattainable Jungkook, who didn't know what love was until he was left without it. It's about a deep sexual chemistry that becomes a language they use to tell each other: I'm still here, I still want you, I still love you. And at the same time, it's a story about correcting mistakes when it seems too late. And you know, even if this story is very "bookish", I believe that there are boys who have a many women, and when they meet the one they are ready to change for her 🥰 I am such a hopeless romantic and dreamer 🤭 But no one forbids it 💗

I will add at the end that I still feel bad and I don't know if I will have the inspiration and time to update "One Night..." and "No Mercy" in the near future, but I will try to do my best 🙏🏻 I really ask for your patience 💜 It is important for me that you stay with me 😣😭

Dear Army, thank you again for the thousand subscribers, thank you for your love and attention to me. I bow to you for every kind word you say, it is important and valuable to me 🤭❤️‍🔥 So let's be together forever 💜 Borahe each of you 🙏🏻💘

722 notes · View notes

97linelover · 1 month ago

Text

I wonder - Jeon Jungkook

summary: doing your sick friend a favour, which means helping out at jhopes concert does not prepare you for one person.

Jeon Jungkook.

The two of you had a hook up the night before he left for the military.

And now he’s back.

pairing: idol jungkook x reader

genre: smut, they re obssesed with each other, they’re just cute, jungkooks new tattoo is a huge topic

author's note: after yesterday’s concert I can’t stop thinking about it.

Y/N adjusted the last lighting filter backstage, fingers slightly trembling—not from stress, but from caffeine and five hours of sleep spread over two days.

The buzz of the concert crew was everywhere: stylists shouting, dancers stretching, cables tangling under hurried steps. She had been pulled in last minute, a favor to an old friend in the makeup team who had caught the flu the night before.

She didn’t expect this.

Not Goyang.

Not the massive J-Hope solo show.

And definitely not him.

But life never asked her opinion.

“Y/N, can you take the next artist?” someone called.

She nodded, wiping her hands on a towel as she turned to face her new client—and nearly dropped the brush in her hand.

Jeon Jungkook.

He stood just inside the dressing room door, black hoodie pulled halfway down, his dark eyes already locked on her like he’d been expecting her all along.

She froze.

He didn’t smile right away. Instead, his eyes moved over her face like he was trying to remember every detail he’d forgotten during his time away. Like nothing had changed.

Like it hadn’t been almost two years since that night.

“Hey,” he said softly.

Y/N swallowed hard. “Hey.”

A beat of silence.

Jungkook stepped further into the room and closed the door behind him. The noise of the crew disappeared instantly, and all that remained was the echo of her pulse in her ears.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he said, voice warm but unreadable.

“Neither did I,” she replied, fighting the urge to cross her arms. “I’m just filling in for someone. Temporary.”

He nodded. “I’m just… guesting for one night. Hobi-hyung wanted to surprise the fans. You know him.”

She nodded too, too quickly. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

Another pause.

The air was thick now—not awkward, just heavy. Like the room hadn’t caught up with the past yet.

They both remembered that night.

The hotel.

The way his fingers had lingered on her skin like he didn’t want to forget her before he left for the military.

The silence afterward.

No messages. No explanations.

Just two people pretending it never happened.

“You look… good,” Jungkook finally said, breaking the silence.

Y/N looked up sharply. “You too. Bulked up a little, huh?”

He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Mandatory army diet. Lots of push-ups. Not much else to do.”

She smiled, and for a second it felt normal again. Easy. Dangerous.

“I guess I should do your makeup,” she said, finally turning back to the mirror and picking up a sponge, grateful for something to do with her hands.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “Guess you should.”

He sat down slowly in the chair, knees brushing hers as he turned to face her. The air shifted again—tighter now. As her fingers touched his skin, her heart betrayed her with a thud.

He was real. Warm. Close.

Jungkook’s voice came low, near a whisper. “Did you ever think about that night?”

She froze again, her hand stilling on his cheek. She met his gaze in the mirror.

God.

His eyes were unreadable, but soft.

Y/N swallowed. “Did you?

“I never stopped.”

____________

Flashback

The moment their lips met, it was like months of tension detonated all at once.

Jungkook’s hands were in her hair, on her back, gripping her waist like he was scared she’d disappear if he let go. Y/N couldn’t think—didn’t want to. His mouth tasted like whiskey and something sweet, like danger in disguise.

He pressed her back into the private room’s couch, their breathing tangled and uneven. His voice came rough against her neck:

“I should stop.”

“Then stop,” she whispered, her fingers already undoing the buttons of his shirt.

But he didn’t.

He kissed her harder. Slower. Like he wanted to memorize every inch of her.

Clothes came off in pieces, pulled and dropped without grace. His skin was warm, the body beneath the shirts and choreography harder now, shaped by army prep and stress and want. He looked down at her with dark, hooded eyes, chest rising and falling.

“I’m leaving tomorrow,” he said again, as if trying to remind himself.

“Then give me tonight,” she whispered.

He did.

And it wasn’t rushed or careless

It was everything he couldn’t say out loud.

The way he held her face in his hands as he moved against her.

The way he whispered her name like it was something holy.

The way his fingers found hers and held on.

They moved together in waves—soft at first, then desperate, louder. No music playing, but still in rhythm. His lips didn’t leave hers unless it was to breathe against her throat or whisper things that made her eyes close with heat:

“You drive me crazy.”

“I thought about this so many times.”

“You feel like… home.”

He came undone with her name on his lips, forehead pressed to hers, as if letting go of something he didn’t want to admit he’d been holding in far too long.

Afterward, the silence wrapped around them like a blanket. The kind that comes only when everything’s been said without speaking.

He pulled her close.

They didn’t talk much.

Just slow breathing. Fingers tracing bare skin. Her face tucked against his chest, heartbeats still out of sync.

And then, sometime before sunrise, she must have drifted off.

The Morning After

6:37 a.m.

Y/N woke alone.

The bed beside her was cold. The spot where Jungkook had been—empty, except for a faint scent of cologne and regret.

No note. No message. No voice.

Just silence.

Her phone was quiet too. Nothing from him. Nothing from anyone.

As if it hadn’t happened.

As if she hadn’t happened.

He was gone.

_____________

The makeup brush trembled slightly between Y/N’s fingers.

His hoodie was now off. He wore a sleeveless black shirt, and time had only sharpened what was already unfairly perfect. His jawline was more defined. His features stronger. His collarbones peeked just enough to make her pulse skip.

His hair was slightly tousled, freshly washed. His eyes—still that dark brown that had once looked down at her in a hotel bed, right before vanishing—were watching her again now.

Too carefully.

Too quietly.

“Look up,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

He did. Slowly.

Her fingers touched his cheek as she blended concealer along the soft curve beneath his eye. His skin was warm under her touch. Familiar. Way too familiar.

Why does this feel like a dream I forgot I had?

She tried to focus. Concealer. Powder. Eyeliner. Keep it professional.

But his eyes never left hers. Not even once.

“Still the best hands in the business,” Jungkook murmured, his voice low, deep, intimate. Too intimate.

She didn’t look up. “You don’t know that.”

“I do,” he said. “You’re shaking though.”

Her breath caught.

“I’m not,” she lied, brushing highlight across his cheekbone.

“You are,” he said again, softer. “Is it because of me?”

She pulled back, just enough to create space. Not enough to break the moment.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, barely able to meet his gaze.

His expression shifted—something between guilt and hunger flickering behind his eyes.

“Because I thought I could walk in here and act like nothing happened,” he said. “But I can’t.”

Y/N inhaled sharply and set the brush down on the table behind her. She crossed her arms and finally let herself look at him without filters or pretending.

“You left,” she said. “No text. No call. Not even a goodbye.”

His jaw tightened. He leaned forward in the chair, elbows on knees, his eyes suddenly full of something raw.

“I know,” he said. “And I hate myself for it.”

Her heart twisted.

Damn him.

Even now—especially now—he still made her heart ache in the worst way.

“I waited,” she whispered. “I told myself you’d say something. Anything.”

He stood up.

And just like that, they were too close again.

His chest almost touched hers, and his voice came low, trembling.

“I wanted to. Every day. I wrote a hundred messages and deleted all of them. Because I didn’t know what I had the right to say after what I did.

Y/N’s eyes searched his, trying to find the lie. But there was only truth—and regret.

And something else.

Still burning. Still there.

“I’m not the same person,” he said.

She let herself whisper back: “Neither am I.”

His hand reached up. Hovered near her cheek. Didn’t touch.

Not yet.

“I never forgot you,” he said, voice rough. “Not one day.”

Y/N closed her eyes. Her heart was a war zone. And he was standing right in the middle.

Y/N took a small step back. Enough for air to return. Enough for her thoughts to line up like soldiers.

In the corner of her eye, she saw movement—two stylists walking past, a camera assistant adjusting lighting nearby. The pre-show chaos was picking up again.

They weren’t alone anymore.

She cleared her throat and reached for the compact powder, flipping it open like nothing had just happened

“You should sit back down,” she said flatly.

Jungkook didn’t move at first. His brows furrowed just slightly, as if he couldn’t quite process the sudden shift.

“I mean it,” she added, firmer this time. “We’re not having this conversation. Not here. Not now.”

He slowly sat back in the chair, confusion and something like disappointment tightening his jaw.

“You were just—” he started.

“Doing my job,” she interrupted sharply, not letting him finish.

A moment of silence stretched between them.

Y/N didn’t look at him. She focused on the powder, dabbing it gently along the curve of his jaw. The same jaw she’d kissed. The same skin her fingers had once traced in the dark.

But now, her hands were steady. Cold. Careful.

“I’m here as crew,” she said, voice low but firm. “Not someone from your past.”

He let out a quiet breath, like the words hit harder than he expected.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“You don’t get to decide what this is, Jungkook. Not anymore.”

His gaze was on her now, intense and unreadable.

“You’re being cold,” he said quietly.

She met his eyes then—just for a second—and something behind her chest pulled tight.

“I’m being professional,” she corrected

He leaned forward slightly again, this time slower, like testing her boundary.

“You don’t have to pretend like it meant nothing,” he said.

Y/N smiled—tight and tired. “I’m not pretending. I’m surviving.”

His lips parted, as if to argue, but she was already turning away, reaching for the setting spray. She sprayed once, twice, then grabbed a tissue and gently patted the corners of his mouth.

“There. All done,” she said.

He didn’t move.

She stepped back again, this time fully. Crossing her arms. Setting the barrier.

“You should head to the stage for final checks. J-Hope’s going on in ten.”

Jungkook stood slowly. She could see the struggle in his posture, like he was carrying something he’d never planned to carry again.

But he didn’t say anything else.

Just nodded.

And walked away.

Leaving her standing there, heart pounding, hands clenched behind her back—wishing he had stayed

… and terrified that he still might.

The hallway leading to the stage was dim and humming with nervous energy. Crew members moved with purpose, headsets crackling, lights being tested for the final sequence.

Y/N adjusted the strap of her brush belt, keeping her face neutral—even though her chest was anything but.

“Y/N,” someone called from across the comms. “You’re needed at position three. Final touch-up for Jungkook. He’s getting mic’d now.”

Of course.

She grabbed her compact and a brush, forced her shoulders back, and walked toward the waiting area near the stage wings.

And then she saw him.

Jungkook stood under a warm prep light, a mic technician adjusting the pack clipped to the back of his jeans. His baggy denim hung low on his hips, tucked perfectly into black leather boots. The white tank top clung to him just enough to reveal the lines of his torso—still lean, still strong, still infuriatingly beautiful.

But it was the jacket that caught the light.

Black denim, dusted with dark glitter, shimmering faintly as he moved. A single silver chain looped at the collar, catching like a secret.

He looked like someone carved out of memory and stage lights.

Unreachable. Untouchable.

Until he turned—and saw her.

His eyes locked on hers immediately. Not surprised. Not smug. Just… present.

Like he’d been waiting.

Y/N didn’t pause. She walked up to him, pro to the bone, brush already in hand.

“Mic okay?” she asked, eyes focused on his face—not his lips. Not the way his collarbone peeked out when he moved.

“Yeah,” he said. “Just a little tight. But I’ll survive.”

She nodded and stepped closer. With one hand, she steadied his jaw. With the other, she dabbed around the corner of his eye, smoothing the faint crease where the concealer had shifted.

Jungkook’s voice came low—just for her.

“You always do this thing with your lips when you’re concentrating.”

Y/N didn’t react.

“You’re doing it now,” he added, his voice dipping even lower.

“Stop talking,” she said softly. “Or I’ll poke your eye out.”

He smiled, just a little. “You’d never hurt me.”

She pulled back slightly, eyes sharp. “Don’t test that theory.”

He held her gaze for a beat, the tension between them wrapped tight as guitar strings. Then—softly, almost too quiet for her to hear—he said:

“You never said I looked good.”

Y/N hesitated, brush frozen near his cheekbone.

Then she leaned in, lips inches from his ear, and whispered

“You know you do.”

And just like that, she stepped back.

Professional.

Controlled.

Even though inside, her chest was on fire.

“Five minutes to stage,” someone called from the hall.

Y/N gave him a last once-over and nodded.

“You’re good to go.”

He didn’t move right away.

But she did.

She turned and walked away—before she could say something stupid. Before she could let him see the way her hand shook once she was out of his sight.

Because the worst part wasn’t that he was still beautiful.

It was that some part of her still wanted him to pull her back.

From the side of the stage, Y/N stood just behind the curtain, half-shielded by lighting equipment and crew bodies, watching the crowd explode in screams.

Goyang was shaking.

The fans were on fire, voices echoing off the walls, arms raised, phones lit up like stars. It was the kind of energy that pulsed through your bones. And out there, under the lights, stood J-Hope and Jungkook—both drenched in sweat, charisma, and power.

She couldn’t help it.

A small smile crept onto her face.

They looked happy.

They looked whole.

Even after everything—time, distance, silence—watching Jungkook on stage felt… right. Like a missing piece snapping back into place, even if only for a moment.

The crowd roared louder as the intro to “I Wonder” began. J-Hope tossed an arm over Jungkook’s shoulders, both of them laughing between lyrics as they danced, light on their feet, feeding off each other like they never left.

Y/N clapped softly with the others in the wings, pride warming her chest.

And then—

The beat shifted.

A murmur of recognition swept through the crowd.

“Seven.”

Jungkook stepped forward alone now, breath still heavy, lips parted, eyes scanning the sea of fans like they were his to command.

The tank top was clinging to him now. His arms were slick from sweat, veins rising along his forearms. And as he reached up to adjust the mic wire behind his neck, the shirt lifted—just enough.

That’s when she saw it.

The tattoo.

Faint under the collar, but there—dark ink curling from his shoulder, creeping across his collarbone toward his chest.

Near her, she heard two stylists whisper:

“He extended it while he was in the army.”

“It goes all the way across now—shoulder to chest.”

“God, he got so hot.”

Y/N’s stomach flipped.

She didn’t mean to think it.

Didn’t want to.

But the image came anyway—

⸻

Flashback – That Night, That Tattoo

He hovered above her in the dark, breath warm against her collarbone. The room was barely lit by the streetlight outside, just enough to see the edges of his body—solid and real and hers, for that night.

Her lips trailed down his neck, slow and greedy.

And there it was.

The tattoo.

Back then, it ended just at the top of his shoulder, sharp black lines flowing like smoke across his skin.

Y/N kissed it.

First softly. Then again, with more hunger. Her tongue traced one of the lines, and she felt him shiver above her.

“You like it?” he asked, voice rough.

“I’d get lost in it if you let me,” she whispered back.

His laugh came low against her skin. “You already are.“

⸻

Present

Y/N blinked hard, yanked back into the now by the thunder of applause as Jungkook hit the final chorus of Seven. He moved like he’d never left the stage, hips rolling, voice pure honey, the fans eating up every second.

And all she could think was—

God, I want to see that tattoo again.

I want to see all of him again

She clenched her hands behind her back.

No.

Not tonight. Not like this.

But even as she tried to look away, her eyes found him again.

And this time, his gaze flicked—straight to her.

Just for a heartbeat.

Just long enough to let her know:

He saw her.

He always did.

He grabbed a water bottle from the cooler, downed half of it in seconds, then bent forward with his hands on his knees, catching his breath.

That performance was a rush.

But the real jolt hadn’t been the lights or the fans.

It had been her.

He’d seen her.

Just off-stage. Watching.

Eyes locked on him for those final seconds of Seven.

And then it was over.

Now she was gone again.

“Yo, good job, man,” one of the dancers clapped him on the back. “You killed it.”

He nodded, still breathing heavy, eyes scanning the hallway.

A few feet down, past the tech crates and bottled waters, he finally spotted her—kneeling next to Hobi, calmly patting his forehead with a towel, checking his skin for shine, brushing powder over his temples.

Y/N.

Focused. Grounded. Not looking at him.

J-Hope laughed, still glowing from the performance. “I swear, Y/N, I don’t know how you don’t get bored fixing my sweaty face every ten minutes.”

She smiled, that soft little grin Jungkook knew too well. “It’s my job to make sure you keep looking good. Even when you’re dying inside.”

“Damn, harsh!” Hobi chuckled.

Jungkook stood there, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt, unsure what to do with himself.

She hadn’t even glanced his way.

Not once.

Was she really that good at pretending now?

He took a step closer, then stopped.

She was still crouched in front of Hobi, saying something quietly, reaching into her makeup pouch for something.

She used to do that for me, too…

That same look. That same care.

And now I’m just… background noise?

His throat tightened.

J-Hope caught his eye first and smiled. “Yo, JK! You good?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, straightening up. “Still breathing.”

Y/N didn’t react.

Didn’t turn.

Didn’t flinch.

She just kept dabbing a clean sponge across Hobi’s cheek like she hadn’t just watched Jungkook set the entire arena on fire minutes ago.

He almost wanted to laugh.

Or curse.

Or say her name just to make her look at him.

But instead, he just stood there—sweat cooling on his skin, heart thudding, suddenly unsure whether the stage had been the hardest part of the night… or if this was.

„Hey, heads up—Jungkook’s doing a quick change. New hair touch-up needed in ten.”

The voice came through Y/N’s headset like any other cue. Routine. Professional. Just another task.

She gave a quiet “alright,” already preparing the setting spray and hair serum. But her stomach still turned.

Another outfit.

Another moment alone.

Stay focused.

She wiped down the table, replaced the brushes, adjusted the combs.

And waited.

Minutes later, the hallway rustled. Footsteps. Laughter

And then—him.

Jungkook walked in with a soft smirk and new energy. His old outfit gone, replaced by a light blue denim jacket, slightly oversized, sleeves rolled once at the forearms. Beneath it, a crisp white shirt, fitted just enough to hug the new strength in his frame.

The matching light-wash jeans sat low on his hips.

Effortless. Warm.

Dangerous.

And of course, he didn’t speak.

Just walked straight toward the styling chair like this was normal.

It wasn’t.

Y/N’s hands froze at the edge of the table. Then she grabbed the comb.

“Sit,” she said softly.

He did.

The air thickened immediately.

She ran her fingers gently through his hair—softer now after sweat and stage heat. She spritzed water, then used the comb to part the strands, brushing them back from his forehead. His skin was still warm. His pulse visible at the side of his neck.

And then—his scent hit her.

Clean. Light. Like fabric softener and something deeper.

Masculine. Familiar.

Don’t remember.

Don’t go back there—

But her body betrayed her.

⸻

Flashback – The Way He Looked at Her

That night, she’d been straddling him on the bed, knees sinking into cheap hotel sheets, her fingers tangled in his hair.

He was shirtless.

His breath hot against her collarbone.

And his hair—longer then—was all over her hands.

“Don’t stop,” he’d whispered, eyes locked on hers. “I want you to touch all of me.”

And she had.

Her palms had slid into his hair as she kissed him deeper, rougher, harder. His jacket had already been thrown somewhere across the room, and her nails had scraped down his scalp as he moaned her name.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he’d said into her skin.

And she had believed him

⸻

Present

Y/N blinked back to reality, her chest rising slightly too fast.

Jungkook was still sitting there, eyes closed, head slightly tilted back as she ran her fingers through his hair. Too close. Too intimate.

“You were incredible,” she murmured before she could stop herself.

He turned his head slightly toward her voice, surprised.

“You watched?”

“I work here, don’t I?” she muttered, brushing through the front strands slowly.

He smiled again. “Still… thanks. I saw you. Side stage.”

She didn’t reply. Couldn’t.

Her fingers slipped into his hair again, lifting gently, separating strands, smoothing texture. His hair was soft, like silk between her fingers. Familiar.

Too familiar.

“You always do it like this,” he said quietly, voice low and steady. “Gentle. You always take your time.”

“Shut up,” she whispered, but there was no venom in it.

He chuckled, deep and soft.

“I missed this.”

Y/N’s hand stilled for half a second

⸻

Flashback – That Hotel Room, That Night

Jungkook’s lips were on her throat, hot and hungry. The room was dim, but her skin was lit with fire.

His denim jacket was the first to go — she had peeled it off his shoulders, breathless from the kiss, from the way he was looking at her. Like he needed her more than air.

He’d laid her back against the sheets, one knee between her thighs, arms on either side of her head.

“Say stop,” he whispered, voice rough with want. “Say it and I will.”

She didn’t.

Instead, she pulled him in harder, fingernails raking up his back through the thin white shirt.

Her hands were in his hair — gripping, pulling.

He let out a low sound, almost a growl, and kissed her deeper

Her name fell from his lips over and over again as her mouth explored his skin like a map.

“You’re driving me insane,” he groaned against her ear.

“Good,” she whispered. “Now don’t stop.”

⸻

Present –

Her breath hitched as she adjusted his parting, her fingers trembling just barely. The brush moved, but her thoughts didn’t.

She could feel his hands still. His mouth.

She could still taste his skin.

Jungkook glanced up, sensing the shift

“You okay?” he asked again, voice gentler now.

She snapped out of it. “I’m fine.”

“You sure?” His tone wasn’t teasing anymore. It was real. Worried.

Her hand froze again, just above his forehead.

And for a second—just a second—she let her fingers drift through his hair like she used to. Slow. Careful. Tender.

Like she didn’t want to forget the shape of him.

Then she stepped back. Hard.

“You’re good,” she said. “Done.”

Jungkook stood slowly, turning to face her, eyes darker now

But she was already moving, cleaning brushes, placing bottles in their trays like she hadn’t just relived his body on hers.

He didn’t say a word.

He just stood there.

Watching her like he wanted to say everything—

But maybe still didn’t know how.

The stage lights dimmed for a moment, then burst back to life in waves of purple and blue.

The crowd roared, anticipation thick in the air.

J-Hope stepped forward, confident and radiant, a wide smile lighting up his face. Jungkook followed close behind, eyes sparkling with an electric mix of focus and joy. Behind them, Jin took his place, steady and graceful, a quiet strength anchoring the moment.

The beat dropped — smooth, hypnotic — as the opening chords of “Jamais Vu” filled the arena.

Jungkook moved effortlessly, every step syncing perfectly with the rhythm. His voice blended seamlessly with J-Hope and Jin’s, weaving together in perfect harmony.

The energy between the three was magnetic, like they shared a secret only they knew — a story told through movement and melody.

Jungkook’s smile never faded. It was a beam of pure light that reached every corner of the venue.

When he hit the high notes, the crowd erupted, voices joining his in a chorus of adoration.

Side stage, Y/N watched quietly, her breath catching as she saw him shine—not just as an idol or performer, but as someone alive and free.

In that moment, all the distance, the silence, and the unspoken words melted away

Jungkook was glowing.

And she couldn’t look away.

After the last echoes of the performance faded, Y/N moved efficiently through the backstage area, gathering her tools and tidying up the makeup station. The buzz of the crew was still low but fading as everyone prepared for the next set.

Her hands worked on autopilot, but her mind wasn’t focused on the task. It kept drifting—back to the stage, to Jungkook’s radiant smile, to the way his eyes caught hers.

Once everything was packed, she slipped out of the main room, heading toward the quieter corridors backstage.

She paused outside a door, hearing soft rustling inside.

The familiar scent—clean linen and something uniquely Jungkook—filtered through the crack.

Taking a deep breath, she stepped inside.

There he was, pulling off his jacket, the soft denim falling from his shoulders. The room was dimly lit, shadows casting long lines across his frame.

He looked up, surprise flickering in his eyes.

“Hey,” he said quietly.

“Hey,” she replied, voice steady even though her heart was anything but.

For a moment, they just stood there, the space between them thick with everything unsaid.

The door clicked softly behind Y/N as she stepped into the small dressing room. The air was thick with the lingering scent of his cologne mixed with the faint musk of sweat from the stage — intoxicating and familiar.

Jungkook stood by the mirror, slipping off his shirt, the muscles of his back flexing with each movement. His eyes met hers in the dim light, dark and smoldering.

“Did you watch the whole performance?” His voice was low, almost a whisper.

Y/N nodded, her breath catching. “Of course.”

He took a step closer, the space between them shrinking until it was nothing but electric tension

“Why do you keep avoiding me?” he asked, voice husky.

She looked away, heart pounding. “I’m trying to be professional.”

He chuckled softly, a sound full of promise and challenge. “We both know that’s not the whole truth.”

Her eyes met his again, and for the first time in a long time, the walls between them began to crumble.

Without thinking, her fingers brushed against his arm — a spark jolting through both of them.

Jungkook’s hand reached out, covering hers, warm and steady.

The room seemed to pulse around them as the heat built, unspoken but undeniable.

“Tell me,” he murmured, “do you want this? Or are you just afraid to admit it?”

Y/N’s breath hitched, lips parted — caught between restraint and desire.

And in that charged silence, everything changed.

Her eyes found his again, wide and vulnerable, the walls she’d built around herself beginning to crumble in the face of his unwavering stare.

Before she could stop herself, her fingers brushed against his forearm—a hesitant, tentative touch—but the electricity that sparked between them was anything but small.

Jungkook’s hand rose slowly, covering hers. His skin was warm, steadying, grounding. His fingers laced with hers effortlessly, like they’d been meant to fit together all along.

The room seemed to pulse with unspoken words and unsaid promises. The air thickened, charged with tension so palpable it was almost unbearable.

Her breath hitched. Her lips parted, words caught somewhere between restraint and desire. Her heart hammered like a drum, threatening to drown out everything else.

The space between them was charged with longing and fear and something deeper—something neither wanted to name but both could feel burning bright.

She could smell him, see the faintest sheen of sweat on his skin, feel the steady beat of his pulse beneath her palm.

For a moment, nothing else existed except the two of them, suspended in time, teetering on the edge of what was and what could be.

And then—

Her lips trembled as she finally whispered, “I don’t know if I’m ready.”

Jungkook’s thumb brushed soothing circles over her hand. “Then maybe we’ll take it slow,” he said softly, voice full of promise and patience.

He leaned in just a fraction, close enough that she could feel his warm breath against her cheek.

“Whatever you want, I’m here,” he said.

Y/N closed her eyes for a moment, letting the heat, the promise, the aching tension wash over her.

When she opened them again, the vulnerability was still there—but so was the spark.

Because maybe, just maybe, they were ready to stop running from what had always been there.

The space between them collapsed as Jungkook’s hand tightened slightly around hers, his touch sending a jolt straight through her.

His eyes never left hers, dark and burning with a hunger she hadn’t dared to admit she felt too.

Slowly, deliberately, he reached up, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered there, warm and sure, tracing a path down her jawline, following the curve of her neck.

Y/N’s breath hitched, every nerve ending alive and screaming for more.

Without warning, he closed the tiny distance left between them, lips capturing hers in a kiss that was soft at first — exploratory — then deepening in an instant, fierce and desperate

Her hands tangled in his hair, pulling him closer as the heat between them exploded.

Jungkook’s body pressed against hers, every inch charged with the electricity of months of silence and unanswered questions.

She tasted him — salt and something sweeter, raw and real — and forgot everything except the way he made her feel alive, wanted.

His hands slid down her sides, gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him.

The room grew smaller, hotter.

Clothes became obstacles to be shed, buttons undone with trembling fingers, skin meeting skin in a blaze of heat.

He paused just long enough to whisper against her lips, “I never stopped wanting you.”

And then he kissed her like he meant it—like the night they lost to time never happened

Every touch, every gasp, every moan spoke louder than words.

This was their moment.

Unstoppable, undeniable.

The heat between them was rising, breaths mingling, hearts racing—every second felt like a stolen dream.

But then, a sharp knock echoed at the door.

Jungkook’s eyes snapped open, alert and tense.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, pulling back just enough to listen.

From the hallway came a voice—urgent, calling his name.

“They’re looking for you.”

His gaze flicked to Y/N, a mix of frustration and regret flashing in his eyes.

“Stay here. I’ll be back,” he whispered, his hand briefly squeezing hers before he slipped toward the door.

Y/N barely had time to process before the door cracked open and he was gone, disappearing into the corridor like smoke.

Her heart pounded loud in the sudden silence.

She looked around desperately, spotting the small storage closet just behind the door.

Without thinking, she ducked inside, pulling the door quietly shut behind her.

Inside, cramped and dim, she held her breath, waiting.

Every sound from the hallway made her pulse quicken—her mind swirling with what-ifs and the ache of unfinished moments.

Outside, Jungkook’s footsteps faded down the hall.

And Y/N was left alone in the shadows, the heat between them simmering, waiting for a chance to ignite again.

The moment Jungkook’s footsteps faded down the corridor, swallowed by the chaos backstage, the room seemed to exhale with a sudden stillness. The air, heavy and charged just seconds ago, now felt impossibly quiet.

Y/N lowered herself onto a nearby chair, the adrenaline coursing through her veins slowly retreating. Her hands trembled slightly as she began to gather her scattered makeup brushes and palettes, packing them carefully back into her worn kit. Each item felt heavier than usual, burdened by the weight of the memories she was trying not to dwell on.

Her mind flicked back to Jungkook’s touch—the way his fingers lingered on her skin, the heat of his breath against her neck, the softness of his lips that had ignited a fire she thought had been extinguished months ago. The thought made her pulse race again, leaving her both exhilarated and conflicted.

“Hey, Y/N.”

The soft voice startled her. She looked up to see J-Hope stepping into the room, his ever-present smile gentle but sincere. His eyes held something deeper tonight—an understanding that went beyond the usual crew-member-to-artist banter.

“I just wanted to say thank you,” he continued, closing the distance between them. “You really saved us tonight. The whole team’s been talking about how amazing your work was.”

Y/N forced a small smile, trying to appear composed. “It was nothing. Just doing my job.”

But J-Hope shook his head slightly. “No, seriously. You stepped in last minute, and the boys really appreciated it. We’d love to have you join us for dinner—just us, the members. It would be nice to spend some time together, outside all this.”

The invitation hung in the air, warm and inviting—but Y/N hesitated. The offer was tempting, but the underlying tension between her and Jungkook made it complicated.

“I don’t know, Hobi…” she began, voice wavering. “I’m not sure if it’s a good idea.”

J-Hope’s smile softened, and he took a step closer, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret.

“Is it… because of Jungkook?” His eyes sparkled with gentle teasing, but there was genuine care beneath it. “Everyone’s noticed, you know. The way you two look at each other—the tension that’s been building since he got back.”

Y/N blinked, caught off guard by his straightforwardness. She hadn’t expected anyone to be so perceptive.

He chuckled softly. “The guys talk about it a lot. They remember that night before he went to the military—the night you two were… close.”

Her cheeks flushed, heat rushing to her face. She bit her lip, uncertain whether to deny it or confess.

J-Hope’s expression was kind but honest. “No shame in it, Y/N. It’s clear there’s something between you two. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending.”

She looked down, wrestling with her feelings—the fear of opening old wounds, the desire for something more, and the uncertainty of what that something might be.

The room felt smaller, the distance between them shrinking as the truth lingered in the air.

After a long pause, Y/N finally met J-Hope’s eyes. “Maybe you’re right,” she whispered.

J-Hope’s grin returned, bright and reassuring. “Good. Because whatever happens, we’re here for you. And who knows? Tonight might be the start of something new.”

Y/N nodded slowly, heart pounding—not just from the night’s events, but from the possibility of what could come next.

Outside the door, the distant hum of the crowd and the pulsing beat of the music reminded her that this world was fast and unpredictable. But for now, she allowed herself a moment of quiet hope.

They ended up in a small, tucked-away Korean BBQ place — the kind of late-night spot that didn’t need a name, only the smell of grilled meat spilling out into the street to draw people in.

It was nearly 1 a.m., but the private room was already buzzing when Y/N walked in with J-Hope.

Laughter bounced off the walls. Jin was mid-story, animated as always, hands flying everywhere while Jimin leaned into him, half-laughing, half-mocking. Taehyung was fiddling with the grill tongs, pretending to be the “meat master,” while Namjoon poured everyone water with such focus it looked like he was defusing a bomb.

Y/N hesitated at the threshold.

Until she saw him.

Jungkook.

Sitting near the far end of the low table, his denim jacket hung on the back of his chair, and his plain white t-shirt stretched just right across his chest. His hair was still damp from the show, pushed back lazily, revealing that sharp jaw and those dark, unreadable eyes.

He looked up when she entered.

And for the briefest moment—one second, no more—it was like the noise disappeared. Like she was the only person in the room.

Then Jimin shouted, “Y/N! Yah, finally! Come sit!

Hobi guided her inside with a soft nudge, and she slipped off her shoes, squeezing in between Taehyung and Namjoon. Not too far from Jungkook… but not next to him, either.

“Eat, eat,” Jin said, piling her plate high without waiting for her to speak. “You’re family now.”

Someone threw a piece of pork belly on the hot grill and it sizzled instantly, sending up a wave of smoke and scent that made Y/N’s stomach rumble.

The atmosphere was loud and easy, but her body was tense.

Jungkook hadn’t said a word.

But she could feel him.

Every time she laughed too loud, every time she reached for the lettuce, she felt his gaze flicker toward her. A glance here. A pause there. Heat beneath the surface.

It was subtle, but it was undeniable.

And the others weren’t subtle at all.

“So,” Jimin said, eyes glinting as he chewed. “Y/N, how’s it feel being back with the crew? Especially with Jungkook around again?”

The room buzzed with quiet laughter.

Y/N looked down at her rice.

Taehyung didn’t even hide his grin. “Yeah, the tension backstage was… whew. Thick. Like ramen noodles.”

“Thicker,” Jin added helpfully. “Udon-thick.”

Hobi raised his eyebrows at her, mock-innocent. “You sure you’re just here for makeup, Y/N?”

She nearly choked on her kimchi. “You’re all insane.”

But her cheeks were warm. And Jungkook?

Still silent.

Until he finally looked at her—straight on.

His voice cut through the table, low and even: “Let them talk.”

She froze. Everyone else did too.

He didn’t take his eyes off her as he added, “We know the truth, don’t we?”

It wasn’t teasing. It wasn’t even playful.

It was something deeper. Something real.

And for the first time that night, Y/N wasn’t sure if her heart was racing from embarrassment… or from everything she couldn’t say.

The room burst back to life.

Once Jungkook dropped his cryptic “we know the truth,” the rest of the guys lost it.

“Ooooooh,” Jimin howled, nearly choking on his lettuce wrap. “He really said that.”

“So dramatic,” Taehyung said, clutching his chest like he’d just heard a confession on a K-drama. “Was that the opening monologue of a romance drama or what?

“I’m crying,” Namjoon muttered into his beer glass. “I swear you two are living in a fanfiction.”

Y/N covered her face with her hands, laughing so hard her sides hurt. “You guys are so annoying.”

“No, no, we’re just invested,” Jin grinned. “This is better than Love Alarm.”

J-Hope, still grilling meat like a professional, raised the tongs like a mic. “Y/N, tell us the truth—on a scale from ‘meh’ to ‘melt my bones,’ how spicy was that one night before Jungkook enlisted?”

“Hobi!” she shrieked, half-laughing, half-dying of embarrassment.

“C’mon,” Jimin said, elbowing her gently. “We all know you’ve seen the tattoo.”

Everyone froze in mock horror.

Jin gasped. “The chest extension?”

“Oh, so it is real,” Namjoon said with a smirk.

Taehyung leaned in dramatically. “Did you… kiss it?”

Y/N buried her face in her hands, laughing so hard she could barely breathe. “I hate all of you.“

But the way her eyes sparkled said otherwise.

And the best part?

Even Jungkook was laughing.

Leaning back against the wall, arms crossed, his smile was that full, bunny-toothed grin—the one he rarely showed. He was blushing faintly, but not mad. Just watching her. Enjoying the chaos.

“Didn’t know you guys were so curious,” he said coolly.

“Oh, we’re nosy as hell,” Jimin shot back.

“And protective,” Taehyung added, poking his chopsticks at Jungkook. “But mostly nosy.”

Y/N wiped her eyes. Her cheeks were sore from smiling. It was rare to feel this light—especially after the emotional whirlwind backstage—but here, with them, it felt like home.

She picked up a piece of meat and dropped it on Jungkook’s plate.

“There,” she said, smirking. “You earned it. For surviving the interrogation.

Jungkook glanced down at his plate, then back up at her. “You feeding me now?”

The table erupted again.

“OH my god,” Jimin groaned, covering his face. “I can’t do this.”

“Just make out already,” Jin muttered. “And give us peace.”

Y/N laughed, head tipping back, feeling warmth bubble in her chest—not just from the soju or the teasing, but from something deeper.

Something like belonging.

The laughter hadn’t died down — if anything, the room had only grown louder. Jin was now reenacting a dramatic slow-motion version of Y/N “discovering” Jungkook’s chest tattoo, complete with gasps and exaggerated sound effects. Taehyung added background music on his phone, some over-the-top piano ballad from a 2008 K-drama OST.

Y/N was crying laughing, her cheeks warm and her stomach sore from how much fun she was having.

Somewhere between Hobi pouring more soju and Jimin complaining about how “nobody respects the vocal line anymore,” the conversation circled back—like it always did—to Jungkook.

“You’re seriously not gonna tell us what it looks like?” Taehyung asked Jungkook, who was now reclining comfortably in his seat, arms crossed, sipping his water like he had all the time in the world.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow. “You’ve all seen it. Why are you acting like it’s top secret?”

“I haven’t,” Y/N chimed in suddenly, tone light and mischievous as she reached for a piece of grilled mushroom.

The table paused—just for a beat.

Jungkook’s eyes lifted slowly to meet hers.

Y/N smiled innocently, but her voice carried the exact kind of heat that turned playful into dangerous:

“I mean, I don’t really know the tattoo… not up close. But…” — she shrugged — “I wouldn’t mind seeing it someday.”

The table exploded.

Jimin screamed, literally falling onto Namjoon’s shoulder.

“NO. MA’AM.”

“WHAT DID SHE JUST—”

Taehyung slapped the table so hard his chopsticks flew.

“YAH?!”

Even Hobi choked on his lettuce.

Jin just nodded solemnly. “She’s one of us now.”

Namjoon muttered something about needing a therapist.

But Jungkook…

He didn’t laugh.

Not right away.

He just looked at her.

And that look—God.

There was no mistaking the spark that flashed behind his eyes. Amusement, yes. But more.

Something dark and amused and dangerous.

He took another slow sip of his water, then tilted his head slightly, still holding her gaze.

“That so?” he said, voice smooth.

“Someday might come sooner than you think.”

The air thickened.

Everyone felt it.

Even the guys got a little quieter. Not out of discomfort—just knowing when the joke had crossed into real territory.

J-Hope, the eternal mood-balancer, clapped his hands. “Aaaaand that’s our cue to call for dessert!”

Y/N laughed again, trying to breathe, trying to act normal. But her heart was beating a little faster. Her eyes flicked back to Jungkook just once.

He was still watching her.

Still smiling.

But differently now.

Like he was counting the seconds until “someday.”

The night had begun to settle, the air outside still warm from the lingering summer heat, but softened now by the late hour. The laughter from dinner echoed faintly as they left the restaurant, the BTS boys still bantering and pulling each other into goodbyes.

Y/N stood just outside the entrance, her makeup bag slung over her shoulder, the cool breeze brushing her cheeks. She didn’t expect it when Jungkook stepped beside her.

“I’ll take you home,” he said simply.

No hesitation. No question.

Just that low, quiet voice. Gentle, but firm.

She blinked, taken aback. “You… sure?”

He nodded once, already unlocking the passenger door of a sleek black SUV parked nearby. “It’s late. You helped us all tonight. Let me return the favor.

She hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to—but because the idea of being alone with him again made her pulse flutter.

But she got in.

The drive started quiet. City lights blurred past the window, and the hum of the tires on asphalt filled the silence. Jungkook had one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift, fingers drumming softly to a song only he could hear.

Y/N watched him out of the corner of her eye.

It was strange. After all the noise, the teasing, the chaos of the group—this silence felt heavier than anything.

She cleared her throat. “You were amazing tonight. On stage. I needed the second performance again on my phone“ you giggled.

He glanced at her, lips quirking up slightly. “Thanks. It felt good to be back.”

“And ‘Seven’…” she smiled to herself, staring out the window. “It hits different live.”

“You looked like you were enjoying it,” he said, eyes still on the road.

She laughed softly. “You mean when I almost spilled my water trying to film you?”

He chuckled, the sound warm. “Yeah, that.”

Silence fell again, but it wasn’t awkward. It felt… loaded. Like something thick in the air, waiting to be acknowledged.

Finally, she said it. Quietly.

“You didn’t say goodbye back then.”

Jungkook didn’t answer at first.

Then, he pulled into a small side street near her place and parked. The engine went silent. No more movement. Just the two of them, the hum of the city outside, and everything that hadn’t been said for over a year.

“I couldn’t,” he said finally. Voice low. Honest. “I didn’t trust myself.”

Y/N turned toward him, caught off guard by the rawness in his tone.

“I thought…” He paused, jaw flexing slightly. “If I said goodbye the right way, I wouldn’t leave. And I had to. I had no choice.”

She looked down, fingers nervously twisting the strap of her bag. “You could’ve at least left a message. Something.”

“I know,” he said quietly. “And I’m sorry.”

Silence.

But now it was his turn to speak again.

“I thought about you a lot. More than I should have.”

Her breath caught.

He leaned slightly closer, not touching, but closer. His voice dropped.

“And tonight… that little comment you made at dinner?”

Y/N looked up, her eyes meeting his.

He smiled—slow, almost cocky—but still soft around the edges.

“You’re still curious about the tattoo, huh?”

Her cheeks warmed instantly. “I was joking.”

“Were you?” he murmured.

Then his hand reached up—slowly—and brushed a strand of hair from her face.

That touch alone was enough to undo her.

“You shouldn’t play with fire if you’re not ready to get burned,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Her voice trembled, but she held his gaze. “Who says I’m not ready?”

That was the moment.

The air between them crackled.

He didn’t kiss her.

Not yet.

But the promise of it hung in the space between their mouths—so close, so charged, so inevitable.

And when he finally pulled back, just enough to let her breathe again, his smile was softer this time.

“I’ll walk you up.”

The elevator ride up to her apartment was quiet.

Too quiet.

The kind of quiet where every second stretched into a question. Every glance was a whisper of should we? And the air between them… was ready to ignite.

Y/N’s fingers shook slightly as she unlocked her door, the familiar click of the lock sounding so loud in the silence that followed.

She stepped inside, turned on the hallway light.

Jungkook followed.

And as she closed the door behind him, the soft thud of it shutting felt like crossing a line.

No turning back.

Y/N slipped off her shoes. “Do you want something to drink? Water? Or—”

But her voice faltered when she turned around and saw him watching her.

He was standing in the narrow hallway, still in his all-denim outfit, the white shirt beneath his jacket clinging faintly to his frame. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his lips parted like he wanted to say something—but didn’t.

“I’m not thirsty,” he said.

And it wasn’t what he said, but how he said it.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty—it was charged.

She took one step closer. So did he.

“I meant what I said,” he murmured. “About thinking of you. About missing you.”

Her breath caught. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

His eyes searched hers.

“Because if I told you then… I wouldn’t have stopped.”

Then his hand reached for her—slow, but sure. His fingers brushed her cheek, then slid into her hair as he stepped into her space, eyes locked on her lips.

And when he kissed her, it wasn’t gentle.

It was months of tension, guilt, want, and memory all at once.

His lips crushed hers with a hunger that made her gasp, her fingers clutching at the collar of his jacket. She could taste the leftover sweetness of soju and the familiar heat that had haunted her dreams for months.

Jungkook moved with purpose, backing her up until her shoulders hit the wall, never once breaking the kiss. His hand slid around her waist, gripping her hip like he was claiming her—like he had to make sure she was real.

She tugged at his jacket. He let it fall.

Her hands slid under the hem of his white shirt, fingertips grazing skin—warm, solid, the faintest edge of his abs tightening beneath her touch.

And then she felt it.

The tattoo.

inked into his shoulder… but now extended, traced down over his chest, disappearing beneath his shirt.

He pulled back just enough to catch her expression. His smile was dangerous.

“Still curious?” he asked, breathless.

Y/N nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. “Show me.“

And just like that, he stripped off the shirt.

Slowly. Intentionally.

The fabric lifted, revealing inch after inch of warm skin, hard muscle, and ink—dark lines and shadows that traced down across his collarbone and onto his chest. Her eyes followed it, mesmerized, lips parting.

“You can touch,” he said, voice low. “I want you to.”

She stepped forward, hands resting on his bare chest. Her fingers traced the tattoo slowly, then her lips followed—soft kisses over the ink, down the line of his collarbone.

His breath hitched. “Fuck…”

That one word unraveled them both.

He lifted her, her legs wrapping around his waist as he pressed her against the wall again, his mouth on her neck now—biting, soothing, teasing—hands sliding beneath her shirt, exploring with the kind of hunger that came from waiting too long.

Y/N was gasping, clawing at his skin, her voice a whisper against his ear:

“You left me burning for a year, Jeon.”

His answer was a growl, low and deep:

“Then let me burn with you now.”

And he did.

Again and again.

Until the only thing left between them was sweat, skin, and the sound of two hearts finally finding their rhythm again.

Y/N woke to warmth.

Not just the sunlight gently seeping in through the thin curtains — but the steady, solid heat of Jungkook’s body wrapped around hers. His arm draped heavy over her waist, his legs tangled lazily with hers, and his breath soft against the back of her neck.

And he was still asleep.

She could tell by the rhythm — slow, deep — and by the way his hand twitched every now and then against her stomach, as if holding her tighter even in his dreams.

Her eyes fluttered shut again.

For a while, she just lay there — letting herself feel it. His skin against hers. The quiet peace of a moment that didn’t feel rushed, or borrowed, or dangerous.

Just… theirs.

Then, softly:

“You’re awake.”

His voice was rough — sleep-heavy, low, and deeper than usual

She smiled, eyes still closed. “So are you.”

He hummed, pressing a gentle kiss between her shoulder blades. “Didn’t want to be. But you’re so warm, it’s distracting.”

She laughed under her breath, turning slightly in his arms so she could face him.

Jungkook was barefaced — hair messy, lips pink, his eyes still half-closed. But beautiful. Soft and unguarded in a way she rarely saw.

“You drool,” she said, grinning.

He groaned. “No, I don’t.”

“You absolutely do. You were cuddling me like a human pillow.”

“You’re small and soft. That’s not my fault.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, trying to sit up — but Jungkook pulled her back down without effort, wrapping both arms around her like a human blanket.

“You’re not going anywhere yet.”

“But—”

“I’ve waited over a year to wake up next to you. I’m taking my time.”

And just like that, her heartbeat flipped again.

He was staring at her — not with lust, not with nerves — but with that quiet, open gaze that felt… dangerous. In the best way.

“Did it feel real to you?” she asked softly.

His thumb brushed against her hip beneath the blanket. “It feels more than real.”

She swallowed. “I don’t want to overthink this. Or ruin it.

“You’re not,” he said immediately. “I swear.”

There was a pause.

Then he reached up, brushing hair from her face.

“I was scared to see you again,” he admitted. “Backstage, when I first walked in and saw you… I almost lost it. You looked the same. But different.”

“Different how?”

“More… sure of yourself. Even when you ignored me,” he teased, smirking.

She poked his chest. “You deserved it.”

He caught her hand gently, threading their fingers together. “Probably. But I couldn’t stop looking at you. I still can’t.”

Her cheeks burned — and she hated how easy he made her smile.

Then:

“What now?” she asked quietly.

Jungkook didn’t rush to answer. He studied her face like he was memorizing every curve, every freckle, every shade of doubt in her eyes.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “But I want to find out. With you.”

And in that moment, it didn’t matter that the world outside was loud, complicated, or unsure.

Because here — in her bed, wrapped in sheets and sleepy affection — they were sure

For now, that was enough.

#kpop #au #smut #bts #jk #jungkook #ff #jungkook ff #jeon jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x original character #jungkook x oc #jjk smut

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foldingfittedsheets · 2 years ago

Text

The Faun's Love Story

Part One (current) || Part Two || Part Three

The Faun's Love Story

Part One (current) || Part Two || Part Three

Fans of long gay comics can rejoice because this is finally done! The longest one yet, and the first three parter! Click through to parts two and three to finish Clove and Ning's story and to unlock Ning's mysterious backstory. (If you want to reblog them in sequential order, start with three, two, then one.)

If you enjoyed this or any of my previous long comics, please consider tipping on my Ko-fi!

These things take so much time and tips make a huge impact on my finances as I'm a poor broke art student and these comics are a labor of love! If you'd like to never see these again please block the tag, "do you love the color of the comic" and you will be freed.

Find this and my other comics on Tapas, Once Upon a Meet Cute!

#do you love the color of the comic #comic #webcomic #faun #wlw #sapphic #romance #wlw comic #sequential art #original comic #long post #art #artists on tumblr #lesbian #queer comic #ffs comic

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youthguk · 2 months ago

Text

Black Ribbon Bride ۶ৎ | jjk (m)

Mafia AU · Dark Romance · Arranged Marriage · Angst · Smut ·

“I want this one,”he said, eyes on you like a predator. A marriage sealed in diamonds and blood. You were supposed to hate him, but monsters don’t let go of the things they’ve claimed.

wc: 18k

WARNINGS: explicit content (minors do not interact), explicit smut, forced marriage, power imbalance, slight graphic violence, death threats, mentions of murder, forced intimacy

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

His touch, when it comes, is winter-cold against your cheek. Your soul flinches from those precise fingers even as your body remains still. He carries the scent of woodsmoke and exotic spice, foreign and dangerous.

The smile he offers holds neither warmth nor malice - just the satisfied smile of a man who always gets what he wants. "Don't look so scared," he murmurs, voice silk over steel. "We're going to have so much fun."

One week ago.

Dawn hasn't broken, but consciousness seeps in like winter frost. Your body knows the rhythm of secrets - when to rise, when to fade, when to become nothing more than a shadow against stone walls.

The pre-dawn air tastes of endings. Each breath crystallizes before you, little monuments of everything you can't keep. Your fingers, sheathed in black silk, trace meaningless patterns on frozen glass - a language of loss you're still learning to speak.

The chapel path recognizes your footsteps. Frost shatters beneath each step like promises, like futures, like the carefully constructed cage of expectations you've lived in since birth. Even your older sister Nora, who shared these halls with you for three years, never discovered this sanctuary where ancient pines hold their breath and weathered stones keep their silence.

Beyond the courtyard, the other girls drift between rose gardens and marble benches, their uniforms pressed to perfection, their laughter measured in careful octaves. But here, in this forgotten corner where mist meets morning, you've found something raw and real - a holiness that has nothing to do with their polished prayers.

Your Saint-Margaux winter uniform clings like a second skin, ivory wool buttoned to the throat like armor against uncertainty. The black ribbon anchoring your curls might as well be a crown of thorns.

"Je ne suis pas prête," you breathe, watching Lake Geneva stretch below like quicksilver. The French makes it sound poetic. Then, softer still, in Italian: "Non sono mai stata pronta per questo."

Your carefully constructed future lies shattered at your feet: The UN internship you earned through sleepless nights. Geneva's diplomatic corridors where you were meant to walk. Rome's ancient streets calling your name. All those perfect grades, those meticulously practiced curtsies, those debate championships – sacrificed to your father's unexplained whims.

London. The word tastes like ash on your tongue. Why there? Why now?

Your mother's note burns against your ribs, her elegant script a funeral dirge: "Be ready by sunset. They're coming."

École Saint-Margaux rises behind you, a cathedral to calculated futures. Here, where tears are forbidden unless quoted in Ancient Greek.

"We don't raise dreamers here," Madame Directrice always says, her smile sharp as cut glass. "We raise queens."

They're forged into living weapons, taught to smile while drawing blood.

"Queens who smile through gritted teeth," you whisper to the dawn. "Queens who negotiate peace while swallowing war. Queens who marry power because they're not allowed to claim it for themselves."

Your schedule mocks you with its pristine normality:"En garde!" at noon brings your final dance with steel, four o'clock tea with Professor Valbonne - discussing Machiavelli while pretending your world isn't crumbling.

Lavender-lined suitcases wait in your room, packed by your mother's trembling hands. Your sister's muffled sobs echo through the halls like ghostly footsteps. Your brother Luca's silence speaks volumes. And your father... his absence is a wound that both terrifies and relieves you, his iron grip on your future tightening even when he's not here.

Something crackles in your pocket - a dried white peach blossom, edges curled like fingers reaching for yesterday. Its fragrance unlocks a memory: blood on snow, trembling hands, a boy whose name you never learned but whose life you saved many years ago with nothing but quick thinking and forbidden fruit.

The blossom slips from your fingers, caught in the morning breeze. You watch it spiral toward Lake Geneva's steel-gray surface, this final piece of softness you can't afford to keep. Your sister's allergy to white peaches - your most cherished scent and flower - feels like fate's way to mock you once again.

A motorboat violates the lake's surface, its wake splitting the silence like an omen. You trace a cross in the frozen air - half benediction, half curse - and whisper words that taste like goodbye. The chapel bell announces noon with solemn finality. You turn toward the university, spine straight as a blade. Non importa più.

Queens don't look back, and prisoners learn to watch without turning. You've been both.

The salle d'armes wraps you in familiar scents - chalk dust hanging thick in afternoon light, ancient leather padding worn smooth by generations of calculated violence. Trophy cases line the walls, their glass clouded with age, each cup and medal entombed like frozen dreams that never learned to fly.

You move beneath centuries-old beams, your breath a whispered prayer behind cold mesh. The blade in your hand sings with deadly grace, an extension of everything you've been molded to become.

Your opponent dances the steps she's been taught - precise, controlled, a perfect puppet of propriety. But there's wild electricity in your veins today, something that makes your movements liquid lightning. You strike not with the measured grace they demanded, but with elegant fury barely contained.

The lunge comes like destiny - inevitable, beautiful, terrible. Your blade cuts through air like fate itself, writing tomorrow's grief in today's perfect form. Steel kisses steel with a sound like breaking promises.

Her parry comes a heartbeat too late. Your point finds her heart with butterfly gentleness, the touch both caress and condemnation. This is how we end - not with violence, but with devastating grace.

"Touché," falls like judgment in the hollow air.

You retreat with practiced poise, each step a study in contained rebellion. This is Saint-Margaux's secret language - not fencing, but warfare dressed in silk and centuries of refined cruelty. They taught you to fight like falling snow - beautiful, silent, deadly. To strike with a smile, to kill with courtesy.

But beneath your perfect form writhes something untamed - a creature of starlight and stolen chances, something they couldn't breed out or break down. It's the same force that once made you save instead of strike, that makes you wear defiance like perfume and weaponize tenderness.

Victory brings no applause - only silence thick as cemetery snow. The maître d'armes nods once, your wild heart thundering rebellion against your ribs as you lower your blade.

That's when you feel his presence - Professor Valbonne, half-shadow and unspoken truths at the gallery's edge. His stillness speaks volumes in this temple of calculated violence.

He waits until the salle empties, approaching like truth itself- inevitable, terrifying.

"Your blade speaks what your voice cannot," he says softly, studying you with that terrible gentleness that makes your ribs ache. "You fence like someone who has learned to turn cage bars into wings.”

A laugh escapes you, sharp as broken glass. "Wings are just prettier prisons, Professor."

"Perhaps." His eyes hold yours, steady as truth. "But they remember what freedom tastes like."

You turn away, sweat-damp black ribbon clinging to your neck like a collar. White peach and rosewood cling to your skin - soon to be scrubbed away, replaced with the sterile scent of duty and diplomacy.

"You look haunted today," he observes. "Or you’re just not happy to see me.”

"I’m not happy to leave," you answer, truth slipping past your guard like a blade between ribs.

Silence stretches between you like a bridge neither dares to cross. He leans against cold stone, a scholarly revolutionary in this fortress of careful conformity.

"If I could write you a future," he says, "it wouldn’t begin with someone else's last name.”

Something in your chest splinters, words hanging between you two like shattered stars. You both understand everything, there is no need to name things vocally. "I was born to be a transaction."

His jaw tightens, grief etching itself in the corners of his mouth. "You were born to be a revolution."

His arm appears like an offering - this small rebellion, this moment of pretend equality. You take it with the care of handling broken dreams.

The walk to the chapel gates is a funeral march in slow motion. Words would only pollute this last pure thing between you - this shared understanding of cages and wings.

At the threshold, he pauses, eyes fixed on horizons you'll never touch.

"When they write your name in history," he says, "make sure they spell it in lightning."

You look up at the ghost-pale sky, where even clouds know better than to break formation. He'll never read your name the way he hopes.

You slip away like morning frost before the sun, before he can watch another future die.

Raindrops streak down the airplane window like tear tracks you weren't allowed to shed at every carefully orchestrated farewell. The sky bleeds into the same shade of steel that haunted every funeral where your spine had to remain straight as a blade.

First class feels like a gilded cage - all polished chrome and hushed whispers. The flight attendant's eyes slide past you like oil on water, trained to see nothing, hear nothing. Somewhere between Geneva's promises and London's threats, you're suspended in limbo, watching France blur beneath cotton-wool clouds.

A quiet sob catches in your peripheral vision. Nora. Your sister - your perfect and pristine Nora - has mastered the art of beautiful devastation. Even now, she's practicing for her future role: the tragic bride. Her fingers tremble against Chanel-painted lips, but her posture remains museum-worthy. The tears that escape are precisely timed, like crystal drops in a champagne fountain.

"Have you heard-" her voice cracks like fine porcelain, "-what they whisper about him? The youngest Jeon?"

You trace patterns in the condensation on your window. Each swirl feels like writing epitaphs for the futures dying in your chest. The glass fogs with your silence.You don't answer - she's not speaking to you but to whatever god abandoned girls like you to fates like this.

Nora's laugh sounds like shattered crystal. "Last spring - crashed a Maserati through the Louvre's courtyard. Called it 'performance art.' Three million in damages, swept under imported Persian rugs."

"The auction incident," she continues, voice dropping lower, "when he used Van Gogh's 'Starry Night' as an ashtray. 'Too pedestrian,' he said. The curator nearly had a stroke."

"And the women-" her voice catches, "God, the women. Like butterflies in his collection. He pins them down with diamonds, watches them suffocate in luxury, then adds their tears to his champagne."

The papers call him 'l'héritier de marbre' - the heir carved in marble, as though his beauty could excuse his barbarism and his wealth could cleanse the blood from his hands.

The Jeon empire rises like a gilded fortress: Jeon Antiquities & Restoration. They polish history until it gleams, restore broken things until they're worth more than they ever were whole. But beneath every restored masterpiece lies a massacre; behind every preserved beauty, a battlefield. They don't just collect beauty - they weaponize it.

Their public face gleams like polished marble, but beneath? It's all gunmetal and old blood. The Jeons don't just run an empire - they curate violence, frame it in gold, and sell it at invitation-only auctions. They don't just kill enemies - they transform them into art, into debt, into whispered warnings.

And Jungkook Jeon? He's their youngest sin. Trust fund terror with a smile that breaks hearts and necks with equal elegance. The whispers follow him like perfume: genius, they say. Rebel, they whisper. Monster, they mean. Every society photo shows the same warning: beauty sharp enough to draw blood.

"He'll destroy me," Nora whispers, pressing her forehead against the cool window. "Like one of their marble angels - pretty and hollow and broken."

"Isn't that the point?" Luca's voice cuts across the aisle, sharp as a blade between ribs. "Better broken than worthless."

The temperature drops ten degrees. You turn, ice crystallizing in your veins.

"One more word," you breathe, "and I'll show you exactly what Saint-Margaux taught us about making pain look elegant."

"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" He doesn't look up from his Financial Times fortress. "At least crying prettily might raise your market value."

Nora's whole body flinches, a butterfly pinned to silk. Your mother's voice slides through the tension like a poisoned blade. “Fix your face, Nora. Tears age you. The Jeons prefer their art unmarred."

The silence that follows tastes like ash and dying dreams. You grip your armrest until your knuckles match your mother's pearls, trying to anchor yourself to something - anything - that isn't falling apart. But there's nothing solid left to hold.

Jungkook Jeon. The name sits like lead on your tongue. You've never met him, but you know him - the way prey knows predator. A man carved from privilege so ancient it's crystallized into cruelty. Living art with venom in his veins. A marble god with gunpowder for blood. And your sweet sister is being gift-wrapped for this demon in Dior.

Grief fractures through you like safety glass, a web of tiny breaks held precariously together. The pain comes in relentless waves - not just for Nora, but for the shadow of your own future. Her tragedy is merely a preview of what awaits you in the procession of sacrificial daughters, your fate already sealed in your father's ledgers.

Your family fortune bleeds out in frozen accounts and foreclosed dreams. The name still glitters - just enough to barter away daughters like vintage jewelry. Your father's already pricing your future, weighing your worth in potential alliances. He'll find someone hungry enough, cruel enough, rich enough to buy the last of his daughter's freedom.

London materializes beneath you like a tomb of fog and steel. As you watch Nora reapply her Chanel Rouge with surgeon-steady hands, you see her clinging to composure like a lifeline, still believing grace might be armor enough. Something hot and sharp lodges in your throat - she thinks dignity will save her, and you pray she never learns how wrong she is.

Rain hammers against the windshield as your car crawls through the rusted gates of Amare estate. The ancient iron groans like a wounded beast, London's sky weeping harder as though trying to wash away the shame of what you've become. Each raindrop feels like an accusation against the facade you're desperately trying to maintain.

"Home sweet home," Nora whispers beside you, her voice trembling like the droplets sliding down the glass. You say nothing, watching the ghost of your childhood dreams loom before you - a castle turned prison.

The marble steps are cracked now, nature's fingers prying apart what wealth once held together. You trace the familiar path with your eyes, remembering how your smaller self used to dance here, spinning tales of ivory moldings and enchanted corridors. Now the walls tell different stories - of water stains mapping your decline, of paint peeling away like shed skin, of chandeliers that sputter and gasp rather than sparkle.

The door creaks open before you reach it, and there he stands - Father, a shadow cut from faded glory. His suit whispers of too many wears, though his pocket square stands at attention, starched with the last remnants of your pride. The silence between you stretches like a taught wire.

"Twenty-three minutes late," he says, each word falling like ice. "I suppose punctuality wasn't part of that expensive education."

Nora's breath catches beside you, a butterfly trapped in a jar. You feel her fingers brush against yours, seeking anchor, but you both know better than to grasp it.

He steps aside - not an invitation but an order. As you pass, his fingertips graze your shoulder, light as frost but heavy with unspoken threats. Your body remembers before your mind can catch up - memories of shattered crystal, of cold water, of darkness behind locked doors. The bruises have faded but the lessons remain, written in your bones.

Mother's heels click against warped wood, a metronome counting down to something inevitable. The foyer air hangs thick with mildew and Chanel No. 5 - decay dressed in designer perfume. Each breath feels like swallowing stones, the weight of this homecoming settling in your chest like lead.

"Your rooms are prepared," Mother announces to no one in particular, her words floating in the shadows like lost things. "I trust you remember where they are."

Your suitcases land with hollow thuds against marble that's seen better days. Your father's presence fills the space like frost, immediate and biting.

"The Jeons arrive in two days." Each word falls like a death sentence, precise and final. "We'll be ready."

His eyes rake over Nora like winter wind, cataloging every imperfection. "Go upstairs. Fix yourself. You look weak." The last word snaps like a whip, and Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - folds in on herself like origami crushed in a cruel child's fist.

The question that's been poisoning your thoughts since Geneva claws its way past your lips, "Why would the Jeons even want us?"

Your father's smile is all broken glass and tarnished silver. "Because our name still matters." He savors the words like aged wine. "Because even monsters want their sons to marry nobility." He turns away, leaving you to drown in the acid truth of it. You don't push further - this rare moment of actual answers instead of his usual artillery of screams and humiliation feels like a trap you're too tired to spring.

Rain drums against the window panes like a metronome counting down to dawn. The sound almost - but not quite - drowns out Nora's muffled sobs filtering through the wall. Each hitched breath feels like a dagger between your ribs as you trace the sound to her room, finding her curled into herself at the edge of her bed. Her silk robe pools around her like spilled moonlight, mascara-stained tears mapping constellations of despair across her pillow.

"Don't-" she chokes out before you can speak, her fingers twisting in the sheets. "Please, just... pretend you can't hear me falling apart."

The mattress dips beneath your weight as you settle beside her. Some wounds run too deep for words to reach, so you let the silence speak instead.

"God, you don't even see it, do you?" Nora's laugh shatters like crystal against marble. "The way they look at you - at Saint-Margaux, at every gala, every breath you take. Like you're something rare and precious. While I..." Her voice cracks. "I'm just... here. Taking up space. Fighting for scraps of attention."

The words hit like ice water. You want to laugh, but the sound dies in your throat. You've spent years perfecting the art of invisibility, of folding yourself smaller and smaller until you barely cast a shadow.

"Nora, I-" But she cuts through your protest like a blade through silk.

"There was someone," she whispers, each word falling like a confession. "In Switzerland. Behind the old cathedral where the shadows grew long in winter. His hands were gentle - like he thought I might shatter. He looked at me like I was art worth preserving, not just another pretty thing to be sold."

Your heart stops. Dating wasn't just forbidden - it was heresy against the careful cultivation of your worth. You were precious commodities, after all. Pristine dolls waiting to be auctioned to the highest bidder.

"He loved me." Her voice breaks on the past tense. "And I thought... for once, someone chose me first. But then the Jeons...I never thought anyone would ever want to marry me when we have you." She presses her face into the pillow, shoulders shaking. "Who would want the spare when they could have the masterpiece?"

Something fractures in your chest - not a clean break, but a spiderweb of cracks spreading outward. All this time, she'd carved out this tiny paradise of stolen moments, while you... you were an open wound she kept comparing herself to. The realization burns like bitter poison in your throat.

But looking at her now, trembling like a bird with clipped wings, how could you be angry? She'd dared to grasp at happiness in a world that offered only gilded cages. The secrecy stings, yes, but her pain cuts deeper than any betrayal.

Save her, your heart screams. But what power do you have? You're just another pretty puppet with strings of silk and obligation, taught to bend but never break, to endure but never fight.

Words fail, so you reach for her hand instead. Your fingers intertwine - a bridge across the chasm of secrets between you. You can't rewrite her tragedy, but you can stay there with her. At least for today.

Midnight strikes with mechanical precision, each chime reverberating through the drawing room like fate's own countdown. Through leaded glass, you watch them arrive – three obsidian vessels cutting through the rain, their polished surfaces drinking in what little light remains. No emblems mark their passage. No flourish announces their intent. They move with the silent certainty of apex predators.

At your vanity, fingertips ghost over the black ribbon – your chosen weapon for tonight's battle. Beside it, the perfume bottle gleams with poisonous promise. White peach, innocent as first love, deadly as the last. You anoint the silk with calculated precision, watching droplets seep into darkness like secrets into skin. When you weave it through your hair, the scent wraps around you like a lover's promise – or a noose.

Your mother's approval comes in glacial silence. Luca's scorn breaks it like thunder.

“Still playing the grieving virgin?” he sneers, eyes catching on your ribbon, your carefully crafted despair. “Or are we mourning your relevance, sister? The Jeons didn’t come for you.”

You meet his gaze with the weight of winter. “You’re standing in a house that’s falling apart.”

“Which is why we’re selling the prettiest thing we have left.” he hisses, teeth gleaming. “And it’s not you.”

The words dissolve like frost as you descend, each step carrying you closer to the awaiting storm. Your father stands sentry at the door, his spine curved in submission to powers greater than pride. The air shifts – not with cold, but with the kind of sharpness that precedes bloodshed.

They enter like darkness given form. The matriarch first, towering in her sovereignty. Her nineteenth-century choker catches light like a blade – emeralds and onyx, beauty and warning intertwined. She surveys your home as one might examine a failing empire: cataloging weaknesses, calculating worth.

The grandfather follows, silence his scepter. One nod to your father speaks volumes – here, at last, is someone who makes even your tyrant tremble.

Their entourage filters in like smoke – advisors, guards – until finally, he appears.

Jungkook.

He moves like sin made flesh, each step a study in controlled chaos. Power clings to him like shadow to night – from his obsidian gaze to his deliberately disheveled elegance. His suit, artfully askew, mocks propriety while his presence commands it. Dark hair kisses his throat like spilled ink, and raw energy radiates from him like heat from a forge.

His disinterested sweep of the room stutters when it finds you. Something flickers in those depths – recognition, perhaps, or hunger – as your carefully chosen scent reaches him. His posture shifts minutely, like a predator catching prey's scent on the wind. His gaze lingers, heavy as prophecy, and something molten coils in your core.

You don't yield. Nora materializes beside you, trembling like autumn's last leaf. Perfect in her dress, betrayed by the rising flush on her throat, her glassy eyes, her failing breath. Your mother makes introductions like offerings at an altar, your family name wrapped in silk and shame.

The scene unravels with terrible precision. Nora's curtsy falters. The white peach blooms around you like judgment. Her allergy reveals itself in stuttering breaths and panic-wide eyes, her composed facade cracking like ice in spring.

Guilt lashes you even as hope whispers that your plan might work. But the Jeons' reaction isn't pity – it's disdain.

"We were promised perfection," the matriarch pronounces, each word a blade. "Not fragility."

Your father's mask slips, pride warring with fear. "She's merely overwhelmed—"

"She's weak," Luca interjects, venom dripping.

The room descends into chaos – old money snarling at older money, wounded pride clashing against cold contempt. Until…

"She's not the one I want anyway."

Jungkook's voice cuts through the discord like a knife through silk. His eyes, when you meet them, hold neither pretense nor mercy. Just certainty. "I want this one." The words fall like destiny.

The room falls still as breath catches in throats - your mother frozen mid-gesture, Nora swaying like a reed in winter wind, the matriarch's face transforming to cold, unforgiving marble.

"Jeon Jungkook—"

But his gaze remains unbroken, and the white peach at your throat burns like a brand. This wasn't the sacrifice you had intended to make - your carefully laid plans had twisted into something unrecognizable, leading you down a path you never meant to walk.

A silence falls like velvet, heavy with unspoken words that press against the gilt-edged walls until even the shadows hold their breath.

Your father's eyes dance between you and Nora like a master appraiser examining jewels. His gaze is cold arithmetic - measuring worth, calculating losses, tallying gains. To him, you were never daughters; merely assets in his grand portfolio. Two precious stones: one crystal, one porcelain. Now one bears a fatal flaw.

His lips curl into something between a smile and a sneer as he delivers your fate with businesslike efficiency. "If that's the one the Jeons want..." A careless shrug seals your destiny. "Then she's yours."

The words strike like winter frost, crystallizing the air in your lungs. Beside you, Nora's choked sound of despair is quickly muffled by your mother's gloved hand.

Your plan shatters — delicate, doomed, never yours to control. You were meant to be the savior, not the sacrifice. The thought of becoming his choice had never even whispered across your mind.

Memories assault you in violent flashes: your father's leather-bound ledger, your mother's desperate mantra of survival, the wicked glint of Jungkook's rings catching lamplight, white peach perfume clinging to black silk like a death shroud. The sound of breaking - not glass, but your very essence - as your name is bartered away without consent.

You shrink into yourself, a child's instinct to become invisible. But his gaze pins you like a butterfly to velvet. There is no hiding now. You are seen. You are chosen.

The Jeons regard you with clinical interest, recalculating your worth like merchants at auction. The matriarch's lips press into a blade-thin line. The grandfather's slight nod falls like an executioner's axe.

As they file out, you remain rooted, a marble statue carved from pure shock. Nora trembles beside you fragile as frost about to crack, but your arms hang useless. Screams build in your throat - take her instead, take me back, unmake this moment - but they die unspoken, turned to stone by terror.

He approaches with lethal grace, each step a claim of ownership. His presence weighs on you like storm clouds heavy with lightning. You've become his territory now, marked without permission.

The doors seal your fate with thunderous finality. You sink to the marble floor, barely conscious of the movement. Around you, the scene arranges itself like a baroque tragedy - Nora's muffled sobs providing the score, your mother's absence speaking volumes, Luca's triumphant smirk completing the composition.

Reality settles over you like a burial shroud: you are no longer daughter or sister or savior. You have become property, his property. And as this truth sinks its teeth into your heart, you wonder if anything of you will remain when he's done.

Time slips by like grains of sand through an hourglass, each moment dissolving into an infinite stretch of silence. The world outside your window fades to watercolor impressions, bleeding at the edges like a painting left in the rain.

You exist in whispers now. Food remains untasted, questions unasked. The house holds its secrets close - rewound clocks marking phantom hours, curtains drawn against persistent daylight. From your perch on the velvet chaise, you watch raindrops trace silver paths down windowpanes, each one carrying away fragments of the freedom you once knew - freedom lost by your own design.

When they come to take your measurements, you don’t move. The Jeons’ tailors arrive with tape and notebooks, their hands cold and precise. They don’t look at your face. They pull the fabric of your nightdress taut against your hip bones, murmur numbers in a language you don’t understand, and note the curves like they’re assessing a statue to be replicated.

Their fingertips brush against your skin as they take measurements - the inside of your arm, the curve of your neck, the gentle slope of your back. One whispers to the other in hushed tones, no doubt commenting on your rigid posture and reluctant demeanor.

Your mother hovers nearby, her voice drifting through the air like wisps of smoke. "Add more stones," she murmurs. "She needs to shine beside him. Something from the Jeons' blue vault - something rare." She pauses, eyes critical. "Yes, longer sleeves. Hide the ribs."

Your father's voice cuts through the room, sharp and businesslike. "If we're going to do this, make it count. Double the diamonds. Let it be known what house she's marrying into."

You stand motionless, a butterfly pinned beneath layers of silk and expectation. Numbness flows through your veins like winter frost - you neither flinch at the bite of pins nor stir at honeyed compliments. In the mirror, a stranger stares back: a creation of ice and diamonds, beautiful and hollow, already half-ghost.

Time blurs in the silence of the house, each day melting into the next. The halls have grown quieter, more hollow, with only the ghostlike passage of untouched food trays marking the hours.

But it's Nora's absence that weighs heaviest on your heart, making each breath more difficult than the last. No footsteps outside your door, no whispered conversations through the wall, not even the faintest sign of her presence in the dark hours.

You find yourself unable to cry, your grief crystallized into something too solid for tears. Instead, a single poisonous question haunts your thoughts: What was the purpose of your sacrifice if she doesn't comprehend what you tried to do for her?

And Nora - sweet, fragile Nora - remains distant, unreachable. She neither visits nor acknowledges your presence, as if the space between you has become an uncrossable void. Perhaps she harbors hatred for what you've done, or maybe the truth is more painful: she was never meant to be saved, and you were never meant to be her savior.

The veil floats like a whisper of tulle and threat, weightless as frost yet heavy with fate. Before the gilt-edged mirror, you sit wrapped in ivory and diamonds, a bride sculpted from winter's essence. The silk remembers your shape, clinging to your ribs while stones adorning your sleeves scatter morning light like scattered secrets.

Behind you, voices blend together - the dressmaker's soft murmurs, rustling house staff, and your mother's instructions cutting through the air like sheathed knives. But your mind wanders elsewhere, to someone unexpected.

Valbonne. His calm, curious voice echoes in your memory, speaking of how your mind was a cathedral and your anger a kind of music. He saw you differently then - the girl who fenced with restrained grace, never allowed to truly run free. His words linger like an unfinished promise: "If I ever read your name in history books..."

You wonder now if he would even recognize you. You look at your reflection, skin glazed in peach and powdered rose. This is not the girl who wrote essays in French about revolutions and smiled over Latin conjugations at dusk. This is not the girl who debated in the courtyard until her voice cracked, or the one who wanted to work for the UN, who wanted to be something.

“Je ne suis plus moi-même,” you whisper to the mirror. I am no longer myself.

The door opens without warning. Through the mirror's reflection, you see her - Nora, her hair pulled back too tightly, her lipstick perfect, looking like grief painted in gold.

"So this is the masterpiece," she says, her voice cutting through the silence. The words hang in the air between you, heavy with accusation.

"You came," you whisper, your breath catching.

She moves into the room with controlled fury. "I had to see it - the moment where you finally became what you always wanted."

Confusion breaks through your numbness. "What are you talking about?"

Her laugh rings out like shattering crystal. "Don't act innocent. YYou didn’t just take my wedding — you took the one time I was finally enough."

"But you said you'd rather die than marry him," you protest, your voice weak. "You were crying about someone else-"

"You think tears meant I didn't want this?" She advances closer, each word precise and sharp. "A man like him - rich, young, beautiful. I could have thrived. Do you know how many girls would kill to be chosen by Jungkook Jeon?"

Your pulse thunders in your throat as she continues, her voice turning to ice. "I would have let the other one go for this. For once, I wasn't second choice. But you-" her eyes narrow, "you couldn't stand it."

"That's not true," you manage, rising on trembling legs. "Tu pleurais. Tu disais que tu voulais disparaître-" ["You were crying. You said you wanted to disappear-"]

"You're so greedy," she cuts you off, ignoring your French plea. "You needed to be both savior and sacrifice, martyr and bride. You couldn't let me have anything without making it about you."

You can only stare, your carefully constructed world unraveling thread by thread.

"I hate you for it," she says simply, then turns and leaves. You want to scream that it wasn’t supposed to be this way — but guilt is louder than truth.

The door closes behind her with the finality of a tomb being sealed. In the silence that follows, you stand motionless before the mirror. The veil trembles in the breeze, but your eyes remain dry. There's no room for tears in a girl made of lace and betrayal - only silence, the lingering scent of peach perfume, and the sound of your heart shattering beneath a cathedral of lies.

The cathedral is carved from light and silence, its vaulted ceilings vanishing into shadow. Golden ribs and silvered arches trace delicate patterns overhead, while chandeliers hang like captured constellations. Candlelight pools along marble, dancing across a sea of couture-clad guests draped in legacy, their hollow eyes and diamond-adorned faces watching with barely concealed hunger.

You stand at the center of their attention, both masterpiece and sacrifice. Your gown, threaded in silver and framed with pearls, shimmers like a dying star. The train follows you like a whispered surrender, while your veil - long enough to mask your doubts but not your trembling - floats ethereally around you. In this moment of pristine ceremony, everything glows with an intensity that burns.

Your body glides down the aisle — but your mind lags behind, somewhere in the crushed space between Nora’s voice and your father’s warning. You don’t remember when the music began. You barely register the clicking heels, the cameras, the smell of roses imported from Florence. Everything is white and violent.

Your father walks beside you with measured grace, his hand firm on your wrist and posture iron-stiff with pride. You sense his movement before the words come — his mouth dipping close to your ear.

"If you dare to ruin this," he hisses through clenched teeth, "I will destroy everything you are."

Your breath catches as he continues, his grip tightening painfully, "One wrong move in Jeon’s mansion and you'll wish you were never born. No one will take you in after you displease Jungkook. You'll be ruined, discarded, a broken doll no one wants to touch."

Wordlessly, you nod, your gaze fixed on the endless expanse of marble before you - a pristine river of white that stretches like fate itself, each step bringing you closer to him, inevitable as gravity pulling stars from the sky.

Jungkook waits at the altar like a marble statue come to life, all sharp edges and cold beauty. His black suit might as well be carved from midnight itself, perfectly fitted to his frame like a second skin. The single pearl at his throat gleams like a tear frozen in time - a beautiful "fuck you" to tradition. His hair falls in a precise line across his nape, ink-black against stone-white, and you hate that you notice. You hate that you care.

You hate how your traitorous mind catalogs every detail - the fresh haircut, the way his jaw clenches slightly, the calculated perfection of his appearance. Each observation feels like a betrayal of yourself, like you're collecting precious stones to add to your own cage.

His eyes don't leave you as you approach, dark and assessing, like he's appraising a rare artifact he's already purchased. Your footsteps echo through the cathedral - not because you're walking slowly, but because each step feels like signing away another piece of yourself.

When your fingers finally meet his, the air shifts like it always does around him. His hand is warm, steady and sure against your trembling one. You try to hide it, this weakness, but his knowing smirk tells you he feels every quiver. Of course he does - the self-satisfied glint in his eyes suggests he anticipated your trembling long before you arrived. Nothing escapes that calculated gaze.

The vows dissolve like sugar on your tongue, crystalline and too-sweet, while the officiant's words blur into a symphony of carefully chosen platitudes. Unity, power, bloodlines, blessings - "eternity" floats past like a butterfly with broken wings, and "legacy" follows, heavy as a curse.

The ring they give you burns cold against your skin - platinum and promises binding you tight. Your "I do" emerges barely above a whisper, like a secret you never meant to tell, the words feeling foreign in your mouth as if borrowed from someone who knew how to want this. But Jungkook's response rings clear as church bells, sure as sunrise, as though he's been rehearsing this moment since birth.

When the ceremony concludes and the crowd rises in a wave of silk and diamonds, he leans in close enough to count your heartbeats. The kiss isn't proper - that would be too kind. Instead, his lips find the corner of your mouth, precise as a knife's edge yet soft as a threat, tasting of possession.

You freeze, a perfect statue in white as the cathedral carries on its ancient dance of sparkling chandeliers and clicking cameras. But deep inside your chest, something ancient and angry begins to stir, like the first crack in winter ice.

The ballroom unfolds, adorned with champagne and ancient bloodlines. Beneath vaulted ceilings, strings swell while crystal and candlelight dance together, every surface glinting with gold, diamond, and carefully crafted deception. At Jungkook's side, you stand like a statue carved from pearl, his arm a ghostly presence at the small of your back while you receive strangers masquerading as friends - your smile and curtsy perfectly measured, your voice carefully contained.

The first dance ends and your gown whispers warnings as the floor fills with aristocracy. Distant royals and international moguls move through the space while women drift by in couture worth fortunes. The air is heavy with imported orchids and centuries of refined violence, threatening to pull you under.

The Jeons move through the room like gods draped in tailored suits, untouchable and unreadable. His mother maintains her regal pose, wine glass pristine and untouched, while his grandfather sits motionless as heated marble, observing all. Around them, guests trade danger and influence with practiced ease, their diamonds and secrets competing for brilliance.

Though Jungkook's fingers remain steady at your waist, his eyes retain their coldness. Behind you, the Jeon security team emerges from the shadows - Namjoon, Jin, Hoseok, Taehyung, Jimin, and Yoongi. Their beautiful suits barely conceal the violence in their bones, each man moving with purposeful intent, awaiting instructions.

The music shifts. Your first dance has ended. The floor is filling again with distant royals and corrupt diplomats, soft laughter smeared across every corner. Toasts rise like smoke. Cameras flash. Every mouth says “congratulations” while every gaze says “how long until she breaks?”

The numbness, ritual, and pretending almost bring relief, until everything shifts. You sense their presence before you see them - in the subtle falter of musicians, the way Jungkook's posture stiffens, and how Namjoon and Jin move closer without touching, just hovering near.

When you look toward the entrance, they materialize: The Maranzano Syndicate. Their appearance is immaculate - perfect suits, gleaming shoes, and smiles that stretch too wide. Though you know nothing about them specifically, you recognize their nature - the kind of silence that's been trained to kill.

Leading them is a man your age, his presence commanding attention. Handsome and controlled, he moves across the floor with deliberate grace, champagne in one hand and clear intent in the other. As he approaches, you feel the temperature drop and every Jeon ally tense. When he stops before you, his smile carries weight.

“Forgive the intrusion,” he says, tone velvet-smooth. “It would be rude to leave without congratulating the bride.”

Jungkook’s hand twitches at your waist.

The man takes your hand — slowly, theatrically — and raises it to his lips. His mouth doesn’t touch. But it hovers just enough. Long enough. The entire room stills.

"Leo Maranzano," he murmurs. "Piacere."

The glass shatters from Jungkook's grip as he lunges forward, seizing Leo by the shoulder. His face transforms from marble to murderous fury. "Disappear," he growls.

Leo's smile widens with deliberate provocation. "You're not the only one who appreciates women's beauty, Jeon."

Violence erupts in an instant - too swift for the guests to follow, but precisely what these trained men anticipated. Tables crash and champagne sprays as chaos unfolds. Jin materializes to shield you while Namjoon steps protectively forward. Through the mayhem, you glimpse Taehyung dispatching an attacker, Yoongi's blade appearing and vanishing like lightning, and Hoseok moving with lethal grace.

At the center of it all stands Jungkook - sleeves torn, chain gleaming against his throat, transformed into something dangerous and wild. He doesn't command; he simply acts, throwing bodies aside with ruthless efficiency.

You remain frozen, deaf to Namjoon's urgent words. Your eyes fix on Jungkook - your husband - as he hurls another man to the ground. The wedding ring seems to tighten around your finger, a burning reminder of your vows.

Jungkook whirls toward you, blood staining his collar, eyes fierce. "Why the fuck are you still here?! GO!"

But your legs won't move. Namjoon curses and drags you backward as another violent crash reverberates through the floor.

And then silence descends as a single gunshot echoes through the room. At the center stands Jeon Grandfather, holding a pistol with an ivory-inlaid grip. His expression carries not anger, but disappointment as he raises the weapon, wielding it like a priest might hold a cross during sermon.

His voice slices through the tension. "Back in my day, men didn't dishonor women and children with their cowardice. They handled their vengeance where it belonged - in the dark, out of sight."

The assembled crowd remains motionless as Leo steps forward with deliberate confidence. "I came to honor the bride," he states simply. When Jungkook moves to retaliate, Jin restrains him with a firm hand and whispered warning.

Turning to you with a gaze both gentle and menacing, Leo continues, "The Jeon family killed my father. They will answer for that, but not tonight. My grandfather learned patience, as will I." His smile transforms into something sharp and dangerous as he adds, "Try to enjoy the wedding night, Mrs. Jeon."

Jungkook lunges forward, his face contorted with murderous rage. "Keep my wife's name out of your dirty mouth before I fucking kill you," he snarls, muscles coiled like a predator ready to strike. Namjoon's arm shoots out to block his path while Hoseok grabs his shoulder from behind.

"Not here," Namjoon hisses through clenched teeth. "Think of the consequences."

Jungkook's eyes burn with barely contained violence, but he stills under their restraining grip, every muscle in his body taut with suppressed fury. Leo's satisfied laugh echoes through the room as he and his men retreat, the heavy doors closing behind them with finality.

In the tense silence that follows, a single voice dares to ask, "Shall we continue?"

The music returns, violins gliding back into waltz-time as champagne flows freely. The guests — trained creatures of legacy and fear — seamlessly resume their practiced dance of pretense, their laughter echoing through the hall as if violence had never touched these marble floors.

Jungkook, temple still stained with blood, vanishes down a darkened hallway while waiters weave through the crowd with fresh glasses. Under the glittering chandeliers, toasts rise and fall like waves against the shore, each clink of crystal a studied performance of normalcy.

You stand frozen, diamonds cold against your trembling collarbones, and face the terrifying reality of what you've married into — and wonder how long it will take to learn the art of survival in this glittering, dangerous world.

The ride is long and silent. One black car glides through the night like a hearse, and behind it — two more, identical in their gleaming precision. Their engines hum low like beasts beneath chains, headlights slicing through London fog as if daring the dark to follow. The city blurs past in streaks of silver and neon, but inside the car, everything is still.

You sit beside Jungkook, trembling quietly in a cage of lace and diamonds. Your gown spills over the leather like a spilled secret, crushed and wrinkled at the knees. You keep your hands folded like a prayer that will never be answered.

Across the seat, he is all silence and shadow.His jaw is clenched. His breathing even. But his mind is somewhere else — you can feel it, like storm clouds gathering in the distance. One leg draped loosely, his ringed fingers tapping once against the edge of the window. There is blood at his collar, dried now, half-hidden beneath the pearl.

No one speaks. Outside, security guards on motorcycles flank both sides. A third car follows behind, lights off, ready. One of the men in the front seat glances back, but neither of you look up.

The Jeon penthouse rises above the city, all glass and power, its windows gleaming with cold wealth. You don’t even remember how you got out of the car — just the blur of doors opening, voices murmuring orders, arms lifting packages and flowers and boxes of gifts wrapped in gold paper and blood-colored ribbon. They carry everything inside.

The penthouse is breathtaking in its silence — a towering open space where the walls don’t hold memories, only expensive taste. Marble floors echo under your shoes. The scent of white roses hangs in the air like a threat disguised as beauty. Chandeliers glimmer above you with a cruelty sharper than candlelight. Even the air here feels conditioned to perfection — expensive, perfumed, untouched.

Jungkook strides ahead silently, his jacket unbuttoned and fists clenched tight. His people dissolve into the shadows with practiced efficiency, bowing once before they disappear. The heavy doors seal shut with a decisive click, leaving you utterly alone.

You remain frozen where they abandoned you, rooted to the pristine living room floor like some tragic modern art installation. Your wedding gown - this beautiful, suffocating thing - pools around your feet like spilled moonlight. The veil still clings to your hair, a gossamer reminder of promises made under crystal chandeliers. Each breath is a battle against the corset's cruel embrace, while your legs have long since surrendered to numbness.

The silence stretches between you like a taught wire, ready to snap. He's there, a dark silhouette against darker shadows, methodically undoing his cuffs with elegant, calculated movements. Without a word, without even the courtesy of a glance, he vanishes into the bedroom.

When exhaustion finally drives you to follow, the bedroom rises before you like a gilded cage - all emerald walls and gleaming gold, with a bed that could swallow kingdoms whole. The sharp edges of wealth cut through any notion of comfort. You're a sparrow in a falcon's nest.

And there he is - sprawled across silk sheets like sin incarnate, jacket discarded but otherwise fully dressed, radiating the casual danger of a predator at rest. His silence fills the room like smoke.

"Why are you still dressed?" The words fall like ice between you.

You stand paralyzed, breath caught in your throat as your fingers nervously twist in the yards of white fabric. His eyes rake over you methodically, dissecting every tremor and fear until his expression settles into something more cutting than cruelty - pure disappointment.

His words shatter your composure, unleashing a tide of fury that drowns your fear. "I never wanted this," you whisper, voice trembling with raw emotion.

"What?" His expression darkens dangerously.

The truth pours out, bitter and sharp. "This marriage, you, this entire twisted world - I only did it to save her."

He rises like a storm gathering force, each movement a study in controlled violence. City lights paint him in shadows as he stalks closer. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

Words become weapons: "You were never wanted. Not by her, not by me. You were a death sentence, and I stepped in because she was dying at the thought of you."

Something dangerous flickers in his eyes - not shock, but a terrible fascination. His smile unfurls like a blade. "Interesting."

He advances slowly, and you instinctively back away, feeling every bit the cornered prey he sees you as.

"Did you think we'd sleep in separate beds on our wedding night?" he murmurs, fingers moving to his buttons. One by one, they come undone like falling stars.

You can't look away as skin appears - beautiful and brutal, carved from marble and midnight. He undresses like someone who's never known shame.

Then he's behind you, his presence radiating heat and shadow as his breath ghosts across your neck. His fingers find the buttons of your dress, methodically undoing them one by one while panic floods your veins, causing you to tremble uncontrollably.

He pauses, lips brushing your ear: "Anyone would want this night with me. But you're shaking like prey about to be devoured."

The warmth vanishes. His voice turns to steel. "I don't need this."

He collects his jacket like gathering shadows. At the threshold, without turning: "If you change your mind, I'll be in the other room."

Then he's gone, leaving you alone with your fear and your fury and your wedding dress coming undone.

You lie in the dark, cocooned in too much silence and too little peace. The sheets whisper over your bare skin as you shift — lace against skin, skin against memory. You hadn't meant to take the dress off so soon, but the corset had left bruises across your ribs, and your legs gave out the moment he left. Now you wear only your underwear and the quiet pulse of your thoughts, lying in the center of a bed too large, in a home too vast, after a night too violent to forget.

Sleep eludes you as memories of the night replay endlessly in your mind. The echo of gunfire lingers, accompanied by Maranzano's haunting presence - his smile forever imprinted in your thoughts, the way he regarded you like a silk-draped warning. Yet what truly unsettles you is the image of Jungkook - bloodied fists, disheveled collar, claiming you as his before a room of demons.

In a strange twist of fate, you realize he became your sole defender, choosing you for reasons still shrouded in mystery. This revelation propels you from the bed.

You wrap yourself in a robe of pure seduction - flowing silk that caresses your skin, its shortened hem and plunging neckline suggesting intentions you hadn't consciously formed. Or perhaps you had.

Moving silently through the penthouse, you find yourself before the open double doors at the hall's end. The room beyond bathes in amber light, where Jungkook reclines on an enormous bed, his bare chest catching gold like sculpture. A MacBook rests in his lap, screen light playing across his jaw, while his legs - long, parted, powerful - stretch across the duvet, clad only in black boxer briefs.

His eyes meet yours and he freezes, the air between you transforming into something tangible. You witness the exact moment desire overtakes thought in his gaze as it traces the curves beneath your silk-draped form.

Setting aside his laptop, he leans back with calculated grace, the embodiment of sin made flesh. "Knew you'd come to your senses," he drawls as he tilts his chin and widens his legs slightly, a silent command. "Go ahead."

Instead, you voice your turmoil. "The wedding... the Maranzanos... I can't sleep."

His jaw flexes, a slight tell. "I don't know what I'm more afraid of," you confess softly. "Them... or you."

Something in your words spurs him forward, his predatory grace on full display as he rises, his arousal evident against the thin fabric of his boxers. You try to steady your breathing as he approaches with measured steps.

"I will never let those filthy fuckers touch something that's mine," he declares, voice cold and sharp. "And you are mine."

Your slight nod draws his scrutiny. "Still afraid?"

"I believe you're powerful..." you hesitate, "but power itself can be terrifying."

His smile turns razor-sharp as he closes the distance between you, until his breath mingles with yours. "You think I'm a monster."

"I know you are."

His laughter - deep, rich, dangerous - slides down your spine like poisoned silk.

“Everyone’s a monster,” he murmurs. “You just happened to be lucky enough to marry the most dangerous of them all.”

His hands find your thighs. His thumbs drag slowly upward — grazing, pressing, testing. Your robe parts beneath his touch. You feel heat spread like fire through your veins, breath catching as his fingers brush over your hips, then the curve of your waist, the dip between your breasts. Your body trembles, not from fear anymore but from something deeper, more primal.

"Let me pull back the curtain," he whispers against your neck, "and show you what I might give you."

At your subtle nod, he guides you to the bed with the careful precision of someone handling their most precious weapon.

You’re guided gently into his lap — your thighs folding around him, your knees pressed to the mattress, your robe already falling from your shoulders. His hands don’t rush. They devour.

You begin to move — hesitant at first, your hips swaying forward with tentative rhythm, the silk of your underwear dragging against the heat straining beneath his boxers. It’s an unbearable kind of friction, featherlight but charged, as if every breath you take draws fire from the contact.

Jungkook exhales harshly — the sound low, broken — his head tipping back slightly as your hips grind again, slower this time, deeper. His hands stay resting at your thighs for a moment, as though he’s restraining himself, letting you move, letting you lead. But his muscles twitch under your touch, like a storm waiting to shatter the sky.

You find your rhythm. Back and forth, your hips brushing his with increasing urgency, and the softest moan slips from your lips, unbidden — a sound that startles even you.

His reaction is immediate as his mouth trails to your neck, pressing a kiss just below your jaw — hot, open, unhurried — then drifts lower, brushing over the hollow of your throat, your collarbone, teeth grazing so lightly it sends shivers down your spine. He’s not in a rush. He explores you like he’s reading a language he already knows but wants to savor syllable by syllable.

Your breath catches as his lips skim the edge of your bra, teasing the skin above the lace. He doesn't ask. He doesn’t need to. His hands slide up your ribcage, palms wide and reverent, finding the soft swell of your breasts and cupping them through the fabric — thumbs stroking lazily over the thin material, coaxing gasps from your throat like he’s plucking at the strings of some hidden instrument.

Every moan you release feeds the hunger in his eyes. And he’s watching you — every twitch of your hips, every parting of your lips, every flutter of your lashes. It consumes him.

You can feel his arousal beneath you, hot and solid, straining harder with every roll of your body. His hands move again — one gripping your waist with bruising intent, guiding your movements, while the other trails along the curve of your lower back, holding you flush against him.

The rhythm intensifies — friction now slick, pulsing, unbearable. Your thighs tremble. His jaw clenches. Every breath is shared now, your open mouths hovering close, not kissing but just existing in that charged space where desire lives and burns.

You can feel the tension building, hovering at that delicious edge. When he moans - low, guttural, nearly a growl - something inside you shatters. As you arch forward, his hands tighten their grip possessively. You feel yourself unraveling — not with shame, but with the devastating knowledge that no one has ever made you feel like this before.

You’re close — so close — when his hands suddenly shift.

With a strength that feels effortless, Jungkook lifts you in his arms as though you weigh nothing at all, his grip steady beneath your thighs. The motion steals your breath. The loss of rhythm makes your body cry out silently, aching and wanting.

He lays you down onto the bed like he’s placing something sacred — your hair fanning over silk, your skin burning against the cool sheets. The robe hangs loosely at your elbows, forgotten now, as your chest rises and falls with a rhythm that has nothing to do with breath and everything to do with him.

He kneels beside you, his gaze slow and molten, taking in every curve, every tremble, every shiver that escapes you now without resistance.

His hand skims down your stomach — fingers dragging with maddening slowness. The silk of your skin, the shallow dip at your navel, the heat blooming beneath every inch of his touch — he traces it all, not as a man in a hurry, but as one who means to memorize you.

His fingers find the center of your heat, where friction once burned and now aches for more. A gasp escapes your lips as he pauses, his other hand reaching for the clasp of your bra. Before you realize it, your palm presses against his chest, stopping him.

Not yet. Whether from fear, pride, or the need to maintain some control, you can't let go completely. The tension between you crystallizes into something quieter than rejection as he studies you, his expression unreadable.

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw as he speaks in a voice both molten and low. "This act of patience," he murmurs, "is exclusive. For you."

His words sink into your skin more than they reach your ears, and then he moves lower. He doesn’t remove the bra — doesn’t try again — but he does not ignore you. His mouth descends over the lace, hot breath seeping through the delicate fabric. His tongue flicks, teasing just above the cup. Then lower. The edge of your breast. The underside. He kisses there, open-mouthed, savoring the way your body arches, how your thighs tense around nothing.

His hands slide down across your waist, steadying you before moving lower with deliberate intent. You feel him shift, his shoulders slipping between your knees, parting them with a reverence that only makes the air leave your lungs faster.

He presses slow, searing kisses along the inside of your thigh. His fingers draw your underwear aside with maddening control, brushing lightly against sensitive skin before his mouth descends.

The first drag of his tongue is like nothing you were prepared for — slow, wet, deliberate. Your back lifts from the bed as your hand shoots out, gripping the sheets like they might anchor you to the earth.

He moves with the precision of someone who has studied power — who knows exactly how to wield it and when to be cruel with pleasure. His tongue circles slowly, testing you, tasting. Then deeper — firmer. His mouth closes over you, lips parting to suck gently, then harder, then teasing again, and again.

You cry out, a sharp, desperate sound you’ve never heard from your own throat before.

Your hand finds his hair. Your fingers tighten in the dark strands as his rhythm deepens, his moans vibrating against you, low and hungry. Your thighs tremble as your breath breaks apart.Your body begins to spiral faster, helplessly — his tongue working in endless rhythm, his grip steady on your hips as you start to fall apart in his mouth.

You cum like something tearing open inside you — high and hot and trembling — your gasp catching, then breaking, then disappearing entirely as your body arches up into his mouth like it belongs nowhere else.

He maintains his steady devotion, drawing out every wave of pleasure until you lay completely still, breathless and undone beneath him.

When he finally rises, his mouth glistening and eyes dark with pride, he presses one final kiss to the inside of your thigh before meeting your gaze with a satisfied smirk. His voice comes rough with shadow.

"Now that," he purred against your trembling thigh, voice dripping like honey and sin, "was just the beginning of what I can give you."

You wake tangled in silk and shattered moonlight, sin still sticky-sweet on your tongue. Your robe whispers secrets against feverish skin, one sleeve sliding down like a lover's touch, sheets still singing hymns of his warmth. There's an ache threading through your muscles like golden honey, each pulse a reminder of hands that knew too well where to press, where to bruise, where to worship.

The air is thick with him still - spice and shadow and something darker, something that tastes of stolen prayers and midnight confessions. You stare up at a ceiling that gleams like polished bones, willing yourself to forget.

But memory is a cruel mistress. She paints his hands in watercolor bruises across your mind. His mouth - oh god, his mouth - the way he consumed you like you were his last meal, like you were salvation itself. And you? You broke apart like stained glass beneath a light, scattered and sacred and his.

You must have lost your mind.

You press trembling fingers against closed eyes, shame and want warring in your chest like caged birds. It should repulse you - this descent into darkness, this willing fall from grace. Some part of you remembers innocence, remembers when touch meant tenderness instead of torrential need.

But there's a monster living in your ribcage now, purring at the memory of worship wrapped in violence. It remembers the weight of him, the raw intensity of his focus, the way he made devotion feel like damnation.

Have you always been this hollow, waiting to be filled with fire?

The bedroom holds no answers. Just cold marble and colder air, roses drowning in some foreign scent that wasn't there before. Everything's too sharp, too sterile, too vast.

He's gone. Of course he is. Demons never linger for too long. The penthouse feels different now, hollow and cold in his wake. Stepping into the hallway, you're greeted like fine china - precious, pristine, breakable. The world wants its doll back, wants to forget how she shattered in the dark.

There's a ritual waiting by the window: breakfast laid out like an altar. Poached eggs under crystal domes catch morning light like tears. A blood orange bleeds perfectly on white china. Fresh brioche exhales steam into the silence. The Jeon family crest watches from your napkin, judging.

You don't dare touch any of it.A maid ghosts through the room, her "madam" falling too quickly, too properly, gaze skittering away like scattered pearls. Another servant arranges your armor for the day: silk blouse with a collar high enough to hide secrets, modest skirt, pearls to match your cage.

Steam curls from behind the bathroom door, a siren song of hot water and false comfort.Your feet refuse to move. This attention scrapes against your skin like sandpaper wrapped in silk. It's not luxury - it's surveillance dressed in gold leaf.

Watched. Always watched.

Every gesture is a report in waiting. Every bite you don't take will be noted. Every wrinkle in your robe tells stories to ears you'll never see. The mirrors - god, the mirrors - they're everywhere, reflecting your uncertainty in infinite angles until you're drowning in your own discomfort.His presence lingers like smoke, invisible but choking. The walls have eyes, and they all belong to him.

You perch at the table like a bird about to flee, clutching silk around yourself like armor.The perfect breakfast dies slowly in the sunlight.Your appetite fled with the night.

It starts like this: a whisper of rebellion, soft as moth wings against silk. Your fingers find the white peach perfume, its crystal bottle cool and dangerous in your palm. One spritz — delicate, precise — finds your wrist. Another graces its twin. The hollow of your throat accepts the third like a blessing. The scent blooms in the air, all summer-sweet defiance, honeyed memories that curl through empty halls like forgotten prayers. And no one — no one — dares stop you because of some allergies.

These marble halls may cage you in gold and expectations, but they can't dictate the way you smell anymore, can't police the way your bare feet whisper secrets against cold floors. Your robe trails behind you like a queen's cape, leaving echoes of fruit and rebellion in your wake. Deep in your belongings, the black ribbon waits. It remembers you, this small scrap of darkness. It remembers the shape of your defiance.

The silk slides home against your hair and it for a moment it feels like armor. He materializes like a dark fairytale - no warning, no preamble. Just the whispered code at the door and footsteps that paint promises across marble floors. When he enters, the room holds its breath. Storm-cloud presence, predator grace. His skin still gleams from whatever violence he's been courting - white shirt, rain-slick hair and a towel draped carelessly around his neck. Cedar and sweat and danger roll off him in waves.

Your ribbon-bound hair and peach-sweet defiance catch his attention like matches to gasoline. His grin splits the atmosphere. "Miss me, Pesca Mia?"

The Italian drips like honey-coated thorns - My Peach - far too gentle for a man whose smirk could cut glass. You answer with silence, with measured steps past him, with carefully crafted distance.And of course he follows, tigers don't let prey walk away.

"Playing ghost bride still?" His voice chases you down the hall. "We share a home, Peach. Looking at me won't turn you to stone."

But then the air thickens, and his shadow swallows yours whole. His hand finds your wrist - a brand of heat that stops your heart.

He materializes before you, all aristocrat skin and lethal grace. Too close. Not close enough. Your eyes refuse to trace the dangerous landscape of his chest.

"Why?" Confusion bleeds into his voice, softening its edges. "You're my wife, yet you treat me like a stranger."

You meet his gaze at last. Your voice comes arctic cold. "You are."

Two words, quiet as falling snow yet sharp as winter wind. Something flickers in his expression - pain, maybe, before pride swallows it whole. His laugh comes out all broken glass.

"You think I'm desperate for your attention?" Arrogance wraps around his words like armor. "Girls would kill to wear your crown, peach. Don't think you're irreplaceable."

Your silence lingers, though his statemnt stings. He exhales - one sharp breath that carries worlds of frustration. And he urns away like you're not worth the oxygen.

"I won't beg you to claim what's already yours," he mutters, defeat dressed as disdain. "You don't want me? Fine."

His exit is soundless, but it echoes in your bones. The door slams like punctuation. But the halls still whisper of peaches and regret.

IIt's 2:17 a.m. and the universe holds its breath.

Your heartbeat counts time with the expensive clock on the wall, both of you locked in this infinite moment of waiting. Silk sheets coil around you like living things as you sit there, spine straight as a blade, every nerve ending electric with that delicious cocktail of rage and loneliness. The lamp bathes everything in honey-gold light, making shadows dance across the pristine emptiness beside you - a canvas waiting for a body that isn't there.

He hasn't returned. You tried maintaining your cold façade, denying how the empty space beside you slowly hollowed out your chest, how the silence grew unbearable. You called it strategy, convinced yourself it was necessary breathing room. But now? Now you're done waiting. Your fingers find your phone with lethal grace.

Namjoon picks up on the second ring, his voice heavy with sleep yet carrying an edge of anticipation, as if he'd been expecting this call.

"Is he with you?" The words slip out like ice daggers.

The pause speaks volumes. "...No. He's at The Roselace."

Your lashes lower once, slow and dangerous. "A club?"

"Yes." The word hangs there, heavy with implications that flicker like warning lights in the dark. But you stopped needing warnings the moment you tasted rebellion on your tongue. Your voice doesn't just turn to steel. No, it crystallizes into something far more dangerous: diamond-sharp certainty wrapped in velvet menace. "Bring the car around. I want to go."

Another heartbeat of silence, shorter this time. "I'll be outside in five."

Night bleeds neon across rain-slick streets, your revenge wrapped in a dress that fits like a promise. The city's a living thing tonight, all electric pulse and wet concrete confession. And you? You're winter made flesh in the backseat, ankles crossed like loaded guns, while Namjoon pilots the car through streets that taste of destiny. He knows better than to speak - you can't small talk with gathering storms.

Jin materializes at the club entrance like a harbinger, umbrella in hand, face carved from marble. His words fall soft as burial dirt: "Back lounge. Always."

You ghost past him without acknowledgment. Some moments don't need words.

The Roselace wraps around you like sin in silk stockings - all crushed velvet shadows and dripping crystal light. Bass thrums through your bones while bodies write poetry against each other on the dance floor, everything drenched in rose-gold desperation and champagne dreams.

Then the VIP lounge opens its maw and your world tilts sideways. There. Him.

Jeon Jungkook. Sprawled like fallen royalty across black leather, shirt undone like an invitation to sin, silver chain catching light like stolen stars. A glass of scotch hangs from his fingers.

But it's the women that make your blood crystallize. They're draped across him like living jewelry, all velvet curves and sheer promises. Their hands map territories you were claiming last night, lips writing stories against skin that was against yours yesterday. One whispers something that pulls a smirk from him like poison from a wound.

His eyes find yours across the chaos.

And smiles like the devil has just been entertained.

Your body moves without conscious thought - a bullet made of silk and fury. The click of your heels against marble sounds like a countdown to chaos. Your fingers find soft flesh, yanking the nearest woman away from him with the kind of graceless violence reserved for scorned goddesses.

Her shriek pierces the air like shattered crystal. She stumbles backwards, a doll thrown from its perch.

"You selfish, arrogant, fucking idiot-"

His laughter cuts through your rage like a knife through velvet.

"You're so fucking sexy like this," he purrs, voice dripping with dark honey, watching your anger like it's the most exquisite show he's ever seen.

"I swear to God, if I ever see…" The words die in your throat. Because his mouth claims yours like he's signing a contract in sin.

He kisses you like he's trying to steal your soul - all open mouth and wicked smile. One hand cradles your face like you're made of precious things, while the other brands your lower back, pulling you into his lap like you're the missing piece he's been waiting for.

Time stops breathing.The bass still pounds through the walls but the world goes quiet. The women dissolve like smoke. Staff melt into shadows. Even the velvet walls seem to lean away. There's nothing left but the dangerous heat between your teeth and his. He breaks away just enough to trace your bottom lip with his tongue.

"Don't look at me like that in public," he whispers, eyes like molten gold. "I'll forget every rule I've ever learned."

Your palm finds his cheek - not gentle, not cruel but Jungkook only grins wider.

The city blurs past like smeared watercolors as Namjoon guides the car through rain-slicked streets. Jin's profile cuts a careful silhouette against neon-lit windows. The air between you all feels like the moment before lightning strikes.

You're a study in barely contained fury next to Jungkook - all crossed arms and white knuckles, electricity crackling beneath your skin. He's sprawled in his seat like a fallen angel, that split lip you gave him worn like a badge of honor, watching you with the kind of smile that makes devils nervous.

"Still giving me the silent treatment after that kiss?" His voice drips honey-sweet venom.

"Touch another woman," you breathe, each word dipped in ice and promises, “and I will bury your body in the same marble your family worships.”

Up front, Jin's cough shatters the tension. Namjoon's eyes catch yours in the mirror - a flash of pure amusement you choose to ignore.

And Jungkook? He laughs like you've just told him the most delicious secret, leaning in until his breath ghosts across your ear, voice pure sin, "Baby, your jealousy looks better on me than designer suits."

You don't give him the satisfaction of a response. But your traitor pulse skips like a scratched record, and the devil's smile says he knows exactly what he does to you.

A knock that sounds like the universe holding its breath. Like fate writing the first line of a tragedy.

You're poised at the edge of the grand sitting room like a statue carved from anxiety and expensive silk. Your blouse is buttoned to your throat - armor, really. Chandeliers drip gold light like honey. White roses perfume the air with your false hope of Nora coming to visit you too with your family. And then the door opens the past comes crawling in like poison through your veins.

Your mother glides in first - her hairspray a helmet, her lipstick a warning sign in crimson. Then Luca, wearing wealth like a borrowed skin, pressing family obligation against your cheek in a kiss that tastes of nothing. And finally - because the universe has a cruel sense of dramatic timing - your father.

He moves through space like a black hole, warping reality around him. The kind of presence that makes rooms smaller, air thinner, daughters invisible. His suit whispers of faded glory but his eyes? They gleam with collector's greed.

Your flinch is barely perceptible, but Jungkook - beautiful and dangerous - catches the subtle movement like a treasured secret. He's sprawled in his armchair like it's a throne, all devastating grace and calculated nonchalance. Whiskey glass dancing between elegant fingers, watching, waiting. The temperature drops ten degrees when his gaze sharpens.

"Where's Nora?" Your voice plays at lightness. Fails.

Your mother's hand waves away concern like smoke. "Unwell."

Luca's jaw twitches. He won't meet your eyes. Your father has no such restraint.

"Well?" The word drips disdain. "This is all... quaint. But when are you buying me a proper mansion?"

His words splatter against the pristine air like acid on silk.

You straighten your spine. "The Jeons have already given enough."

Jungkook's laugh of disbelief is velvet-wrapped steel.

"Enough?" Your father's scoff could curdle cream. "I gave Jeons my precious daughter. Raised you right. Paid for her schooling. Trained her to speak six damn languages. And they give what? A glorified cottage and few millions on bank account. This is not serious."

Jungkook shifts - barely a movement, but it rewrites gravity. You speak first.

"Don't embarrass us." You aim for ice. Your voice cracks like spring thaw.

Your father whirls. "Since when did you grow fangs, little girl?"

His hand rises - a familiar choreography of pain, promising bruises that would match your designer earrings. But the blow never lands.

Jungkook's fingers wrapped around your father's wrist with quiet, absolute authority - a prophecy written in bone and blood.

“My grandfather raised me with manners,” Jungkook muses, voice soft, “taught me to never strike someone older.” He leans close. "Don't make me disappoint him."

The silence has teeth. Your father's face performs an ugly dance between rage and humiliation. He retreats, inch by inch. Jungkook releases him like dropping something contaminated.

Then, quiet as a blade between ribs: "And don't ever think of hitting my wife."

The room stills. Your mother's face turns to marble while Luca shifts uneasily on his feet.

They retreat like storm clouds dispersing - your father leading with violence still coiled in his shoulders, your mother trailing behind him like winter fog. At the threshold, Luca pauses to mumble an apology before disappearing, leaving only traces of expensive cologne.

When the doors finally close, silence blankets the room like fresh snow. You exhale years of fear.

Jungkook stands beside you, offering neither touch nor words - just his presence, steady as gravity, protective as shelter. In this space where fear once lived, something gentler takes root.

Warmth.

Maybe love isn't some grand revelation inscribed in starlight. Maybe it's quieter than that - like finding shelter during a storm you didn't know was coming.

There was something about that moment in the sitting room. The way his hand caught your father's wrist mid-strike, precise as a knife's edge, gentle as snowfall. Not a word spoken, just the weight of his presence beside you, heavy as gravity and twice as constant.

Protection wrapped in silence. Devotion dressed in designer suits.

And how it caught in your throat - this unfamiliar feeling of being shielded rather than shaped, protected rather than possessed. Like watching a bruise bloom backwards, violence turning to velvet beneath your skin.

You've spent so long being a prize to be won, an asset to be traded. But here, in the aftermath of that infinite moment, you taste something different on your tongue. Something that whispers of possibility, of paperback endings you never dared to want.

Because maybe love isn't about grand gestures or flowery declarations. Maybe it's in the way he caught your flinch like a secret worth keeping. The way he stood guard over your fear without trying to own it. The thought haunts you like perfume, sweet and lingering, as you drift through marble halls in bare feet. Past crystal that catches light like promises, through silence that feels, for once, like peace.

Tonight, you could let the walls down brick by brick. Maybe tonight, you could let the curtain open just a little wider. Not in surrender, but in hope of something softer. Something that tastes less like warfare and more like coming home.

The clock says 11:42 p.m. when you finally allow yourself to move. Your robe slips to the floor like dusk shedding its skin, and you reach for the lingerie that still carries its tag, something delicate and barely-there — lace the color of antique ivory, with ribbon straps that whisper against your shoulders like secrets.

You spray white peach across your collarbone, behind your knees, over your wrists. The scent hovers in the air like the memory of hands you don’t flinch from. You find the black ribbon — a little wrinkled now, a little tired — and tie it loosely in your hair. A small crown. A little defiance. A reminder that this softness is yours to give.

Then — because courage needs ritual — you pour yourself half a glass of wine. You sip it standing by the window, your reflection doubled against the city: bare legs, trembling fingers, a girl sculpted from want and silk and something beginning to resemble hope.

What if I’m allowed to be held gently? the thought hums behind your ribs. What if I’m not just a transaction in pearls?

Tonight, you want more than to be protected like property - you want to be wanted like a woman. You want to feel that warmth again and maybe dare to discover more of it. Setting down your glass with shallow breath, your heart presses against your ribs like a caged bird seeking freedom. Then, with quiet certainty, you call his name. “Jungkook.”

Not a shout, nor a whisper - just your voice carrying through the stillness. And somewhere in the penthouse, you sense the shift in the air, hear the soft footsteps approaching. You wait, your heartbeat marking time in the silence.

───────── ౨ৎ ─────────

When the door finally creaks open, the light from the hallway carves his silhouette in gold.

Jungkook enters shirtless, barefoot, and breathing like he ran. The low waistband of his black boxers hugs his hips like sin sewn into fabric. His dark hair is tousled, damp at the ends. His chest gleams faintly from the shower or the gym — you can’t tell — but the muscles move tight beneath his skin as he scans the room, jaw clenched.

"Did something—" His words trail off as he takes in the sight before him.

Laid out across the pale sheets like a prayer wrapped in lace and quiet invitation. The ivory lingerie clings to you like mist, your legs tucked slightly to the side, bare shoulder framed by long hair and black ribbon. One hand holds the edge of the sheet. The other rests over your stomach — steady only in appearance.

You don't speak, simply holding his gaze and letting him take in the sight before him. His breath catches in his throat as he stands motionless, a moment of pure reverence washing over his features. Something raw and unguarded crosses his face, as if witnessing something he'd only dreamed of. You offer a gentle, uncertain smile and reach for him with tentative fingers.

“Jungkook.” A whisper. A gift. Like a flame lit in the darkness.

His expression shifts, tension and panic melting away in a single breath. What replaces it is hunger - not the violent kind that devours, but the kind that worships.

“Fuck,” he breathes, crossing the room like gravity commanded it. “Do you even know what you look like right now?”

You open your mouth to answer, but the words catch as he drops to the edge of the bed, body sinking against yours in one fluid, dangerous motion.

His skin is hot — all over, everywhere. His thigh presses to yours, bare and hard. His hands hover at your waist like he’s afraid to touch too much. But his eyes... his eyes consume.

“Say it again,” he whispers, voice hoarse.

You swallow. You’re trembling now, but it’s not from fear. “I wanted you here.”

That breaks the last thread of his restraint. His mouth finds yours in a kiss that starts tenderly - cautious at first, his hand cupping your cheek with careful reverence. But when you respond, matching his intensity, the gentleness gives way to something deeper, more urgent.

Your arms wind around his shoulders, your body pressing to his instinctively, lips parting under the low groan that leaves him like the last tether snapped.

That’s when he loses himself. His body crushes into yours, warmth and weight and scent — white peach still fresh on your throat, and he moans against your mouth like it’s the first time he’s ever been given something soft.

Is this what it means to be wanted? you think, dizzy under the weight of him.

His hand slides down to your hip, then your thigh, pulling you closer, and you feel it — his arousal, hard and unmistakable, pressing between your legs through the thin barrier of his boxers.

You gasp softly into his mouth. He pulls back, just enough to whisper — breath ragged, lips brushing yours. “You have no idea what you do to me, Peach.”

He leans down and begins trailing kisses down your throat, hot breath dragging over your skin, and then his fingers move to the front clasp of your bra — slow, teasing — as if asking silently. You nod once, breath catching in your throat as the fabric falls away. He pauses, eyes darkening with desire as he takes in the sight of you. With a low, reverent sound, his mouth finds your breast - tongue teasing your nipple with exquisite tenderness until you arch up against him, fingers threading through his hair.

"Jungkook," you breathe, voice trembling.

"Yeah?" he murmurs against your skin. "Want more, baby?"

He switches to the other side, tongue dragging in a spiral before sucking — hard. The sound that leaves your throat isn’t gentle. He groans in approval then he’s back at your lips again, devouring you now, and his hand slides between your legs, palm pressing against the damp lace.

“Shit. You’re already this wet?”

Your hips buck as his fingers slip past the fabric, dip down, find you with terrifying precision. He circles once, testing. “Let me hear you,” he whispers against your mouth. He sinks one finger in and you cry out softly — not from pain, but from the sudden fullness.

“So tight,” he breathes, “fuck—” and adds another. He curls them both — slow, precise, devastating — and your body trembles like silk beneath a storm.

You gasp, head tipping back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut as his fingers stroke deeper, searching and finding the ache you never let yourself name. His mouth is at your neck again, tongue warm, breath hotter. He doesn’t rush and doesn’t demand. He explores you like he’s learned you — like every moan, every arch of your back, is a sacred response he’s waited lifetimes to unlock.

The pressure builds, low and thick, like a fire rolling beneath your skin. His palm grinds against the base of you with every push, every curl, and it lights you up from the inside — slow-burning, tender, terrifying.

“That’s it,” he whispers, lips dragging against your throat. “Let go. Just feel me.”

And so you surrender to it completely, allowing yourself this precious first taste of freedom. You let go of the shame, the cold hands of your past, the bruises you were told to hide and the hunger you were told to deny. You let go of every time you were touched only to be controlled, looked at only to be priced. Because this is different - his mouth leaving trails of reverence across your skin, his voice a mixture of raw need and gentle wonder.

This is the silk of your thighs shaking against the sharp cut of his rings, and the way he slows his fingers just when your breath catches — just to listen to the sound of you breaking open.

And in the chaos of it, a thought blooms. You feel good. The revelation hits like lightning in slow motion. God, you feel so good. You didn’t know it could feel like this. Like warmth without danger. Like pleasure without debt. Like being touched and not owned, kissed and not erased.

His lips find yours again, and this time it’s deeper — slow and thick and intoxicating. He kisses you like a man no longer teasing, but claiming. You moan into his mouth, your fingers tangled in his hair, nails grazing his neck. He groans low, a vibration that pulses down his chest, straight through to the way his fingers curl again, firmer this time.

“You feel this?” he breathes against your lips, his voice barely coherent. “How your body’s taking me so fucking sweet? You were made for this.”

You whimper — a sound of surrender, of disbelief, of joy. You’re trembling now, the pleasure cresting fast, and he knows it. He sees it. He watches you fall apart under him like he’s watching art come to life.

“You’re close, aren’t you?” he murmurs, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me see you fall, baby. Let me feel you break.”

And when he whispers “Come for me, Peach,” the world splits open. Your thighs tense. Your breath stutters. And the moan that spills from your lips is broken and holy, like a prayer finally answered. Your body pulses around his fingers, over and over, as he coaxes every wave from you, patient and wicked and tender.

He doesn’t stop until you collapse back into the pillows, breathless, limbs heavy, the world spinning in white peach and warmth. You blink up at the ceiling, then at him, marveling at how the space between you finally feels like sanctuary instead of battlefield. Though familiar with pain, this experience is different. For the first time, pleasure flows through you without guilt or fear, and you find yourself yearning for more, unashamed of your desire.

You’re still trembling in the aftermath, breaths shallow, lips parted, your whole body drawn tight like silk thread loosened from its spool.

Jungkook kisses your throat — soft, slow — and you feel his breath against your skin, warm with awe, not just desire. His hand strokes gently along your thigh, then stills. For a moment, he just watches you.

You nod, breath trembling, body already molded to his heat. He shifts lower, moving from your mouth to the space between your legs, his skin brushing yours in a trail of quiet possession. The soft rustle of fabric draws your gaze downward — his boxers sliding off his hips with effortless ease, revealing him fully.

Your breath catches, but you don’t look away. The sight of him — aroused, bare, utterly unashamed — steals the rhythm from your lungs. There’s fear, yes, curled low in your belly like something primal and unspoken, but it’s laced with something stronger, deeper: anticipation that feels like hunger, and the dizzying ache of knowing there’s no going back.

He sees the shift in your eyes — the tension, the heat, the way your thighs press together unconsciously — and his gaze grows darker, steadier. There’s no smirk now, no cocky remark, just quiet reverence carved into every line of his face as he settles over you, breath warming the skin below your ear.

“Tell me if you want to stop,” he says, voice rough but patient. “I’ll never take what you won’t give.”

You swallow, fingers curled around the sheets. “I want it,” you whisper. “I want you.”

And God, the look in his eyes — something wounded, something honored — like he’s trying not to fall apart just from hearing you say that. He kisses you again, slower this time. His hand cups your cheek. You feel him guide himself to your entrance, his length brushing against the soft slickness between your thighs. He presses forward, just the tip, and you gasp — a sound that’s more surprise than pain.

“Breathe,” he murmurs. “Let me take care of you.”

You inhale, long and slow, and when he begins to push in deeper, you feel the stretch — unfamiliar, thick, slow. Your body adjusts to him inch by inch, heat curling deep in your belly as he moves inside you, every second filled with breathless restraint.

“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face in your neck, “you’re so fucking tight—so warm—it’s driving me insane.”

You whimper as he settles fully inside you, his hips finally flush against yours. He doesn’t move at first — just stays there, forehead against yours, eyes half-closed.

“You’re doing so well,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect, Peach.”

You shift your hips slightly, and the sensation ripples through you like wildfire. “Move,” you breathe. “Please.”

His first thrust is slow, careful. He draws out almost entirely, then presses back in — deep, deliberate, letting you feel every inch. The rhythm is slow at first, aching and tender. Every time he sinks into you, you moan softly, your fingers clutching his shoulders, legs trembling as they wrap tighter around his waist.

“That’s it,” he groans. “Take me, baby. Let me in deeper.”

“You feel so good,” you whisper, dazed. “It’s… it’s so much—”

“You can take it,” he breathes against your mouth. “You were made for me.”

His rhythm builds. Not frantic, not rough — just sure. Deep. Intentional. You feel every part of him, each thrust grinding you deeper into the mattress. His name spills from your lips like confession. His hands grip your hips tighter as you start to move with him, arching, circling, giving as much as you take.

“You’re perfect like this,” he whispers, panting against your shoulder. “So fucking wet, so tight—fuck. You were made to take me.”

You moan louder — the sound shameless, raw, a full-body ache turned into voice. The pleasure builds so fast it almost frightens you. Your walls pulse around him, fluttering each time he hits that spot inside you that makes the world collapse.

He thrusts deeper now, hips snapping with desperate rhythm, sweat-slick skin slapping against yours. The room fills with the sound of skin meeting skin, of breath and moans and curses bitten between kisses.

You can feel the edge. You’re tumbling toward it, helpless to stop.

He starts to move faster — still careful, but no longer holding back. Your moans rise to meet his as he thrusts deeper, fuller, the wet sound of him filling you over and over echoing through the room, joined by skin meeting skin and both your voices breaking into the air like shattered stars.

“You’re mine,” he growls, each thrust harder, rougher now, “say it—say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp, legs tightening, eyes rolling back. “Only yours.”

Your climax builds like a storm held too long behind trembling sky — not sudden, but rising, demanding, layered with sensation you can barely hold.

Every thrust winds you tighter, every kiss unravels something old in your chest, every whispered word — you’re mine, you feel so fucking good, you were made for this — leaves you burning, open, filled. Your nails dig into his back as your moans dissolve into his mouth, thighs trembling around his waist. And then — it hits. Hard, deep, unstoppable.

Your body arches into him as if trying to fuse, your cry breaking against his lips like something holy, too raw to be pretty, too intense to be silent. The wave doesn’t crest — it shatters, again and again, your walls pulsing around him as pleasure rushes over you in waves so sharp it almost hurts. You barely register the curse he chokes into your neck, the way his rhythm breaks.

His hands grip your hips — tight, desperate — and he buries himself to the hilt one last time, hips jerking as he spills inside you with a guttural groan that shakes you to the bone. The sound he makes is not triumphant — it’s wrecked, torn from his throat like he was holding it back too long. His forehead drops to yours, breath trembling, body shivering as he rides the aftershocks with you still wrapped tight around him.

When he finally pulls out, you whimper from the loss. He kisses your lips to soothe you, then your shoulder, then your hip. Then he lies beside you, pulling you to his chest, both of you still catching your breath. You wrap your arms around him. Your leg stays hitched over his waist, like your body doesn’t know how to stop holding him.

His hand rubs lazy circles into your back. “You okay?” he whispers.

You nod against his skin. And for the first time in your life — in this warm, slow silence — you feel safe. And maybe, just maybe…

…a little bit loved.

Stillness hits different in the morning-after glow. And then there's the heat between your hips, like your body's keeping secrets from last night.

The black ribbon is tangled in the linen near your waist half-unraveled, like a confession. The air's thick with white peach and memory, and you're breathing it all in like it might disappear if you don't.

Love. The word sits in your chest like a bird that forgot how to be afraid. Is this it? This quiet after the storm, where nothing hurts and everything's warm and your body remembers kindness instead of fear? Where peace isn't just a pretty lie people tell in daylight?

His voice reaches you first - all sleep-rough and commanding, drifting through the penthouse like smoke. He's on the phone somewhere in the kitchen, words too far to catch but tone saying everything.

The silk of your robe whispers against your skin as you tie it. Your feet carry you toward his voice like you're caught in the undertow of last night's tenderness. Maybe you just want to see him. Maybe you just need to know this isn't another beautiful dream your mind made up. Maybe it's because for once, someone held you like you wouldn't shatter. You turn the corner.

And you stop.

You find yourself frozen in the archway, dawn's first light painting you in half-shadows. He hasn't noticed you yet.

There he stands - a study in contradictions. Bare chest catching morning light, sweatpants riding low, silver chain kissing his throat like a whispered threat. His shower-damp hair curls at the nape of his neck, soft in a way that makes your heart ache. The untouched water glass in his hand trembles slightly.

But his voice - winter steel now, nothing like the honey-warm murmurs from last night. All sharp angles and cold professionalism. You clutch your robe tighter, silk whispering against your skin like a warning. The transformation happens in heartbeats - his tone flattening, sharpening, becoming something familiar in its danger. Like watching a knife being unsheathed.

"No." The word falls like ice. "Don't bring him in." Silence stretches, taut as piano wire. "Leave him where he is. I'll handle it myself."

Glass meets marble with a gentle accusation. "I said leave him. Yoongi—this one's mine."

He turns, and time stops breathing. There you stand, a portrait in morning light - bare feet on cold floors, white silk clinging to last night's memories, hair still tangled with black ribbon. Peach perfume hangs between you like a broken promise.

The call ends abruptly, leaving silence to crystallize between you like. His phone finds its place on the counter with deliberate casualness. He shrugs, voice light as smoke. "What?"

Words fail you. Your eyes speak volumes. "It sounded like you were giving an order," you whisper, throat desert-dry. "To kill someone."

The pause that follows feels ancient. His response comes without hesitation even thought you see slight regret in his eyes. "I was."

Words echo through the kitchen like a shot that didn’t need a bullet. Your breath hitches before you realize it’s even left you, chest tightening under the satin tie of your robe. The morning light has turned unforgiving now — too clear, too sharp, too holy for a confession like that to survive without tearing something apart.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t shift. Just watches you with that maddening, polished calm — the kind that doesn’t come from confidence but from certainty. The certainty of someone who has never had to regret his actions because power paved over everything that came after them. Jungkook stands there in black sweatpants and bare skin, the picture of a man too rich to be touched by consequence, too young to be so terrifyingly composed.

And you realize it — fully, bone-deep — that last night, you kissed a man who was capable of this. You let him touch your body with hands that break other men open. You slept in the arms of someone who casually decides whether another heart should keep beating.

You let him inside you. And he’s let death inside himself.

“I…” Your voice breaks like glass against tile.

He tilts his head slightly, unreadable. “Are you surprised?”

You open your mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He takes a step closer, but it’s not enough to reach you. Just enough to feel the weight of his presence settling into your skin like smoke.

“I never lied,” he says, quieter now. “You called me a monster. I never disagreed.”

You want to scream. You want to shake him, claw your way out of this invisible trap you’ve stumbled into, this house with velvet floors and bleeding walls, this man who kissed you like worship and murders without flinching.

“I know,” you whisper, and it’s all you can manage. “It’s just—”

The sentence never lands. It crumbles halfway through, pulled down by the gravity of your throat tightening. Your face crumples, lashes wet before you even know what you’re crying over — the shattered illusion or the horror of having ever believed in it. Tears spill silently down your cheeks as your trembling fingers fail to wipe them away.

“I was so stupid,” you whisper, and your knees almost give. “I am just so fucking stupid.”

He takes another step forward. His voice is softer now, unsure. “Y/N—”

“Don’t come near me!” It tears out of you like thunder, shrill and broken and sharp. He halts, hands open at his sides, stunned — and something flickers in his eyes then. Not guilt. Not remorse. Just something… hurt.

“You knew what I was,” he says, his voice rising now too, cracking like heat through glass. “Don’t look at me like I’ve changed. I didn’t pretend to be anyone else.”

You can’t stop the shaking. You want to run and tear and scream and break all the mirrors that ever told you this was safety. “I know. I just—I didn’t know it would feel like this,” you cry, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. “I didn’t know I’d be the kind of girl who could fall for someone who kills people like it’s breakfast.”

He flinches. “You think this is easy for me?”

Your laugh is bitter, strangled. “Easy? It’s not normal to kill, Jungkook. It’s rotted. I guess I thought—God, I guess I was just confused. Maybe I mistook this all for love because I never saw love before? And maybe I am just broken—maybe I let you touch me and hold me and fuck me because I don’t know what else love could feel like.”

Silence slams into the room again. He stands there, chest rising, jaw tight.

"Could I ever be with someone like you?" you whisper, wiping under your eyes. "A man who deals in death? No. What you offer... this isn't love. This is just velvet and guns. And God help me, I got lost in how good they felt."

You turn then, robe twisting around your legs, footsteps already thudding back toward the bedroom before he can speak. “Y/N, don’t—”

“Don’t follow me!” you scream from the hallway, a sob catching on your throat. “I can’t even breathe around you anymore.”

For a moment, you hear nothing. Just the hum of the fridge. The distant city beyond the window. The silence that only comes after something inside you snaps. Then his voice, low and bitter behind you, cutting through the air like frost on glass.

“This is life,” he says, not loud, but deep enough to sink. “You’re either prey or predator. You think marrying a monster’s hard? Believe me, you wouldn’t want to be married to a coward.” You hear the door close seconds later.

He’s gone.

The bedroom is filled with lingering traces of your shared intimacy. Of everything that happened between midnight and morning — the black ribbon fallen half beneath the bed, the white peach still clinging to the hem of your robe, the echo of hands and lips and breath where silence now smothers it all.

You stand there for a while, motionless in the center of the room, one hand pressed to your lips like that might keep the sobs down. But they claw their way up anyway — low, gut-wrenching sounds that don’t belong to any version of yourself you’ve ever let survive.

Your fingers tremble as you reach for the edge of the dresser. It’s instinctive, almost mechanical — the way you slide the drawer open, the way your hand curls around the strap of your old black backpack, the one you brought with you the day you arrived. It still smells faintly of Switzerland, of pressed notebooks and old perfume and snow.

Your body moves with the strange grace of someone else's strings - mechanical poetry written in desperate motion. Each movement is sharp, decisive, divorced from thought. Clothes tumble into the backpack like falling stars, necessities gathered by muscle memory while your mind screams white noise. Underwear. Blouse. Jeans. The basics of a life you're trying to rebuild, tossed together like a prayer. Your hands work faster than your heartbeat, racing against the clock of his inevitable return. You have to go - have to run - before his gravity pulls you back into orbit, before the dangerous warmth of him seeps back into your bones and turns your resolve to stardust.

With trembling fingers, you slip your ring off and place it on the marble counter of his bathroom beside his cologne. The note you write by hand comes out unsteady, the paper remaining crumpled as your shaking hands set down the pen.

If I ever meant anything to you, please don’t come after me. Let me go in peace. Let me have whatever life I can build without this. Don’t ruin it.

Your signature lingers at the bottom of the note, an inked farewell that feels heavy with finality. Placing it gently on his pillow, you turn away from the life you're leaving behind, knowing there's no turning back now.

The elevator descent feels like falling, each floor counting backwards as seconds slip by like shards of glass against your spine. When you reach the street, a grey and uncaring sky looms overhead as you step into a taxi, hood drawn up and voice carefully controlled while giving the driver your destination.

In the silence that follows, only the steady hum of tires and the blur of an indifferent city keep you company. Your phone's screen blazes too bright as you retrieve it with trembling hands. You try your sister first - one ring, two rings, then voicemail. You end the call before leaving a message.

When you dial Luca next, the four rings that pass before he answers feel heavy with unspoken weight.

"Luca," you whisper, voice trembling, "I left him. I need to come home."

There's a heavy silence before his voice comes through, flat and serious in a way that makes your stomach drop.

"You can't come home, Y/N. If Father finds out you walked out, he'll kill you."

His words carry no drama or shock - just the bleak certainty of someone intimately familiar with their father's nature.

"But where can I go?" Your voice breaks.

He exhales slowly before responding, "I'll send you an address. I have an apartment no one knows about. You can stay there while we figure things out."

"An apartment? I don't understand, when did you even…"

"Don't ask questions," he cuts in, his tone growing darker. "Just get off the street. Now."

The line goes dead and a message appears moments later - coordinates falling into your phone like a stone into still water. You read the address twice, memorizing it before turning to the driver.

He nods at your new instructions, changing course as the indifferent city slides past your window.

And then—time fractures like glass beneath winter's first frost. The world lurches sideways, reality splintering at its seams. The door bursts open with a thunderous crash, shattering the silence. Dark figures emerge as rough hands grab you, pressing a chemical-soaked cloth against your face.

You fight with every ounce of strength, your body thrashing against the iron grip of your captors. But the chemical-laden cloth works quickly, and consciousness begins to slip away like all the maybes you’’ll never get to live. The world around you blurs and distorts, reality folding in on itself until finally, mercifully, everything fades to black.

final part is here

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

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sushirrrry · 3 months ago

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MASTERLIST. continuously updated.

ONE SHOTS. -> WRANGLED. a cowboyrry!harry styles one-shot. 14k words. -> ORDER. a bodyguardrry!harry styles one-shot, smut blurb. 4.5k words. -> BOUND. a best friends to lovers!harry styles one-shot blurb. 7.2k words. -> PULSE. a festivalrry best friends sister one-shot. 12k words. -> EXECUTIVE. a CEOrry one shot. 19.3k words. -> FIABESCO. a grumpy Italyrry/sunshine one-shot. 2.2k words. -> RIBBON. a grinch!harry holiday one-shot. 15.4k words. -> INTERMISSION. a threesome, vampire!bill,vampire!harry one-shot. 9k words. -> TRACE. a tattoo artist!harry one-shot. 7.7k words. -> TRACED. a tattoo artist!harry one-shot (part two). 22k words. -> AU PAIR. a single dad!harry x au pair one-shot. 11.4k words. -> OURS. a domestic!harry x wife one-shot. 20k words. -> FRONTLINES. a WWII soldier!harry x nurse one-shot. 21.7k words. -> FRONTLINES: AWAITING. a WWII soldier!harry x nurse one-shot, part II. -> FRONTLINES: COMING HOME. a WWII soldier!harry x nurse one-shot, part III.

THE BLURB TAG. all stories under 2k words.

FULL STORIES. -> MAJESTY. a royalrry x commoner five part story. part I. 16.8k words.

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mnijoy · 17 days ago

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INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY // CH1

pairing: alleged killer!jungkook x lawyer!reader

summary: Jeon Jeongguk. A name that had dominated headlines and splashed across the front pages of every major newspaper for weeks. Accused of being a serial murderer, he was the centre of a storm that gripped the entire nation.

And now, you were standing in the eye of that storm—assigned as his criminal defense lawyer, with no choice but to defend him.

warnings: mentions of blood, (graphic descriptions of) dead bodies, murder, that’s it i think…?

authors note: this took me forever but it’s not that good zzzzz SORRY Y’ALL… please don’t be a silent reader and tell me ur thoughts in my asks :) i was gonna post this later but i need to get something out. also english isn’t my first language so ignore any mistakes 😢

cross posted on ao3 and wattpad

word count: 4.15k

series masterlist | mood board | next ❱

It had been several years since you had received your law degree. Since then, you had managed to climb the ladder to success, being globally known as a successful and extremely intelligent lawyer. Your clients almost always managed to escape with no charges, even if those charges piled up so high they reached the sky. But you didnt work with just anyone, that would betray the code you’d built your career on. You had only worked with those you deemed worthy of working with you, the ones who deserved it. Your aim was to bring justice, that's the job of a lawyer after all, right?

People paid a hefty amount to have you as their lawyer, but overtime you realised you weren’t really just in it for the money. There was so much more to your job than what meets the eye.

Sitting in your office, your eyes skimmed over potential clients who had been awaiting your judgement and assistance. A particular name caught your eye, Jeon Jeongguk. The name that had the honour of gracing every newspaper and article for the past couple of weeks. He was currently in custody, suspected for murdering and dismembering several people, yet he pleaded that he was innocent.

He possessed a strikingly handsome face—an asset that, until the final victim’s testimony, had masked the horrors attributed to him. His doe eyes and soft smile lent him an almost disarming innocence with his smooth voice that had earned him some admirers. But looks can be deceiving.

Your associate had narrowed down the list of clients to choose from following a strict criteria. Picking Jeon Jeongguk wasn’t ideal, and was somewhat unexpected of him, but now you were incredibly intrigued.

Dropping the sheet of paper, you used your left hand to move it aside and brought your laptop closer, typing his name into it with ease. Immediately, dozens of articles appeared.

You clicked on the first one, titled Jeongguk, the Seoul Slasher spotted for the first time since his arrest. A picture emerged once the screen finished loading, revealing the notorious killer cuffed with a sullen expression being led into a car by multiple officers.

Scrolling, you read on:

The Seoul Slasher was put into custody two weeks ago. Since then, nobody had heard of him or even seen him, but this heartless killer has finally been spotted being taken out of court. Sources tell us this was his first official hearing.

Over the last couple of months, bodies have been piling up around the country; some dismembered, some beaten beyond recognition, some buried across different states. Recently, a young woman frantically entered the Busan Police Station and claimed to have been attacked by the Seoul Slasher. She was immediately asked to describe his looks, to which she did. The police managed to sketch this image of him, resulting in one of the biggest manhunts in history which led to the arrest of Jeon Jeongguk.

Still, he claims he had no role in these murders and believes he has been framed. What do you think? Is this the face of a killer, or is this the face of a victim who has been wrongfully accused?

Many young ladies have begun admiring him and there has been a surge of fanmade edits of the individual rising on social media platforms. Some have even resulted in writing letters which they plan on sending to him in the future.

[insert photo again in different angle]

In this image, you can see a crowd of his admirers surrounding the alleged Seoul Slasher, but he appears to be completely unfazed, even visibly uncomfortable. Could it be that this cold blooded killer does not enjoy the spotlight?

In exactly a month's time, Jeongguk will be doing his final hearing which will seal his fate. The outcome? Life behind bars with no chance of parole... or, against all odds, a verdict of not guilty. But given the evidence stacked against him, the latter seems more unlikely with each passing day.

You skim through the rest of the article, not finding anything of use so scrolling all the way down to read the comments. Half of them expressed relief that the killer was finally caught and they could live peacefully, while the other half just commented on his charming appearance.

Scoffing, you scrolled back up to the picture to gain a better look at him. He seemed to be.. ashamed? With his head lowered and eyes avoiding all cameras, he let the police guide him with what seemed to be zero resistance.

You almost felt bad. Almost. A lot of these criminals got away with their heinous crimes due to their attractive appearance, and you weren’t the type to fall for these tricks.

Out of pure curiosity, you pulled back Jeongguk’s referral in front of you, and copied down the address of where he was being held. Your hands then flew to the telephone and dialed your associates number, bringing it to your ear.

“What is it?” his deep voice rumbled from the other side, causing you to smile in recognition.

“You know Jeongguk, right? The Seoul Slasher.” you spoke the nickname in a mocking tone, lifting the sheet of paper up in your hands and leaning back in your chair.

“Of course.” he chuckled and you could hear shuffling on his end.

“Call the warden of his jail, tell him I want to arrange a private meeting.”

“Really?” his voice became clearer now, as if he had sitten up, “Do.. Do you think he’d allow that?”

“I know he will. Make sure to mention my name.” you smiled at the hesitation in his voice, he didn't know half the things you had the permission to do.

“Alright, I’ll tell you when he responds. Or.. he’ll probably just email you.” you could hear the soft clicking of a keyboard from his end, indicating he had already begun with the assigned task.

“Thank you, Taehyung.”

With that, you ended the call, placing the telephone gently down in its holder. You had to meet your client before agreeing to help them. This would provide you with a bigger insight of the situation, a one on one meeting. It didn't necessarily mean you were on his side. Not yet, at least.

With Taehyung—your associate—sat beside you, you waited patiently for your client's arrival. The warden had managed to effortlessly reserve a meeting for you, with zero hesitation, in fact he graciously allowed it and even extended the invitation to Taehyung who was more than eager to attend.

You repeatedly glanced towards the clock on the opposite wall, then to the door, then back to the clock. Absent-mindedly, your fingers drummed against the cool table, the rhythm catching Taehyung’s attention.

“Are you nervous?” he questioned, eyes drifting to your hand before lifting to meet your eyes with a soft smirk.

“Of course not,” you scoffed. “It’s just taking a while.”

As if on cue, the door opened, revealing a tall man in a beige uniform. Jeongguk. Instinctively, you straightened up without even realising and cleared your throat. From the corner of your eye, you noticed Taehyung shooting you a knowing look and held back on rolling your eyes. You weren’t nervous.

Jeongguk frantically looked between the two of you, still standing by the door until the officer roughly nudged him forward. He stumbled slightly but caught himself, his cuffed hands twitching in front of him before clenching into balls. His eyes, round and glassy, avoided yours as he made the short walk to the seat in front of you. You recognised the unmistakable look in his eye, the shame that you’d witnessed in countless others before him, and even in that picture in the article.

The metal legs screeched against the floor as he pulled it out. Taehyung didn’t say a word—he only leaned back slightly, observing the man like a specimen under glass.

You studied Jeongguk carefully. He didn’t look like a monster. If anything, he looked… exhausted. Hollow-cheeked and tense, like the shell of someone who hadn’t slept in days. The infamous Seoul Slasher looked nothing like the headlines made him out to be.

Jeongguk finally met your gaze, and for a second, the room went quiet.

“You asked to see me?” His voice was low, raspy, like he hadn’t spoken much lately. “Why?”

You tilted your head, resting your palm flat on the table as you continued observing him. Taehyung had also turned his head to watch you, both men awaiting your answer.

“I’m here to ask some questions before I decide to take your case.”

He sighed, leaning back into his chair, cuffed wrists resting awkwardly on the table. “I didn’t do it.” he said, voice low and steady—almost like he’d said it a thousand times before and stopped caring whether anyone believed him.

You raised an eyebrow, unmoved by his rehearsed line that you’ve heard more times than you can remember.

“So you’ve said,” you replied calmly, fingers tapping once against the table. “But saying it and proving it are two very different things, Jeon Jeongguk.”

His name hung in the air like a challenge.

“You’re accused of some of the most brutal crimes this country’s seen in years,” you continued, voice even. “And yet here you sit—no lawyer, no defense strategy, just that same tired sentence.”

You leaned forward slightly, narrowing your gaze.

“So tell me. If you didn’t do it, who did?”

His eyes finally met yours before glancing towards the officer standing against the wall and clearing his throat. Your eyes followed his, landing on the officer whose face was stone-cold, jaw locked and eyes staring at nothing in particular. Slowly, you turned your head back to the prisoner in front of you, realising what he wanted.

“Officer, could you step outside for a moment?” you asked, turning to meet his gaze. He appeared to be startled that you were addressing him, the mask of indifference falling off for a second.

“But miss, he’s danger–”

“It’s alright, he’s cuffed,” Taehyung interrupted smoothly, “And she’s got me, if anything were to happen.”

You scoffed, rolling your eyes as the policeman hesitated before grunting and exiting, the door clicking shut behind him.

As the door shut behind the officer, you finally turned your full attention to Jeongguk.

He was already looking at you.

His gaze was steady, unreadable at first—but then you caught it: a faint curl at the corner of his lips, a ghost of a smile. One that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

The moment your eyes met his, the smile vanished. His jaw tensed, and he looked away, fixing his gaze on the corner of the table like it suddenly held more importance.

You reached into your bag, pulled out a slim notebook, and uncapped your pen with a soft click. The sound seemed to draw his attention—his eyes flicked to the movement, then to your face, silently watching.

“Standard procedure,” you said, not looking up as you jotted down the date and his name at the top of the page. “I like to keep records. Helps me spot the lies.”

He nodded in understanding, and you twirled the pen between your fingers. “So, are you going to answer me or not?”

“Ah, right,” he mumbled to himself, “I’m not sure who did it, but I can prove to you that it wasn’t me.”

“Alright… you’re a hundred percent sure you don’t know who did it?” you questioned, raising your eyebrows.

“There were rumours going around…” he started, taking a deep breath. “You see, I’m from Busan, and there were rumours that a man there was the killer. His name.. His name is Kim Mingyu.”

He cleared his throat before continuing, “He had some.. problems. Constantly angry, always lashing out. He was never home at the time of any of the crimes. Always coming home late. That sort of stuff.”

You proceeded to write as he spoke, pen gliding smoothly and brows furrowed. “Is that all?”

Hearing the faint sound of a chuckle, you glanced up to look at him. “Are you a detective or a lawyer?” Jeongguk asked, almost teasingly.

Taehyung snorted beside you, watching the exchange like it was a scene from a drama.

“It will be easier to get you out of here if we can place the blame on someone else.” you responded coolly, dropping the pen down on the table with a soft click.

“Or you’re just nosey.” Taehyung chimed in, quirking a brow when you looked at him.

“Okay, I’m a little curious,” you admitted, nudging his knee with yours. “But aren’t we all, I mean, why else are you here?”

That shut him up, and you shifted your attention over to your potential client. “So, did you know him? Mingyu?”

“Barely. We spoke a couple of times. He was more of a mutual friend, I guess.” he shrugged, fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the table.

You nodded, thinking of how to word your next question. “You said you can prove it wasn't you. How?”

Jeongguk leaned forward slightly, the chain on his cuffs clinking softly against the edge of the table.

“I have an alibi,” he said, voice quieter now. “The night the last victim was attacked, I wasn’t even in Seoul. I was in Busan, visiting my grandmother. She’s sick. Been in and out of the hospital for months.”

You raised a brow, unconvinced. “And she can confirm that?”

He hesitated. “She can. But she’s... not well. Memory’s slipping. You’d have to ask the nurses. Or check the hospital records. I signed in when I visited.”

Taehyung sat up straighter beside you, clearly more alert now. “That could work—if the timeline checks out.”

You nodded slowly, jotting something in your notebook. “And the others? Where were you during the previous attacks?”

Jeongguk shifted in his seat, jaw tightening. “That’s where it gets harder.”

You set your pen down, eyes narrowing just slightly. “Harder… how?”

He looked at you for a moment—really looked at you—as if weighing whether he could trust you. The faint confidence in his voice from earlier faded, replaced by hesitation.

“I don’t have solid alibis for the others,” he said finally. “I was alone most nights. At home. Sometimes walking. I didn’t exactly expect to be accused of murder, so I didn’t keep receipts or text anyone ‘hey, I’m not killing people tonight.’”

Taehyung snorted under his breath, but your expression didn’t shift.

“You’re saying you were alone during multiple incidents. And you have no way to verify that?”

“I know how it sounds,” Jeongguk muttered, his fingers tapping against the table again. “But I swear I didn’t touch those people. I’ve seen the photos. I couldn’t have done that.”

You leaned back, studying him carefully. His words were believable, but so were the stories of hundreds of guilty men before him.

“There are only two ways this goes,” you said, tone even. “Either you convince me enough to take your case, or I walk out of here and never look back. So if you’re holding anything back, now’s the time.”

Jeongguk’s gaze dropped to the table. For a moment, he was silent—too silent. Even Taehyung shifted beside you, the playful energy from earlier long gone.

“There’s… one thing,” Jeongguk said finally, voice lower now. “It happened a few days before I was arrested. I was walking home through a back alley near Seomyeon. I’d taken that shortcut a hundred times before, but that night…”

He paused, jaw tightening.

“There was someone else there. Just standing. Not doing anything. Hoodie pulled low, face in the shadows. I thought maybe I was just being paranoid, so I kept walking. But when I turned the corner, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned again—no one. Gone. Completely.”

Your eyes narrowed. “And you think this person could’ve been the killer?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But the next morning, the police found a body two blocks from there. Beaten. Left in a dumpster.”

Taehyung leaned forward now, interest piqued. “Why didn’t you tell the police this?”

“They didn’t care. They were already set on me. Said I was trying to redirect suspicion.”

You opened your notebook again, scribbling notes, then asked, “Was there any camera footage in the area?”

“There’s a laundromat across from the alley. They’ve had a security camera above the door for years. I don’t know if it caught anything, but…” He trailed off.

You looked at Taehyung, who gave a small nod like he was already planning a follow-up.

Before you could respond, the door was opening, revealing the same officer from earlier. You fought the urge to roll your eyes, holding back a snarky comment. He was just doing his job.

“Times up.” he said gruffly.

“Already?” you asked, surprised that half an hour had already passed. Your eyes immediately went to the clock. “Oh.”

Time was up. In fact it was up ten minutes ago. Forty minutes had gone by in a blink of an eye.

Packing up your belongings into your bag, you meet Jeongguks eyes a final time before standing up. His eyes held a pained expression, almost as if he was holding back a question.

“Don’t worry, Jeon. If your story lines up, you’ve got me.”

His jaw tightened as he nodded, still not fully convinced. The policeman came over and ushered him up and out the door.

Sighing, you turned to your partner, his eyes immediately finding yours. “Do you believe him?”

He shrugs, frowning as he tucks in his chair, the legs screeching softly against the floor. “Do you?”

“I don’t know..” you admit, taking slow steps towards the door with him beside you. “Something feels off. I can’t place my finger on it.”

He hummed thoughtfully, urging you to continue.

“Do you think you could maybe.. I don’t know.. get pictures of it?” you ask, turning your head to face him as you walk.

“Of what?”

“The bodies.”

“Why would you want that?” he chuckles humorlessly. “It’s gruesome.”

“I’m just curious,” you huff, irritated that he thinks you can’t handle a couple gory pictures. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“Fine. But I’m warning you, Y/N, this ones messy.”

“Aren’t they all?” you murmured, the corner of your mouth twitching in something between a smirk and a grimace.

Hours later, when you had gotten ready for bed and tucked yourself under the soft covers, your phone pinged with a notification. Taehyung.

Tae: you still want those pics?

you: I’ve been waiting

Tae: [attachments]

You hesitated, thumb hovering over the thumbnail, then tapped the screen. The image expanded—raw and immediate. A mangled body filled the frame, limbs severed clean, dark stains pooling beneath stiff flesh. Its eyes, wide and glassy, stared past the camera, locked in a final moment of terror.

You inhaled sharply, the air catching in your throat, before swiping left, revealing the next image. This one was a man. His hair was wild, tangled, like he had fought to his last breath. Dried crimson blood clung to his chin in a dark trail, mouth frozen in mid-scream. His body was left in such a position that seemed impossible to recreate.

You winced, swiping again. This time, the screen displayed dismembered body parts neatly arranged on a table, like a puzzle waiting to be solved. The missing piece was the head. Cleanly severed from the torso, the neck exposed raw bone and torn flesh.

You swiped again.

And again.

Each image was worse than the one before it. You reached the final picture, eyes skimming over it with a practiced detachment that faltered almost immediately. With a quiet exhale, you switched off the phone and set it in your lap. It’s not like this was your first time seeing dead bodies; in fact before this you had believed that you were perhaps desensitised to such gory, gruesome things–numb to blood and twisted limbs.. clearly not.

Your mind flashed back to the boy you met earlier. Jeongguk. Embarrassed, soft-spoken, almost timid.

Could that same face—the one that flinched under your gaze—really belong to the monster who did this?

Sighing, you fell back against your bed, the soft cushions catching your head and providing you with a little form of comfort. “Jeongguk is tomorrow's problem.” you mumbled to yourself, a yawn escaping before you could finish the thought.

Outside, the soft pitter-patter of the rain tapped gently against your windows, each drop like a lullaby. It didn’t take long before sleep claimed you, your mind drifting into dreams far sweeter than reality.

The sun peeked through the curtains, casting a soft golden light across the floorboards, slowly warming the room with a glow. You groaned, turning to the left to avoid it and get in a couple more minutes of sleep.

Just before you could drown into a deep sleep, your phone rang–obnoxiously loud and incredibly jarring, jolting you awake. Huffing, you blindly reached over and brought the phone to your ear.

“What?” you hissed into the phone, not bothering to check who was calling.

“Y/N? Are you awake?” Taehyung’s amused voice called from the other side.

“Well, what does it look like.”

“Erm.. I can’t really see you, can I?” he chuckled, and you could hear the sound of rustling on his end.

“Just…” you began, annoyance seeping through your bones as you tried to control your temper. First, he wakes you up and now he deliberately tries to get on your nerves? “What do you want?”

“I was wondering when you were gonna show up to work.”

“The normal time? It’s only 7AM.”

He laughs again–that smug, knowing laugh–you furrow your eyebrows, taking the phone off your ear to check the time.

10:47AM?!?!?!?!

“You might want to double check that, Y/N.”

You can hear him laughing in the distance as you rush to your feet and throw on some clothes, jumping around and cursing at him under your breath. After a flurry of movement–hopping into your pants, half-buttoning your shirt, nearly tripping over a shoe–you hung up on him mid-laugh, too flustered to deal with it any longer.

It was 11:12AM when you finally showed up, two hours and twelve minutes late. Nobody said anything, but the silence just made things worse. Shame gnawed at you as you walked through the building. You couldn’t even recall waking up to turn off your alarm earlier…

Footsteps approaching you made you zap out of your thoughts and cast your gaze in the direction of it. It was Taehyung, walking with the calm of someone who’s never overslept in his life, headed in the same direction as you. The elevator. You rolled your eyes, but he seemingly didn’t notice you yet so you didn’t bother making any small talk. It was still too early for you.

You entered the elevator designated for you and other workers and he followed in behind you, finally looking up and raising his brow.

“I was just about to call you again.” he said, stepping beside you and pressing the glowing button.

The doors closed as you hummed. “What is it?”

“Are you gonna take the case?” he turned to you, teasing tone gone and replaced with a serious expression.

Right. Jeongguk. You had been so caught up in your chaotic morning that the gravity of yesterday hadn’t fully settled in. You had to decide soon, or else it’d be too late.

The images from yesterday briefly flashed through your mind and your stomach tensed. A shiver ran down your spine as you cleared your throat, trying to shake the lingering chill. “Ah.. give me till the end of the day to decide?” you turn to look at him, his eyes already trained on you. “I’m gonna check out that thing he mentioned at the Seomyeon.”

“The laundromat with the cameras?”

“Yeah. If what he’s saying is true… then I’ll take it.”

The elevator dinged to a halt, and you both stepped outside.

An hour later, you were seated at your desk with a cold cup of coffee abandoned beside you, your focus placed onto the computer screen as you scrolled through various news articles all with the same focal point. The Seoul Slasher.

You had become completely entranced by this case, and has lost track of time.

The last article reached an end, and you sighed. Nobody knew much, at least not more than you. There wasn’t anything here that could help his case, only facts that could worsen it.

Instead, you pulled out your notebook from yesterday, opening it up and pausing on the page you had written on.

Kim Mingyu. The laundromats cameras. Jeongguk’s alibi at the hospital.

Those were the three things you were relying on now, the only things so far that were of use to you. Taehyung was already working on arranging something with the laundromat, the only thing you could do was wait, but you were beginning to get rather impatient.

You stared at the name scribbled out on the paper, Kim Mingyu. Two plain words that could either make or break this case.

But how were you supposed to find him?

You typed out the name on the computer, hundreds of results appearing immediately. Social media accounts, news articles… how were you supposed to know which one was him? Perhaps you would have to meet up with Jeongguk again.

Just as you were about to text Taehyung, your phone dinged with a notification.

Tae: laundromats manager agreed to meet. 3pm

Tae: but he said the cameras kinda old, the footage could be hard to recover

Tae: u coming?

You: ok. Be there in 10

You: also, do u have anything on kim mingyu? Im struggling to find anything on him

Tae: no… maybe we’re gonna have to arrange another meeting with the killer

Tae: its up to u tho

You: we’ll see

Tae: hurry up

Read | 1:48PM

You both arrived at the laundromat at 2:58PM, the sky overhead now heavy with dark grey clouds. It looked as if relentless rain could drop at any minute, so you tugged Taehyung quickly out the car and paused in front of the place.

The building was tucked between an old convenience store and a nail salon, easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. Its flickering neon sign buzzed faintly above the door, casting a dull green glow against the pavement.

Inside, the place was dimly lit and smelled faintly of detergent and damp fabric. Machines lined the walls, most of them silent. A couple of patrons glanced up as the door creaked, but quickly turned back to their laundry.

A man stood behind the counter at the back. Middle aged, greying hair and a cigarette tucked behind his ear. He didn’t look up as you approached.

“Excuse me,” Taehyung called out, causing the man to look up. “Are you the manager?”

“Yes,” the man replied with a polite nod. “You must be Taehyung .”

Taehyung nodded, pulling you beside him and introducing you quickly before getting straight into it.

“We’re here to see the security footage, would that be possible?”

“Okay… but what’s this about?”

“We’re looking for… somebody. We’re lawyers.” he said, his finger gesturing towards you then to himself.

“Ah. Alright, come with me.”

The two of you shared a glance before wordlessly following the man into a room in the back. The lights flickered on, revealing a desk which held a computer. The man slowly stepped towards the chair, taking a seat and typing away on the keyboard.

“What’s the date you need?” he asks, pausing his movements.

“June 6th.” you answered, shifting your weight from one foot to the other.

“June… 6th?” his eyebrows furrowed as he continued to click through the files, before pausing abruptly. “I..”

“What is it?” you asked, and both you and Taehyung leaned in instinctively, looking closer at the computer screen.

“The footage for June 6th… it’s gone.”

taglist(comment to be added): @softhaes @xumyboo @songbyeonkim @mar-lo-pap @str4gguk @haru-jiminn @lovingkoalaface @oopscoop

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achinghcarts · 7 months ago

Text

That's what I'm working on. A song to fix what's wrong - take what's broken, make it whole.

Dónal & Grace as Orpheus and Eurydice (Hadestown UK)

( 📽️: @callmelasagna )

#hadestown #hadestown uk #hadestown west end #dónal finn #grace hodgett young #hadestownedit #y'all thought i was done??#i'm not !!!#original west end cast MY BELOVEDS #dónal & grace you're missed EVERY DAY #and we needed that full album ffs #callmelasagna's master #my gifs

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hazzashouse · 7 months ago

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Forgotten - Harry Styles one-shot

A/N: Merry Christmas everyone! This one is a bit sad but I hope you’ll like it!

Summary: After Harry forgets an important anniversary, tensions boil over into a heated argument that leaves both of you hurting. Harry is forced to confront his mistakes and the cracks forming in your relationship. Determined to make things right, he sets out to prove that his love for you is stronger than his faults.

Triggers: arguments/raised voices, miscommunication and emotional tension, feelings of neglect/loneliness in a relationship, brief mention of crying and hurt feelings

Pairing: Harry Styles x female reader

Harry stepped into the house, running a hand through his hair as he closed the door behind him. It had been a long day, back-to-back meetings and calls about the tour, and all he could think about was collapsing into bed.

But when he looked up, you were standing in the middle of the room, arms crossed tightly, your expression a mix of anger and something sharper—disappointment.

His brow furrowed. “What’s wrong?”

Your gaze flicked toward the dining table, and his stomach dropped. The candles, the neatly set plates, the untouched food—it all clicked too late.

“It’s our anniversary,” you said quietly, your voice trembling with restrained anger.

“Shit.” The word slipped out before he could stop it. He ran a hand through his hair again, cursing himself. “I—fuck, I forgot. I didn’t mean to, I just—”

“Got busy?” you snapped, cutting him off. “That’s your excuse for everything, isn’t it, Harry?”

“It’s not an excuse,” he shot back, a defensive edge creeping into his tone. “You know how crazy things have been. I’m trying to keep everything together—”

“Everything except us,” you interrupted, your voice rising. “Do you even care anymore? Or am I just supposed to sit here, waiting for you to remember I exist?”

His jaw clenched. “That’s not fair. You know I love you. I’m doing all of this for us—for you.”

“For me?” You laughed, bitter and sharp. “Don’t put this on me. I didn’t ask for your schedule to swallow you whole. I didn’t ask to be forgotten.”

“Forgotten?” he repeated, his frustration bubbling over. “I’m out there working my ass off, trying to balance everything, and you think I’ve just forgotten about you? That’s not how this works!”

“It’s exactly how it feels!”

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t know how to respond. He wanted to explain, to make you understand how much he hated being away, how much he hated this argument. But the words got stuck in his throat, tangled up in his exhaustion.

You shook your head, tears shining in your eyes. “I can’t do this right now.”

Before he could stop you, you grabbed a blanket from the closet and headed for the couch.

“Don’t,” he said, his voice quieter now, tinged with desperation. “Don’t do this.”

But you didn’t look back.

———————

The house was silent, the weight of your argument pressing heavily on Harry’s chest. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word you’d said. Forgotten. The word echoed in his mind, a sharp reminder of how badly he’d messed up.

Around 2 a.m., he gave up on sleep, his body restless and his guilt gnawing at him. Quietly, he slipped out of bed and padded down the stairs.

There you were, curled up on the couch, your face turned toward the backrest, your body stiff even in sleep. The blanket you’d brought was tangled around your legs, barely covering you.

Harry’s chest tightened at the sight. You looked so small, so vulnerable, and it killed him to think he was the reason you were here instead of beside him in bed.

Carefully, he grabbed another blanket from the chair and draped it over you, tucking it gently around your shoulders. He crouched beside the couch for a moment, watching the slow rise and fall of your chest.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, his voice barely audible.

———————

When Harry woke up the next morning, you were already gone. A note on the counter simply said, At work. See you later.

The pang of guilt in his chest only deepened. He couldn’t leave things like this—not after last night.

When you came home that evening, the house smelled incredible—like garlic, herbs, and something warm and inviting.

You stepped into the kitchen, dropping your bag by the door, and froze. The dining table had been reset, fresh candles flickering softly, and a vase of flowers sat in the center. Harry was there, standing by the stove, wearing an apron that made you bite back a reluctant smile.

“Hey,” he said, turning to face you, his expression equal parts nervous and hopeful.

“What’s all this?” you asked cautiously.

He stepped closer, wiping his hands on the apron before pulling it off. “This is me trying to make it up to you. For last night. For forgetting. For everything.”

You stared at him, your emotions tangled. “Harry, I—”

“Please,” he interrupted gently, his eyes searching yours. “Let me say this.”

You nodded, crossing your arms over your chest, waiting.

“I know I’ve been…distracted,” he admitted, his voice low. “And I know I’ve been terrible at showing it lately, but I love you. More than anything. I hate that I made you feel like you don’t matter, because you do. You’re my everything, and I never want you to doubt that.”

Your throat tightened, and you looked away, afraid he’d see the tears welling in your eyes.

“I’m not perfect,” he continued. “I’ll probably mess up again. But I want to do better. For you. For us. If you’ll let me.”

When you looked back at him, the vulnerability in his expression made your chest ache. Slowly, you stepped closer, your walls crumbling. “You really hurt me, Harry.”

“I know,” he said softly, his voice thick with guilt. “And I’ll spend the rest of my life making it up to you if that’s what it takes.”

You let out a shaky breath, nodding as you wrapped your arms around his waist. He pulled you close, his chin resting on top of your head as you finally let the tears fall.

For the first time in weeks, you felt like you had him back.

The two of you ate dinner together, talking and laughing like you used to. It wasn’t perfect—there were still things to work through—but it was a start.

And for now, that was enough.

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sanakiras · 1 year ago

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HEAVEN

PAIRING — jeon wonwoo x fem!reader

WORD COUNT — 3.4k

SYNOPSIS — wonwoo has a reputation for being distant, quiet and a bit mysterious. once you get to know him better, though, you come to find the sweet, shy boy underneath the surface.

TAGS — established relationship, explicit sexual content, sub-ish virgin!wonwoo, lowkey corruption kink, i have a sickening crush on this man can you tell, not proofread :)

♪ — the nbhd - heaven,, hank lotion - k-sEx

NOTE — gam3 bo1 wonwoo and ep 1 nana tour wonwoo footage has been making me act UP and i think he’s just so cute <3 screw the hard dom wonu agenda i like to see my men a lil WEAK ‼️😁

LIKE MOST PEOPLE, YOU FELT RATHER INTIMIDATED WHEN YOU MET JEON WONWOO FOR THE FIRST TIME.

stoic, quiet, intelligent. the strong and silent type. that was the clear image you had of him. and to top it all off, he had the criminally good looks too. a relatively rare kind of man to come across, in your opinion.

though you began to see him in a different light after bonding with him over your shared love for video games. since then, you’ve discovered he can actually be quite talkative, cracking silly puns or laughing at the corniest dad jokes. he’s well-spoken and is actually very open about his feelings, which you found refreshing.

and while developing a friendship with him, you realized how much of a big softie he actually is, which paints quite the contrast compared to his cold and quiet persona he unintentionally seems to put up towards those outside his circle of close friends and family.

it reminds you of the day he asked you out — that sweet, shy smile on his face with rosy cheeks, all flustered and stuttering that you really don’t have to say yes if you don’t feel like it and he’ll push it all to the side like nothing happened if that’s what you’d prefer—

you very easily interrupted him by agreeing to go on a date with him. you’d never seen him smile wider.

wonwoo is cute when he smiles.

and despite his nervousness in the beginning, he still made efforts to be as talkative as he could and show you his interest in you, which you found very sweet. you had a great time with him, and you noticed rather quickly how comfortable you felt around him.

a couple dates later, he asked you if you wanted to be his girlfriend, and you certainly didn’t refuse him.

he’s also turned out to be a gentleman in his own way — subtly saying he could do certain things for you to make your life easier in that monotone voice of his, eyes following you around whenever he’s with you.

the first time he slept over at your place was rather recently after you two made it official. it wasn’t planned, since he was supposed to go back to his place after your date, but due to issues with public transport, you offered him to stay with you instead.

with his face and chest bare, he got into bed next to you. of course you’d imagined what he looked like underneath his big hoodies, but actually having him by your side like this was different.

and wonwoo was putting every bit of effort into playing it cool, even though he was freaking out to be sleeping next to his first girlfriend, forcing himself to look away from your tank top that left very little to the imagination.

yet ironically, it was all he could fantasize about before drifting to sleep.

normally, you’d only let a guy into your bed to do things other than sleeping once you’ve been dating for quite a while. it’s never been something you like to initiate quickly — but wonwoo’s been making you question it. severely.

because he looks so hot when he’s out on the field with his football team, when he’s working out, when he’s gaming on his pc, even when he just fucking smiles at you. the worst thing of it all might be that he doesn’t even seem the slightest bit aware of how attractive he is, nor what effect it has on you.

maybe you should really just tell him you want to jump him like a tree.

but you don’t want to rush him. for all you know, he doesn’t feel like doing that at all with you yet, and for some reason you just didn’t know when or how to ask him about it. later, you thought to yourself.

though you will say you’ve been pushing his buttons a little over the course of time. ever since that night, you’ve subtly been putting yourself on display for him. low-cut shirts and dresses so he can take a peek at your cleavage, accidentally exposing a bit of the fabric of your lingerie, sitting in his lap and rubbing up on him — unintentionally, of course.

it took every ounce of self-control in your body not to smirk when you felt him stiffen up underneath you.

the progress of your relationship has been nothing but positive, really. but you’re aching for him to just touch you at this point.

the day you hit your breaking point isn’t much later. you were trying on some newly bought dresses in front of him, one more revealing than the other — sundresses always work magic on men for whatever reason — and you turned around to find him pathetically trying to hide his hard-on while seated on your bed.

and you just couldn’t find it in you to wait any longer.

so that’s how you ended up sitting in his lap, hands on the back of his neck as you’re grinding against him. his glasses are sitting lop-sided on his nose, black locks messy from your fingers threading through them, lips swollen from your kisses.

the moment he feels your fingers tugging at his hoodie, he feels the need to clear up what he’s been meaning to tell you for a while now.

“i need to tell you something. i’ve—” he cuts himself off when he accidentally lets out a whimper, “i’ve never had sex with anyone.”

he’s still heavily breathing, looking at you in anticipation, and you just can’t escape the buzzing feeling you get from the idea of taking his virginity.

“do you want to?” you ask him, and how could he say no when you’re holding his face like this, looking at him like you’re willing to give him the ride of his life?

“yeah, yeah, i just—i usually don’t last very long,” he sheepishly admits, then internally asking himself why the fuck he would say that, “sorry, i’m nervous.”

but you think it’s endearing. “i don’t mind. we can always go for a second round, right?”

all he can do is nod his head in agreement. “i, i um—i’m not sure what to do next. i’m sorry, this is embarrassing.”

“it’s not, really. it’s not some big performance you need to put up, it’s something fun and exciting and intimate. you can go ahead and relax, and tell me if you like or don’t like what i’m doing.” you reassure him so patiently, which puts him at ease.

jesus — if anything, he’s already a whimpering, stuttering mess and you’re hardly even touching him.

so you move your hand down into his boxers, fingers wrapping around him to test the waters. he gasps in surprise once he feels you touching him, heat rushing to his cheeks.

“just let me take care of you, ‘kay? we can stop anytime.” you tell him, and he trusts you enough to let you go on.

you press another kiss to his lips before moving backwards, fingers taking a hold of the waistband of both his sweatpants and boxers.

the cold on his skin makes him shiver, but he’s hardly given the time to feel exposed in front of you when you’ve already got your hands on him, pleasantly surprised by his size.

“you’re so big, wonu.” you tell him in a sweet voice, feeling like you’re about to drool at the sight of him.

“didn’t think i was big.” he mumbles more to himself than to you, staring at the ceiling as he tries to steady his breathing.

you chuckle a little as you watch him. “you are. gonna have to work for it to make you fit into me.” the words make his eyes widen, images of you getting fucked by him flashing through his mind.

“fuck, really?”

“mhm. but you’ll do that for me, won’t you?”

wonwoo is absolutely crumbling underneath you here. the effect that your mere words have on him should be studied, because shit, he’s never felt this hot before. why is it so hot in here? is he sweating already? “yeah, i’ll—i’ll do anything you want me to.”

he’s such a sweetheart that it makes you want to ruin him.

for the sake of both his and your own pleasure, you decide not to tease any longer and touch his cock with your lips. he lets out a moan of surprise, the feeling being unfamiliar to him, but holy shit — this has got to be what heaven feels like.

his chest heaves as he tries to control his breathing once more, focusing on keeping his breathing by his stomach. your tongue darts out to lick his cock, and he whimpers, which makes you triumphantly smile a little.

you’re genuinely curious to see how long he can last, so you catch him by surprise by taking him into your mouth as far as possible, and his hand subconscously flies to the back of your head, and he doesn’t know whether he wants to push your head down or pull it back. he releases a choked moan, spurring you on to keep him lodged in your throat despite his efforts to pull you off him.

“fuck—please don’t make me cum already, baby, please—” he begs, loving the feeling of your mouth on him like that — he just doesn’t want to hit his peak that fast.

unfortunately for him, you do.

with your mouth currently no longer on him, you gently jerk him off instead, his hips automatically bucking into your grip. “what if i want you to?”

“you’ve barely—barely touched me. ‘s embarrassing.” he chokes out. the heat is still rushing to his cheeks. his hands are shaking.

of course he’s nervous. you’re his first time, his first girlfriend, it’s all new to him. he’s clearly afraid you might be turned off by him being all flustered like this.

so you make it your mission to show him it’s very much the opposite.

discarding your dress, you’re left in your tank top and underwear, nipples poking through the thin, white fabric. you move to tilt his face up with your glossy, acrylic nail, gently holding his chin, your face mere inches away from his.

“do you have any idea how wet i am? just from seeing you like this?” you ask, pulling his one hand down so he can feel the dampness of your panties. “bet you could slip right in.”

a broken whimper slips out of his mouth when he feels it. he didn’t know you were this turned on.

you push his head and upper body back against the pillows, making him lie down fully, and you’re just so eager to suck the life out of him.

the feeling of your warm mouth and tongue around him makes him experience a sensation he didn’t think was possible. christ, this must be what heaven feels like.

“oh my god—you’re so fucking good.” he’s arching his back with his eyes tightly shut from the pleasure you’re giving him. it’s only when you take him as far in your throat as possible that the first guttural groan is ripped from the depths of his chest. it’s a low, sexy sound that makes you clench around nothing.

he’s burning hot under you, causing his glasses to fog up a little. he carelessly throws the pair onto his nightstand, the grip on the back of your head becoming harsher and less gentle than before, because he’s that fucking close now.

it’s cute seeing wonwoo not knowing what to do with himself. keeping your mouth on his cock, gripping the sheets, throwing his head back before he casts his eyes back down to watch you suck him off — it’s like he’s being overstimulated in the best way possible.

it’s enough for you to sense he’s close, which makes you take your mouth off him to jerk him off instead, all so you can watch him chase his release. “that’s it, wonu, give it to me.”

there’s a sudden shiver that runs from his back and core all the way down to his toes. he tenses up, unintentionally grabbing your wrist to stop your movements as he trembles and his body gives in to his orgasm.

once he��s coming down from his high, he looks at you like you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to him.

“that was… holy shit.” he laughs a little to himself, eliciting a chuckle from you.

“i’m that good, huh?”

“yeah.”

“wanna keep going?”

“mhm.”

“okay. take off your shirt.”

wonwoo blinks for a moment. he practically forgot he was still wearing one, so he sits up and gets rid of the black shirt, throwing it beside your bed, now completely bare before you.

if he’s being honest, you did ease his nerves by letting him have his first orgasm already. the strange sense of shame he previously felt has disappeared into the air, with only nervous excitement left.

he feels good.

especially when he watches you move to sit on your knees on the bed, removing the tank top and slipping out of your underwear.

his eyes are glued to your naked body, hardly able to look away — that is, until you sit down in his lap, your dripping heat touching his hardening dick, making him twitch under you.

“where do you keep your condoms?”

the question forces him out of his constant staring at your body. “uh—nightstand.” he mutters, taking the initiative to reach and get it himself.

thankfully, he manages to get it on himself quickly. you urge him to lie back down again while you position yourself above him, shamelessly staring at his strong chest and broad shoulders.

his mouth is agape when you sink down on him, and fuck, he’s in so deep.

the stretch burns, especially because you didn’t get yourself ready, but you’re so dripping wet to the point you don’t care — you need him in you.

wonwoo notices you struggle despite your arousal. “you don’t have to take me all the way if it hurts.”

you hum, a half-smirk creeping onto your face. “but it hurts so good. so i will.”

once he’s sheathed fully inside you, he’s subconsciously holding his breath. the anticipation for you to move is killing him. the sensitivity of his dick makes him whimper, his lashes fluttering as his teeth sink into his lower lip in a failed attempt to hold it together.

you decide to tease him a little by clenching down on him. his hands fly to your hips, gripping the skin harder than intended from the sudden feeling, his breathing becoming erratic again. “hah—don’t do that, please, i don’t wanna cum yet baby—please.”

“why? you close?” you ask him with an innocent face, knowing damn well what you’re doing to him.

“yeah. need you so bad.” he answers truthfully, his ego and pride nowhere to be found anymore. whether he sounds pathetic or not, he doesn’t give a shit. all he knows is that you’re sitting on top of him and he needs you to make him feel what he’s been desperate to feel for so damn long.

so you tilt your head. “‘s okay, wonu. i’ll give it to you.”

he can hardly even make out a response before you lift your hips and proceed to sink back down on him, your hands on his chest. a filthy moan rolls past his lips — you think it’s the best sound you’ve ever heard in your damn life.

then you begin to roll your hips, and he sucks through his teeth from the feeling, a mix of overstimulation and pleasure rushing through him. once you let out your first dragged-out moan, his fingers twitch for a moment, digging deeper into your skin.

“have you thought about this? fucking me?”

despite the position he’s in right now, he still feels his face heat up when you ask him dirty things like that, even more so when he answers them.

“yeah, i did.”

“when? tell me. i wanna hear it.” you tell him, and when you’re so gorgeously riding him like this, how could he not oblige?

wonwoo swallows, stuttering as he focuses on recalling the memories while admiring you and the feeling you’re letting him experience. “when i saw you wearing that short skirt on our second date, and—and that time you came to watch me at the football game. couple of my teammates were drooling over you. so was i.”

his words turn you on, because you doubted whether you were sensing actual jealousy from him that night, and this confirms it.

“were you?” you ask, running your nails down his stomach. “what’d you do about it?”

he bites his lip. “i’ll sound like a pervert if i answer that.”

teasing him again, you push yourself down on him almost harshly, relishing in the way he gasps under you. wonwoo is wonderfully responsive in bed, and you’re having a fucking field trip with it.

“yeah? try me.”

“i touched myself after getting home, and i... thought about you. in that skirt.”

“i’ll wear it for you next time.” you smile, watching him close his eyes in pleasure when you leave your marks on his chest, putting a few hickeys on his neck and collarbone on purpose. “i touched myself thinking of you, too.”

that makes him twitch inside you, which is exactly what you wanted.

his hands dip to the curve of your ass, following your movement. “really?”

“mhm. i thought you looked so sexy in your football attire. you were wearing that tight compression shirt that you always wear when you go to the gym too — drove me nuts, wonu.” you confess, which seems to work as a brief shot of adrenaline for him.

he moves to sit up, bringing your bodies closer together by looping his arms around your waist, the slight change in position making you moan.

the drag of his cock inside you is slowly making you go insane. your face is hot and you’re dripping wet for him, sucking him in to the point you feel like you need to claw at the walls.

“god, feels so good.” he mutters, his mouth finding your breasts before he begins to suck on the skin like a man starved.

once he notices you’re both getting closer, but you’re getting tired from your position on top, he takes a breath and flips you over, now hovering above you.

burying his face in the crook of your neck, he holds onto your body and fucks you. his thrusts are harder than he intends them to, the control over his body lost in his relentless drive to make you both feel good.

he’s panting hard, doing everything in his power to make you cum first this time while indulging in his own pleasure as well. “am i doing good for my first time? does it feel good?”

god, you can only half-catch the words with the way he’s fucking you. it’s almost funny — such a sweetheart he is, asking you if he’s doing well while simultaneously fucking you into oblivion.

“you’re so good, wonu. so good—‘m so close.” you cry out, manicured nails digging into his back, making him groan.

“wanna feel you cum around me so bad.” the words almost sound like a plea, like he’s begging you for it.

then he kisses your neck, and he hits the perfect spot inside you over and over, and it’s enough to make you clench so hard around him that he can’t hold it any longer. your orgasm makes your legs shake, and he fucks you right through it, making you wonder why the hell it took the universe so long to let him into your life.

he moans and whines and shakes when he hits his climax, twitching inside you, filling up the condom. with heavy breaths, he lets his body rest on top of you, his head by your collarbone, a comfortable silence emerging as your heartbeats slow and breathing steadies.

surprisingly, it’s him who speaks up first.

“i’m gonna need a while for my legs to start working again.” he chuckles breathily, covering his face a little when he notices you poking fun at him.

“aw, baby, did i drain you that much?”

“i genuinely can’t even feel my limbs.”

you laugh at him, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and he smiles so sweetly — as if he didn’t just fuck the living daylights out of you. “wanna go again?”

he blushes a bit, tilting his head as if he has to think about it, before sheepishly giving you his answer.

“... yeah.”

thanks for reading! let me know if u liked it x

® SANAKIRAS — do not repost, remake or copy my work in any way whatsoever. translations are not allowed.

#jeon wonwoo x reader #wonwoo x reader #seventeen x reader #seventeen smut #wonwoo smut #svt ff #svt fic #seventeen fanfic #svt x reader #svt smut #svthub #jeon wonwoo fanfic #original post

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kooffeecup · 4 months ago

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bridges we almost burned 𓇼 𓂂 ˚ ◌

when you see your boyfriend giving ride to the new intern frequently because he thinks it’s convenient, something snaps inside you.

genre : angst, romance

pairing : jungkook x reader

★ requested by a reader

banner made by me

picture credits to the rightful owners

You stood outside Jungkook’s house, your arms crossed as the cold evening breeze nipped at your skin. You had been waiting for him, eager to finally spend some time together after his long work hours.

But instead of his usual solo arrival, your eyes locked onto something that made your stomach twist, Jungkook’s car pulling up, and stepping out of the passenger seat was a woman.

Daun.

The new intern at his company. The one you had heard about in passing, the one he had casually mentioned before.

You watched as she smiled, thanking him before walking toward her house just a few doors down. Jungkook remained in the driver’s seat for a second, running a hand through his hair before finally stepping out. His eyes widened slightly when he noticed you standing there.

"Hey, baby," he greeted, his tone light, but there was something in his gaze,like he knew exactly what you had just seen. You tried to swallow the lump in your throat. "You gave her a ride?"

Jungkook sighed, shutting his car door. "Yeah. She lives nearby, and I was heading this way anyway."

"Right," you nodded, biting the inside of your cheek. "And how many times have you done that?"

He hesitated for a second too long. "A few times," he admitted. "But it's not a big deal, baby. She’s just an intern, and I was just being nice."

Your stomach churned at his choice of words. "Not a big deal?" You let out a short, humorless laugh. "Jungkook, I’ve been waiting outside your house for an hour, and I found out you were out giving another woman a ride home? You never even mentioned this to me."

He stepped closer, his voice softer now. "I didn’t think it was something worth mentioning. You trust me, don’t you?"

You met his gaze, searching for something, anything to ease the ache in your chest. You did trust him. But that didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. That didn’t mean the sight of them together, so casual, so comfortable, didn’t leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

"Did she ever ask you for these rides, or did you offer?" you asked. Jungkook’s jaw tensed. "She asked once when it was raining, and after that I just figured it was convenient since we were heading in the same direction."

Convenient. You hated that word.

"Would you be okay if I got rides from some guy at work regularly and never told you?" You tilted your head, watching his expression shift.

Jungkook exhaled sharply. "That’s not the same."

"It is the same," you cut in. "And you know it." Silence stretched between you both, heavy and suffocating.

"Are you jealous?" he finally asked, his voice gentle. Your lips pressed into a thin line. "I don’t know," you admitted. "Maybe I just don’t like feeling like I’m the last to know things about my own boyfriend."

Jungkook reached for your hands, rubbing his thumbs over your knuckles. You exhaled, trying to sort through the emotions tangled in your chest. Jungkook’s grip on your hands tightened slightly, his brows furrowing. "I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean to hurt you. I’ll stop if it makes you uncomfortable."

You let out a slow breath, pulling your hands away. "Don’t stop just because you think I have a problem with it, Jungkook. Stop when you realize why it’s a problem."

His lips parted slightly, like he wanted to say something, but you didn’t give him the chance.

"And no," you continued, your voice calm but firm, "I don’t get jealous." You took a step back, the weight in your chest slowly lifting as realization settled in. "I just lost interest."

Jungkook’s expression dropped. "What?" You shook your head, turning on your heel. "I’ll see you around."

You didn’t wait for his response. You didn’t care to hear whatever excuse he’d come up with next.

Because the truth was, the moment he hesitated, the moment he justified it instead of understanding, something inside you just… faded.

And you weren’t going to beg for clarity when he should have known better.

Jungkook stood there, frozen, watching as you walked away. His heart pounded against his ribs, his mind scrambling to process what had just happened.

"Wait " He took a step forward, but you didn’t stop. You didn’t turn around. You didn’t hesitate.

For four years, you had loved him. You had trusted him. And yet, in that moment, as you walked away, it felt like you weren’t leaving in anger. You were leaving in indifference. And that scared him more than anything.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He wanted to chase after you, to explain, to make you understand that it had never meant anything. That Daun was just…nothing. But would that even matter now? Would you even believe him? Or worse… had he already lost you?

He clenched his jaw, fists tightening at his sides as he watched your figure disappear down the street.

For the first time in years, Jungkook felt a kind of fear he wasn’t sure he could fix. Jungkook stood in the same spot long after you disappeared, his breath uneven, his heart hammering in his chest. He pulled out his phone, fingers hovering over your contact. He wanted to call. To text. To say something that would pull you back. But what would he even say? That he didn’t mean to keep things from you? That it was just a ride, just convenience? Would that even change anything?

The words echoed in his head like a haunting reminder of what he had just let slip through his fingers. A sudden rush of panic surged through him. He couldn’t let it end like this. So he ran.

His feet pounded against the pavement as he chased after you, his lungs burning, his mind screaming at him to do something, anything, before it was too late.

When he finally spotted you, you were about to get into your car. "Wait!" he called out, his voice breathless. You stilled but didn’t turn around. Jungkook swallowed hard. "Don’t just walk away like this."

You sighed, gripping the car door. His chest tightened. " Let me fix it."

You turned then, finally looking at him. And what he saw in your eyes made his stomach drop, emptiness. Not anger. Not sadness. Just… nothing.

"You don’t get it, Jungkook," you said quietly. "It’s not about Daun. It’s about you. About the fact that I had to stand there and watch you hesitate. Watch you defend something that you should’ve already known was wrong."

He shook his head. "I wasn’t thinking"

"Exactly," you cut in. "You weren’t. And I’m tired of waiting for you to start."

Jungkook felt something crack inside him. "Please," he murmured, taking a step closer. "Don’t do this. Don’t leave."

You exhaled, a slow, tired breath. Jungkook’s breath was uneven as he stood in front of you, desperation clear in his eyes. "Please, don’t just walk away like this."

You sighed, rubbing your temple. Your body was exhausted not just from standing outside his house for so long, but from the weight of this entire situation.

"I’m tired, Jungkook," you said, your voice calm but firm. "I waited outside for you for over an hour. I just want to go home and rest."

He opened his mouth, but you held up a hand before he could speak.

"We can talk later. When you finally get it."

Jungkook’s jaw tensed, frustration flashing in his eyes. "Get what?"

You exhaled sharply. "Exactly."

You didn’t wait for his response. You turned, got into your car, and shut the door.

Jungkook stood there, watching as you drove away, the sinking realization setting in.

You weren’t running away. You weren’t giving him an ultimatum. You were just… done waiting for him to understand something he should’ve known all along.

—

Jungkook sat at his desk, unable to focus. His fingers hovered over his phone, rereading the last message he had sent you late last night, one you never replied to.

His office felt colder today, quieter, even with the usual background noise of employees moving around. But all he could think about was you.

The door suddenly knocked, and before he could answer, it opened.

Daun.

"Good morning, sir," she greeted with a small smile. "I brought the reports you asked for."

Jungkook barely glanced up, his mind elsewhere. "Leave them on the desk."

She hesitated for a second before placing the files down. "Um… I just wanted to say thank you again for the rides. It really helped me out."

Jungkook’s jaw clenched. The rides. The same ones that led to the situation he was in now.

"Yeah," he muttered, rubbing his temple. "Don’t worry about it."

She shifted slightly. "I hope your girlfriend wasn’t too upset about yesterday…"

Jungkook’s eyes snapped up to her, sharp and unreadable. "That’s none of your concern."

Daun’s smile faltered. "Oh right. Sorry, I didn’t mean to overstep."

Jungkook exhaled, running a hand through his hair. "It’s fine. Just, just go." She nodded quickly and left, the door clicking shut behind her.

Jungkook leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. He hated the way things felt right now, the way he didn’t even know if he’d see you today, if you’d even want to talk.

His phone buzzed suddenly, and his heart jumped. But when he looked at the screen, it wasn’t your name. It was a meeting reminder. Jungkook exhaled sharply, shoving his phone into his pocket.

You said you’d talk when he finally got it. And the truth was he did now. But was it too late?

—

Jungkook sat in his car, gripping the steering wheel, his mind heavy with thoughts of you. The whole day had been suffocating, meetings he couldn’t focus on, calls he ignored, and the weight of your absence pressing on his chest. He checked his phone for the hundredth time. Still nothing from you.

A knock on his window pulled him from his thoughts. He turned his head and saw Daun standing outside, smiling.

He rolled down the window, his expression unreadable. "What?"

Daun blinked at his cold tone but quickly recovered. "Oh, I was just wondering if I could get a ride home again."

Jungkook exhaled slowly, gripping the wheel tighter. This, this was the moment. The moment he could make the right choice. He didn’t hesitate this time.

"No."

Daun’s smile faltered. "Oh… are you heading somewhere else?"

"No," Jungkook said flatly. "I just don’t want to." Her face fell slightly, and she shifted awkwardly. "Did… something happen?"

Jungkook let out a humorless laugh, shaking his head. "Yeah, Daun. Something did happen. And I should’ve realized it sooner."

Daun swallowed, sensing the shift. "I didn’t mean to cause any trouble between you and your girlfriend"

"You didn’t," Jungkook cut in, his voice firm. "I did." For the first time, he saw it clearly. You weren’t upset about the rides. You were upset that he never even considered how it would look. How it would feel. He had been blind, careless. And now, he might have lost you for it.

Jungkook sighed, rolling the window up without another word. Then, without sparing Daun another glance, he drove off. There was only one place he needed to be right now. With you.

Jungkook drove with one hand on the wheel, the other gripping his phone, debating whether to call you. But he knew words over the phone wouldn’t be enough. He needed to see you.

When he reached your apartment, he hesitated for only a second before stepping out of his car. His heart pounded as he rang your doorbell.

Seconds felt like hours. Then, finally, the door opened. You stood there, looking exhausted, your arms crossed as you leaned against the frame. Your expression was unreadable. "What do you want, Jungkook?"

He took a deep breath. "To talk. Properly this time."

You sighed, rubbing your temple. "I told you, I’d talk when you finally get it."

Jungkook nodded. "And I do now." His voice was quieter this time, more certain. "You were right."

You raised a brow, waiting. He exhaled sharply. "It was never about the rides. It was about me not realizing how it looked. How it felt. How I should’ve never made you feel like you had to stand outside waiting for me, watching me drop off another woman."

Your fingers tightened slightly against your arms, but you didn’t say anything.

Jungkook stepped closer. "I should’ve understood the second I saw your face last night. And I hate that it took you walking away for me to get it." His voice dropped. "But I do now. And I’m sorry."

You studied him for a long moment. "So what now?"

"I stopped giving her rides," Jungkook said instantly. "Not because you told me to. But because I finally understood why I should have stopped in the first place."

Your gaze softened just a little, but you didn’t let him off that easily. "And what if I never said anything? Would you have realized it?"

Jungkook’s jaw tightened, guilt flashing in his eyes. "Maybe not right away," he admitted. "But that’s the problem, isn’t it? That I was too blind to see it on my own." He swallowed hard. "But I see it now, and I swear, I’ll never make you feel that way again."

Silence filled the space between you. Then, finally, you let out a slow breath. "You really get it now?" Jungkook nodded. "Yeah. And I don’t want to lose you over my own stupidity."

You stared at him for a moment longer before finally stepping aside. "Come inside."

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He stepped in, knowing this wasn’t an instant fix but it was a start. And this time, he wouldn’t take it for granted.

Things weren’t instantly perfect, but there was progress. Jungkook had been more mindful, more present. He made sure to communicate, to show you not just with words but through his actions that he truly understood.

But there was still a lingering tension, a gap that hadn’t fully closed.

That evening, you sat on the couch scrolling through your phone when the doorbell rang. You sighed, standing up to answer it. When you opened the door, Jungkook stood there, holding a small bag in one hand and a guilty smile on his face.

"I know you’ve been tired lately," he said, rubbing the back of his neck. "So, I brought dinner. Your favorite."

Your brows raised slightly. "You brought food?" He nodded. "And I swear I didn’t just order from anywhere I went all the way to that one place across town because I know you like it best from there."

You studied him for a second before stepping aside. "Come in."

Jungkook entered, placing the bag on the table. He glanced at you, hesitant. "How have you been?"

You sat down, opening the takeout containers. "Fine." It was a simple answer, but he could tell there was more beneath it. Jungkook sat across from you, watching as you took a bite. When you didn’t say anything else, he finally spoke.

"I know things still don’t feel the same," he admitted. "And I don’t expect one apology to fix everything. But I just want to know is there still a chance for us?"

You put your chopsticks down, looking at him seriously. "It’s not about whether there’s a chance, Jungkook. It’s about whether you’ll keep understanding even when I don’t have to explain things to you."

He nodded immediately. "I will." You sighed, leaning back slightly. "Then we’ll see." Jungkook didn’t push for more. He simply nodded, accepting that trust wasn’t rebuilt overnight.

But as he sat there, watching you eat, sharing quiet conversation, he felt something he hadn’t in days hope.

And he was willing to do whatever it took to make things right.

Jungkook had been consistent. He didn’t just say he understood he showed it. He made sure to be more present, to check in with you without making it feel forced. He was more aware of the little things, more careful with his actions, and most importantly, he didn’t let you feel like you had to spell things out for him.

You were at your apartment when your phone buzzed. Jungkook.

Jungkook: Can you come outside?

You frowned slightly but grabbed your jacket and stepped out. When you reached the parking lot, you found Jungkook leaning against his car, his hands tucked into his pockets.

"You’re acting mysterious," you said, eyeing him. "What’s going on?"

Jungkook pushed off the car, opening the passenger door. "Get in. I want to show you something."

You hesitated for a second before sighing and slipping into the car. He didn’t say much as he drove, but his hand reached for yours, squeezing it gently. It was the first time in days that he had done something so natural, without hesitation.

After about fifteen minutes, he pulled into a small, quiet spot overlooking the city skyline. The view was breathtaking, the soft glow of the city lights stretching far into the distance. You turned to him. "Why did you bring me here?"

Jungkook exhaled, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. "Because I’ve been thinking a lot about us. About how close I was to losing you." He turned to look at you, eyes serious. "And I don’t want to be that guy who just assumes things are fine now. I don’t want you to just settle for us being okay. I want you to feel secure. To know that I see you, Y/N."

Your chest tightened. "Jungkook "

"I love you," he said, his voice unwavering. "And I never want to make you feel like you have to question that again." The weight of his words hung in the air. You looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the sincerity in his eyes.

For the first time in weeks, you let out a small, genuine smile. "I love you too," you admitted softly.

Jungkook exhaled a breath. Slowly, he reached for your hand again, lacing his fingers through yours. This time, you didn’t pull away. And in that quiet moment, with only the city lights as witnesses, you both knew this was the beginning of something stronger.

986 notes · View notes

dailynnt · 2 months ago

Text

JUNGKOOK FANFIC RECOMMENDATIONS | PART 2

Hi Army🫰🏻

It's me again with my list of my favorite JK works 💜

You should read and thank these wonderful authors for their work by liking, reposting and commenting 🥰

Thanks to all fanfic authors for sharing to us your creative, I know what a titanic job you do 🙇🏼

Most of these fanfics contain explicit scenes, so read at your own risk 😉

Part 1 of my fanfic recommendations 🫶🏻

✗ When the End Comes | Masterpost (jjk) by @oddinary4bts (breakup!au, slice of life!au, angst with a big A, smut, fluff)

✗ 𐙚 pink and pretty by @redcherrykook (sir!kink, spanking, dom&sub dynamics, oral (m), degredation, praise, doggy, creampie, slight size kink)

✗ 𐙚 delicate seashell by @redcherrykook (beachy hotel sex, whiny koo, penetration, sweet koo)

✗ 𐙚 brothers best friend by @redcherrykook (teasing, humping, tit play, f2l, fluff)

✗ KKANGPAE by @jungkoode (enemies to lovers, slow burn, gang au, angst with smut, fuck buddies, forbidden love, secret relationship)

✗ new territory. (jjk) by @cigarettesuga (smut, fluff, experimental firsts, soft filth, boyfriend!jungkook supremacy)

✗ starstruck #1 #2 by @trivia-yandere ( yandere, oral sex, smut, unprotected sex, praising, dirty talk, rough sex, overstimulation, possessive behavior)

✗ Cruel Secrets - J.JK - ONE SHOT by @kookiesncreamri (yandere, smut, angst, fluff.... if u squint, forbidden relationship trope, twin au)

✗ Priorities - JJK #1, #2 by @kookiesncreamri (fwb, mutual pining..?, slightly toxic relationship, exclusive fwb, smut, smau)

✗ HOLD ON TO ME by @kooklovee (angst, fluff, smut, established relationship au, CeoHusband!Jk x Wife!Reader)

✗ RUINED RIGHT by @kooklovee (smut, established relationship au, bf!Jungkook x gf!Reader)

✗ MARRIED FOR 7 DAYS by @kooklovee (fluff, smut, established relationship au, bf!Jungkook x gf!Reader)

✗ The Ex Text by @shadowkoo (smut, pwp, ex with benefits, minor fluff & angst)

✗ The Oh! Chronicles (series) by @shadowkoo (smut, brother’s best friend, off limits younger sister, college au, pwp)

✗ Sexy Disasters With Feelings by @kooppss (smut, cursing, drinking, unhealthy immature behavior, male masturbation, mention of female masturbation, mention of sex)

✗ million dollar man. jjk by @joonjuul (richman!jk, softdom!jk, poor!reader, subby!reader, pwp, oral (m receiving), thigh riding, fingering (f receiving), pet names, praise)

✗ Jungkook as a munch. by @phantommoondoll (smut, oral, daddy kink)

✗ SHADOWS OF OBSESSION by @gukcnt (criminal au, dark romance, forbidden attraction, enemies to lovers, murderer!jungkook, stalker!jungkook, innocent shy!reader, virgin!reader, medical student!reader, violence, stalking and obsession, contrast of worlds, crime, thriller, smut, angst, fluff)

✗ Black Ribbon Bride ۶ৎ | jjk (m) by @youthguk (mafia au, dark romance, arranged marriage, angst , smut, forced marriage, power imbalance, slight graphic violence, death threats, mentions of murder, forced intimacy)

✗ down low — jeon jungkook by @writesvani (friends with benefits au, situationship au, porn with plot, smut, angst)

✗ What you need by @keen-li (best friends au, angst, fluff, smut, slow burn)

✗ i'm outside, let's talk. (m) by @rjkooks (porn with very little plot, exes to lovers)

✗ after last night (m) #1, #2 by @rjkooks (unrequited love, non-idol au, smut, angst)

✗ FRIENDS ⋆ JJK by @girlygguk (established relo, fluff, smut)

✗ BAD THINGS ⋆ JJK by @girlygguk (smut, angst, fluff, f2l, fwb au, university au)

✗ fifth wish by @jiminrings (angst, unrequited love, emotional constipation)

✗ satellite | jjk by @httpknjoon (fluff, slight angst, fwb)

✗ Never been a friend | jjk by @jkslipppiercing (smut, enemies to lovers, alcohol, swearing)

✗ boy in luv by @ggukiepie (college!au, bff!jk, athlete!jk, student council president oc, cheerleader!oc, angst, fluff, eventual smut, pining)

✗ so good by @ggukiepie (established relationship, smut, literally pwp, the plot is maybe two sentences long lmao, a little bit of fluff)

✗ at arms length by @tranquilreign (angst, ex best friends au! college au)

✗ STILL YOUR'S by @kooffeecup (angst, smut, fluff)

✗ PAST TENSE, PRESENT LOVE 𐚁̸ by @kooffeecup (angst, romance)

Give these fanfics and their authors a lot of love 💜

💋 Dailynn T

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97linelover · 16 days ago

Text

Meet me at the park - Jeon Jungkook

summary: there’s this cute dog always running towards you.. his daddy is not so bad aswell.

pairing: idol jungkook x reader

genre: it’s basically all about Bam 🐶

Y/n had only been in Seoul for a few weeks. The excitement of studying abroad was still fresh in her mind, but with each passing day, the busy streets and crowded classrooms made her crave a moment of peace. One afternoon, seeking a quiet escape, she decided to visit a nearby park known for its peaceful walking trails and blooming cherry blossoms.

The sun hung warm in the clear sky, casting soft golden light over the park. As y/n wandered down a winding path, she heard the sudden burst of playful barking. Curious, she followed the sound until she spotted a small dog darting joyfully across an open field. His fur was a rich, shiny black, and his eyes sparkled with mischief.

Y/n smiled and knelt down in the grass, holding out her hand. “Hey, who’s a good boy?”

The dog paused, ears twitching, eyes flicking between her and the nearby trees. For a moment, he seemed unsure — wary even. Y/n’s heart softened at the sight. She stayed still, letting him take his time.

Then, as if deciding she was safe, the dog bounded toward her with sudden enthusiasm. He circled her legs, tail wagging so fast it was a blur, and pressed close against her, nuzzling her hand with a wet nose. She laughed softly as he gently pawed at her knee, clearly desperate for more attention.

Y/n reached out to scratch behind his ears, and Bam — as she soon learned his name was — melted into her touch, pressing his whole body against her side. It was almost like he was reluctant to let her go. Wherever she moved, Bam followed closely, brushing against her legs and resting his head briefly on her foot, as if claiming her as his own.

“Wow, he really likes you,” a voice said behind her.

Y/n turned to see a young man jogging toward them, slightly out of breath but smiling warmly. His dark hair was tousled from the breeze, and his eyes held a kind but tired glow.

“That’s Bam,” he said, crouching down beside the dog, who immediately jumped up and licked his face affectionately. “Usually, he’s not so friendly with strangers. He’s pretty protective.”

Y/n glanced down, noticing that Bam was still sticking close to her, his body pressed against her legs like a shadow. When she took a step back, Bam padded after her, whining softly as if worried she might disappear.

Jungkook chuckled. “Yeah, he’s a bit of a stubborn one. But it looks like you’ve won him over.”

Y/n smiled, feeling a surprising warmth spread through her chest. Bam’s unexpected affection was comforting, a small connection in this big, unfamiliar city.

As Jungkook stood up, Bam suddenly wriggled out of his grasp and returned to y/n, nudging her hand with his nose insistently. She bent down to pet him again, and this time Bam sat obediently at her feet, resting his head on her shoe as if claiming her as his new best friend.

“You’ve got a little fan here,” Jungkook said with a laugh, watching the dog cling to her like she was his favorite person in the world.

Y/n looked up at him, her heart lighter than it had been all day. Maybe this unexpected encounter was the start of something new — a friendship born from a playful dog named Bam and a quiet afternoon in the heart of Seoul.

Y/n gently scratched behind Bam’s ears as he rested his head against her leg, his tail wagging slowly now, content and calm. Jungkook watched them with an amused smile.

“Bam doesn’t usually warm up to people this quickly,” Jungkook said, crouching beside them. “He’s more of a one-person dog — mostly me. But I guess you’re different.”

Y/n looked up, meeting his eyes. “Maybe he just knows when someone’s kind.”

Jungkook chuckled softly. “Or maybe he just likes that you don’t try to force him. He can tell when people are patient.”

Bam suddenly lifted his head and gave a soft bark, as if reminding them he wanted to play. Y/n laughed and stood up, beckoning the dog. “Come on, Bam. Let’s see what tricks you know.”

Bam leapt up eagerly, spinning in circles and then dashing ahead, waiting for y/n to follow. Jungkook stood beside her, watching as Bam chased after a fallen leaf with joyful abandon.

“So, you’re here for your semester abroad?” Jungkook asked as they walked along the path together.

“Yes,” y/n replied, her eyes still on Bam. “It’s been amazing so far, but sometimes it feels a little lonely. This city is so big.”

Jungkook nodded knowingly. “I get that. Seoul moves fast. But it’s also full of little surprises — like Bam suddenly deciding you’re his favorite person.”

Y/n smiled, feeling a warmth she hadn’t expected to find. “I think I’ll take that as a good sign.”

Jungkook laughed. “Definitely. Hey, if you ever want to come by and visit Bam, you’re more than welcome.”

She glanced at him, her heart skipping slightly. “I’d like that.”

Bam barked happily, as if agreeing, and ran back to y/n, nudging her hand again.

As the afternoon sun began to dip behind the trees, Y/n realized that this chance meeting was already becoming one of the brightest moments of her time in Seoul. With Bam at her side and Jungkook’s easy company, maybe this city wouldn’t feel so big after all.

The next afternoon, y/n returned to the same park, carrying her sketchbook and pencils. She loved to draw—especially scenes that captured moments of quiet beauty. The soft breeze ruffled the pages as she settled on a bench beneath a blossoming cherry tree.

The park was peaceful, the pink petals gently drifting down like confetti. Y/n opened her sketchbook and began to draw the delicate branches above her, lost in the lines and shades as her pencil moved smoothly across the page.

Suddenly, a shadow flickered at the edge of her vision. Before she could look up fully, Bam, the playful Dobermann, came bounding toward her with joyful energy, ears flapping and tail wagging furiously.

“Bam!” y/n laughed, closing her sketchbook quickly as the dog leapt up near her feet.

But instead of just sitting, Bam pressed close against her legs, nudging her hand with his nose insistently. His big brown eyes shone with excitement, and his whole body wiggled with happiness.

Y/n smiled, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. “Hey, you’re full of energy today, aren’t you?”

Just then, Jungkook appeared from the path, jogging lightly as if he had been looking for Bam. “There he is! You’re giving my poor dog a run for his money.”

Bam gave a happy bark and danced around y/n’s feet, clearly thrilled to be with her again.

Jungkook sat beside her on the bench, glancing at the closed sketchbook. “You draw?”

“Yeah,” y/n said shyly, opening it again to show him the delicate cherry blossoms she’d been working on. “I like capturing quiet moments like this.”

Jungkook smiled. “That’s cool. Maybe next time, I can bring Bam and we can have a little outdoor art session.”

Bam barked in agreement, as if making a promise.

Y/n laughed, feeling a growing sense of belonging. With Bam by her side and Jungkook nearby, the park didn’t feel so lonely anymore. Instead, it was becoming a place of unexpected friendship and little joys.

Y/n returned to the park a few days later, this time with a small paper bag tucked into her tote—dog treats she had picked up from a local pet shop. It was a silly idea, maybe even too much, but something about the way Bam had clung to her made it feel right.

She didn’t have to wait long.

Bam came racing toward her from the far side of the field the moment he saw her, his sleek black coat gleaming in the afternoon sun. He barked once, joyful and loud, before sliding to a stop at her feet like a child who had just spotted their best friend.

“Well, someone remembers me,” she said with a laugh, pulling the bag from her tote. “Look what I brought you.”

Bam’s ears perked, his nose twitching. He sniffed the air with growing interest, then gently pawed at her knee. Y/n offered him a small, bone-shaped treat. He took it carefully, then flopped down in the grass beside her, chewing happily.

“You’re officially his favorite person now,” came Jungkook’s voice from behind her.

Y/n turned to see him approaching, hands in the pockets of his hoodie, hair pushed back beneath a cap. He looked relaxed—less like the idol she knew he was, and more like a guy just enjoying a quiet afternoon.

“I hope I’m not overstepping,” y/n said, holding up the bag with a sheepish grin. “I just thought… he might like these.”

Jungkook chuckled. “Overstepping? You’ve basically bribed your way into his heart. Not that I blame you. Bam’s pretty hard to impress.”

Bam nudged her hand again, already angling for a second treat. Jungkook shook his head, amused. “He doesn’t even beg from me like that.”

They sat together in the grass while Bam lay between them, content and sleepy after a few treats and a lot of tail wagging. There was an easy silence between them, the kind that didn’t need filling.

After a while, Jungkook glanced at her. “Hey… I was thinking,” he said, scratching the back of his neck a little awkwardly. “Do you maybe wanna come over later?”

Y/n looked up, eyebrows raised slightly. He hurried on.

“Nothing weird—I just… I cook sometimes. It helps me relax. And I thought, you know, since Bam is obsessed with you now,” he added with a playful smirk, “you could come by and have dinner. If you want.”

Y/n hesitated only for a breath before smiling. “I’d like that.”

Jungkook grinned, a little shy but clearly pleased. “Cool. Then it’s settled.”

Bam gave a happy bark between them, as if sealing the agreement himself.

As they gathered their things, the late sun casting soft gold over the field, y/n felt something shift—just slightly, but unmistakably. A door had opened. And though she didn’t know exactly where it led, she was already curious to walk through it.

The sun had already begun to dip when y/n arrived at the address Jungkook had sent her. A soft evening breeze tugged gently at the hem of her light summer dress, the pale fabric dancing around her legs. She had hesitated in front of the mirror earlier, wondering if the dress was too much—but now, standing outside his door, the warmth of the fabric against her skin made her feel confident.

When Jungkook opened the door, his eyes flickered over her just for a second longer than necessary before a smile curved his lips.

“Wow… you look really pretty.“

Y/n’s cheeks warmed. “Thank you.”

Behind him, Bam barked excitedly and bounded toward her, tail wagging like mad. She crouched down immediately, greeting him with a smile. “Hey, you.”

Jungkook stepped aside. “Come in. He’s been pacing since I started cooking—like he knew you were coming.”

She followed him inside. The apartment was warm and minimalist, but cozy. It smelled incredible—rich, savory, and slightly spicy.

On the kitchen island were two plates already set. Jungkook had prepared a homemade Korean meal: bulgogi, japchae, and perfectly cooked rice, with a few side dishes she couldn’t name but couldn’t wait to try.

“You made all this?” she asked, eyes wide as she sat down.

He laughed modestly. “Yeah… Cooking’s kind of my way to chill out. I lose track of time when I’m in the kitchen.”

She took her first bite—and paused.

“Okay,” she said with genuine awe, “this is amazing. Like, actual restaurant-level amazing.”

He looked a little proud, a little bashful. “Glad you like it.”

As they ate, conversation flowed easily. Jungkook talked more than she’d expected—about music, about training for years before BTS debuted, about feeling like a kid in a world that moved too fast.

“I didn’t really have a normal teenage life,” he said between bites, eyes focused on the food in front of him. “But I don’t regret it. I’ve learned so much, and… I met people who became like family.”

Y/n listened quietly, her heart tugged by the softness in his voice. He wasn’t just Jungkook the artist or Jungkook the idol—he was human, warm, layered. She found herself wanting to ask more, not out of curiosity, but because she wanted to understand him.

“And now?” she asked gently. “Do you still feel like that kid sometimes?”

Jungkook looked at her then, a flicker of something vulnerable in his eyes. “Sometimes, yeah. But less when I’m with people who don’t expect me to be anything but myself.”

There was a silence then—not awkward, but full of something unspoken.

Bam let out a small sigh from the floor, stretched out near y/n’s feet, his head resting protectively against her ankle.

Jungkook smiled softly. “I think Bam agrees.”

She laughed, her voice light but sincere. “I think I do too.”

They ate until the sky outside faded into deep blue, the city lights flickering on in the distance. The apartment felt tucked away from the rest of the world, like they were sitting in a little pocket of time that didn’t need to move forward just yet.

And as Jungkook refilled her glass of water and smiled at her across the table, y/n had the distinct feeling that this was a moment she wouldn’t forget.

The dishes clinked softly in the sink as y/n rinsed off the last plate. “You really didn’t have to let me help,” she said over her shoulder.

“I didn’t,” Jungkook replied from the kitchen island, drying the dishes she handed him. “You just started doing it like it was your own place.”

She smirked. “Force of habit. My mom says I can’t sit still after a meal.“

“Well,” he said, bumping her shoulder gently with his, “tell her I approve. Bam too.”

As if on cue, Bam gave a satisfied sigh from where he lay sprawled out on the rug near the living room, belly-up, tail twitching in a half-dream. Y/n dried her hands and looked over at him.

“He’s the happiest dog I’ve ever met,” she said fondly.

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, quieter now. “He saved me, in a way. When everything felt too loud, he reminded me to slow down. Be present.”

Y/n looked at him, thoughtful. “He makes you human.”

Jungkook glanced at her, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Exactly.”

They finished cleaning in a comfortable silence. No pressure, no pretending—just the ease that comes from unspoken trust. When the last dish was placed on the rack, Jungkook gestured toward the glass sliding door.

“Wanna come out on the balcony? It’s cooler now.”

She nodded, and they stepped outside together. The view was stunning—city lights flickering like stars below, quiet hums of traffic in the distance, the wind carrying the soft scent of evening.

Jungkook leaned on the railing, elbows resting on the cold metal, and looked out. Y/n stood beside him, arms folded gently across her chest.

“You ever wonder if everything happens because it’s supposed to?” he asked quietly.

She turned her head toward him. “What do you mean?”

“Like… that day in the park. You could’ve picked any bench. Bam could’ve ignored you like he does with everyone else. But he didn’t. You didn’t.”

Y/n smiled. “You think your dog has a sense of destiny?”

Jungkook grinned. “I think… maybe he just has good instincts.”

There was a pause, filled only by the wind and the distant sounds of the city.

Y/n looked out at the skyline, the buildings glowing under the moonlight. “Whatever it was… I’m glad it happened.”

Jungkook turned his head to her then, his expression softer now, the playfulness replaced with something quieter. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.”

Their eyes met, and for a moment, nothing else existed—just the hush of the night and the slow pull between two people beginning to understand that whatever this was, it mattered.

Neither of them moved to speak. They didn’t need to.

Inside, Bam gave a soft snore, as if reminding them he was still their loyal chaperone.

Y/n laughed gently, and the spell broke—but in the sweetest way. Jungkook reached down to pull a light cardigan from a nearby chair and placed it over her shoulders without a word.

The wind blew again, but she felt warm.

“I should probably head out,” y/n said reluctantly, looking down at her phone. It was already past 10 p.m., but the thought of leaving felt heavier than it should have.

Jungkook hesitated. His lips parted like he was about to say something, but instead, a familiar chuff interrupted from the living room.

Bam stood at the sliding door, tail wagging, leash in his mouth.

Y/n laughed. “He knows.”

Jungkook grinned. “Perfect timing, huh?”

He grabbed the leash and clipped it on. “He usually wants one last walk before bed anyway.”

“Right. Pure coincidence,” she teased, slipping her shoes back on.

“Absolutely,” he deadpanned, but his eyes were warm with something else—relief, maybe, that she wasn’t quite gone yet.

Outside, the air had cooled, and the sky was a deep velvet-blue. Bam trotted happily ahead, his leash slack between them as Jungkook and y/n walked side by side down the quiet streets.

They didn’t talk much at first. It was a different kind of silence now—not the cautious kind between strangers, but the comfortable quiet that settles between people who no longer need to fill the space.

Eventually, y/n spoke. “You didn’t have to walk me all the way.”

“I wanted to,” Jungkook said simply. “Besides… Bam insisted.”

She smiled, but he could see something flicker in her expression as they turned down her street—narrow, dimly lit, the kind of place where even the streetlights seemed to flicker more than they should.

Jungkook’s steps slowed slightly as he took it in. The buildings were older, some windows barred, a few stray posters peeling off crumbling brick walls. A group of teens laughed too loudly from a dark corner. Someone tossed a can into the street.

Y/n didn’t say anything, but she walked a little faster.

“You live here?” he asked quietly, trying to keep the surprise out of his voice.

She nodded. “It’s what I could afford with the student housing budget. It’s not… ideal. But I’m fine, really. I don’t stay out late alone.”

Jungkook glanced around, then back at her. He didn’t like it. Not at all. His jaw tensed slightly, but he kept his voice soft. “Still. You shouldn’t have to get used to this.”

She offered a small smile, clearly trying to brush it off. “I’ve been in worse places. And it’s temporary.”

He nodded, but his eyes lingered on the shadows. “Just… text me next time you get home late. Please.”

“Okay,” she said after a beat. “I will.”

They reached her building—a tall, tired complex with rusted mailboxes and a buzzing light over the front door. Bam sat obediently next to Jungkook, his big brown eyes scanning the quiet street.

“Well,” y/n said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “thank you for dinner. And the company.”

Jungkook looked at her, then down at Bam, then back at her again. He didn’t want to leave her here. Not in this place. Not when she had just been smiling in the warm safety of his apartment an hour ago.

But he didn’t say any of that.

Instead, he smiled gently. “We’ll do it again soon. Bam insists.”

Y/n laughed, then hesitated. The space between them held something charged, unspoken—something that neither wanted to rush, but both could feel pulsing beneath the surface.

She gave Bam one last scratch behind the ears. “Night, troublemaker.”

Then she looked up at Jungkook. “Good night, Jungkook.“

He nodded. “Night, y/n.”

She stepped inside, and the door clicked shut behind her.

Jungkook stood there for a moment longer, looking up at the building, before turning to walk away—Bam padding silently beside him, leash loose, as if even the dog felt the change in the air.

Something had shifted.

And neither of them wanted the night to end—not really.

Jungkook sat on the edge of his bed, fresh from a late-night shower. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and Bam was already curled into a sleepy heap by the balcony door, sighing contentedly with each breath.

But Jungkook wasn’t ready to sleep.

He kept replaying the evening in his head—the way y/n had looked in that summer dress, the way her laugh had sounded in his kitchen, the tiny crease between her brows when she’d talked about her housing situation. It had been just a dinner. Just a walk. But he felt it. The something.

His phone buzzed softly on the nightstand.

y/n 🦋

“Hey… I just wanted to say thanks again. Today felt like one of those days I’ll remember for a long time. You make this city feel less overwhelming. And Bam too, obviously.”

Jungkook blinked at the screen.

He read it again.

And then again.

A small, quiet smile spread across his face. He leaned back against the wall, thumb hovering over the keyboard for a few seconds before typing.

jk 🐾

“You make Bam’s whole week every time he sees you. And mine too, if I’m being honest.”

He stared at the message for a second.

Too much?

No.

He hit send.

Moments later, her reply came.

y/n 🦋

“Then I guess I’ll have to keep showing up.”

Jungkook let out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and an exhale of relief. He set the phone on his chest, staring at the ceiling.

Outside, the city moved on—cars, sirens, neon lights—but inside, everything was still. Everything was soft.

He glanced at Bam, already snoring lightly, then looked back at the screen and whispered to no one in particular:

“Yeah. Keep showing up.”

The park felt even more familiar now, like it had quietly accepted y/n as part of its rhythm. The cherry blossoms were almost gone, replaced by fresh green leaves, and the air smelled like early summer.

She was back on their bench—the same one where she’d sketched cherry trees, where Bam had first bounded into her life, and where Jungkook had smiled at her like she wasn’t just another stranger in the crowd.

Today, though, she hadn’t come empty-handed.

She reached into her bag and pulled out two small bottles of banana milk—homemade. She’d found a recipe online the night before, just because of something Jungkook had mentioned once, almost offhand:

“I don’t know why, but banana milk just makes everything better.”

So, she’d made it from scratch. Creamy, sweet, real banana blended smooth with milk and a touch of honey. She’d even poured it into two little reusable glass bottles with yellow lids. It felt silly. Sweet. Maybe too much. But she did it anyway.

And for Bam?

Little homemade dog muffins, packed with oat flour, banana, and a touch of peanut butter. She wasn’t sure if he’d even like them, but she’d baked them in mini cupcake liners and tied a ribbon around the container just in case.

Her heart beat faster when she heard paws galloping across the path.

“Bam!” she called out, laughing as the Dobermann thundered toward her like a rocket.

He skidded to a stop and pressed himself into her side like a giant overexcited toddler, tail wagging furiously.

“You remember,” she whispered, scratching behind his ears.

“Of course he remembers,” Jungkook said, arriving seconds later, flushed from jogging. He looked down at her, sweat dampening the edge of his black cap. “He’s been pulling me this way for the past five minutes.”

“I brought something,” she said, suddenly shy.

Jungkook raised an eyebrow as she reached into her bag again. First, she handed him the banana milk. “I, um… made it myself. I remembered you said you liked it.”

He blinked down at the bottle, then back at her, slowly smiling. “You made banana milk?”

“Homemade,” she confirmed. “No fake stuff.”

He took it gently, as if it were something delicate. “That’s… honestly the cutest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Her cheeks flushed.

Before she could respond, she pulled out the second container and placed it on the bench.

“These are for Bam. Dog muffins. He might be picky though—”

But before she could finish, Bam had already sniffed the container and started pawing at the lid, tail sweeping the grass like a broom.

Jungkook burst out laughing. “I think you passed the test.”

They sat down, Bam between them as always, happily devouring the first muffin with enthusiastic chomps.

Jungkook took a sip of the banana milk, paused, then turned to her with wide eyes. “Wait—this is actually good. Like, ridiculously good.”

“Seriously?”

He nodded. “You just ruined convenience store banana milk for me forever.”

She laughed, the sound easy and warm. “Guess I’ll have to keep you supplied then.”

Jungkook leaned back on the bench, looking over at her—not playfully, not teasing, but in that quiet, meaningful way he had sometimes when he forgot to keep his guard up.

“You really didn’t have to do all this,” he said. “But I’m really glad you did.”

Y/n smiled softly. “I just thought… I wanted you both to feel seen.”

He was quiet for a moment, sipping again.

“You do,” he said finally, voice low.

And just like that, in the middle of a simple park on a simple day, with banana milk in his hand and a muffin-happy dog at his feet, Jungkook felt something shift again.

Like he wasn’t just grateful.

He was moved.

The next morning, the sun rose bright and clear over Seoul, casting a golden warmth over the familiar park paths. Y/n sat on the bench again, sketchpad in her lap, pencil moving in steady, gentle strokes. Her earbuds played soft music, but it was the rustling trees and distant birdsong that filled the air around her.

She was drawing the lake today. Light on the water, distant trees swaying. A peaceful morning.

Until—

BARK!

She looked up just in time to see a familiar Dobermann bolting toward her, leash trailing loosely behind.

“Bam!” she laughed, quickly setting her sketchpad aside.

He practically launched himself at her, tail a blur, his entire body wiggling with joy. She barely had time to brace herself before he pressed his head against her knees and let out a low, happy huff.

She scratched behind his ears. “You really missed me, huh?”

“Apparently more than he missed breakfast,” came a familiar voice from behind.

Jungkook jogged up a few seconds later, in black joggers and a loose hoodie, hair slightly messy like he’d just rolled out of bed—and still looked infuriatingly good.

“Sorry,” he said, slightly breathless. “He saw you from halfway across the park and went full sprint.”

“I’m flattered,” y/n said, glancing down at Bam, who had now rested his head on her thigh like he fully planned to nap there.

Jungkook grinned and held up a small brown paper bag.

“Peace offering,” he said. “Thought maybe it was my turn.”

He handed her the warm bag, the smell hitting her before she even looked inside.

“Cinnamon rolls?”

“From my favorite little place near the river. They only bake in the mornings. I had to charm the old lady into giving me the last two.“

Y/n smiled wide and opened the bag, the scent of cinnamon, sugar, and something buttery-sweet wrapping around her like a hug.

“This is dangerous,” she said. “If these are good, I’m going to start expecting them every time.”

“Then I guess I better make it a tradition,” he said, sitting down beside her.

They shared the pastries in silence at first—sweet, sticky, perfectly soft. Bam snored gently at her feet, completely at peace.

Y/n wiped cinnamon from her lip and nodded approvingly. “Okay. You win.“

Jungkook looked pleased. “I didn’t know it was a contest.”

“It is now,” she teased. “Banana milk versus cinnamon rolls.”

He leaned back against the bench, looking at her for a long moment.

“I’d say we’re both winning.”

Her pencil lay forgotten on her lap as she looked back at him, something soft fluttering in her chest.

“Yeah,” she said quietly. “I think so too.”

The sun warmed the park, Bam snored deeper, and two half-finished cinnamon rolls sat between them—proof that sometimes, small gestures speak the loudest.

The sky had looked uncertain all morning. Thick gray clouds hovered above Seoul like a secret waiting to be told, but the air stayed dry—heavy, humid, and still. Y/n knew it might rain, but she came to the park anyway.

Of course she did.

Bam found her first again—galloping toward the bench with his usual joy, like she was a part of his pack now. She laughed as he leaned into her legs, tongue out, eyes gleaming.

Jungkook followed moments later, dressed in a charcoal hoodie, damp hair curled slightly at his forehead.

“You’re early,” he said, smiling as he approached.

“So are you.”

They exchanged that now-familiar look—soft, quiet, almost shy. It was becoming a habit, these mornings. Unspoken plans. Unscheduled meetings. Just… showing up.

She showed him her sketch—Bam, mid-sprint, ears flying back, eyes joyful.

“I look like I’m raising a cartoon character,” Jungkook laughed, shaking his head.

Y/n just grinned. “He’s a muse.”

But then came the first crack.

Thunder rolled through the sky like an angry drumbeat, deep and echoing. Bam stiffened slightly, ears twitching. A few seconds later—plop. A single raindrop hit y/n’s paper.

She looked up. “Uh-oh.”

Another drop. Then two. Then everything.

Within seconds, the clouds burst open, releasing a warm, pounding rain that soaked through the trees like someone had ripped open the sky.

“Come on!” Jungkook shouted, already reaching for her hand.

She grabbed it without thinking.

They ran—her laugh trailing behind them, soaked shoes splashing through puddles, Jungkook’s hoodie darkening with every drop. Bam charged ahead, leash flapping as he barked like he thought it was all a game.

The rain was relentless, soaking y/n’s dress until it clung to her skin, her hair flattened to her forehead. But she was smiling—wide, wild, alive.

They turned the last corner, and Jungkook fumbled with his keys before throwing open the door to his apartment. They tumbled inside—gasping, dripping, laughing. Bam shook himself furiously, sending water in every direction.

Jungkook kicked the door shut behind them and leaned against it, catching his breath.

“You’re soaked,” y/n said, breathless, brushing wet hair from her face.

“So are you.”

They stood there for a beat—rain hammering against the windows, clothes sticking to skin, chests rising and falling with the thrill of the moment.

Then Jungkook pushed off the door and walked toward her slowly, his voice low and gentle.

“I’ll grab you a towel and something dry. You’ll catch a cold like this.”

Y/n nodded, suddenly aware of how close they were. How fast her heart was beating.

He disappeared down the hallway, Bam trotting after him.

She stood there for a moment alone, soaked through and shaking slightly—not from the cold, but from the way something had shifted again, like thunder in her own chest.

When Jungkook returned, holding a hoodie and sweatpants too big for her, he didn’t say anything.

He didn’t have to.

And outside, the storm raged on.

But inside, something felt safe.

Y/n stepped into Jungkook’s bathroom, the warm steam already rising from the running shower. The tiles felt cool beneath her damp feet, but the hot water quickly chased away the chill from the rain-soaked clothes clinging to her skin. She let the water wash over her, every drop melting away the cold that had settled deep into her bones.

Meanwhile, Jungkook pulled out his phone and quickly ordered food—something simple but comforting. “Chicken and rice?” he muttered to himself, smiling at the thought of her favorite.

When the shower ended, y/n wrapped herself in the large, soft towel he handed her. She stepped out, feeling lighter, warmer, almost… different.

In the living room, Bam was a restless bundle of energy and water droplets. His fur was soaked from running through the rain, and he shook himself, sending tiny splashes everywhere.

Y/n knelt down with a gentle smile. “Let’s get you cleaned up, big guy.”

She filled a shallow basin with warm water and carefully rinsed Bam’s paws and belly, working to wash away the dirt and the damp. Bam leaned into her touch, calm and trusting, his eyes soft and grateful.

Once she finished, she wrapped him in a fluffy, oversized towel, rubbing gently until his fur was nearly dry. Bam snuggled close to her, resting his head on her lap and letting out a contented sigh.

Y/n looked up and caught Jungkook’s gaze from across the room. He was watching the scene with a quiet smile, his arms crossed but his eyes warm.

For a moment, the rain outside seemed far away. The sounds of the city softened. In that small apartment, with a clean, happy dog and a woman wrapped in warmth, everything else simply faded.

The soft glow of the living room light wrapped around them like a warm blanket. Jungkook’s couch was small but inviting—big enough for the three of them to curl up close. Bam nestled comfortably between y/n and Jungkook, his fur still slightly damp but smelling clean and sweet.

They passed around plates of steaming food, the aroma of chicken and rice mingling with the gentle hum of the city outside. Y/n took a bite, then sighed contentedly.

“I’ve always wanted to visit Busan,” she said softly, her eyes distant as she spoke. “The ocean, the beaches… I just imagine it’s so peaceful. And vibrant. I want to see it all someday.”

Jungkook’s eyes lit up with something like warmth and surprise. “Busan?” he echoed. “That’s where my family’s from.”

She turned to look at him, surprised. “Really? I didn’t know.”

“Yeah,” he smiled, stretching his legs out a little. “My parents and younger brother still live there. It’s a bit different from Seoul—more relaxed, closer to the sea. It’s where I grew up before moving here.”

Y/n’s smile grew softer, touched by the glimpse into his past. “It must feel special, knowing you have that place.”

“It is,” Jungkook said quietly. “I go back whenever I can. Maybe I could show you around sometime.”

Her heart skipped. “I’d like that.”

They shared a look, gentle and honest. Bam gave a little whimper, as if approving the moment.

The night settled around them, peaceful and full of possibilities—two people and a dog, sharing warmth, food, and the quiet hope of future adventures.

The thunder rolled heavier now—louder, slower, like a heartbeat echoing across the sky. Raindrops hammered against the windows in hurried rhythms, and every so often, the whole apartment lit up in a sudden flash of white.

But inside, it felt safe.

Bam was curled up tight between them, his head resting against y/n’s thigh, eyes closed but not fully asleep. Every rumble of thunder made his ears twitch slightly, but he didn’t move—not while her hand kept stroking his fur in slow, calming patterns.

“You’re okay,” she whispered softly, more to him than anyone else. “It’s just the sky talking.”

Jungkook glanced over at her, watching the way her fingers moved—gentle, steady, full of something deeper. The way Bam melted into her touch wasn’t lost on him.

“He usually hides during storms,” Jungkook said quietly, his voice almost blending with the rain. “But with you… he doesn’t even flinch.”

She looked up at him, their eyes meeting in the golden light of the room.

“Maybe he just needed someone soft tonight,” she said.

There was a beat of silence between them, filled only by the storm outside and the warmth they shared inside. Jungkook’s arm brushed against hers as he shifted slightly closer, not enough to be obvious, but enough to feel.

She didn’t move away.

“You’re good with him,” he said, his voice lower now, more thoughtful.

“I think he’s the one who’s good with me.”

Jungkook smiled faintly, his gaze dipping toward the way her hand moved through Bam’s fur, and then slowly up to her eyes again. Something about the way she was—with his dog, in his home, on his couch—felt like something he hadn’t realized he’d been missing.

The thunder cracked louder this time, and Bam pressed in a little closer.

Y/n whispered something to him, barely audible, something soft and comforting and only meant for his ears.

And Jungkook knew, then, that this wasn’t just a rainy night.

It was something beginning.

The storm outside didn’t let up.

Thunder still cracked in the distance, softer now, farther away. The rain had settled into a steady rhythm against the windows—a quiet lullaby for the city and the hearts inside it.

Y/n leaned back into the couch cushions, her fingers still resting gently on Bam’s back. The warmth of his body pressed into hers, grounding, solid. Jungkook had pulled a light blanket over them both when she started yawning, and now the room had that fragile, sleepy hush to it.

He stood in the doorway, a cup of tea forgotten in his hands, watching her.

She had fallen asleep.

Her head tilted slightly to the side, hair loose around her face, lips parted just barely. Bam was curled into her like he belonged there—one paw tucked under her arm, his big head resting on her stomach. He let out a soft breath and didn’t move.

Jungkook’s chest tightened.

There was something about it. The way they both looked—tangled together on his couch like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this had always been meant to happen.

He set his tea down quietly and turned off the main light, leaving only the soft amber glow of the kitchen behind. The room fell into a gentle dimness.

Then he sat in the armchair nearby, elbows on his knees, just watching for a moment longer.

Y/n shifted slightly in her sleep, one hand brushing lightly over Bam’s fur even without waking.

And Jungkook smiled—tired, a little overwhelmed, but peaceful in a way he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Safe. That’s what it was.

They looked safe.

The apartment had fallen into a peaceful hush.

Outside, the rain was finally slowing, now only a faint tapping on the windows. Inside, the warmth of the living room lingered — the scent of the dinner they shared, the soft blanket draped over y/n and Bam, the faint hum of Jungkook’s tea cooling untouched on the table.

He had sat for a while just watching her sleep. The way her face relaxed in dreams. The way Bam stayed curled around her protectively, not budging an inch. It was almost unfair, he thought — how natural she looked there. Like she belonged.

But it was late, and the couch wasn’t exactly the most comfortable place to spend the whole night.

He got up quietly and knelt beside her, his voice soft.

“Y/n,” he murmured, close to her ear. “Hey… come on. Let me get you to the guest room. You’ll sleep better.”

She stirred slowly, her lashes fluttering, voice groggy. “What time is it?”

“After one,” he said gently. “You can stay here. The guest room’s ready.“

She blinked at him, still half-asleep. “I don’t want to be a bother.”

“You’re not,” he said without hesitation.

She sat up slowly, careful not to wake Bam — but he was already alert, his eyes following her every movement.

When she stood, so did he. Stretching, tail wagging softly, and then sticking right to her side as she followed Jungkook down the short hallway.

“He’s really not letting me out of his sight anymore,” she whispered, a sleepy smile tugging at her lips.

Jungkook looked back over his shoulder, chuckling quietly. “You’re his person now. He’s claimed you.”

The guest room was cozy — minimal but warm, a soft bed with light gray sheets and a small lamp glowing beside it. Jungkook pulled back the blanket for her.

“You sure?” she asked one more time.

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t,” he replied, voice low.

She stepped inside, and Bam followed her without question, circling once before flopping down near the bed.

Y/n turned to Jungkook as he lingered in the doorway.

“Thank you,” she said softly, and something in her eyes made his chest ache in the best way. “For everything tonight.”

He nodded once, his gaze holding hers just a little longer. “Sleep well.”

“You too.”

He closed the door quietly behind him.

Inside, y/n sank into the bed, her body heavy with comfort and exhaustion. Bam rested his head near her hand, eyes already closed, and she let her fingers drift over his ears.

Safe. That’s what this felt like.

And just down the hall, Jungkook lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to stop thinking about the girl who now slept under his roof — the girl who had somehow, without even trying, taken up space in his heart.

The first thing y/n noticed when she woke was Bam, still curled up at the foot of the bed, watching her. His eyes blinked slowly when hers opened, and he gave a soft whuff — not quite a bark, just a sleepy greeting.

She sat up slowly, stretching, the bedsheets slipping from her shoulders. The guest room was quiet, filled with soft light from the windows. The rain was gone. In its place, a clear blue sky and the fresh smell of a city washed clean.

The apartment, too, was still — except for the faint sound of running water in the distance.

She stood, padded quietly into the hallway, and caught the faintest beat of music from the bathroom. The sound of the shower running.

He was up already.

Of course he was.

Jungkook had mentioned once in passing that he trained early most days, but something about hearing the water and imagining him coming back all sweat-damp and focused made her heart skip a little.

Y/n smiled to herself.

She found Bam’s leash where it always hung by the door. “Come on, boy,” she whispered.

Bam perked up immediately, tail wagging, and padded over with quiet excitement. No barking. Just eager trust.

She clicked the leash into place and stepped outside into the morning air.

It was fresh, cooler than the day before, with just a hint of leftover rain in the breeze. The city was slowly waking around them — a few early risers, the distant sound of traffic, the comforting rhythm of footsteps on pavement.

They walked quietly together, Bam keeping perfect pace with her, close at her side. Every now and then, he glanced up at her like he still couldn’t believe she was real.

She smiled and scratched behind his ear.

The sun peeked through the clouds, golden and slow. And in that moment, with a dog beside her and the day stretching out gently ahead, y/n felt something warm bloom inside her.

Not excitement.

Not nerves.

Just… peace.

By the time y/n and Bam returned from their morning walk, the apartment smelled faintly of soap and something warm — the kind of scent that lingered in towels and T-shirts. She unclipped the leash, and Bam padded inside like he owned the place.

And maybe, at this point… he kind of did.

She kicked off her sneakers just as Jungkook stepped out of the hallway, towel draped over his shoulders, damp hair curling slightly at the ends, a loose black T-shirt clinging to his post-workout frame.

He froze for a half-second when he saw her — eyes flicking from her face to the leash still in her hand.

“You took him out?” he asked, his voice a little raspier than usual.

She smiled, setting the leash on the hook. “Figured I owed you at least that much. You let me take over your couch and half your apartment last night.”

Jungkook blinked, then let out a soft laugh. “You didn’t have to.”

“I wanted to.”

He scratched the back of his neck, a boyish grin creeping onto his face. “He didn’t give you trouble?”

“He was perfect. Stuck to my side the whole time.”

Jungkook tilted his head with mock suspicion. “I think he might like you more than he likes me now.”

Y/n raised an eyebrow, feigning innocence. “Can’t help it if I’m charming.”

He laughed, shaking his head as he walked into the kitchen. “You want coffee? Or banana milk?”

She followed him in, leaning against the counter, her voice light. “Are those really my only two options?”

“In this house?” he glanced back over his shoulder, grinning. “Yes.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled. “Then banana milk. Since I know you secretly judge my coffee order.”

He laughed again — a warm, open sound that made her chest flutter more than she wanted to admit.

While he poured drinks, she watched him move around the kitchen like it was second nature — like this wasn’t new. Like they’d done this a hundred times.

And maybe that was the strangest part.

How easy this felt.

He handed her a glass, their fingers brushing briefly. A small electric pulse ran up her arm, but neither of them said anything. They just stood there, sipping banana milk in the quiet of the kitchen, while Bam sprawled comfortably at their feet like this was exactly where he was meant to be.

And maybe… it was.

Jungkook grabbed his backpack, slipping his phone and keys inside with practiced ease. The soft morning light filtered through the windows, casting warm shadows over the apartment.

“I’ve got to head to the studio,” he said, adjusting the strap on his bag. “There’s some mixing to do.”

Y/n nodded, finishing the last sip of her banana milk. Bam was already alert, tail wagging, sensing the shift in the room.

“I need to run a few errands anyway,” she said, standing and grabbing Bam’s leash from the hook. “How about I take him out? Give you some quiet time to work.”

Jungkook looked at her, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “That sounds perfect.”

She clipped the leash on Bam, who instantly perked up, eager and ready.

“Don’t spoil him too much,” Jungkook warned playfully.

“Too late,” y/n laughed, heading toward the door. “He’s got me wrapped around his paw already.”

Jungkook shook his head, laughing softly. “Just bring him back in one piece.”

“I will.”

With that, she stepped outside, the city’s pulse greeting them anew. Bam led the way eagerly, and y/n felt a familiar warmth spreading through her chest.

A small routine, growing naturally — a balance of space and closeness, of lives intertwining gently but surely.

While out with Bam, y/n couldn’t resist snapping a few selfies—Bam’s big paws resting on her lap, his tongue lolling out happily, and her smiling brightly beside him. She sent the photos to Jungkook with a quick message:

“Out for a walk with your troublemaker 🐾😊”

Moments later, her phone buzzed with his reply:

“Looks like he’s having the best time. And you look really good too.”

Back at the studio, the BTS members couldn’t help but notice Jungkook’s unusually wide grin. Yoongi elbowed Jimin, whispering, “Look at him — like a lovestruck teenager.”

Jungkook caught their teasing glances but couldn’t hide the warmth in his smile. His fingers hovered over the phone, ready to reply again, but he just shook his head, still grinning like a kid.

Namjoon smirked, “Looks like someone’s got a new favorite distraction.”

Jungkook didn’t deny it.

Because when he looked at y/n’s selfies — at Bam’s joyful face — it was impossible not to feel that rush all over again.

The next few days slipped by like a gentle breeze — soft, warm, and full of laughter.

Every afternoon, y/n and Jungkook found themselves back at the same park, where Bam was king of the playground. His excitement was contagious, and soon y/n was running after him, laughing as he chased a frisbee or rolled in the grass, refusing to let anyone else get near his favorite toy.

Jungkook loved watching her—how her eyes sparkled when she smiled, how her laugh was like music mingling with the rustling leaves and the distant hum of Seoul.

They talked about everything and nothing—favorite books, dreams for the future, childhood memories, and silly jokes that made them both burst out giggling until their cheeks ached.

At times, Bam would flop down between them, panting happily, head resting on y/n’s lap, while Jungkook reached over to scratch behind his ears.

The routine felt natural, like something that had always been meant to be.

But beneath the surface of their easy days, something special was stirring.

Y/n’s birthday was coming up.

Jungkook’s phone buzzed one evening with a group message from the BTS members.

“JK, you better do something amazing. No pressure.”

“She deserves the best. We’re counting on you.”

“Get creative. Bam can help.”

He smiled, fingers tapping thoughtfully on the screen.

The idea formed slowly — an escape from the city’s rush, a chance to share a place that meant something to him. A weekend trip to Busan, with y/n and Bam.

He imagined the ocean breeze, the laughter echoing over the waves, quiet moments watching the sunset, and the chance to show her the home he spoke about so often.

The plan was set.

Now all that was left was the surprise.

The morning sun spilled through the windows as Jungkook pulled up outside y/n’s apartment in his sleek black Mercedes G-Class. The engine rumbled low and steady, a comforting promise of the journey ahead.

Y/n stepped out, her suitcase in one hand, Bam eagerly sniffing the air by her feet. She looked up at the car, impressed but mostly excited.

“You really didn’t have to do this,” she said softly, her smile wide and genuine.

Jungkook shrugged, opening the passenger door for her. “I wanted to. Birthday trip deserves a little style.”

She laughed, sliding into the seat beside him while Bam jumped into the back, settling down on a soft blanket Jungkook had prepared for him.

The city faded behind them as they rolled onto the highway, windows down just enough to let in the fresh air mixed with the scent of pine and distant ocean.

Music played softly from the speakers, a mix of Jungkook’s favorites and some songs y/n had mentioned she liked. Their conversation flowed easily — stories shared between laughs, comfortable silences filled with the hum of the road.

Bam’s head occasionally popped up from the backseat, eyes bright and alert, as if sensing the excitement in the air.

Jungkook stole glances at y/n through the rearview mirror — the way her hair caught the sunlight, the way her eyes sparkled with anticipation.

After a few hours, the landscape shifted — the city gave way to rolling hills, and then the salty breeze of the coast wrapped around them.

Busan was close.

And with it, the weekend that promised laughter, quiet moments, and memories that neither of them would forget.

The morning light spilled warmly through the large windows of the cozy guesthouse Jungkook had booked near the beach. Y/n stretched, feeling the gentle sea breeze drift through the slightly open window, carrying the salty scent of the ocean.

Bam was already awake, his paws pattering softly on the wooden floor as he circled excitedly, eager for the day ahead.

Jungkook smiled from the doorway, casually dressed in a loose shirt and shorts, his hair tousled from sleep. “Good morning,” he said quietly.

“Morning,” y/n replied, sliding off the bed and padding over to him.

They shared a quiet moment before stepping outside, where the beach awaited.

The sun was bright but not harsh, the sky a brilliant blue canvas dotted with fluffy clouds. The sound of waves rolling in, the distant chatter of early risers, and the smell of fresh seafood from nearby stalls filled the air.

Bam wasted no time, bounding onto the sand with pure joy, digging and chasing seagulls with abandon. Y/n laughed, chasing after him and feeling lighter than she had in months.

Jungkook stayed close, watching her with that familiar softness in his eyes.

Later, they wandered through the colorful streets of Busan — tasting spicy tteokbokki from a street vendor, sharing sweet hotteok filled with brown sugar and nuts, and exploring the vibrant fish markets alive with the morning’s catch.

The day passed in a series of little adventures, each one making them feel more connected — to the city, to Bam’s infectious energy, and most of all, to each other.

As the sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of pink and orange, they found a quiet spot on the beach.

Bam curled up between them, tired but happy.

Y/n leaned against Jungkook’s shoulder, her heart full.

For the first time since arriving in Seoul, she felt completely at home.

The sun had set, leaving a soft glow over Busan’s coastline. The sky was a deep navy sprinkled with stars, and the gentle rhythm of the waves matched the quiet excitement fluttering in y/n’s chest.

Jungkook led her through winding streets, the lanterns above casting a warm amber light that danced on the cobblestones. Bam trotted happily beside them, his tail wagging as if he knew something special was coming.

They arrived at a small, intimate restaurant tucked away from the bustling tourist spots — a place Jungkook had chosen carefully. The owner greeted them like old friends, guiding them to a cozy corner table with a view of the sea shimmering just beyond the windows.

The evening was filled with delicious food — fresh seafood grilled to perfection, vibrant vegetables, and delicate kimchi that balanced each bite. They laughed easily, sharing stories and savoring the moment as if time had slowed just for them.

After the meal, Jungkook reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, neatly wrapped box. Y/n’s eyes widened in surprise.

“I know it’s small,” he said softly, “but I wanted you to have something to remember today by.

She carefully untied the ribbon and opened the box to find a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny charm shaped like a wave — a nod to Busan and the ocean that had made the day so special.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered, sliding it onto her wrist.

Jungkook smiled, the warmth in his eyes mirroring her own. “Happy birthday, y/n.”

She reached across the table, taking his hand gently. “Thank you. For everything.”

The night didn’t feel like an end but the start of something new — a beginning marked not by grand gestures but by the quiet, meaningful moments they shared.

Walking back along the shore, Bam leading the way, the cool night air wrapping around them, y/n realized this was exactly what she had been searching for.

Not just a birthday.

But a feeling of belonging.

The next morning, the sunlight poured softly through the curtains, casting a warm glow over the guesthouse. Y/n was already awake, sipping tea and watching Bam chase after a stray feather that fluttered by the window.

Jungkook stretched and smiled as he joined her. “I was thinking,” he began, “my parents live nearby here in Busan. Maybe I should visit them today.”

Y/n nodded, “That sounds nice. You should go. I can stay here with Bam and explore a bit on my own.”

He shook his head, his eyes gentle but firm. “No. I want you to come with me. I want them to meet you.”

Surprise flickered across her face, quickly replaced by a warm smile. “Really?”

“Yeah,” he said simply. “It feels right.”

Bam seemed to sense the change in plans, wagging his tail excitedly as Jungkook packed a small bag.

Together, they stepped out into the bright morning, the streets of Busan buzzing softly with life around them. Walking side by side, y/n felt a quiet happiness bloom inside her — a sense that this trip was more than just a birthday getaway.

It was becoming the start of something deeper.

The streets of Busan were alive with the gentle hustle of morning shoppers and the salty scent of the nearby sea as Jungkook guided y/n and Bam through the winding lanes toward his parents’ home. The soft crunch of Bam’s paws against the pavement mixed with their quiet conversation, and for y/n, the feeling of new beginnings settled deep in her chest.

The house was a charming traditional Korean home, low and wide with wooden beams and a small garden blooming with wildflowers. The moment they stepped through the gate, a warm sense of calm wrapped around them, like stepping into a space held by love and years of memories.

Jungkook’s mother appeared first, her face lighting up with a bright smile as she saw her son. “Jungkook-ah!” she called warmly, pulling him into a gentle embrace.

Y/n hung back slightly, feeling shy but grateful when Jungkook quickly took her hand, guiding her forward.

“Mom, this is y/n,” Jungkook said softly, pride and affection clear in his voice. “She’s the one I’ve been telling you about.”

His mother’s eyes sparkled as she studied y/n, her smile widening. “Welcome, y/n. We’ve heard so much about you. Please, come in.”

The house was filled with the aroma of simmering soup and freshly steamed rice, and y/n noticed the careful attention in every detail — from the neatly folded hanboks on a nearby chair to the small trinkets and photographs lining the shelves.

They sat down at the low wooden table, where Jungkook’s father soon joined them, a warm and quiet man whose smile matched his wife’s. The conversation flowed naturally, with Jungkook translating gently when y/n stumbled over Korean phrases or cultural nuances.

Bam settled contentedly at their feet, receiving gentle pats from Jungkook’s parents, who seemed delighted by his friendly energy.

Jungkook’s mother brought out dishes she had prepared herself — spicy kimchi, seasoned vegetables, grilled fish — and y/n felt a genuine sense of being welcomed, not just as Jungkook’s guest but as part of the family.

Between bites, Jungkook shared stories of his childhood in Busan, his eyes lighting up with memories. Y/n laughed at his recollections of mischievous adventures and quiet moments by the sea.

His parents listened, their expressions soft and proud.

Later, they moved to the garden, where y/n helped Jungkook’s mother tend to a small patch of herbs. The simple act of sharing this space felt intimate, bridging worlds and weaving new connections.

As the afternoon sun dipped lower, Jungkook squeezed y/n’s hand gently. “Thank you for coming with me.”

She smiled back, feeling a warmth that had nothing to do with the sunshine. “I’m glad I did.”

Walking back toward the car, Bam trotting happily between them, y/n realized that what had started as a birthday trip had quietly transformed into something much more — a feeling of belonging, of roots beginning to grow.

And with Jungkook beside her, the future suddenly looked brighter than ever.

The last morning in Busan greeted them with breathtaking clarity. The sky was a flawless expanse of pale blue, kissed by the golden light of dawn. The sea stretched endlessly, waves gently rolling onto the shore as if whispering a soft goodbye.

Y/n and Jungkook woke early, both unwilling to let a moment of their time here slip away. After a simple breakfast, they headed straight to the beach, Bam bounding ahead with joyful energy.

The soft sand was cool beneath their feet, and the ocean breeze tangled their hair as they walked side by side. Everywhere they looked, the world seemed to glow — from the sparkling water to the colorful shells scattered along the shore.

They pulled out their camera, eager to capture the magic of the day. But soon, they wanted more than selfies and awkward arm’s-length shots.

With shy smiles, they approached a family nearby and asked if they could take some photos of the three of them together.

The strangers happily agreed, and soon the camera was clicking — Bam’s tongue lolling out happily, Jungkook’s arm wrapped around y/n’s waist, and her head resting lightly against his shoulder.

The pictures told a story: of laughter, of warmth, of a quiet, growing love that felt natural and unbreakable.

They continued wandering along the beach, stopping often to snap more photos, sometimes handing the camera to strangers to capture those perfect moments of connection.

Bam chased seagulls, his joyful barks echoing, as y/n and Jungkook exchanged playful smiles, the easy companionship between them filling the space with light.

As the afternoon sun began to dip toward the horizon, painting the sky in shades of soft pink and orange, they found a quiet spot on the sand.

Jungkook sat close, his fingers gently brushing a strand of hair from y/n’s face. The world around them seemed to hold its breath.

“I’m really glad you came with me,” he murmured, voice low and sincere.

She smiled softly, heart pounding with a sweetness she hadn’t expected. “Me too.”

Their eyes met, and in that stillness — with Bam curled contentedly at their feet and the ocean whispering behind them — Jungkook leaned in.

Their lips met gently at first, a tender brush of warmth and promise.

The kiss deepened, slow and unhurried, as if the sea itself was blessing their moment.

When they finally pulled apart, y/n rested her forehead against his, both breathing a little faster, smiles wide and eyes shining with a new kind of happiness.

For that day on the Busan beach, they weren’t just two people or a girl and a dog and a boy.

They were a little family — bound by laughter, love, and the endless horizon before them.

The drive back to Seoul was wrapped in a calm, gentle stillness, as if the world itself was softening around them after the magic of Busan. The Mercedes G-Class hummed steadily along the highway, windows cracked open just enough to carry the faint scent of pine and distant ocean air.

Bam lay curled comfortably on the blanket in the backseat, occasionally lifting his head to glance at them with bright, trusting eyes.

Jungkook and y/n sat side by side, their hands brushing occasionally, sharing small smiles that spoke volumes without needing words.

They talked — about the trip, their favorite moments, the things they wanted to do next. Y/n listened as Jungkook shared memories of Busan he hadn’t told anyone else, stories from his childhood wrapped in warmth and nostalgia.

She spoke of her own hopes and dreams, finding in him a patient, genuine listener who encouraged her to open up more than she had expected.

The sun began its slow descent, casting long, golden shadows over the road, and the city skyline appeared in the distance like a familiar beacon welcoming them home.

Neither wanted the trip to end, but both felt a quiet happiness settling in their chests — a feeling that no matter where they were, as long as they were together, it was enough.

When the car finally pulled up outside y/n’s apartment, neither rushed to say goodbye. Bam stretched and wagged his tail, sensing the gentle bittersweetness in the air.

Jungkook turned to her with a soft smile. “Thank you for coming with me. For making this trip special.”

Y/n smiled back, heart full. “Thank you for bringing me.”

They stood there for a moment longer, wrapped in the kind of silence that says everything.

Then, with a last squeeze of her hand and a promise of more moments to come, Jungkook climbed back into his car, and the city night swallowed him up.

Y/n watched the taillights fade, already counting the days until their next adventure.

The days after their beautiful trip to Busan felt strangely heavy. Y/n’s phone, once buzzing regularly with messages from Jungkook, was now quiet. No “good morning” texts, no check-ins, no memes or silly gifs she used to send that always made him laugh.

She tried reaching out, sending playful memes and little messages, hoping to break the silence. But the messages stayed unopened, or worse — left without a reply.

Her heart tightened each time she glanced at her phone.

Then one evening, scrolling through social media almost absentmindedly, she saw it — clips of Jungkook live-streaming, laughing, and chatting with fans. He was active, just not with her.

A wave of confusion and hurt crashed over her.

Had she done something wrong? Had she pushed him away? The thought gnawed at her, filling her with doubt.

She replayed every conversation, every moment they’d shared since returning to Seoul. Was there a sign she missed? A mistake she made?

Late at night, she stared at her phone, fingers trembling as she typed a message — then deleted it. Afraid to reach out again, afraid of what silence might mean.

The city outside her window felt colder somehow, emptier.

Y/n wrestled with the ache of unanswered questions, the loneliness that crept in even when surrounded by people.

Was this the end of their story? Or just a difficult pause before a new beginning?

Days turned into a week. The silence stretched on, growing heavier with each passing moment. Y/n found herself staring at her phone more often than she wanted, fingers hovering over Jungkook’s contact, hesitating, then pulling away.

Her heart ached with the unanswered questions, the empty space where his words used to be.

One quiet evening, sitting alone in her small apartment, she finally typed out a message—short, honest, and bittersweet.

“I don’t know what I did wrong. I thought what we had was real. But maybe I was wrong. I’m going to focus on other things now. Take care, Jungkook.”

With a shaky breath, she pressed send, her eyes filling with tears she refused to let fall.

Then, with a mix of relief and heartbreak, she deleted his number from her phone.

It wasn’t easy. It felt like letting go of a dream she’d only just begun to live.

But deep down, she knew she deserved someone who would stay — who wouldn’t vanish without a word.

As her phone screen went dark, a quiet resolve settled inside her.

She would find her own path now.

No matter what the future held.

The days had become a blur — rehearsals, recordings, meetings, and endless schedules that left little room for anything else. BTS was deep into their comeback phase, a time when every second was meticulously planned. Phones were handed over, personal time was nearly nonexistent, and the weight of expectations pressed heavily on Jungkook’s shoulders.

He missed the quiet moments with y/n — the way she smiled when Bam ran to greet her, the gentle way she listened when he shared stories, the warmth of her presence that made everything feel a little less overwhelming.

But with no access to his phone, no chance to reply to her messages, the silence stretched longer than he wanted.

One rare moment, he managed to sneak a glance at his phone during a short break. His heart sank seeing the unopened messages, her last text saying she was moving on.

Regret twisted in his chest.

He decided to go to the park with Bam, hoping for some calm, maybe even a chance to see her and apologize.

But when he arrived, the bench where they usually met was empty.

Bam whined softly, looking up at Jungkook with confusion, and Jungkook sat down, the weight of missed moments settling heavily around him.

He realized how much he wanted to fix this — but the pressure of the world around him made it hard to reach out.

For now, all he could do was hope.

And wait.

Days passed quietly, the park still missing the familiar laughter and warmth y/n used to bring. Jungkook’s heart ached every time he saw Bam’s eager eyes searching for her, his tail wagging uncertainly as if trying to figure out where she had gone.

One afternoon, as Jungkook sat on the bench lost in thought, Bam suddenly perked up, ears alert. Without hesitation, he slipped off his leash and trotted purposefully toward the nearby street where y/n’s apartment was.

Jungkook called after him, but Bam was determined

Minutes later, Bam returned, carrying something soft in his mouth — y/n’s scarf, one she had left in the park during their last meeting.

Jungkook smiled, touched by the dog’s instinct. Bam wanted to remind him of her, to bridge the gap that silence had created.

Inspired by Bam’s determination, Jungkook finally picked up his phone, his fingers trembling as he typed a message — honest, vulnerable, and full of hope.

“Hey, it’s me. I’m sorry. Can we talk?”

Within moments, his phone buzzed.

Y/n’s reply was simple but enough to make his heart soar.

“Okay. Let’s meet.”

For the first time in what felt like forever, the silence began to break.

And with Bam by their side, the path to healing felt a little clearer.

The park was quiet that evening, bathed in the soft glow of street lamps. The gentle rustle of leaves and the distant city sounds created a calm backdrop as y/n arrived, her heart fluttering with a mix of nervousness and hope.

Jungkook stood by their favorite bench, Bam wagging his tail eagerly, as if sensing the importance of this moment.

When their eyes met, the silence spoke volumes. Neither rushed forward — instead, they took a slow step closer, giving space for the weight of everything unsaid.

Jungkook’s voice was soft but steady. “I’m sorry for disappearing. The comeback schedule… it was overwhelming. I wanted to talk, but I couldn’t.”

Y/n’s eyes shimmered with unshed tears. “I didn’t know what to think. I felt like you left without a reason. I thought maybe I scared you away.”

He shook his head, reaching out to gently take her hand. “Never. I’ve been thinking about you every day. I should have trusted you with the truth.”

Bam nudged y/n’s side, breaking the tension with a happy wag.

She smiled, squeezing Jungkook’s hand. “I’m glad you reached out.”

They sat together on the bench, words flowing easier now — apologies, explanations, hopes for what could be next.

The night wrapped around them like a promise — imperfect, uncertain, but filled with the possibility of something real.

For the first time in a long while, y/n and Jungkook weren’t just two people caught between worlds.

They were two hearts ready to find their way back to each other.

The next morning, the sky stretched wide and blue above Seoul — the kind of weather that made the city feel lighter, as if even it was breathing easier.

Y/n walked toward the park with a quiet sense of anticipation. In one hand, she carried two bottles of banana milk she had made at home — the same recipe from before. In the other, a small container of freshly baked muffins, still warm through the cloth. She’d even made a special dog-friendly version for Bam.

Her heart beat fast, but not like before — not from anxiety or confusion, but from something softer.

Hope.

When she reached their usual bench, she saw them waiting.

Bam was the first to spot her. His ears perked, tail wagging like crazy, he tugged at his leash and sprinted toward her with all the enthusiasm of someone greeting their favorite person in the world.

Y/n laughed, kneeling to greet him. “I missed you too,” she whispered, pressing a soft kiss to his head before scratching behind his ears. “I brought you something.”

She opened the small box, revealing the dog muffins. Bam immediately sat down, eyes wide and polite, as if sensing this was a gift meant to be received with dignity.

Jungkook appeared moments later, his hoodie a little too big, black hair tousled like he hadn’t slept much — but his smile, when he saw her, was real and filled with quiet joy.

“You came,” he said, softly.

“Of course I did,” she answered, holding out the second bottle of banana milk.

He accepted it like it meant everything. “Are those… homemade again?”

She nodded, her eyes meeting his. “And muffins. You know, for everyone.”

They sat down together, just like before — but the silence between them now was comfortable. There was no more doubt. No more unspoken pain.

Just small smiles. Easy laughter. And the warmth of something slowly being rebuilt.

Bam laid across both their feet, eyes closing as the late morning sun spilled through the trees.

And as Jungkook took a sip of the banana milk, he let out a soft hum of approval. “Still my favorite.”

Y/n grinned, eyes crinkling. “I know.”

They sat a while longer in the park, sharing banana milk and gentle conversation, watching Bam stretch out in the sun like he owned the world.

At some point, Jungkook turned to her, eyes studying her face carefully. It wasn’t nerves, exactly — more like quiet sincerity.

“I’ve been thinking about something,” he said, fingers tracing the side of his bottle. “You’re important to me. And I… I want you to meet the others.”

Y/n blinked, surprised. “The others?”

He smiled, his ears turning faintly pink. “The members. The guys. My second family.”

Her heart did a small flip — not because she was nervous, but because it meant something. Deeply.

“You sure?” she asked, gently, but with a smile tugging at her lips. “Isn’t that… a big step?”

He nodded. “Yeah. It is. But I want them to know who you are — the girl who makes banana milk and bakes for Bam. The one who listens to me when I forget how to breathe.”

Y/n didn’t answer right away. She just looked at him, warm and open and a little in awe that someone like him could be this honest, this kind.

“I’d like that,” she finally said. “When?”

He grinned. “Tonight, if you’re free. They’re all at the dorm for dinner. It’s casual — Jin-hyung’s cooking, and the rest are just… loud.”

Y/n laughed. “Loud I can handle. Just give me five minutes to emotionally prepare myself.”

He chuckled, then leaned forward, voice low and soft. “They’re going to love you. But maybe not as much as I do.”

She blinked — stunned into stillness by the quiet confession. But the way he smiled after, the way he gently nudged her shoulder with his, let her know he meant it.

Bam let out a happy bark, breaking the moment, and y/n laughed, brushing her hair behind her ear to hide the blush that crept in.

“Alright,” she said, standing up. “Let’s go meet your second family.”

The late afternoon sun dipped behind the skyline as Jungkook and y/n stood outside the dorm. Her heart was a mix of steady and storm, fluttering inside her chest as she held the box of still-warm pastries she’d baked earlier in the day — cinnamon rolls and sweet potato bread, her best batch yet. Even a few honey dog biscuits tucked in a small paper bag for Bam, who trotted beside them like he already belonged.

“I can carry that,” Jungkook offered, reaching for the box.

“No way,” she smiled, holding it close. “I’m going in with a peace offering. You only get one first impression.”

He grinned, eyes shining with that soft fondness she was still getting used to — the kind that made her stomach do gentle flips.

Inside, the dorm smelled like a mix of dinner, fabric softener, and something distinctly Jin’s cooking. As soon as they stepped in, the noise hit her — laughter, someone yelling from another room, the low bass of music playing somewhere down the hall.

And then came the footsteps.

“Yah, finally!” Taehyung’s voice rang out as he rounded the corner, socks sliding on the wooden floor. He stopped mid-step when he saw her.

“Ohhh,” he said, smile blooming, eyes widening in playful curiosity. “You’re real.”

Jungkook groaned behind her. “Hyung, please—”

But it was too late. Jimin appeared next, followed by Namjoon and Hobi, then Jin from the kitchen with a towel slung over his shoulder.

“She brought cinnamon rolls,” Jungkook mumbled as if trying to distract them from their interrogation-mode.

That worked better than expected.

“Wait — cinnamon rolls?” Jin perked up like it was the most important thing anyone had ever said.

“Homemade?” Hobi asked, already helping her out of her jacket and leading her toward the dining table like a VIP guest.

Y/n laughed, flustered but charmed. “Yeah, I baked a few things. Hope that’s okay.”

“That’s more than okay,” Jin declared, lifting the lid of the box and inhaling like it was oxygen. “You’re staying for life now.”

They gathered around the table like a pack of overgrown kids, fighting over the warmest cinnamon roll. Even Yoongi emerged from his room, sleepy-eyed and mumbling a greeting as he slid into a seat — only to wake up instantly when he took a bite.

“She’s perfect,” he said simply, chewing.

Bam, freshly bathed and charming as ever, wandered around the table, earning scratches and coos from everyone. He curled up between Jimin and Hobi like he’d always belonged there.

Y/n sat beside Jungkook, who leaned back in his chair watching it all unfold — her laughter mixing with the members’, the way she offered Namjoon more when he spilled a bit of frosting, how naturally she fit into this world of inside jokes and warmth and noise.

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just watched. A rare quietness in his chest, something still and full and content.

As dinner started, Jin insisted on doing most of the serving (“This is my kitchen!”), and the conversation turned to her — what she studied, what she liked, how she put up with Jungkook’s annoying habits. Teasing, of course, but gentle. Like older brothers poking just enough to see how far they could push before it became too much.

Y/n gave as good as she got, surprising even herself with how at ease she felt. Maybe it was the way Jungkook would occasionally brush his knee against hers under the table, grounding her. Or how Taehyung dramatically declared her cinnamon rolls had altered his worldview.

“You realize,” Namjoon said with a slow smile after dinner, “you’ve officially passed the test.”

“What test?” she asked, raising a brow.

“Becoming part of the family,” Jimin grinned.

Jungkook reached under the table, quietly threading his fingers through hers. She looked at him, startled, but softened immediately when she saw the look in his eyes.

Grateful. Steady. Home.

⸻

That night, as she helped clear the plates and laughed with Jin about how Bam had eaten one of Hobi’s socks, she realized something.

She hadn’t just met his world.

She’d stepped into it — and been welcomed with open arms.

The dorm had finally quieted down — dishes done, music turned low, members drifting off into their rooms with full stomachs and sleepy smiles. Bam was curled into a warm ball of fur on a cozy cushion Taehyung had laid out for him earlier, happily snoring.

Jungkook and y/n stepped onto the small dorm balcony, the sliding glass door closing gently behind them. The night air was warm with a soft breeze, carrying the distant hum of Seoul’s streets — life still moving, but slower now.

They stood side by side, elbows resting on the railing, shoulders brushing.

The view wasn’t dramatic — no mountains or ocean, just buildings, headlights, and signs glowing in neon. But to her, it felt like magic. A quiet pocket of peace with him.

She took a deep breath, letting the cool air fill her lungs.

“I really like your friends,” she said softly, her eyes scanning the horizon. “They’re… special. You’re lucky to have them.”

Jungkook turned slightly, watching her instead of the skyline. The way her hair shifted in the breeze, the calm in her voice — it made his chest feel full.

“I know,” he nodded. “They’re like brothers. We’ve been through everything together. But it means a lot that they liked you. You fit in.”

She smiled, then turned to meet his gaze fully.

“But you know,” she said, her voice light but sincere, “I think I got the best one.”

His breath caught for a second. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “The one who bakes banana bread at 1 a.m., who whispers to his dog like he’s a human. The one who sings without even realizing, who makes me feel seen in a place that could have swallowed me whole.”

A faint blush crept across his cheeks, but he didn’t look away.

Instead, he reached for her hand and laced their fingers together again — the way he had at dinner, only this time slower, firmer. Like he wanted her to really feel it.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve this,” he murmured.

She smiled, gently tugging his hand toward her chest. “You were just you. That’s enough.”

For a while, they didn’t speak. Just leaned into each other as the city twinkled below, as if Seoul itself was holding space for them.

Jungkook tilted his head down, his forehead resting lightly against hers. His voice was a whisper between them.

“Can I kiss you?”

Her answer was a quiet smile, her eyes falling closed as she leaned in.

And then, there — under the soft breath of the wind and the watchful stars — he kissed her. Not hurried or unsure.

Just real. Certain.

Like he’d been waiting to.

The night had grown still by the time they slipped back inside. The dorm’s lights were dimmed, the voices that once filled the space now tucked behind closed doors and tired laughter.

Jungkook and y/n moved quietly down the hall, careful not to wake anyone — though a light snore from Jin’s room assured them no one would be disturbed.

Just before she reached for her jacket to leave, Jungkook stopped her, his voice soft.

“You don’t have to go,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “You could stay. I mean, if you want to.”

She looked up at him, surprise flashing in her eyes, but there was no pressure in his tone — only a gentle offer.

“I’d like that,” she replied after a pause. “But… where would I sleep?”

He gave a small smile and nodded toward the hallway. “My old room is empty tonight. The guest mattress is in there — we keep it for when members crash here during long studio nights. It’s nothing fancy but…” He shrugged, boyish and sweet. “It’s quiet. And safe.”

“That sounds perfect.”

Before she could say more, he disappeared into his room and returned moments later, holding a soft, oversized black shirt.

“Here,” he said, holding it out. “It’s clean. Might be big, but… it’s warm. And smells like me, I guess.”

She laughed as she took it, the fabric brushing her fingers. “That’s a bonus.”

He blushed slightly, smiling as he showed her where the towels were and left her alone in the bathroom to change.

⸻

The shirt hung loose on her frame, falling mid-thigh. It smelled like fabric softener, a bit of spice, and something entirely Jungkook — comforting in a way that made her heart ache a little.

When she walked quietly into the spare room, he was there, already pulling an extra blanket over the mattress.

“I’ll leave you to it,” he said, standing. “But if you need anything—”

“Will you stay?” she asked, her voice gentle but sure.

Jungkook blinked. “You mean—?”

“Just… sleep. Talk. Be close.” She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, suddenly shy. “You feel safe.”

He nodded — just once, but the way his face softened said everything.

“Of course.”

They lay down side by side on the mattress, the room dim except for the sliver of moonlight from the window. No touching at first, just sharing breath, silence, and the hum of the city in the distance.

After a few minutes, she turned to face him. “Thank you,” she whispered. “For making tonight feel… like home.”

Jungkook reached over, brushing a thumb gently across her temple before tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “You are home.”

And with that, she shifted slightly closer. Bam — who had trotted in at some point and plopped down at their feet — sighed contentedly in his sleep.

No expectations. No tension.

Just warmth, skin against fabric, heartbeats slowly syncing under layers of blankets.

Together.

Of course — here’s a continuation of their intimate night, as they fall asleep together in each other’s arms, in a way that’s warm, gentle, and deeply safe.

⸻

The room was wrapped in stillness, the kind that only falls when the rest of the world has already given itself over to sleep

Outside, Seoul buzzed faintly in the distance — car horns, distant laughter, and the rhythmic hum of city life — but in here, the world had shrunk to just the two of them.

Jungkook lay on his side, one arm under his pillow, eyes fluttering half-closed as he watched her breathe. Y/n had shifted closer at some point, her face turned toward his, hair falling soft across her cheek. His oversized black shirt draped over her like a blanket, swallowing her frame in the most endearing way.

Between them, only inches.

Then… just a little less.

She moved instinctively, sleep already softening her body, and rested her forehead against his chest. Her arm slid gently across his middle, fingers brushing his shirt fabric. Not seeking anything more than closeness. Connection.

His breath caught — not from surprise, but from how right it felt.

He slowly wrapped his arm around her shoulders, his hand splaying gently across her back. No words. Just warmth. Her heartbeat, steady and slow, thudded softly against his side.

“I like this,” she mumbled, barely above a whisper, her lips brushing the fabric of his shirt.

He smiled into the dark, pressing a kiss to the top of her head — featherlight. “Me too.”

Bam huffed in his sleep from the foot of the mattress, as if in agreement, then rolled over with a snore.

The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and shampoo, and something sweetly personal — the beginning of something safe and real.

Wrapped in the comfort of each other, no masks, no tension — just the closeness of hearts drawn together without fear — they drifted off.

His fingers traced a gentle circle across her back until her breathing deepened. Her body relaxed fully into his. And eventually, he let sleep take him, too, lulled by the presence of the girl who, without even trying, had filled the quiet spaces in his life with something better than peace.

Y/n stirred slowly, blinking into the pale morning light seeping through the curtains. The air was warm, heavy with sleep and the soft rhythm of breath against her forehead. It took her a second to realize the weight across her waist wasn’t a blanket — it was Jungkook’s arm.

They’d shifted in the night, close becoming closer, and now she was tucked against his chest, legs tangled gently beneath the covers. His hair was tousled, lashes resting against his cheeks, lips slightly parted in the kind of deep, dreamless sleep only people who truly feel safe can fall into.

She stayed like that for a while — unmoving — not wanting to disturb the moment. His heartbeat was a gentle lull beneath her ear, and she couldn’t help but smile. Softly. Secretly.

Eventually, his breathing changed — awareness returning in slow waves — and his arm around her tightened slightly.

“You’re still here,” he mumbled, voice rough with sleep.

“I didn’t really want to leave.”

He blinked slowly, lifting his head just enough to look at her, a lazy smile forming. “Good.”

There was no rush. Just quiet. A shared softness in the morning haze.

But then — a knock on the door. Followed by it cracking open without much ceremony.

“Are you two alive or—oh.”

Taehyung’s voice halted. His head peeked in, hair messy, wearing mismatched slippers.

“Ohhh,” he said again, dragging it out this time with a grin. “Cuddles and all. Cute.”

Y/n buried her face in Jungkook’s chest as he groaned. “Hyung…”

“What? I came to ask if you’re joining breakfast. Jin-hyung’s making something insane. The whole place smells like a bakery.”

“I’ll kill you in five minutes,” Jungkook grumbled, still half-asleep.

Taehyung chuckled and disappeared down the hall, voice echoing: “They’re cuddling, by the way!”

Y/n couldn’t stop laughing now, hiding her face again.

“Do you regret letting me stay?” she teased.

“Never.” Jungkook kissed her forehead. “But I do regret not locking the door.”

—

Fifteen minutes later, she stepped into the kitchen wearing the same oversized black shirt from the night before and a pair of leggings Jungkook found in the laundry room (“I think they’re Hobi’s. He won’t notice”).

The kitchen was full — the boys all in various states of alertness. Jin was flipping cinnamon French toast like a Michelin chef. Jimin was perched on the counter, stealing slices when Jin turned away. Namjoon was making coffee, Yoongi was sitting in a hoodie and sunglasses despite it being indoors, and Taehyung was playing fetch with Bam using a dish towel.

“You made it!” Hobi cheered as y/n entered, offering her a warm plate. “We saved you a seat.”

She sat between Jungkook and Jimin, heart surprisingly at ease as conversations started up around her again. They talked about the upcoming schedule, the weird dream Namjoon had, how Yoongi apparently snored so loud Jin threatened to exile him.

And through it all, Jungkook kept stealing little glances at her. Sometimes brushing his hand against hers under the table. Sometimes just smiling when she laughed at something the others said.

It was easy. Real.

Like she belonged.

“You’re gonna have to bake again,” Jin said with a pointed look. “We need refills of those cinnamon rolls.”

“She can bake, cuddle, and handle Jungkook’s weirdness,” Jimin added, nudging her. “We approve.”

“She even makes banana milk,” Jungkook said, pretending to sound smug — but there was something quiet and proud in his voice too. Like he still couldn’t believe she was here.

She smiled, sipping her coffee.

And in the middle of that chaotic kitchen, surrounded by laughter, food, Bam curled at her feet, and Jungkook beside her…

She felt it.

A new kind of home.

The days after breakfast at the dorm blurred into a comfortable rhythm — messages exchanged, shared playlists, Bam’s joyful barks in the park, small moments that grew into something neither of them had dared to name.

It wasn’t official. But it was real.

That evening, the sun was dipping low, painting the Seoul skyline in hues of orange and lavender. They sat on a bench at their usual park spot, sipping iced banana milk from two metal tumblers she’d brought. Bam lay across their feet, panting from the run, his tail still wagging lazily.

Jungkook had been quiet today. Present, affectionate, but distant behind the eyes.

She noticed — she always noticed.

“Is everything okay?” she asked softly, nudging her shoulder against his.

He exhaled slowly, not looking at her at first. “I need to tell you something.”

Her chest tightened.

Please don’t say this is over.

He glanced at her finally, eyes honest and conflicted. “I’m going on tour. Overseas. It’s the comeback run — we’re moving nonstop for the next few months.”

Silence stretched for a few seconds too long.

“Oh,” she said. “When?”

“Three days.”

That hurt more than she expected.

Her heart sank — not because he was doing something wrong. Not even because he didn’t tell her earlier. But because… she had gotten used to him. To this. To Bam’s warm greetings and Jungkook’s sleepy smiles and late-night talks in oversized shirts.

Three days suddenly felt like a countdown.

“I should’ve told you sooner,” he murmured. “I didn’t want to ruin what we had the past week. I guess I was… selfish.”

She shook her head quickly. “No. It’s your life. Your dream. I get it. I really do.”

But her voice cracked on the last word — just slightly.

He reached out and took her hand, holding it tight between his.

“I’m coming back,” he said. “And I want to pick up where we left off. If you’ll still want that.”

She looked at their hands, then up at him.

“Of course I will, Jungkook.”

He gave a soft, almost boyish smile of relief.

Then she cleared her throat, trying to lighten the air even though her heart felt a little bruised. “And… if you’ll let me… I could take care of Bam while you’re gone. I mean, it’s not like he’d forgive you if you took him away from me now.”

Bam barked once, as if in agreement, wagging his tail.

Jungkook laughed. “Honestly, I think he likes you more than he likes me.”

She nudged him gently. “He has good taste.“

They sat there for a while longer, quietly processing. Not rushing anything. The sky continued to shift above them, and the city around them moved on — but their bench felt like a bubble.

He turned toward her then, face serious again. “I’ll make time. I’ll text you. Call you. Every second I can.”

“I don’t expect perfect,” she said. “I just don’t want to be forgotten.”

“You couldn’t be,” he whispered. “You’re the one thing I want to come back to.”

Their last full day together started slowly.

Y/n had woken up to a message from Jungkook at 6:41 AM.

JK: Don’t make any plans today. You’re mine.

She smiled as she read it, still half under the covers, the early light barely peeking through her curtain. He hadn’t needed to ask — she wouldn’t have spent the day with anyone else anyway.

By noon, he was at her door. Sunglasses, hoodie, and a tote bag slung over his shoulder.

“Ready?” he asked, and his smile — that crooked, sleepy, golden smile — made her momentarily forget that he’d be gone in less than twenty-four hours.

—

They didn’t do anything grand.

No city tours, no rooftop restaurants or glittering Seoul skylines.

They just were.

They walked Bam together through winding back streets and quiet corners of the city, his leash slack as he trotted ahead, tail wagging happily between them. She brought banana milk in reusable bottles, and he carried one in his hoodie pocket the entire time like it was precious cargo.

In the afternoon, they sat at the Han River — her sketchpad in her lap, his head resting on her shoulder. She was drawing his hand again. She’d become obsessed with his hands — how expressive they were, how calm they made her feel when they rested gently against her back or cheek.

He watched her quietly, occasionally peeking at the unfinished sketch.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he murmured, tracing the curve of her pencil stroke with his gaze. “Make me look like… more than I am.“

She smiled. “You don’t see what I see.”

“I wish I did.”

A breeze passed. Bam lay beside them, chewing lazily on a treat, and for a second she wished she could pause time. Let this afternoon stretch out forever. Before the suitcases. Before the planes.

—

That evening, Jungkook invited her to his place, he changed a few things.

Soft lighting, warm wood, a few instruments propped against the wall. His art table in the corner. Sketches, lyrics, half-written notes in the margins of his notebooks. Photos of Bam — some candid, some framed like proud father moments.

She slipped off her shoes at the door and turned to him. “It’s beautiful.”

He shrugged, slightly bashful. “It’s quieter than people think.”

“I like quiet.”

He grinned. “I know.”

He cooked for her that night. No cameras, no stylists — just Jungkook in a loose black shirt and sweats, barefoot in his kitchen, making kimchi fried rice with soft eggs on top and perfectly sliced green onions.

They ate cross-legged on the floor of his living room, Bam snoozing between them.

He poured her a glass of cold barley tea and asked about her favorite comfort foods. She told him about rainy days back home, and he shared stories of childhood summers in Busan. They laughed, leaned into each other, and let the evening bloom slowly — moment by moment.

—

Later, when the dishes were cleared and the sky outside had melted into navy, she found herself sitting beside him on his living room floor again, the stereo playing soft vinyl hums in the background. Something jazzy. Timeless.

He looked at her then — really looked. As if memorizing her face.

“What are you thinking?” she asked gently.

“That I’m going to miss you so much it already hurts.”

Her breath caught.

“You haven’t even left yet.”

“I know,” he whispered. “But I already miss this. You. Right here. Laughing at my dumb jokes. Pretending my food isn’t too spicy.”

She gave a watery smile, eyes stinging a little. “You’ll come back.”

He nodded, and reached for her hand. His grip was warm and sure.

“And when I do,” he said softly, “I want you to still be here.”

She squeezed his fingers. “I will be.”

They stayed like that a while — bodies close, fingers intertwined, Bam curled by their feet like a sleepy chaperone.

And when it got late, and the music had stopped, and the silence settled between them like a familiar comfort…

Jungkook stood, took a slow breath, and disappeared into his bedroom. When he returned, he held something small in his hand.

A black beanie.

It was worn at the edges, clearly loved — the kind of thing someone kept not because it was stylish, but because it meant something.

“This,” he said, handing it to her, “was mine during the Wings tour. It’s nothing special, but… it’s seen a lot. And I want you to have it. Until I get back.”

She took it carefully, like it was fragile.

She pulled it onto her head and smiled. It was too big. It smelled like him.

“I’ll keep it safe,” she whispered.

He leaned forward, pressed a kiss to her forehead, and stayed there a moment longer than necessary.

“I don’t want to sleep,” he admitted.

She looked up. “Then let’s not. Not yet.”

So they stayed awake. Listening to records. Talking in half-sentences. Sharing the kind of closeness that only grows in the shadow of goodbye.

And when sleep did finally come — with her curled into his side, Bam’s soft breathing nearby — it was gentle. No tears. No fear.

Just the quiet promise of something worth waiting for.

The sky was still dark when the alarm buzzed.

5:12 a.m.

The city was quiet, and Jungkook’s apartment was wrapped in shadows — the kind that whisper don’t go yet even though time moves forward anyway.

Y/n stirred beneath the covers first, groggy, her heart already heavy. Her hand instinctively reached beside her — Jungkook was already up.

She sat up slowly and spotted him across the room, hoodie over his head, sleeves pulled over his hands, standing barefoot by the window, watching the skyline.

He didn’t turn when he spoke.

“I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I wanted to wake up with you.”

He turned around at that, the softest smile tugging at his lips. His eyes looked tired, but not from lack of sleep — from the weight of leaving.

She slid out of bed and padded over to him, wrapping her arms around his waist. His chin dropped to rest gently atop her head, and they just stood like that — not moving, not speaking. As if silence could slow the clock.

Eventually, Bam padded into the room, tail wagging weakly, sensing something was different. He trotted over and nudged Jungkook’s leg.

“I think he knows,” Jungkook said with a soft laugh, crouching down and burying his hands in Bam’s fur. “You’re gonna be good for her, okay?”

Bam licked his face in response.

Y/n knelt beside them, one hand on Bam’s back, the other reaching for Jungkook’s. Their fingers laced.

He looked at her then — close, searching — and whispered, “I don’t want to go.”

“I know,” she said, swallowing the lump in her throat. “But you have to.”

“And when I come back?”

She smiled, even as tears welled behind her eyes. “I’ll be here. Banana milk in the fridge. Bam freshly spoiled. Waiting.”

Jungkook leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers. “You’re gonna be the thing that keeps me sane.”

She laughed quietly, and he kissed her — slow, deep, not rushed. Like he was storing the feeling of her lips in memory. Like he needed it to last.

—

The drive to the airport was mostly quiet. She sat in the passenger seat, wearing his beanie, his hoodie over her clothes. Bam sat behind them, his chin resting on the middle console, watching Jungkook with soft eyes.

He parked in the underground level, away from fans, away from flashes.

They stood for a while at the back of the car. No one rushing. No one saying what they didn’t have to.

Then he cupped her face.

“I’ll call. I’ll message. Every second I can.”

“I’ll send memes,” she offered with a watery smile. “And updates on Bam. You’ll be sick of me.”

“Never.”

He kissed her again. Longer this time. Slower. The kind of kiss that said I’ll miss you and please wait for me and this is real all at once.

Then he crouched down and hugged Bam, arms around his neck like a brother.

“Take care of her, buddy.”

Bam whimpered.

Jungkook straightened, eyes shining but dry. He touched Y/n’s cheek one last time.

And then he turned and walked away.

She didn’t call after him.

Didn’t cry until he was out of sight.

She stood in the quiet of the parking garage, Bam sitting obediently at her side, and whispered to herself:

“He’s coming back.”

And somehow, that made all the difference.

Three days had passed since Jungkook left.

The apartment still smelled faintly like his shampoo, like his favorite hand cream and the little candles he lit near his window at night. She hadn’t touched the hoodie he gave her. It lay folded on her chair, and every now and then she’d brush her fingers across it, remembering the way it fit him — and then how it felt wrapped around her.

Bam had taken to curling up on her floor, his head resting by the side of the bed. He wasn’t sad, not exactly, but quieter. Gentler. Just like her.

They understood each other now — not just in a “you’re a dog and I like you” way, but in that silent, emotional thread that Jungkook had tied between them.

Each morning, she filled his bowl, took him for a long walk, brought a sketchbook or a novel with her to their park bench. Bam would sit quietly beside her, scanning the crowds with soft, expectant eyes — as if he, too, was still hoping Jungkook might round the corner.

Every day, she sent Jungkook a little something.

Photos. Memes. Selfies of Bam looking dramatically bored. A recording of her trying (and failing) to sing along to one of BTS’ new tracks in the kitchen. A video of Bam howling softly at a siren.

He didn’t always respond immediately, but when he did, it was all warmth.

JK:

That selfie? Ruined me. Look at my boy posing like a model. Tell him I miss him. Tell YOU I miss you more.

JK:

What’s the score now? Bam: 7. Couch: 0. My poor furniture. I don’t even care. Let him climb everything.

JK:

Still thinking about how you looked that last night. Still thinking about how you kissed me goodbye.

And then there were the voice notes. She lived for those.

Hushed, a little tired, always whispered from hotel hallways or green rooms in-between rehearsals. But they were all him.

“I saw your drawing of Bam in the banana hoodie. I showed the staff. They lost their minds. You’re insane.”

“I don’t think I’ve smiled this much in any comeback season. You did that.”

“I fell asleep last night holding the hoodie you wore. Smelled like you. Made it harder and better at the same time.”

She didn’t expect it to be easy. And it wasn’t.

Nights were the worst. The silence stretched. Sometimes she fell asleep with a podcast on just to drown out the feeling of being alone. Bam would curl up at her feet like a shadow.

But still — every morning, she got up. She cooked. She sketched. She let herself feel everything without letting it drown her.

Because it wasn’t heartbreak.

It was something deeper. Quieter.

The kind of missing that only happens when love isn’t over — just far away.

—

A week into his tour, a surprise arrived at her door.

A sleek little delivery box with no sender name.

Inside: a delicate silver bracelet, simple and understated — but on the inside of the clasp, engraved so tiny she almost missed it, were the words:

For when you feel alone. I’m always one thought away.

And tucked beneath it, a note in his messy handwriting.

I love the you that exists when I’m with you. But I also love the you that holds it down when I’m gone.

This is me, holding your hand from across the world.

-JK

She sat down on the floor next to Bam, silent for a long time.

Then she put the bracelet on, let her fingertips run over the engraving, and whispered, “I miss you too.”

Bam licked her hand, then rested his head on her lap — as if echoing the words.

And just like that, the quiet didn’t feel quite so lonely anymore.

The idea came quietly, like most beautiful things do.

She was lying in bed one night, Bam snoring softly at her feet, the bracelet he gave her still cool on her wrist. Jungkook had sent a voice note just before midnight — his voice tired but sweet, words slurring slightly from the long day:

“I miss you in every room. On every street. On every stupid plane. And I keep wishing I could open a door and just—there you are.”

She replayed it five times before the idea bloomed fully.

Why couldn’t she be behind that door?

—

A few days later, her plan was in motion.

Taehyung had helped. Jimin too — gleefully dramatic about the secret mission. “He’s gonna cry. I hope you make him cry. That’s true romance.”

The staff was discreet. She arrived in the city quietly, wore sunglasses and a hoodie, just like Jungkook always did. Bam traveled like a pro, snoozing beside her on the train, tail wagging when they arrived at the hotel.

The boys had arranged everything.

She’d be waiting just off-stage, during the final rehearsal. Jungkook would be doing mic checks, walking the empty stadium floor with the others, adjusting in-ears and pacing lighting marks.

He would have no idea.

—

The stadium was bigger than she expected. The echo of Jungkook’s voice — even from afar — hit her like a memory. Like coming home.

From backstage, she could see him.

Baseball cap backwards. Sleeveless shirt. Sweat glistening on his arms as he laughed with Jin over something on a monitor. He looked relaxed. Focused. Gorgeous in the way only people are when they’re doing what they love.

And then, Taehyung gave the signal.

It was time.

She clipped Bam’s leash into place, heart pounding. Bam, as if sensing something special was happening, stood a little taller. His ears perked. His eyes focused forward.

They walked.

Right down the hallway. Right through the backstage door.

Onto the empty floor of the stadium.

—

Jungkook turned when he heard the patter of paws echo on the concrete.

At first, he blinked.

Confused.

Then froze.

And when he really saw — Bam trotting across the floor, leash in someone’s hand, that familiar silhouette beneath the hoodie — his heart stopped.

“…Y/n?”

She smiled, lowering the hood.

Bam barked once — joyfully — and broke into a full sprint.

Jungkook didn’t move at first.

Then his water bottle hit the ground, forgotten.

He ran.

Straight toward her, faster than he had any business running after hours of rehearsal. Bam met him halfway, tail going wild, tongue out in full Doberman glee, and then Jungkook reached them — breathless, flushed, and wide-eyed.

“You’re—” he started, voice cracking.

She nodded, smiling through tears she hadn’t expected.

“I’m here.”

He looked between her and Bam, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. “You—you came. Are you real?”

She touched his arm. “More real than your voice notes, I hope.”

He laughed, choked, and pulled her into a hug so tight it made her knees weak.

“I thought about this every single day,” he whispered against her hair. “Every night. Every f—god, I missed you.”

“I missed you too.“

Bam whined, pawing at Jungkook’s leg, and he crouched, wrapping one arm around his dog and the other still around her.

“You two just became the best part of my entire tour,” he said, voice thick.

And for a long moment, they just stayed like that — in the middle of an echoing stadium, wrapped in each other like no one else existed.

The boys watched from the side, Taehyung wiping a pretend tear.

“Told you he’d cry.”

—

Later that night, after the surprise settled and everyone returned to the hotel, Jungkook didn’t want to let her out of sight.

She lay curled on the bed in his oversized shirt, Bam between them like a warm, living barrier. Jungkook played with the bracelet on her wrist, tracing the engraving like it was a spell.

“I keep thinking I’ll wake up,” he murmured.

“You won’t.”

He looked at her — soft, bare-faced, sleepy-eyed — and smiled like it hurt.

“You turned this tour into a memory I’ll never forget.”

She touched his cheek. “You were already unforgettable.”

He leaned in and kissed her slowly. No urgency. Just gratitude. Wonder.

And when she whispered, “Let me stay for the next show,” he nodded, whispering against her lips,

“Stay for everything.”

She’d seen videos, fancams, entire performances edited and rewatched on her phone, but nothing could have prepared her for the reality of it.

Jungkook was fire and grace, power and softness. Every move was precision. Every note was emotion.

But what struck her most was his smile.

It wasn’t the polished, practiced one she’d seen in interviews. It was his smile — the one she saw in the kitchen when he tasted her cinnamon rolls, the one he wore while walking Bam at sunset, the one he gave her, sleepy and soft, just before kissing her forehead goodnight.

He was glowing.

And she realized something that stole her breath:

He was happy. Deep down, utterly, irrevocably happy

And part of that happiness was her.

—

About halfway through the set, he paused between songs to catch his breath.

The lights dimmed slightly, and the other members moved to the back of the stage while he stepped forward.

His chest was rising and falling, damp strands of hair clinging to his forehead, a bottle of water in hand. But it wasn’t exhaustion on his face.

It was softness.

“Before the next song,” he said in Korean, voice echoing gently, “I wanna thank someone really special. Someone who… gave me a piece of peace in the middle of this crazy storm.”

The fans quieted.

“I don’t normally say things like this,” he laughed shyly, “but… I’ve been missing someone. A lot.”

Behind the curtain, Y/n covered her mouth.

“I thought I’d have to wait until the tour was over. But she surprised me. Came all this way. And she brought our boy too.”

The crowd screamed — people around the world knew about Bam, and now, they were piecing it together.

Jungkook glanced subtly toward the edge of the stage. His gaze softened even more.

“So, if you’re watching this… thank you. For showing up. For showing me that love doesn’t disappear when you leave — it just grows, waiting for you to come back.”

And with that, he turned, raised his mic, and launched into a stripped-down version of Still With You.

She didn’t even try to stop the tears.

Because now, everyone could see it.

This wasn’t just an idol on stage.

This was a man in love.

And that love — theirs — was shining under every spotlight.

#kpop #au #smut #bts #jk #jungkook #ff #jungkook ff #jeon jungkook #jungkook au #jungkook x original character #jungkook x y/n #jungkook x oc #jungkook x reader #jungkook x you #jungkook love #bangtan

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youthguk · 3 months ago

Text

Terms & Conditions | Act 1 of 2 | jjk (m)

pairing: CEO’s son!Jungkook x assistant!Reader

genre: corporate lust, forbidden tension, and a shattering lie in silk and crystal.

summary: You swore you came here to build a career — not fall apart in the hands of the CEO’s son.

warnings:power imbalance, office tension, fingering, oral (f receiving), dry humping, unprotected sex, infidelity themes, toxic dynamics, emotional manipulation, angst, heartbreak, smut, dom!jungkook, heartbreak kink, chain kink, slight dumbification, broken glass

w.c: 15k

author's note: this is a story idea i’ve been dying to try for a while — something about the tension, the imbalance, the unraveling… it just begged to be written. i’d love to hear your thoughts — reblogs, comments, messages — anything. your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

You don’t remember the last time your palms weren’t sweating before walking through those glass doors.

It’s only your second week at Jeon & Co., a name that sounds more like a private gallery or old-money auction house than one of South Korea’s most dominant conglomerates. They own everything — from high-end beauty brands to media networks, and you’re in their marketing sector, nestled under the glittering branch that manages global creative campaigns. The best of the best. Exactly where you’re supposed to be.

You graduated with honors, survived three interviews, and beat out hundreds of equally desperate graduates. You have a boyfriend, a freshly ironed blazer, and a bulletproof five-year plan that includes zero scandals, zero distractions, and certainly zero involvement with anyone who wears cufflinks before noon.

Every morning in the elevator, you repeat these words like a mantra: no distractions, no mistakes. Not here.

When the doors nearly close, someone slides in - tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a watch worth several months of your rent. You keep your gaze fixed ahead despite your racing heart, trying to ignore the immediate presence beside you and the expensive leather-and-spice cologne that fills the small space.

“Which floor?” he asks, voice dipped in amusement, like he already knows the answer.

“Twenty-three,” you say, and you don’t flinch when he presses it for you. When he shifts to face you, you keep your gaze fixed ahead, pretending not to notice when he murmurs, almost contemplatively, "New."

The elevator dings and you slip out without a word, waiting until you're safely at your desk to finally exhale.

Your coworker Lisa leans in with concern. "You okay? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"No," you reply softly. "Just... didn't sleep much."

Which isn’t a lie. You’ve been working late every night. Perfecting campaign research. Double-checking every deliverable. Your manager — cold and precise — has made it clear: your probation will not be extended. You either make it in three months, or you’re out. So you keep your head down. Say yes to everything. Go home with a sore back and swollen ankles, whispering apologies to your boyfriend when you miss your dinner dates, your calls, your chances to be soft.

You’ve made sacrifices. You can’t afford to make more. Which is why when he walks into the strategy meeting an hour later, that same man from the elevator — no tie, blazer sharp, the kind of presence that makes everyone shift in their chairs — you feel your spine stiffen like he just walked straight into your safe little plan and lit a match.

He doesn’t introduce himself. Just takes a seat at the end of the table, right where your line of sight lands if you dare look up from your screen.

Your gaze remains fixed on your laptop screen, scanning through notes and slides for the competitor branding strategy presentation you're about to deliver.

The meeting begins, and you make it halfway through your analysis before being interrupted by a voice.

“Why them?” he asks, casually, fingers tapping once on the table.

You blink. “Sorry?”

“Why that competitor for your benchmark?” he repeats. “Seems like a safe choice. Predictable. I want to hear what you’d do if you weren’t trying to be perfect.”

It’s not rude. It’s not even harsh. It’s just direct — like he’s daring you to drop the mask. You glance up. He’s already watching you. That same hint of amusement behind his eyes, dark and unreadable.

“I…” you begin, lips dry. “Chose them because their campaign’s ROI was comparable. It makes the analysis clean.”

“Clean’s not always compelling,” he says, leaning back.

Silence fills the room.

Your manager clears her throat. "Let's move on."

You nod stiffly and return to your notes, but as everyone filters out later, you sense him pause behind your chair. Without looking at you, he murmurs just loudly enough for you to hear:

Tighten your formatting. You're being watched.

He continues walking as you remain frozen in place, suddenly aware of an invisible thread wrapping itself, silk-tight, around your ankles.

You don’t turn around until the room is nearly empty, the low hum of conversation fading into silence as the last team lead tucks her chair in and leaves. Your fingers still hover over your trackpad. Half a thought. Half a breath. Half a girl, now that he’s walked out of the room with your composure in his pocket. You finally look up — and Lisa’s still there, scribbling something in her notebook, lips pursed.

“Who was that?” you ask, too casual, like you’re asking about the weather and not the man whose voice is still caught in the collar of your blouse.

She doesn’t look up. “You’re joking, right?”

“No. I mean, I saw him in the elevator this morning, but—”

Lisa blinks. “You really don’t know?”

You straighten slightly. “Should I?”

She laughs — not unkindly, just a little stunned. “That was Jeon Jungkook.”

The name hits you with sudden recognition - you've seen it before on press releases, company initiatives, and most notably in The Korea Economic Daily's headline: "Jeon Group Appoints Founder's Son as Executive Creative Director."

Lisa studies your face as she adds, "He's the CEO's son."

You manage a quiet "Oh," while the implications sink in.

"And technically your boss's boss's boss," she continues, lowering her voice. "Well, not officially. But you know how it works."

Indeed you do. Corporate hierarchy isn't merely about titles - it's about influence, power, and legacy. And in this world, legacy means having your name pre-engraved on the boardroom door.

As you stare at your laptop screen, watching the cursor pulse at the end of your abandoned slide, the gravity of the situation settles in. You'd just challenged Jeon Jungkook, treated him like any other consultant, even called your work "clean" while looking him straight in the eye.

He hadn't corrected you - he hadn't needed to. Men like him never announce their presence; the room does that for them. Instead, he watches, waits, and wears that knowing smirk, perfectly aware you'll eventually understand your place. And now you have, though the realization comes a moment too late.

✓

The week after the strategy meeting arrives with an avalanche of emails, a last-minute pitch request, and an ominous calendar update titled “Campaign Direction Realignment — Strategic Oversight Pending”. You don’t question it. You barely have time to breathe.

The department is shifting — again. A new cross-departmental campaign was approved at the executive level, and leadership wants it expedited. You’re still on probation, which means you’re volunteered for everything and credited for nothing. And this time, the stakes are even higher.

On Monday morning, Jungkook returns with an official title printed in the internal memo: Executive Creative Advisor, Special Campaign Division. Like a storm warning, his name stands alone without photo or introduction.

When he joins your team's kickoff meeting, he carries himself with practiced ease - sleeves rolled up, Montblanc pen spinning between his fingers, wearing an expression that suggests he's already seen how this presentation will unfold. The atmosphere shifts immediately; everyone grows jittery and over-earnest while your manager's smile betrays just how much rides on this moment.

Unlike last time, Jungkook remains silent throughout the meeting. He simply observes, his unblinking gaze lingering on you mid-presentation until your voice falters briefly under its weight.

That evening, your boyfriend's voice echoes through your apartment with a mixture of concern and exhaustion as he hands you takeout: "You're not even here when you're here."

You respond with a smile, a thank you, and a kiss on his cheek, but keep to yourself how Jungkook had passed your desk earlier without a glance - and how profoundly his indifference had affected you anyway.

—

Thursday evening, 7:19 PM. The office stands nearly empty, with the sky outside a pressed charcoal bleeding into the windows. You sit hunched in front of your laptop at one of the standing desks near the breakroom's vending machines, headphones on and blazer discarded, forehead cradled in your palm.

The proposal for tomorrow's executive review isn't wrong, but something feels off. You've revised the design layout six times and adjusted the forecast numbers three times, searching for that perfect balance between innovation and risk management.

Lost in your lo-fi playlist, you don't notice his approach until his shadow falls across your screen and his voice, low and amused, breaks through the music: "Wrong forecast."

Your heart snaps against your ribs as Jungkook appears behind you, one hand braced beside your arm, the other pointing to your spreadsheet's 2nd quarter projection. "You're calculating based on hope," he continues, "not market behavior."

"I—sorry. I didn't realize anyone was—"

"Still here?" he finishes. "I know."

You should move away, minimize your screen, say something professional and leave. Instead, you remain frozen as his presence looms behind you—not touching, not inappropriate, just... inevitable. When he leans forward, his voice warm near your ear, the proximity sends shivers down your spine.

"Competitor C pulled a similar stunt last fiscal year. Overestimated customer conversion by 8%. Stock dropped in three days. You really want to make the same mistake?"

Words fail you as his breath ghosts against your ear, his voice like silk against nerves you hadn't known existed. Then he withdraws, leaving you with parting advice over his shoulder, "I'd recalculate based on conservative churn. And switch your color palette. Executives hate muted tones. Makes them feel old."

The hallway door hisses closed behind him, but you remain still, staring at the numbers he'd identified. He was right, of course. You feel exposed, laid bare, and worse—seen. Yet instead of fleeing, you steady yourself with a deep breath and begin to revise the forecast.

✓

The apartment smells like steamed rice and detergent when you step inside, your heels clicking softly against the laminate as you drop your bag by the door. You’re late — again. Not dramatically, not enough for a fight, but just late enough that the soup is warm instead of hot, and the conversation thinner than it should be.

Seojin doesn’t look up from his tablet when you enter the kitchen.

“I reheated the jjigae,” he says, flipping a page on the screen. “Thought you’d be home by eight.”

“I was going to be. But there was—” You pause, trying to choose a word that doesn’t feel like a lie. “—a revision.”

He nods, still not looking at you. “You’ve been doing a lot of those lately.”

You open the fridge. Take the soup. Sit across from him at the small table you picked out together from a secondhand shop last fall. It wobbles at the corner. You’ve never fixed it.

The silence between you stretches thin, held together by the scrape of your spoon and the muted buzz of city traffic outside your balcony door. You glance at him. He’s still reading. Still in his hoodie from earlier. Still here. You should feel lucky. You do feel lucky. He’s patient. Steady. You’ve been together for nearly three years, since university — when everything felt simple and the future was just a hazy shape you planned for together over cheap beer and shared textbooks.

But tonight, with Jungkook’s voice still warm in your memory, Seojin’s steadiness feels more like stillness. The kind that doesn’t move forward.

“Did your boss like your slides?” he asks finally, voice mild.

You blink. “What?”

“You said you were redoing your slides for that new campaign. The branding one?”

“Oh.” You nod, taking a sip. “Yeah. She... didn’t say much. But I think it landed okay.”

“Good.” He says it like you just told him it was sunny tomorrow.

His response carries no curiosity, no pride - just a perfunctory acknowledgment, as if checking off another item on a list.

You consider telling him about your day - about discovering your numerical error, about someone noticing before it became embarrassing, about how it left you unsettled. But the words stay trapped behind your lips.

Instead, you ask, "How was your day?"

He shrugs. "The usual. My manager's still an ass."

The conversation dies there, withering in the space between you.

Later, while brushing your teeth as he watches reruns on the couch, you study your reflection and contemplate the person emerging in the mirror - someone whose voice might grow sharper, who might stop explaining herself, whose thoughts are slowly being reshaped by another's influence. You rinse, meet your own gaze in the mirror, and keep these musings to yourself.

✓

The day after the breakroom encounter begins like every other — a sterile loop of dark suits, blinking badge sensors, and recycled air — but something about the silence feels off-kilter.

Not loud. Not jarring. Just slightly out of place, the way a tilted painting disturbs a perfectly arranged wall. You notice it halfway through the morning meeting. He’s not there.

It takes you a few minutes to realize this fact matters. That somewhere between the late nights and campaign decks, you’ve come to anticipate Jeon Jungkook’s presence. Not because he speaks — he rarely does in team meetings — but because when he is in the room, everything seems to orbit differently. Like the temperature shifts. Like someone’s watching, even when no one is. But today, nothing moves. The room stays flat.

Your manager announces the new campaign direction — a fast-track initiative with a major overseas brand partner. It’s ambitious, high-pressure, the kind of opportunity the permanent employees elbow each other for in the halls. You try to focus on the details — target markets, deliverables, budget constraints — but you keep glancing at the empty chair near the window.

He doesn’t show up for the debrief either. Or the partner call in the afternoon.

When you pass the executive floor later, the door to his glass-walled office is shut, lights off. No coat slung over the leather chair. No Cartier pen abandoned on the table. No trace at all.

You tell yourself it doesn’t matter. That one man’s absence has no bearing on your workload, your goals, your worth. And yet — when you sit down to update the forecasting model he corrected the night before, your fingers hesitate.

It was arrogance, probably. A performance. Someone too rich to speak gently, too powerful to worry about boundaries. You don’t need to think about it again.

Still, your hands hover over the spreadsheet longer than they should. Still, you find yourself replaying the way his voice slipped behind you, that cool, calm certainty, as if your miscalculation had always been obvious — and he’d simply waited for the right moment to remind you who was watching.

That night, at home, you try to let it go.

The lights are low. The TV is on. The apartment smells like basil and something warming on the stove. Seojin leans against the kitchen counter in grey sweats, scrolling through his phone as he stirs the pot with one hand, his movements absentminded.

He doesn’t look up when you come in, only says, “You’re late again.”

You check the clock. It’s 8:14. Barely different from last night. “Sorry. There was another meeting.”

“Is there ever a day you leave before seven?”

You smile. Or try to. “Not during probation, no.”

He says nothing to that. Just turns down the burner and sets out two bowls. The usual rhythm. Familiar. Safe. You sit across from him at the table, fingers brushing the edge of your spoon, and listen to the quiet clink of ceramic and the muted voices from the drama playing behind him.

This is what you wanted. Stability. Someone who didn’t ask for much, who supported your work even if he didn’t understand it. You’ve been together for years. He knows your order at your favorite café. You’ve talked about moving in somewhere bigger if your contract gets extended. Getting a car. Maybe a cat.

He’s good to you. Always has been. And yet…

You eat in silence, nodding when he speaks, laughing softly at the right parts of his story about a difficult client. You tell him about the upcoming campaign, about the sleepless nights ahead, about how you think your manager might actually be warming up to you. You leave out the rest.

You don’t tell him about the way someone stood too close to you in a hallway and said your name like it was already his. You don’t mention the man who didn’t look at you at all today — and how somehow, that unsettled you more.

Later, as you move through your nightly routine - brushing teeth, folding laundry, setting alarms - your mind wanders not to spreadsheets or marketing formulas, but to that voice. Low and even, it lingers in your memory, closer than propriety should allow.

You drift off to sleep without putting a name to this feeling, but it stays with you nonetheless.

✓

The invitation doesn’t come with flowers or pleasantries. It arrives via calendar — cold, impersonal, and marked mandatory.

Event: Strategic Brand Dinner with LX International Partners Location: Le Méridien Seoul, 32nd Floor Executive Lounge Time: 6:30 PM, Formal Business Attire Attendees: C-Suite, Campaign Division Heads, External Brand Directors, Select Junior Staff

Your name appears at the bottom of the list - highlighted and confirmed. As you stare at the screen, uncertain if this could be a mistake, Lisa leans over from her desk to ask if you received the invitation too.

When you admit your confusion, she breaks into a knowing grin. "It means you're killing it. They only invite the golden children to those things - either you impressed someone high up, or you're being tested." The dual possibilities send an uneasy flutter through your stomach.

Your inbox offers no additional context - no encouraging message from your manager, no casual acknowledgment. Just that formal blue icon from HQ, like a seal of fate. You try to frame it as recognition, a sign that your late nights and careful work are finally translating into value.

That evening, you select your outfit with deliberate care - a black silk blouse paired with tailored slacks, threading the delicate balance between belonging and restraint. As you dress, you can't shake the feeling of stepping into a space where familiar rules begin to blur, where someone might be waiting.

The executive lounge greets you with pristine elegance - white orchids and floating candles adorning each table, the city skyline a perfect backdrop through floor-to-ceiling windows. You arrive early, armed with practiced introductions and campaign talking points. But nothing prepares you for him.

Jungkook makes his entrance alone, fashionably late and separate from the crowd of board members and brand partners. His black suit fits with devastating precision, his white shirt open just enough to feel intentional. No tie. His presence doesn't merely interrupt the room - it transforms it.

As conversations pause and heads turn, he bypasses the head table without acknowledgment, making his way directly to your corner. Without hesitation, he pulls out the empty chair beside you, where you sit with other junior staff and a mid-level manager, as if this spot had been his intention all along.

“Mind if I sit?” he asks, but he’s already lowering himself into the seat.

You manage a nod. Maybe a whisper of agreement. He doesn’t speak again for the first twenty minutes. Just sits there — still, poised, his fingers toying idly with the edge of his crystal water glass. You feel him even when he’s not moving. You feel the space between you shrink every time someone leans forward and you have to lean slightly toward him to see.

When the appetizer arrives, he finally speaks.

“You didn’t change your slide formatting,” he murmurs without looking at you.

You blink. “What?”

He turns his head slightly. Eyes narrowed, amused.

“You changed your forecast. But not the design.”

You’re suddenly very aware of the neckline of your blouse. Of the pulse just below your collarbone.

“You weren’t tagged in the update,” you say carefully.

“I didn’t need to be.”

His gaze lingers a moment too long - a subtle gesture that walks the line between professional and personal. When you reach for your wine, it's more reflex than necessity.

The perfectly prepared sea bass sits before you, its saffron cream reduction drawing enthusiastic praise from nearby diners. The wine is impeccable, the conversation flows smoothly as talk of Dubai's regional expansion fills the air, and you participate with practiced grace. Yet your attention remains firmly elsewhere.

Every nerve ending in your body is attuned to his presence beside you - the brush of his arm against your chair, his untouched entrée, the weighted silence he's maintained since your return from the restroom. You should welcome this reprieve from his attention, but instead, your skin tingles with an electric awareness beneath your blouse.

And then it happens. Not a jolt. Not a brush. Nothing dramatic enough to earn the room’s attention. Just a shift — the deliberate slide of his hand onto your thigh beneath the white linen tablecloth. His palm settles against the fabric of your slacks like it belongs there, warm and sure and intentional. Your heart lurches in your chest.

Every cell in your body reacts at once — the stillness of your limbs, the tightening of your grip on the napkin in your lap, the breath that sticks in your throat. You don’t dare look at him. You don’t move. And yet, he does. While answering a question from the external marketing director — something smooth, intelligent, deceptively casual about multi-channel asset deployment — his fingers begin to glide upward, just slightly, along the inner curve of your thigh.

Your fork nearly slips from trembling fingers as conversation continues around the table, the other diners blissfully unaware of what transpires beneath the pristine tablecloth. Only you and him share this charged moment of transgression.

His fingers stop just shy of the seam of your trousers — not bold enough to be obscene, not soft enough to ignore. The pressure is maddening in its restraint, and somehow, that makes it worse. Far worse. Your body aches to react, to shift, to respond, but the weight of the room around you holds you hostage in your seat.

He leans slightly toward the table, voice low as he offers some quip about Gen Z loyalty indexes. His thumb strokes once — slow, deliberate — along the inside of your thigh. You inhale sharply, too sharp, and his head turns minutely in your direction, the corner of his mouth twitching upward, just enough to be a warning.

“Still pretending you’re unaffected?” he murmurs beneath his breath, eyes still fixed on the wineglass in his hand.

It takes every ounce of strength you have to rise from your chair — not too fast, not rushed, but fast enough that your manager glances up from her conversation with a curious brow. You offer something vague — a quiet apology, a mention of needing to freshen up — and slip away, your heels hushed against the thick carpeting as you walk toward the corridor outside. You don’t head for the restroom. You don’t need to. You just need air — space — a moment alone to wrestle your heartbeat back into something that doesn’t sound like surrender.

The hallway is dim and cool, washed in soft recessed lighting and the occasional glimmer of crystal from a decorative chandelier. You lean against the wall, eyes closed, pulse thundering in your ears. You’re not sure if you’re more humiliated or aroused.

Your breath catches at the sound of approaching footsteps - even, unhurried, deliberate. You remain still as he stops just behind you, his presence radiating heat against your back.

“You didn’t say no,” he says, voice low, quiet, but certain. “You stood up. You walked away. But you didn’t stop me.”

“That wasn’t consent,” you say, breath trembling, though you don’t move away. “You touched me at a business dinner.”

“I touched you,” he repeats, stepping forward until your shoulder blades meet the firm line of his chest, “and you didn’t even flinch.”

You should push him away. You should walk back into that room and sit beside someone else. You should report him, maybe. Instead, your voice softens. “I can’t—”

“You can,” he murmurs, and then his mouth is at your jaw, brushing your skin with infuriating care. “But you won’t.”

His hand moves to your waist. Steady. Confident. The other slides lower, down the line of your hip, and then dips beneath the waistband of your trousers — no fumbling, no hesitation. He’s done this before. He’s thought about it.

You gasp when his fingers slip beneath your underwear. Not in protest — in shock. In heat.

“You’re soaked,” he says, so quietly it sounds like praise.

Your hand flies to his arm — not to pull him away, not really, but to hold on. He curls two fingers inside you, and your breath breaks, head falling back against his shoulder as his other hand finds the edge of your coat and presses you against the wall, pinning you there with ease.

“You want to pretend this is about power?” he whispers, lips brushing your neck. “That you don’t want this as much as I do?”

Your body is trembling. You hate that he’s right.

“Don’t do this,” you manage. “We’re at a—”

“Dinner. Yes,” he cuts in. “And yet here you are, letting me finger you in a hallway while your manager eats crème brûlée with a glass of Château d'Yquem.”

His voice darkens. “So say it. Say you want to come.”

You shake your head — not in refusal, not anymore — just in helpless disbelief.

“Say it,” he demands again, his fingers pushing deeper, slower, his palm angling upward so every stroke hits exactly where you’re weakest. “Say it, and I’ll give it to you.”

You pant, words slipping through grit teeth.

“I want to come.”

“Louder.”

“I—fuck—Jungkook—please—” Your hands are on his chest now, gripping his lapels like a lifeline. “I want to come—please—”

“Good girl,” he breathes.

And then he breaks you. His thumb finds your clit at the exact rhythm your body was begging for, the heel of his palm rocking against you as he curls his fingers one last time — and your entire body unravels. Not gently. Not slowly. You fall hard, silent but shaking, a moan trapped in your throat as you come against his hand, forehead pressed to his shoulder, nails digging into his jacket. He doesn’t speak. He just holds you upright as you tremble.

And when your breath finally steadies — when the world begins to return in flickers of scent and sound — he eases his hand from your trousers, adjusts your blouse where it slipped, and smooths the lapel of your coat with a strange sort of gentleness.

“You have five minutes,” he says, stepping back like nothing happened. “Fix your lipstick.”

And then he’s gone.

✓

The apartment is dark when you enter. The hallway light flickers softly on, motion-sensor timed, casting the space in its usual glow — clean, quiet, uneventful.

Your coat slides from your shoulders with practiced ease, your shoes joining the pair already lined up neatly near the door. You close the door softly. Out of habit. Or guilt.

Seojin’s on the couch, already half-asleep, blanket draped loosely over his torso and his phone still glowing in his hand. He startles slightly when you step in, blinking blearily toward you.

“Hey,” he says, voice thick with exhaustion. “You’re back late.”

“There was a dinner,” you say as you cross the room, dropping your bag by the table like you always do. “Client-facing. All hands on deck.”

He rubs his eyes. “You eat?”

You nod. “Yeah.”

“Good.” He yawns. “I left the rice cooker on if you’re still hungry.”

You couldn't imagine eating anything else right now. When he shifts upright on the couch, you pause to take in his drowsy state - hair slightly mussed, eyes heavy with sleep.

Leaning down, you press a gentle kiss to his lips. When he doesn't resist, your fingers find their way beneath his shirt, seeking the familiar warmth of his skin. You deepen the kiss, moving slower, more deliberately, until he gently pulls away.

“Babe,” he says, voice still tender. “I’m so tired.”

You don’t answer right away. Just hover there, inches from his mouth, heart pounding with something you don’t want to name.

“I just missed you,” you say.

He softens, gives you a small smile. Brushes a hand over your cheek.

“I missed you too,” he says. “But I’ve been up since five. I can barely keep my eyes open.”

You nod. Step back. “Of course. Go to bed.”

“You coming?”

“In a bit.”

He shuffles toward the bedroom, feet dragging slightly on the hardwood, and you stand in the middle of the living room in silence, staring at the spot where your coat now hangs like a ghost on the wall. Eventually, you follow him.

You slip into bed beside him without turning on the light, careful not to shift the mattress too much, careful not to let the scent of your blouse — still faintly stained with something that isn’t him — drift into the space between you.

He's already asleep while you lie awake, arms folded and eyes fixed on the blank ceiling above. Your mind drifts to Jungkook's words, echoing with dangerous clarity: Say it, and I'll let you fall. The memory of how easily you surrendered haunts you - not just the act itself, but the person who drew it from you.

Jeon Jungkook, the CEO's son and your superior, holds more than just professional power over you. He saw through your carefully constructed facade of ambition and perfection, dismantling it with frightening ease. In just one dinner, you let desire cloud your judgment, allowing it to seep into your veins like sweet poison.

As you close your eyes and try to steady your breathing, shame washes over you. The weakness you feel stems not from his touch, but from your willing participation - from the pleasure you found in it, and the certainty that this memory will linger, refusing to fade no matter how much you wish it would.

✓

The first thing you notice is that nothing has changed.

Not the walk from the elevator to your desk. Not the scent of too-strong coffee wafting through the corridor before 9 a.m. Not the way your coworkers hover nervously around the printer like it might explode if handled improperly. Everything looks the same. Sounds the same. Functions the same. And yet, you are not the same.

You move slower now. Not visibly — not enough for anyone to raise an eyebrow or ask if something’s wrong — but with a stiffness in your limbs, like your body is still locked in that marble hallway, breath caught behind your ribs, the memory of his fingers inside you humming low and persistent between your thighs. You should feel ashamed. You do. But more than that, you feel… displaced. Unmoored.

And then he walks in.

Just before the Monday strategy meeting begins at 9:30, he enters with his usual precision - immaculate in charcoal, silver cufflinks catching the light beneath his tailored jacket sleeves. His composed expression and measured steps betray nothing as he takes his place at the head of the table.

Throughout the meeting, he maintains a studied indifference, reviewing materials on his tablet without once acknowledging your presence, his gaze never wavering even when your name appears in the campaign outline.

You tell yourself that’s good. It’s a relief. You don’t want attention. You don’t want questions. You don’t want the weight of something unspoken pressing down between you in a room full of people who would devour the scent of scandal if they thought it belonged to someone young and unprotected.

But when he turns his head slightly to correct a minor budgeting note — sharp, efficient, disinterested — and his eyes pass clean over you like you are air... you feel the first crack form.

By Wednesday, it’s no longer a question. He is avoiding you. Meticulously. Intentionally. With a precision that stings more than any confrontation would have. You’ve become a blank spot in his vision, a silence in his speech, a neutral space carved out in meetings and emails and shared corridors. He doesn’t greet you. Doesn’t pause when you speak. Doesn’t offer even a glance when you enter a room he’s in.

And for some reason, that’s the part that hurts the most — the erasure. Because when he touched you, he did it like he knew you. Like he saw you. And now, you could stand in front of him in nothing but your shame and your carefully pressed ID badge, and he still wouldn’t blink.

You bury yourself in tasks. Stay late under the fluorescent buzz of the 23rd floor. Redo the same slide deck twice, not because it needs it, but because working on something you can fix gives you the illusion of control. You don’t check your phone. You barely go home.

When you finally do, it’s Thursday night, and Seojin is waiting with reheated curry and a look in his eyes that isn’t quite concern, but is dangerously close to it. He asks if something happened at work. You say no. He asks why you’ve been quiet. You say it’s the new project — the pressure. The late hours. You offer him everything except the truth. But he doesn’t buy it. Not entirely.

“You’re different lately,” he says softly, not accusing, not angry — just observant. “You don’t look at me the same.”

And you know he’s right. Because when you look at him — when you kiss him goodnight or lean against him on the couch — your mind slips sideways. You remember a hand that didn’t hesitate. A voice that demanded. A mouth that praised you in filth. You remember how easily you surrendered to someone you barely knew. Someone you had no right to want. And no matter how many times you tell yourself you regret it… your body still remembers it as a gift.

That night, when Seojin reaches for your hand beneath the sheets, you lace your fingers through his and smile. You press your cheek against his shoulder and close your eyes. You whisper that you’re just tired. That you’ll be okay after the campaign wraps. That this is just a rough patch. He believes you, or wants to.

You fall asleep wishing you believed yourself. But when morning comes and Jungkook walks past you in the hallway without a word, you feel your insides twist again — not because he ignores you.

But because part of you needs him to stop.

And the other part is starting to need him to look.

✓

It begins again in the elevator with a glance. The doors are closing when you rush in, breathless, clutching a folder of campaign briefs. After catching the door with your heel and murmuring apologies to the senior assistants and intern, you see him.

He stands in the back corner in his black suit, one hand in his pocket, the other holding coffee as dark as his watch. Though he remains still at first, the moment the doors seal shut and the floor number illuminates above, his gaze finds you - slow and deliberate, like sunlight across a wall.

You try to ignore it, but the heat of his stare burns against your cheek. When you finally look back, his dark eyes meet yours without expression - no smirk, no recognition, just a weighted patience that makes you flee at the next ding of the elevator. He remains behind, unmoving.

—

Two hours later, you’re standing in the briefing room, pressed between two product managers and a wall of glossy mock-ups, trying to follow the flow of the meeting. It’s warm. Too warm. The AC hasn’t been working right all week, and everyone’s packed in too tightly for comfort.

The subtle shift of movement behind you brings an unexpected touch - fingers ghosting between your shoulder blades and along your spine. The contact is light, almost tentative, as if meant to steady rather than demand. Yet there's an intentional weight to it that makes your breath catch and your pulse quicken.

You don't need to look back to recognize who it is. When someone asks a question moments later, you manage to answer with remarkable composure, even as the phantom sensation of his touch lingers after he withdraws.

As the room gradually empties, you remain rooted in place. He stands by the table, methodically scrolling through his tablet with practiced indifference. Something compels you to pause as you walk past him - an inexplicable force that holds you there, suspended in the charged silence between you.

“Is this your new thing?” you ask quietly, arms crossed. “Ignoring me in public and touching me in private?”

He doesn’t look up. “Good morning to you, too.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He swipes once. “That’s what makes it fun.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You think this is a game?”

At that, he does look up. The slightest curve at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile — just enough to flash in his eyes.

“I think it’s amusing,” he says. “Watching you try to act like you don’t remember how good I made you feel. Like that hallway never happened.”

You bristle. “You ignored me for an entire week.”

“I was busy.”

“Bullshit.”

“Careful,” he says softly, stepping closer. “That kind of tone will make people think something happened.”

You hold your ground. “Something did.”

He tilts his head slightly, studying you — like a painting, or a puzzle. “I never denied it.”

“No, you just pretended it didn’t matter.”

He doesn’t answer. Just looks at you, long and steady, until your pulse starts climbing again.

“Would you rather I made a scene? Talked about how good you sounded with my fingers inside you? In front of your manager, maybe? The intern?” Then, casually, as if he's discussing a spreadsheet instead of your last breathless confession:

“You’re the one who said it couldn’t happen again.”

You swallow hard. “And you agreed.”

“Did I?” He steps around you, his voice brushing your neck as he passes. “I don’t recall.”

You remain still, holding your breath, feeling the phantom trace of his touch. Later, as the afternoon stretches endlessly in the stifling heat, your body can't help but remember the lingering sensation of his hand at your spine, as if it belonged there all along. Deep down, you know what your mind refuses to admit: this game has only just begun.

✓

The invitation arrives on a Tuesday — formal, sleek, printed in high-contrast type with subtle gold edging. Vēra Lux × Jeon Group: a sponsored industry event hosted by a European cosmetics conglomerate eager to break into the Asian luxury market. There’s talk of a brand merge. Of cross-cultural campaigns. Of a future collaboration that could define the next fiscal year.

Everyone who’s anyone is going.

Your department is required to attend. Attendance is expected. Enthusiasm is optional, but professionalism is not.

And so, you dress accordingly — a sleek black dress that’s just conservative enough to be safe, but structured enough to be remembered. Long sleeves, high neckline, slit just above the knee. You wear your hair up, your lipstick muted. You apply your perfume in three sharp sprays — one for your neck, one for your wrist, and one for your pulse point that hides just beneath the fabric at your hip. You arrive exactly on time.

The venue is all polished floors and mirrored chandeliers, the kind of place where the light feels filtered through wealth. Waiters pass with champagne coupes and pale canapés no one really eats. The air smells faintly of rose water, expensive cologne, and subtle ambition.

Jungkook arrives fashionably late, commanding attention with his effortless presence. His midnight black suit fits immaculately, the absence of a tie and two undone buttons revealing a glimpse of silk beneath the lapels. Clean-shaven with a sharp jaw and cold eyes, he moves through the room without acknowledging you – though he doesn't need to. He's well aware of your gaze following his every move.

The event itself blurs together — polite introductions, branded speeches, the occasional laughter as executives flatter each other with measured ease. You float through the evening as you’ve been trained to: poised, efficient, collected. You speak only when spoken to, smile when appropriate, and accept a second glass of champagne when your manager insists it will “help your networking face.”

By your third glass of champagne, his presence materializes behind you like a shadow. As you stand near the tall window, barely registering a senior strategist's monologue about mascara demographics, his voice cuts through the ambient chatter with dangerous precision.

"You clean up well."

The momentary freeze in your shoulders betrays you before you can turn to face him. Jungkook has positioned himself deliberately close, his dark gaze trailing your profile with an intensity that walks the line between professional assessment and something far more intimate.

"You weren't even looking at me," you manage.

"I didn't need to."

His attention drifts to your exposed neck, lingering at the hollow of your throat. "You always wear your hair up when you're trying to behave."

You create distance with a measured step. "I'm not doing this here."

The slow smile that crosses his face carries a promise. "Not yet."

You spend the next half-hour avoiding him — or trying to. You circle the room, swap meaningless phrases with visiting reps, let one of the Paris-based creatives compliment your accent while you sip something dry and French. You refuse to look toward the back corner where Jungkook now stands, deep in conversation with someone who owns three niche fragrance brands and is known for sleeping with all his interns.

His presence follows you like a shadow throughout the evening, a constant awareness prickling at the edges of your consciousness.

As the event draws to a close, you find yourself in the valet circle, the cool night air a relief against your flushed skin. He materializes beside you, quiet but commanding.

Without touching you, he simply says, "You don't need to Uber."

"I didn't ask."

"I know. I'm offering."

"I'm fine."

He tilts his head, studying you. "You've had three drinks. You didn't eat."

You exhale softly. "You've been counting?"

His mouth curves into a knowing smile. "Of course I have."

His car arrives - matte black, sleek, worth more than your college degree. "I'll take you home," he offers, moving toward the door. "No expectations."

You fold your arms. "That's a lie."

"No," he replies, his voice dropping lower. "That's a warning."

The weight of the moment settles between you. Getting into his car means surrendering something - not your safety or dignity, but the carefully constructed lies you've been telling yourself.

Exhaustion and wine have softened your resolve, and beneath it all lies a deeper truth: you want to be seen again. Touched. Cornered. Ruined.

"Just a ride," you murmur, moving past him.

His hand finds the small of your back, guiding you inside with gentlemanly precision, but his eyes betray darker intentions. The door closes behind you with a soft, definitive click.

✓

The car glides through the city with a soft hum, windows tinted against prying eyes. You maintain your distance, angled toward the window with arms and legs crossed - a carefully constructed barrier between you and the man beside you. Though your posture screams control, your quickening pulse betrays every pretense.

Jungkook remains silent, one arm draped across the center console as his fingers tap an idle rhythm against leather. His other hand rests on the wheel, steering with practiced ease through the amber-lit streets. The cabin envelops you both in notes of sandalwood and unspoken tension.

When he finally breaks the silence, his voice barely disturbs the air between you. "You're quiet."

"So are you."

Without taking his eyes from the road, he replies, "I thought you needed space."

"I do."

The smile that curves his lips is knowing, patient. "No, you don't."

You turn back to the window, but his low voice follows. "You didn't say no when I offered to drive you. Didn't say no during the briefing. And certainly not in the hallway."

Your breath catches as he continues, each word deliberate. "You want to be good, but you love being undone."

"You're wrong," you whisper.

"No," he says, voice darkening, "I'm not."

The car rolls to a stop, and you realize with a start that you've passed your apartment. Instead, you find yourself on a quiet side street, where towering trees and warm-lit windows create a pocket of perfect privacy. Before you can process this shift, he turns to face you fully, his presence suddenly overwhelming in the confined space.

“I won’t ask again,” he says softly, dangerously. “Do you want this or not?”

You open your mouth. Close it. Something inside you — reason, guilt, shame — tries to rise up, but it drowns under the way he’s looking at you, not like he owns you, but like he’s already memorized the way you taste.

“You won’t even have to move,” he says. “I’ll do everything.”

And somehow, your body leans before your mind agrees.

You shift toward him, breath shaky, thighs still clenched but no longer crossed. You whisper, “This is wrong.”

He answers by closing the space between you, his mouth capturing yours in a devastating kiss. It's consuming - his lips claiming yours with an ease that should be criminal as his hand curves around the back of your neck like muscle memory. You melt into him until your hands find his hair, until the leather seat catches your back and your knees part instinctively. When he finally breaks away, it's just enough to share your breath.

“You smell like guilt,” he says, voice low, rasping. “But you taste like surrender.”

And then he’s lowering himself — slowly, carefully — one knee pressing into the floorboard as he guides your hips forward, your thighs apart. His hand is steady beneath your skirt, and when he bunches the fabric around your waist, he does it without hesitation, revealing lace already damp against your skin.

You gasp as the air hits you. He watches the way you shift — the way your thighs tense, the way your chest rises. He doesn’t unzip his pants. Doesn’t undo a single button.

Instead, he places one hand on your stomach — not to hold you down, but to anchor you — and then leans in, breath warming the inside of your thigh until your hands fly to his hair like instinct.

The first brush of his mouth is featherlight — a ghost of a kiss against the lace, not even contact, not fully. But then he pushes your underwear aside, and when he finally tastes you — skin to skin — it’s with a moan so low and full you feel it vibrate through your spine.

You whimper. “Fuck—” you whisper, hips lifting.

But he’s already gone deeper — tongue parting you with devastating ease, licking slow, flat strokes up your slit like he’s savoring you, like he’s making art out of your undoing. Your back arches.

“Don’t—” you pant, hands fisting the leather. “We shouldn’t—this isn’t—”

But he only groans softly, tongue flicking hard over your clit until your words dissolve into sound.

“You taste better when you lie to yourself,” he says, lips grazing the tender skin between your folds.

And then he devours you. He eats you like a man who’s starving — mouth working you open, tongue dragging slow circles, then harder ones, then faster. You try to stay quiet. You fail. You try to close your legs. He pushes them apart with his shoulders.

Your lips part with his name despite your best efforts to stay silent.

“Jungkook—” it rips out of you, breathless, shattered, desperate.

He groans against you, tongue plunging deep, his fingers bruising your hips now as he holds you down, sucks your clit with the kind of focus that should come with a warning. Your hands claw at the seat, your heel digs into the floor, your stomach knots and unravels and knots again.

When you come, it’s not elegant.

It’s raw. Your entire body trembles. Your thighs shake. Your voice breaks in his mouth, and you ride his tongue like it’s the only thing tethering you to the world. And still — he doesn’t stop.

He keeps licking you through it, soft now, gentle now, like a promise. You pant, dizzy. Boneless. Skirt still bunched at your waist, blouse damp from the heat of your own breath. He finally pulls back, chin wet, eyes half-lidded. You meet his gaze.

He wipes the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, then presses a kiss to the inside of your knee, slow and reverent. He climbs back into the seat beside you without a word.

For a moment, all you can do is stare straight ahead, dazed and pulsing, your body still fluttering with aftershocks that haven’t fully faded. Your breath is shaky, shallow, your thighs slick and your mind scattered in a thousand directions that all lead back to him. But then — slowly, impossibly — your gaze shifts. You turn your head. And you see it.

The tension in his jaw. The way his hand tightens around the gearshift. The bulge straining against the dark fabric of his tailored trousers, thick and pronounced, so hard it almost looks painful. You swallow. Hard. He doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t speak. Just breathes — slow and shallow — as if he’s holding himself back from tearing the steering wheel in half. And suddenly, your need returns like a second wave — sharp, molten, clawing up your spine. You thought coming would be enough, that it would hush the want. But it hasn’t. It’s only sharpened it.

Desire coils through you like smoke, a yearning that transcends mere physical want - you need him, completely and without reservation.

Without thinking, you shift in your seat, your bare thigh brushing his. His breath stutters — the smallest hitch — but he doesn’t stop you when you move closer. Doesn’t flinch when your fingers trail down, soft and tentative, to trace over the bulge in his pants.

His knuckles go white on the console.

“You didn’t even touch yourself,” you whisper, voice hoarse and trembling. “You just… took care of me.”

“I wasn’t thinking about myself,” he replies, jaw tight. “I was too busy tasting you.”

You groan — quiet, wrecked — and then you move. You climb onto his lap slowly, knees bracketing his thighs, one hand on his chest, the other sliding up the back of his neck to bury in his hair. His breath punches out of him the moment your weight settles fully over his crotch.

“Fuck—” he hisses, finally looking at you.

His eyes are feral now, glazed with heat and restraint, the control he’s always carried like a weapon now trembling at the edges. You start to move — slow, deep, rolling your hips in a long grind that presses your soaked core directly against his clothed cock, dragging your swollen clit over the rough fabric. He chokes on a sound — part growl, part moan.

“Don’t,” he bites out, hands gripping your hips, fingers digging in. “You don’t know how sensitive I am—”

“I know,” you breathe, rocking against him again. “I can feel you.”

You lean forward, brushing your mouth along his jaw. “You’re so fucking hard it’s obscene.”

His hips jerk up into you, involuntary. You moan, louder now.

“I wish there wasn’t anything between us,” you whisper, grinding harder. “I want to feel you. All of you. No zipper. No excuses.”

He groans, low and guttural, one hand flying up to grip the back of your neck as he yanks you into a kiss — not soft, not even close. It’s messy, hungry, all tongue and teeth, lips crashing and parting and finding each other again like you’ve both already gone a little insane. You’re panting into his mouth, hips rolling with more pressure now, chasing friction, chasing heat. His cock strains between you, thick and leaking beneath the fabric, and your underwear is so soaked it feels like it isn’t even there anymore.

“You want me to fuck you in the back of my car,” he growls into your mouth, breath warm and filthy. “Tell me.”

You nod, moaning. “Yes. I want to ride you, skin to skin. Want to feel how deep you go.”

He snarls — honest to god snarls — and suddenly his hand is between you, yanking down your neckline so hard the fabric groans. He shoves your bra aside, mouth closing over your nipple in one desperate pull. You scream — high and broken — your hands flying to his shoulders for balance as he sucks hard, tongue rolling, teeth grazing just enough to make you shake.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“Say it again,” he demands, voice muffled against your chest. “Let them hear.”

You don't know who he means - the watching city, the endless night, some distant god - and in this moment of pure sensation, you couldn't care less.

You ride him harder now, pace faltering, movements jerky, breath shattering as your orgasm builds again, ten times sharper than the first. He thrusts up to meet you, every grind of his clothed cock against your pulsing heat dragging you closer to the edge. You’re incoherent now, whimpering, gasping.

“You’re going to make me—fuck—” he growls.

“I’m so close,” you sob. “Don’t stop. Don’t—please—”

He doesn’t. He pulls you tighter, faster, mouth still on your breast, his hips slamming up to meet yours again and again until—

Ecstasy shatters through you in waves, your body writhing as pleasure claims every nerve ending. A broken cry escapes your lips while your thighs clench and hips buck against him. He responds with one final, desperate grind - a guttural groan tearing from his throat as you feel him pulse and spill beneath the fabric of his slacks.

His face finds refuge in the crook of your neck, both of you frozen in the aftermath. The evidence of your shared release surrounds you - your ruined blouse, your soaked underwear, the fog-laden windows, and the heady scent of sex permeating the air. Through it all, his pants remain fastened, a final barrier neither of you dared to cross.

✓

The apartment is warm and dim and quiet, the kind of silence that wraps around you like a blanket — soft, familiar, still.

Your boyfriend is in the shower. You can hear the water running through the wall, steady and casual, the same way it’s always sounded. The bathroom door is cracked slightly, steam curling through the gap in lazy coils. His phone buzzes once on the nightstand. Yours sits beside you, face down.

You lie on your back, staring at the ceiling. Your body is clean. Your skin smells like lavender and lotion. Your blouse is hanging in the laundry basket, still crumpled from where his mouth was on you. Your underwear is in the trash — soaked through, impossible to explain.

Silence fills the space between you since arriving home. The excuse of fatigue and a headache let you retreat to bed, lights off and facade intact, while turmoil churns beneath your composed exterior.

Through the cracked bathroom door, steam curls into the bedroom as the shower runs endlessly. You lie there listening to the water, using it to mark time until your phone suddenly vibrates.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You're not sleeping.

You stare at the screen, offering no response. Another message follows quickly.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You keep clenching your thighs when you're thinking about me. Do they ache now, baby?

Your breath catches as heat floods your throat. A slight shift confirms what you already know - the lingering ache, the persistent pressure, the way two orgasms somehow weren't enough.

[You]

Stop.

Behave properly.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I was behaving.

You're the one who climbed on top of me like you were going to cry if I didn't let you come again.

Your eyes fall shut as your fingers twist into the blanket, heart pounding an urgent rhythm against your ribs.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I haven't stopped thinking about how wet you were.

How hot you felt through those panties.

I almost came the second you started moving.

It hurt. It still does.

Your thighs press together instinctively as your breath wavers.

[You]

You're going to ruin me.

[Jeon Jungkook]

You're already ruined.

The shower continues its steady rhythm as your gaze darts to the bathroom door. Without thinking, your fingers move across the screen.

[You]

I can still taste you on my tongue.

I hate that I liked it.

I hate that I'm still horny.

The pause stretches before your screen illuminates once more.

[Jeon Jungkook]

I wish there were no clothes between us in that car.

I wish I could've felt how tight you are while you're dripping down my cock.

You were grinding so hard, baby. If I'd let you keep going, you would've soaked my pants.

Another futile squeeze of your thighs does nothing to ease the mounting tension.

[You]

We're not doing this.

[Jeon Jungkook]

We already did.

[Jeon Jungkook]

But next time… I'm not stopping at your underwear.

The phone slips from your grasp as you curl onto your side, pulse racing. When the shower finally stops, you lie there in the darkness - flushed and breathless - as water drips in the silence, your mind fixed on the inevitable question of when "next time" will arrive.

✓

The meeting is scheduled for 10:00 a.m. sharp.

You sit near the back of the executive briefing room, spine straight, notes prepared, smile polite — everything about you composed to the point of perfection. This is what you’ve been working toward for months. The pitch campaign of the quarter. An internal competition so sharp it’s been whispered through office floors for weeks. The chance to lead a brand identity presentation that might stretch far beyond the company’s own legacy — new reach, new budgets, and possibly, your name in lights under the quarterly report.

Pride wells inside you - or at least it should. The feeling evaporates the moment his name appears on the slide: CREATIVE LEAD — JEON JUNGKOOK.

Your throat constricts as you stare at those professional, innocuous words. They seem to mock you, belonging to the same man who had you desperate in his car three nights ago, who floods your phone with midnight messages that leave you aching, whose taste and voice haunt you while your boyfriend sleeps unaware beside you.

Drawing in a steadying breath, you straighten your posture and focus on maintaining composure. The division head moves through the presentation, outlining the brand refresh and campaign strategy before announcing your role as analytical lead with a warm smile. You acknowledge it with practiced politeness, though your lungs seem to have forgotten how to function.

When you finally dare to look across the room, Jungkook is already watching. He reclines at the far end, one elbow propped on the leather armrest, fingers thoughtfully pressed beneath his chin. His expression remains carefully neutral, but his gaze holds yours a beat too long before sliding away - as if this was all according to plan, as if he knew exactly how this would unfold.

✓

The building empties early on Thursdays. You don’t know why. You only know that by seven thirty, the only sounds echoing through the halls are the quiet hum of computers still running and the faint mechanical sweep of the cleaning crew on the lower floors. Most teams are gone. Most lights are off. But you’re still here — tucked in a corner conference room with your laptop open, slides half-polished, fingers stiff from typing, heart beating too loudly in your chest for someone just working on a pitch deck.

You could’ve done this from home. You should’ve. But ever since the assignment was announced — ever since you saw his name beside yours — you’ve started staying later. At first, you told yourself it was just strategy. Focus. Fewer distractions. A quiet space to think. But by now, you know better.

You know it’s because this is the only time he stops pretending. The glass door clicks open behind you. You don’t turn around. Not right away. You just lower your screen slightly, forcing your breath to steady. Forcing your expression into something composed.

“I figured you’d already gone,” you say, keeping your voice level.

“No,” comes the answer — smooth, steady, low. “I was waiting for you to stop pretending you could avoid me.”

You glance up. Jungkook stands in the doorway, sleeves rolled, tie loosened, the top two buttons of his shirt undone in a way that should be casual — but nothing about him is casual anymore. Not the weight of his stare. Not the tension coiled in his arms. Not the way he looks at you like he knows exactly how wet you are under that professional pencil skirt and the excuse of your silence.

He steps inside. The door closes behind him with a muted sigh. You rise from your chair — not to run. You’re not sure why, really. Maybe it’s instinct. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s that part of you that still thinks you can bluff your way out of the gravity you’ve both been circling. But he only watches you. And then, finally, you break the silence. Not with something soft. With something angry.

“Is this a game to you?”

His eyes narrow. “No.”

You cross your arms, trying to hold onto something. “Then what is it?”

He steps forward — not fast, not aggressive, just sure.

“You,” he says quietly, “make it hard to play fair.”

“I see the way you look at me,” he continues, voice smooth, deliberate, like every word has been sitting on his tongue for days. “The way your lips part when I walk into a room. The way you hold your breath when I pass behind your chair. You want to be good. But you’re not.”

You should walk away. You should push past him, leave the room, erase this moment with professionalism and pride.

But instead, you whisper, “You’re not either.”

His mouth twitches — not into a smile, not quite. “No,” he says. “I’m not.”

And then he moves. His hands find your waist, fingers digging into the fabric of your skirt as he pushes you — not hard, but fast — until the back of your thighs meet the edge of the glass conference table. His mouth finds your throat before you can speak, tongue dragging up the line of your jaw as your hands fly to his chest, not to stop him, just to hold.

“You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this,” he murmurs against your skin. “To fuck you where anyone could see. To hear you moan when you know you shouldn’t.”

You gasp as he lifts you — easily, like you weigh nothing — and sets you onto the table, pushing your knees apart as he steps between them.

“I think about you when I’m on calls,” he growls. “I can’t look at you in meetings without imagining you under me, legs shaking, begging me to make you come.”

“Jungkook—”

He silences you with a kiss — deep, wet, devastating — and then his hand slides under your skirt, pulling your underwear aside with one sharp tug. You’re soaked already, and when he drags his fingers through your folds, he groans against your mouth.

“Still so fucking wet for me.”

He doesn’t wait. He unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other still buried between your thighs, thumb rolling over your clit until your hips lift off the glass in a broken, desperate rhythm. You don’t even hear the sound you make when he frees himself from his pants — thick, flushed, already leaking — because all you can feel is want.

And then he’s there and he doesn’t tease. He thrusts in one smooth stroke, hips snapping forward as your body takes him all at once — stretch and heat and fullness that makes you cry out, nails clawing into his shoulders, eyes wide and unseeing.

“Fuck,” he hisses, jaw clenched. “You feel—fuck, you’re so tight—”

Your head falls back, fingers trembling. “You’re big—too big—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, pulling out halfway only to slam back in. “You take it so fucking well.”

The table shakes beneath you. His rhythm builds — deep, unrelenting, hard enough to echo in the room. His hands grip your thighs, then your hips, then your ass, pulling you closer, holding you still as he ruins you one thrust at a time.

You cling to him like you’re drowning. And then — just when you think you can’t take more — his hand slides up, yanks the neckline of your blouse down, pulls your bra aside. He mouths at your nipple like he owns it, sucks hard, tongue flicking over the peak until your scream breaks the silence.

“Jungkook—oh my god—”

“You like that?” he pants. “You like being fucked like this? On a table? At work?”

You’re nodding, breathless, boneless, thighs quivering. “Yes—yes, please—don’t stop—”

And he doesn’t stop. Not when your nails scrape down his back, not when your head lolls back against the smooth glass with a sound that doesn’t sound like you at all. He finds the rhythm that undoes you — deep and measured, every thrust angled just right to drag across that spot inside you that makes your thighs jerk around his hips and your mouth fall open with a helpless cry. He grinds into you on every downstroke, not rushed, not frantic — just devastatingly precise, like he’s memorized the way your body coils before it breaks.

Your fingers tremble where they grip the edge of the table. You cling to the glass like it might anchor you, but it doesn't. Nothing can. Not when his hand slides up to your throat, not tightening, just holding — grounding you as your walls start to flutter around him, clenching harder with every slick, obscene snap of his hips.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he growls into your neck, voice hot and ruined. “That’s it, baby—come on. Come for me.”

And you do — with a sound so high and strangled you don’t even recognize it as yours, thighs locking around his waist as you shudder through it, everything going white-hot and wet and wild, your body seizing on his cock as he fucks you through the tremors, relentless, groaning at the way you clench.

He kisses you hard — messy, teeth dragging your lower lip, tongue claiming your mouth like it’s a promise — and fucks you deeper, harder, until your second orgasm is building too fast, too sharp, making your legs shake and your moans rise into whimpers.

“Again,” he hisses, pulling back to look at you, flushed and panting. “You’re not done.”

Your head shakes, but your hips chase his anyway.

“Jungkook—fuck—I can’t—”

“You can,” he pants, sweat beading at his temple as he slams into you again, the slap of skin on skin echoing against the glass walls. “You’re gonna give it to me again. Just like that. You’re so fucking perfect like this.”

And when his hand slips between your bodies, fingers rubbing fast over your swollen clit while he pounds into you, your body gives in again — your muscles locking, stomach contracting, lips parted in a silent cry as the second wave crashes down, louder, messier, wetter than the first.

Your body writhes against him, blouse hanging open, skirt pushed so high it’s barely on you anymore. Your legs shake around him, your vision blurs, your voice breaks.

You sob his name. Not once. Not softly. But over and over — “Jungkook, Jungkook—fuck—” — as he fucks you through it, until your body trembles so hard he has to grip your waist to keep you from sliding off the table.

You're completely undone — face flushed, chest rising in jagged gasps, breasts slick with sweat and spit, fingers twitching against the glass. Not a single part of you is untouched. Not a single part of you is safe. And still, he doesn’t stop until he’s spilling inside you with a low, strangled growl, hips jerking against yours, forehead pressed to your collarbone as he groans your name like a secret he shouldn’t have ever learned.

You stay like that — tangled, panting, broken open in every way that matters — before you finally move, legs still trembling as he slips out of you, your body flinching from the sudden emptiness.

You slide down from the table with shaking legs, adjusting your blouse, pushing your hair back, not meeting his eyes. You whisper, “We can’t do this again.”

You leave without a word, your heels clicking against marble in a steady rhythm that echoes through the empty corridor. Behind you, Jungkook remains motionless - shirt open, belt undone, lips parted - as he watches the door swing shut. Though he doesn't follow, a knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth, he’s already planning how you will break that promise.

✓

You ghost him.

Not all at once, but methodically — first by refusing to look at him during meetings, then by ignoring the messages that come after dark, still arriving on schedule even when you pretend to be asleep, your phone lighting up on your nightstand like a warning you no longer feel brave enough to read.

You delete his number, but not before copying it somewhere hidden, buried in a place you hope you’ll forget, though you already know you won’t. You archive the message thread, stare at the space where his name used to sit between your alarms and your reminders, then delete it too — and for a second, you feel something close to power. But it doesn’t last.

You go to work like nothing’s changed. You sit in the same seat during team calls, speak in the same calm voice, wear the same pressed clothes and polished shoes. You keep your face neutral when his name appears in the group chat, when your inbox holds notes tagged “for approval” with his initials beneath, when he speaks during creative syncs like nothing has passed between you but timelines and metrics. And you match it.

You match his silence with silence, his professionalism with poise, until every moment that ever existed between you becomes something weightless and false — like a fever dream you were never sick enough to die from.

Except the truth is, it's already consumed you - a fever that never broke, still burning through your veins with every heartbeat.

Because your body doesn’t forget. Not when you cross the lobby and smell the cologne someone else wears that’s too close to his. Not when you sit through a meeting and feel a phantom pressure against the inside of your thigh, like your skin remembers where his hand once belonged. Not when you’re lying awake beside a man who doesn’t press against you anymore, who’s too polite to ask why your body flinches when he touches your hip in his sleep.

You try to be good. Again. The kind of good you used to believe in. You stop staying late. You make dinner even when you don’t feel like eating. You answer every text Seojin sends you with a smiley face or a photo of your desk, as if that can somehow make up for how far away you’ve already drifted.

But nothing changes. None of it is enough to fill the void he left behind.

That night in the kitchen, he stands there with damp hair and phone in hand, his words cutting through the silence: "I don't even know who you are anymore." The exhaustion in his voice makes it clear he's done waiting for answers you can't give. You keep your eyes down, unable to face him, knowing that if he asked you the same question, you'd be just as lost.

When he leaves, you remain frozen in place, wrapped in a sweater that carries his scent, wondering how you transformed into someone who could experience such intimacy with a stranger and dismiss it as a mistake.

The illusion of freedom you try to convince yourself of shatters the moment you lie down in your empty bed. Your first thought isn't of relief or independence - it's of Jungkook's number, still unblocked on your phone. You leave the device face-down, fingers twisted in your sheets, attempting to recall a time when desire didn't feel like destruction.

✓

You keep your head down for days — not because you’ve done something wrong, but because it feels like you have. Every morning you pass through security expecting your badge to blink red. Every unread email from HR makes your heart stutter. Every slack notification jolts like it’s about to summon you upstairs, into a boardroom where everything ends in glass and shame.

Your mind races with questions about his response - whether he reported it, covered it up, or simply remained silent. But nothing comes of it. Instead, on the following Monday — rain tapping soft against the windows, your hair still damp from walking too fast in a coat that never quite keeps you dry — your manager pulls you aside with a printed letter in hand and a smile that borders on triumphant.

“You’re being moved to permanent,” she says, tapping the corner of the offer letter against your desk like she already expects gratitude. “Full benefits. Salary bump. A higher bracket than standard for someone in your first year, but—” she smiles wider now, “you clearly impressed someone up high.”

The offer letter in your hands might as well be written in hieroglyphics. Your throat constricts as you accept it silently, maintaining a facade of composure. Your manager beams at you, clearly interpreting your silence as humble gratitude, but beneath your blouse, your skin prickles with an unspoken question you refuse to acknowledge.

Was it him?

You respond with nothing more than a professional nod before returning to your desk, though the data on your screen blurs as your thoughts drown out everything else. Days pass without a word from him - no messages, no meaningful glances, not even when your promotion appears in the company newsletter with its congratulatory star. No chance encounters by the coffee machine, no brushing of hands in hallways.

You try to convince yourself this is for the best, that your success stems purely from merit - not from heated moments against glass tables while the city witnessed your undoing. You repeat these assurances until they almost ring true.

But four days later, a knock echoes through your apartment. The hour is too late for anything innocent, and your heart already knows who stands on the other side. You don't bother with the peephole - your bare feet carry you to the door as your pulse slows to a heavy rhythm, your body preparing itself for what comes next.

When you open it, there he is. Jeon Jungkook, like an unfinished sentence waiting to be completed. His black coat hangs open, no tie, hair slightly disheveled as if he's been running his fingers through it. He brings no pretense - no phone, no flowers, no excuses. Just himself and a gaze that tells you he never learned how to stop wanting you.

Neither of you speaks. You stand frozen in this moment, uncertain whether you're about to fall again or finally find your footing.

✓

He remains in the doorway, rain-dampened shoulders and exposed collarbone forming a silhouette against the night. His gaze meets yours with quiet intention - not to begin something new, but to resolve what was left unfinished between you.

The hallway light flickers above, casting golden shadows across the deep navy darkness behind him. You wish you could dismiss this as another fevered fantasy born from lingering desire, but his presence is undeniably real.

When he finally speaks, his voice carries neither confession nor seduction. "You earned it," he says softly. "Everything in that offer. You did it." Your breath catches as he continues, his gaze unwavering. "I just made sure no one overlooked you."

There's no triumph in his words, no expectation - only raw honesty and the weight of knowing he sought your success even from the edges of your silence. But you can't accept this offering, even as his presence in your doorway - beautiful and controlled - makes every step you've taken feel like an inevitability leading back to him.

You press your palm against the door, forcing yourself to whisper, "You need to leave." The words emerge not as anger but as surrender, and when his gaze drops briefly to your mouth before meeting your eyes again - patient, undemanding - you already know what follows.

His kiss, when it comes, holds neither hunger nor heat, but something devastatingly gentle - as though he's committing every moment to memory. Your hand betrays you, curling into his coat as you return the kiss, falling back into the gravity between you.

Because maybe you’re tired of lying. Or maybe you're tired of pretending that anything in your life has felt this right and this wrong all at once.

Though you don't invite him in, the door remains open between you - a threshold neither of you crosses, yet he already knows what lies beyond words and walls.

The kiss deepens slowly — not because either of you is hesitant, but because it doesn’t feel like either of you has the heart to rush through it this time. He doesn’t push past your lips like he’s trying to win something, and you don’t open your mouth like surrender — it’s not about giving in anymore, not about being claimed or punished or ruined.

It’s about being felt. He presses closer. Not a step forward — just a lean, the weight of his chest brushing yours, his hands finding your waist like he’s afraid you might disappear again. And you don’t move. You just stand there, door still open behind him, arms curled into the fabric of his coat as the warmth of his mouth lingers against yours like a breath, a pulse, a truth.

You kiss him again — slower now, deeper — and when he follows, when his tongue slides softly past your lips and you moan, helpless, against the taste of him, that’s when you reach up and curl your fingers around the chain that rests against the hollow of his throat.

He groans and it’s quiet, low, barely audible, but it’s felt — like it comes from his spine, like the metal between your fingers is connected to something under his skin that was always meant to belong to you.

You pull him in gently by the chain, guiding him across the threshold as his coat falls open. When his mouth finds yours again, there's a new kind of hunger in his kiss - not dominance, but pure desperation. His touch isn't that of someone seeking conquest; instead, his hands move across your skin with the reverence of someone who's been aching for every inch he hasn't yet discovered.

His jacket drops to the floor with a soft thud, your fingers already working open the buttons of his shirt, slow and trembling, as he backs you toward the couch, hands slipping under your top like he needs to feel your skin now — all of it, warm and honest and bare beneath his palms.

Your shirt peels off. His pants drop low on his hips, exposing the trail of muscle that makes your breath catch. You step out of your underwear while never breaking eye contact, and when he pushes his boxers down, your eyes fall to his cock — thick and already leaking, not intimidating this time, just right, just him.

He lowers you onto the couch, his hands cradling your thighs as you lie back, and when he settles between them, you don’t gasp or beg — you exhale. Soft and full and steady. Because this time, you’re not falling. You’re choosing.

He slides into you slowly — achingly slow — and the stretch is so deep, so thick, so familiar that it burns in the most beautiful way. You moan, long and low, arching into him, your nails dragging lines across his back. And Jungkook groans — face buried in your neck, arms shaking slightly as he stills inside you, like he’s overwhelmed too.

“You feel like home,” he breathes.

You don’t answer. You just kiss his temple. And move.

The rhythm you find together is slow, grinding, intimate — a pace that isn't about how fast you can get off, but how long you can stay wrapped in each other. He kisses you between every thrust, forehead to yours, mouths brushing, your breath shared in tiny gasps and broken sighs.

And when he reaches down and strokes your clit — gentle, slow circles — your legs begin to tremble, the pleasure curling from your spine like a tide rising. You cling to him, closer, tighter, needing more of him, needing to anchor yourself somewhere inside this moment.

Your fingers wrap around his chain again, the cool metal a bridge between your bodies as you pull with gentle insistence - not to control or wound, but to forge a deeper connection in this moment.

His hips jerk at the sensation, his cock twitching deep inside you as he groans, mouth falling open at the feeling of you clenching tighter around him.

“You’re gonna make me—fuck,” he pants, voice hoarse. “Keep doing that.”

You tug again. The metal glints against his sweat-slicked chest. Your orgasm builds with every grind of your hips, every whisper of “don’t stop” falling from your lips, every stroke of his fingers between your thighs, until you’re gasping his name again — but softer now, like a secret.

When you come, it’s full-body — waves of heat rolling through you, your back arching, your eyes closing tight, the chain still twisted in your fingers like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded.

And even as you pulse around him, wet and aching and overwhelmed, he doesn’t let go.

He’s trembling above you now, his jaw slack and his chest rising in ragged waves as your bodies move together — not with the frenzy of earlier, not with urgency or teeth or bruises, but with something far more dangerous: something honest. His thrusts have slowed, deeper now, less rhythmic, like he’s no longer chasing climax but trying to hold it off, trying to stay in the moment just a little longer, trying to memorize what it feels like to be this far inside you — surrounded, wrapped, welcomed.

But it’s slipping. You can feel it in the way his control starts to crack, in the way his hands slide down your back with too much pressure, in the way his mouth grazes your jaw like a man whose words are caught behind his teeth, trembling and unfinished. His hips begin to stutter, no longer smooth but erratic, messy, desperate.

And when your fingers tighten around the chain at his throat — silver glinting faintly between your sweat-damp chests, cool to the touch even now — his head drops, a moan clawing from his throat, so raw it nearly breaks you to hear it.

“I’m not gonna last,” he whispers, not pleading, not asking, just admitting it with a vulnerability that feels heavier than any of the filth he’s ever murmured into your skin. “I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold it.”

He’s still inside you, so deep you can feel every twitch, every tremble of his body as he hovers at the edge, and when you press your lips to the corner of his mouth — soft and sure — and whisper, “Then don’t,” something inside him gives out.

His entire body seizes above you, his muscles tightening like drawn wires, his breath hitching hard in his chest as he buries himself in one last thrust so deep, so full, you swear you stop breathing altogether. His hands fly to your hips, gripping like anchors as he comes inside you — thick and hot and overwhelming — his groan curling out of his mouth in a low, strangled sound that vibrates against your collarbone.

It goes on longer than you expect — wave after wave pulsing from him, each twitch of his cock spilling more heat into your already-soaked core, every sound he makes a mixture of release and disbelief, like he can’t quite believe this is real, like the feeling of your body wrapped around him is too much to survive.

And through all of it, he doesn’t pull away. Not from your mouth. Not from your skin. Not from the chain still caught between your fingers, your knuckles pale from how tightly you’re holding it, as if the tension in that single piece of metal is the only thing keeping you from falling apart with him.

When he finally stills — his hips softening, breath stuttering out in a slow collapse — he doesn’t lift his head right away. He just breathes against your throat, his body trembling with the last aftershocks, arms tightening around your waist as if he’s trying to fuse your bodies together before the world can find a way to separate you again.

You lie there for a moment, in that impossible stillness, his cock still nestled deep inside you, both of you flushed and tangled and soaked in sweat, your limbs loose and aching and marked.

And when he finally lifts his head, eyes dark and glassy, mouth parted like he’s about to say something too fragile to hold, you can only stare up at him — chest to chest, heart to heart — with your breath caught halfway between exhaustion and wonder.

Without smiling, he leans in close, his voice a low and certain whisper meant only for your ears “This isn’t over.”

And the way he says it — not as a threat or warning, but as a simple truth — makes you realize he's speaking of something far deeper than this night. He's speaking of you, of this connection, of everything you've tried to escape but found yourself becoming within his embrace.

✓

The morning begins without rest.

You barely have time to blink yourself awake before the call comes in — not a question, not a suggestion, just a notification from your manager’s assistant letting you know that you’ve been assigned to assist with the company’s most significant investor gala of the season. No option to decline. No time to process. Just a simple line in bold: “Dress code: black tie. You’re on-site support.”

You move quickly, running on autopilot, still aching between your legs from the night before, every movement a silent echo of the way he held you, the way he moved inside you, the way his voice sounded when he promised — promised — that it wasn’t over. But now it’s morning, and there’s no message from him. No trace of last night but the marks on your hips and the silence in your phone.

By the time you arrive at the venue, your hair is slicked back into a low bun, your clipboard tucked tightly under your arm, your lips painted in a shade that says control and nothing else. The black dress they told you to wear is clean-lined and elegant, sleeveless, cinched at the waist, the hem brushing the floor just above your heels. It’s professional. Unassuming. Forgettable.

You are trying to fade into the background, and yet your body betrays you with every movement - haunted by memories of his touch, his gaze, the sound of his pleasure. Moving through the ballroom like a shadow in velvet, you focus on your tasks: aligning name cards, supervising wine service, centering elaborate floral arrangements on tables worth more than your monthly rent. You maintain strict professionalism - speaking only when necessary, avoiding eye contact, staying busy and useful while striving to remain unnoticed.

Just after seven, the atmosphere shifts. The lights dim imperceptibly, the music softens beneath murmured conversations, and a photographer raises their camera. The change ripples through the room like an invisible wave - not loud or obvious, but unmistakably present.

The entire room turns in unison as the CEO makes his entrance, commanding attention with the effortless confidence that comes from generational power. His presence fills the space - sleek, controlled, magnetic in his crisp suit. And beside him stands a woman whose name you don't yet know.

But there she stands - young and polished in an ivory silk gown that clings perfectly to her frame, one hand resting on Jeon Jungkook's arm. The CEO's son maintains perfect composure beside her, his expression carefully neutral, those same lips that traced your skin mere hours ago now curved into a practiced smile.

“That’s Jungkook’s fiancée,” says one of the senior managers beside you, a woman whose eyes haven’t left the couple at the entrance. Her tone isn’t cruel. Just matter-of-fact. “Her family owns half the company in London.”

When your eyes finally meet his across the crowded room, his gaze finds you with neither surprise nor alarm - just a steady, emotionless recognition. He remains motionless beside his companion, offering no gesture, no word, no explanation for this devastating revelation. His unbearable calm speaks volumes as he regards you with the detached interest one might show a stranger.

Your fingers close tighter around the stem of the wine glass in your hand — tighter, tighter — and before you can stop it, before you even feel it, the glass snaps in your palm, crystal shattering in your grip with a sound that doesn’t match the music, wine spilling in slow rivulets down your wrist and onto the floor. A soft gasp ripples through nearby guests, but you remain frozen - hand bleeding, vision blurring, heart constricting around a truth you should have anticipated.

And across the crowd, without a flicker of emotion, he simply turns away.

part 2 is here

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