#poor oc...he's been going through it... | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

damneddamsy · 4 months ago

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falling | joel miller x fem!oc (part i)

EVENT HORIZON: The line crossed beyond which return is impossible.

summary: Joel Miller never expected much out of Jackson—just a quiet place to live out the days he had left. But when a baby’s cries lead him to a mother unravelling under the pressure of nursing her child she never asked for, he finds himself tangled in something he can’t walk away from—no matter how much he tells himself he should.

a/n: this is soft daddy Joel like you've never seen before. angst, angst, angst. just heart-wrenching, gut-clenching, bucket-full-of-tears kind of flow. but I promise, I swear to you, it's going to get good!

Joel had spent the past week trying to ignore it.

The sound was distant, quelled through the walls, but it was there—constant, sharp infant's cries slashing through the night, wounded, helpless. The baby never laughed, cooed, or made little, gurgling noises that kids were supposed to make. It cried, night after night, with the same pitiful wails, like it were fighting sleep and didn’t know how to be comforted.

And the mother?

Leela. That was her name. Tommy and Maria had told him her family had been here before them, before all of this, that she’d grown up in Jackson, that the big white house across from his had always been hers. He instantly believed it—her place didn’t look like the others. It was well-kept in a way that wasn’t just for show. The wood was aged, but it was polished, the porch steps stayed sturdy, and the windows were wiped clean even in the dead of winter. A home, not just a shelter.

Though it wasn’t warm.

Not with that sound in the night. Not when he never saw anyone else go inside, ever.

No one knew who the kid’s father was, and Leela never said. She wouldn’t even let people help her—not Maria, not the older women in town who had tried, not even the ones who had kids of their own and knew what to do. And now, at the end of another long day, that fucking baby was crying again.

Joel had tried to let it be. Had forced himself to breathe, stay in his house, shut the curtains, turn over in bed and pull the blanket over his head like some stubborn old bastard trying to pretend it wasn’t his problem.

But it was.

Because he could hear it. And it sounded fucking miserable, and he’d had enough.

When the cries began to get worse in the night, that was his last straw. With a frustrated sigh, he yanked on his jacket, shoved his arms through the sleeves, and stepped out into the cold, the door crashing shut behind him. The snow crunched beneath his boots as he crossed the road, hands tightening into fists, shoulders squared. The wind blew at him, biting into his skin, augmenting his edge, and when he reached her porch, he had half a mind to just bang on the damn door until she answered.

But—he hesitated.

There was still a kid in there. The devilkin, probably. A baby, nevertheless, and its struggling mother.

He exhaled through his nose, loosened his fingers, and reached for the old metal knocker instead. Three firm, unchanging raps.

A pause. A paddle of footsteps down the staircase inside, light and hesitant. A sniffle. A sigh.

The curtains fluttered from nearby—just a fraction, just enough for him to catch the glint of an eye in the darkness, shedding a blade of light onto the frozen lawn. And then the door creaked open.

The poor mother looked like hell.

Her eyes—pretty, brown, red-rimmed, heavy-lidded—held the kind of exhaustion that settled deep, beyond sleep, beyond fixing. Her cheeks were hollowed, her lips chapped to brown, her long hair falling loose from whatever attempt she’d made to pull it back.

And the baby—the cries hadn’t stopped. If anything, they were worse now. Closer, desperate. The sound reached him in waves, piercing, thin, rattling against the walls of the house and clawing at something deep in his chest. A familiarity.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she murmured. Her voice was raw, barely holding together. “I just…”

She trailed off as if the words had run out, or she didn’t have the strength to find them. Then the baby shrieked, and she flinched. A full-body recoil, like the sound had physically struck her. She turned away, pushing her wrist to her nose, shoulders curling inward, folding into herself as though she could disappear into the space she took up.

And Joel—well, he had been ready to lay into her. To tell her to do something, to figure it out, to stop letting that kid cry itself raw night after night. But looking at her now, standing there with her arms wrapped tight around herself, shaking from something that wasn’t just the cold…

He couldn’t do it.

Instead, against every instinct, every frustration, he surprised himself by saying—

“Let me try.”

Joel didn’t exactly wait for an answer.

Didn’t stop to think if he had the right or question if she would let him in, because the noise was still there, splitting the air, working its way under his skin like a thorn that wouldn’t come out. His jaw tightened once more, and the next thing he knew, he was pushing past her and her doorstep.

He wasn’t trying to be cruel. Well, he had been, just not anymore.

It was beyond audacity or desperation. A need to stop that noise. That noise had been giving him sleepless nights for a week now, and with it came the memories he’d spent years burying. He couldn't afford to let them resurface by the likes of this strange, terrible mother.

Leela's house smelled faintly of old wood, old cotton, dust, and a softness underneath—like sun-warmed linen, the lingering scent of a person who lived there and never once left. It was dark, too, save for the single glow spilling from a room upstairs. His boots were lumbering against the worn floorboards, his breaths crowding in his chest as he took the stairs two at a time. Nearly six doors on the second floor as far as he could see, but only one was open.

He stepped inside.

The first thing he noticed was the cradle, right in the centre of the empty room, definitely placed there on purpose, a meagre little crib mobile fashioned into wooden horses, dangling mid-air.

Old. The hinges were barely holding together. The wood had whittled away from time, its edges dulled, a possible relic that had been used for generations. The mattress inside was thin, its fabric stained with age, but the flowery sheets were neatly tucked and arranged properly. Everything was in its place.

This wasn’t neglect.

This was someone trying—failing.

And then the baby. The newborn, should he say. No older than a month, wriggling in its white nappy, legs kicking in frantic little bursts, tiny fists curled so tight they trembled. Tears slicked its cheeks, its face blotchy and red against the tanned skin, its mouth stretched wide in a scream so raw, so piercing, that it stole the breath straight from the lungs. It didn’t take a dumbass like him to know it was starving, wasting away with exhaustion.

But goddamn, if that wasn’t one beautiful fucking baby.

Biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen, glassy, glinting, wet and searching. A head full of thick, dark hair, clammy and curling at the ends like downy little question marks. But it wasn’t chubby the way babies should be. Not soft enough. Too small, skin drawn tight, movements restless but weak. Malnourished.

His jaw clenched. He barely registered the sharp footsteps rushing up behind him until the mother's voice cut through the noise.

“Hey, ‘scuse me, I didn’t let—”

He cut off her protest with an abrupt, “Boy or girl?”

She stopped short, her lips parting. She swallowed down whatever she’d been about to say.

“Girl,” she breathed.

Joel’s gaze flicked back to the baby. He noticed the slight bloating around her belly, the way she arched and curled, restless, like she couldn’t find a position that didn’t hurt. That explained the shrieking. Colic, for sure.

“You fed her anything?”

There was a thoughtful pause, and then, quietly—

“I—I’ve been having trouble with…” She gestured vaguely to her chest, gaze dropping, almost ashamed. “I tried some water... um... I don't know.”

Jesus Christ. Joel dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard through his nose. Too late at night or too early in the morning—he didn’t know which, and at this point, it didn’t matter. His head ached. His body ached. And this baby girl—this poor, starving little thing—had been too hapless to be born to this fucking clueless, stubborn, dreadful mother.

“Need to call Maria,” he said under his breath.

Her eyes went wide. “I don’t need anybody’s help. I'm fine.”

He let out a sharp, humourless laugh, shaking his head. “You don't. Your girl sure does. And try saying that when this crib empties in the next week.”

She flinched, shoulders jerking.

He barely registered his words drawing blood. He was already moving, already slipping into old instinct, the one he assumed had died a long time ago.

Stepping closer, Joel reached into the cradle, hands slipping beneath the baby’s small, rigid spine. Carefully, he eased her onto her stomach, a shush falling from his lips, settling her against his forearm, palm spanning nearly the length of her body. Christ, she was so fucking small. Too small. Probably premature. A frail, small thing, light as air, fists still curled, breaths coming out in tiny, shuddering gasps between screeching cries.

Leela stood stiff beside him, her breath as uneven as her baby’s, arms wrapped around herself as though she wasn’t sure if she should step forward or pull away.

Joel didn’t look at her. His focus stayed on the newborn. On how her delicate limbs jerked, how her cries wavered like she couldn’t decide if she had the energy to keep going.

He started rubbing gentle, calming circles against her back, one that had been taught to him by a kind nurse in the maternity ward decades ago, and as the calloused warmth of his palm pressed softly but firmly over her fragile bones, he remembered. The old, terrible sentiment stirred in him—buried deep, and it twisted like a knife. He didn’t think about it. Didn’t let himself. He simply kept stroking, kept murmuring, low, quiet, syllables he wasn’t even aware of.

“Thatta, girl. There you go.”

“'Sokay, ssh. Ssh.”

“I got you.”

The wails started to waver, breaking apart in the middle, turning into stuttering hiccups, then snivels, a laughable baby burp that even had him breaking into a small smile. Then—

Silence. Oh, sweet, splendid silence.

Joel exhaled, keeping his touch measured as she shuddered against him, her tiny fingers twitching against the sleeve of his jacket.

“See? Just needed a little push,” he mumbled.

Leela didn’t respond. She was staring. Not at him, exactly, but at his hands, at the way he held the baby. Like she wasn’t sure what to make of it. Observing him, learning.

When he glanced down, she was blinking up at him, half-lidded, her breath slowing, her little body going limp with exhaustion. She made a wet, little noise, almost a soft coo.

“She got a name?”

When the silence lingered, he lifted his head, caught Leela’s hollow stare, and cocked a brow when she didn’t answer. Then, she silently shook her head.

Joel’s hands closed around an imaginary gun as he frowned. “You didn’t name your kid?”

And just like that, it clicked into place. The way she stood there, arms locked tight around herself. The way she hadn’t called the baby anything, not a nickname, no endearments. The way she hadn't moved a step close to protect her baby from this stranger. The hesitation in her voice as she held herself together, unknowingly accosting a struggle.

“She’s yours, ain’t she? Whole damn town knows.”

Her gaze flickered, a firmness rising. “She is.”

After a beat, she lifted the hem of her shirt, revealing the crisscross of stretch marks across her stomach, just above the line of her pants.

Joel sighed through his nose. His fingers ghosted over the baby’s small back before he finally let go, letting her rest in her mother's arms. It felt wrong—leaving the baby there like that—but he slipped his hand away, albeit unwillingly, and stroked her fine, dark hair once. Twice. Then forced himself to stop. Not mine, he assured himself.

He breathed out sharply, standing upright, rubbing a hand over his face. His patience was hanging by a thread. He had no business being here, no reason to care, but—

“Look,” he muttered, frustration leaching through, “you shouldn't have had a kid if you were just gonna sit around and do fuck all. Jesus, at least get yourself some help.”

Leela cringed, a barely noticeable flicker of movement, but he caught it. She turned her face away, tucking loose strands of hair behind her ear, and bit at what little was left of her nail, worrying it between her teeth.

The sight of it—it wasn’t what he expected. He had been bracing for an argument, for defensiveness, for anger. But there was nothing there. Only the empty gnawing of her thumbnail, the restless shifting of her fingers, all of which dropped an uneasy pebble in his stomach.

He exhaled sharply. “Maria’s coming in tomorrow,” he said, and as he did, he was setting it in stone. “Whether you like it or not. She'll know what to do with... the baby.”

That made her glance up. And for the first time, he really saw her.

Not just the flawed mother behind the exhaustion, the red-rimmed eyes, or the way she curled in on herself like she was trying to take up as little space as possible—but the fear. That deep, paralysing kind of fear that settled into a person’s bones, made a home there.

Then his eyes flicked downward, back to the baby. The baby girl had her mother’s eyes. Big, dark, and brimming with wildness, untamed endurance. But a fragility, caught on the verge of bolting. And in that moment, they both looked the same.

Wet. Trembling. Exhausted. Confused. Helpless.

Leela swallowed thickly, lips parting like she wanted to speak. But when she did, her voice barely made it past her throat. “Take her.”

Joel blinked. For a second, he thought he must’ve misheard.

But she was looking at him, explicit, plain—eyes wide and glistening, breaths erratic like she’d just sprinted a mile. And the way she was standing, trembling, fists curled into the fabric of her sleeves—this woman meant it. She was serious.

“You're right,” she whispered, voice barely there. “I might kill her. Just take her away, please.”

A slow, sinking dread pooled in his stomach. His fingers curled at his sides, restless, itching for a handle to hold onto.

The baby stirred weakly against Leela’s chest, small fingers twitching up to her mother's neck, dark lashes fluttering against puckered skin. She had gone quiet, her body motionless in that way newborns only got when they were too damn exhausted to keep crying.

His hands twitched at his sides. He knew exactly what he should do. He should take the kid off her hands. That was the right thing, wasn’t it? He should lift that baby girl into his arms, swaddle her in a blanket, turn on his heel, and walk out the door. Hand her off to Maria, and let someone who actually knew what they were doing step in. Hell, she’d been talking about trying to set up a proper nursery in town, get the kids what they needed—she’d figure it out.

But Joel didn't move; couldn't bring himself to move.

Because now that he was looking at her, from his conscience, he saw it—saw the fear clinging to her like a second skin. Not the blatant fear of Joel or the fear of what people might say. Fear of herself, as though he own conviction was a luxury.

Leela stood there, arms wrapped tight around her baby, herself, her body drawn inward like she was trying to make herself small as if shrinking could somehow erase the truth. The baby rested against her chest, silent now, as if sensing the displacement around her. Her mother's fingers barely touch her, hesitant, weak, the way someone might hold a delicate, jagged piece of glass they weren’t sure they could be trusted with.

Joel’s stomach turned.

“I—I'm not—I can’t do this.” Her voice was hardly above a whisper, frayed at the edges, raw like an old wound that had never properly healed.

A sharp and molten sense turned in his gut, rising fast—panic, maybe. Or that bone-deep realisation of what would happen.

“You ain’t givin’ her up.” His voice came out gruff, unwavering.

Leela let out a breathy, broken laugh, shaking her head. “Do you think I have a choice here?”

“Yeah.” His eyes stayed on hers, unrelenting. “I do.”

She sniffled, shaking her head again, but her fingers twitched against the baby’s blanket, gripping the fabric like she needed something to hold onto.

Joel had seen this before, known people like this. People who stood at the edge of something dark, looking down, unable to turn back. He’d been one of them once. It made that ugly, cruel knot crest back in his chest, and made him angry in a way that didn’t make sense, didn’t sit right.

Because this mother—this stupid, foolish, ignorant girl—had no business being like that. She didn't even know what kind of luck she'd struck with that baby girl. He would've killed to be where she was, even if it was for a moment. To hold a second chance, brand new, all his.

"You're a fucking coward if you're thinking about giving your daughter up.” The words left him, spired as arrows, before he could stop them. “You got plenty of choices, but you're too goddamn pigheaded to make the right one."

She flinched, as if he’d struck her with all his might, like he’d confirmed every awful thing she’d ever thought about herself.

Joel’s jaw locked. It was too late to take it back; the blood had been drawn.

He should’ve stopped. He should’ve taken a breath, let the words settle and left it at that. But there was something about this strange mother, the way she stood there like she was waiting to be knocked down, made his patience snap clean in half.

“Pull yourself together,” he bit out.

And with that, he turned and walked out the door.

The flurries of winter outside were colder than before, or maybe it only seemed that way. Snow scraped beneath his boots as he stepped onto the road, his breath coming sharp, ragged pants in the quiet of the night. His knuckles ached from the tight fists he hadn't been able to loosen, his pulse still hammering.

Stupid mother. That poor child. There was truly no rest for the wicked.

He was halfway across the street when that resentment shifted.

His anger thinned, the heat of it fading just enough for everything else to creep in—her threadbare voice, her hands fluttering, the way her arms had tightened around that kid like she was afraid of herself more than anything else.

He slowed, stopping in his tracks. The big, white house loomed behind him, dark except for that single upstairs window.

Joel looked up at the home.

The cries had started again. Thin, reedy wails carried through the cold, through the walls.

He stood there, staring at the lights flickering against the frost-covered glass.

This time, jaw tight, he turned away.

That being said, Joel hadn’t slept well.

Not that he ever did, but last night was worse than usual.

Every time he closed his eyes, it was the baby’s cries again. He saw Leela’s face, dark and hollow, eyes too big for her sunken frame. He heard her voice, raw and trembling, telling him to take the kid—like it was the only way. Like she didn’t trust herself to keep her alive, already grieving her.

Even now, as he tugged on his gloves and prepared for patrol, he kept seeing the way she had watched him with her baby. He remembered the way she desperately looked at him, waiting for him to take the baby from her, as if letting go was the only mercy she had left to offer.

Maria was there now. She had let herself in, just like that, hadn’t knocked or hesitated. And Leela had not met her at the door or even bothered to lock it after Joel had walked out last night.

He adjusted the rifle on his back and breathed out the concern.

Not his problem. He shouldn't be bothered with it. He’d done his part, in fact, more than his part. He had brought help in and gotten someone else to deal with it—someone better suited for this kind of thing. Maria would figure it out. She always did, it's why the town counted on her to run it.

Still, as he swung himself onto his horse and rode out for patrol, that damn house stayed in the back of his mind. The way it stood there, silent and old, while something inside was coming apart at the seams. He related to that insentient home more than most people. Or the way Leela had stood in that dim nursery, shoulders curled inward, appearing more like a ghost than a person.

He shook it off and went through the motions. Focus on the day ahead.

Patrol was long, tedious, and more of the same—checking the perimeter, clearing out old trouble spots down his trail, making sure everything was as it should be, and scouring supplies. A welcome distraction. When he stopped by Ellie’s as usual, she narrowed her eyes at him from behind her sketchbook, muttering about how he looked like shit.

“Didn’t sleep,” was all he said. And she didn’t bother to press. Ellie was another long, welcome, more pesky distraction.

By the time evening rolled around, he’d fallen back into his routine. Routine. That was what mattered. He groomed his horse, rubbing his gloved hands along its mane just to keep them busy. He cleaned his rifle, ensuring the gears weren't easy to jam, and stopped on the way home to pick up some new gear at the store. He grabbed a whiskey—alone—just to take the edge off, slowing down for a bit. Soon enough, he was lugging a whole bottle home.

He finished the evening like always, grabbing a boxed dinner from the mess hall, not bothering to make small talk. No one asked anything of him, and he didn’t offer anything in return. A night like any other. It was an expression he repeated to himself, to anchor himself to reality besides the weight of his breaking boots or the floor beneath.

Then he saw her. Maria was still at that house, waiting by the porch swing, face tense. She spotted him almost instantly and strode straight toward him.

Joel nodded at her in greeting, shifting the box under his arm. “You good?”

Maria didn’t bother with pleasantries. “Sure. Got a second?”

He tipped his chin toward Leela’s door. “All set over there?”

“Far from it.” Her voice was edgy, a sure point of contention. “I need your help.”

Joel scoffed. “What’s the punchline?”

But Maria didn’t laugh, or even crack a smirk. Instead, she followed him inside his house.

Joel’s 'home' was nothing special—functional, practical. Just a space to exist in. A couch pushed against one wall, which he used more than the bed upstairs, a table he used out of necessity, and a kitchen stocked with the bare minimum. Not much to look at, or even stay for long. It wasn't home, but it was enough. Certainly nothing like Leela’s home, where history bled through the worn floorboards, through the walls, a place that had been lived in.

Joel didn’t let himself think about that house too much. He dropped the box of food onto the table, turning to Maria with his arms crossed.

“Well?”

Maria sighed, staring out the window toward the street, and into his neighbour’s house. The porch light flickered weakly, and the house itself looked darker than it had last night. Like it had collapsed in on itself a little more.

“She’s not okay, Joel.”

Joel huffed, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve, pretending not to hear the implication behind those words. “Figured.”

“No,” Maria said, sharper now. “I mean it.”

She turned back to him, her eyes shadowed with a charge heavier than concern. She looked tired—unravelled—in a way that wasn’t merely about the town or the thousand responsibilities on her shoulders. It was personal.

Joel exhaled a breath, already feeling the walls closing in on this conversation.

Maria rubbed a hand over her face. “She’s more disturbed than the last time I saw her a month ago. I don’t think she’s had a proper meal in days. She’s having trouble breastfeeding, let alone keeping herself together enough to care for that baby.” She shook her head. “Look, I can’t be there all the time. I’ve got the whole town to run, a hundred things to look after. Tommy’s drowning in work. We're stretched thin as it is.” Her eyes met his, trusting and pointed. “You’re my last resort.”

Joel frowned, jaw ticking. “And do what, exactly? Pretend like I've done this dance before?”

“Just be there,” Maria said so positively, like it wasn’t the worst fucking idea in the world. “Make sure she doesn’t slip up with the baby. Help where you can. Just a few days—until Tommy and I can step in.”

Joel dragged a hand down his beard, letting go of an infuriated sigh. “You gotta be shitting me.”

“Joel, this is serious.”

“You want me to play babysitter to that terrible mom.”

Everything in him wanted to refuse. He’d done his goddamn part here, hadn't he? He didn’t owe that woman anything. She had a nice home, a pretty face, and all that space. She had her newborn. And if she didn’t know how to handle it, that was on her. That was the hand she was dealt. He wasn’t looking to take on another burden. Christ, wasn’t he supposed to be done with this kind of thing? Wasn’t he past the point of taking in lost causes?

But Maria didn’t appear to be giving him a choice. Her voice softened, dropped several octaves, and edged with meaning. “I don’t think she had this baby with someone she knew, Joel. I know she did not.”

Joel stiffened, every muscle aching. Maria’s expression didn’t change, but there was implicit significance there, solemn enough that it didn’t need to be stated outright. Still, it landed in his gut like a stone.

She let the silence stretch, let him fill in the gaps. And he did.

“I hope you understand what I'm getting at,” she continued. “I don’t think she wanted this at all.”

Joel clenched his jaw, staring at the floor, pretending like he didn’t hear them. He didn't ask how she knew, didn’t even ask what she’d seen in that house today that had led her to that conclusion.

Because he already knew. He’d seen it, too.

The way Leela couldn’t bring herself to name the baby. The way she looked at the child was like she was something fragile, unfamiliar, and that didn’t belong to her. The way she had looked at him—not with resentment at his venomous words, but with resignation.

As if she were handing over the baby because she genuinely believed it was the only way to save her. A fist of darkness coiled around his stomach.

Joel knew what it was like to lose a child. He knew what it did to a person, how it tore through you, how it hollowed them out from the inside. But whatever this was, it wasn’t grief. This was something worse. He prayed he would never have to deal with this.

This was a woman standing on the edge of the deep and the dark, staring down into it, wondering how much further she could fall before there was no coming back. And there was a baby—a fucking baby—at her feet. Yet, she was ready to take that fall.

Joel exhaled a slow breath, rubbing the back of his neck.

But the truth was, he’d already stepped in. Already gotten himself involved. Whether out of desperation or some obstinate, buried need to fix things that were beyond saving, he wasn’t sure. And now, if he walked away, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to live with the consequences.

Suddenly, the room felt smaller, the walls a little tighter. A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, reluctantly, he sighed. “This is a big fuckin’ mistake, Maria. I'm the last person who should be over there with her.”

Maria nodded, hearing only what she needed to hear, relief flickering across her face. “You’ll figure it out. I’ll be around if you need anything. Thank you.”

Joel didn’t answer. He didn't know what the hell he’d just agreed to, but something in his gut told him it was going to end real bad.

Dewy dawn washed over his neighbour's house, alabaster and frigid, as Joel made his way up the steps. It must’ve been the perfect oversized home once, costing north of at least five mil, back when the world was still whole—white clapboard, cavernous porch with a swingset, somewhere that had been waiting too long for someone to come back home. A place built to last. And maybe, before seasons and silence collapsed, it had.

But time had sunk its teeth in. The paint had started peeling in the corners, the wood of the steps groaned under his boots, and though the windows were clean, there was something hollow about the way they sat in their frames as if no one had looked out of them in a long time. It didn’t have the disrepair of a broken-down house, but rather the hush of a place that had lost its vitality.

And the front door was open again.

Joel clenched his jaw.

Maria had been right—that girl really didn’t have a single clue.

He pushed the door wider and stepped inside, cautious, not wanting to seem intrusive but unable to stop himself from taking in the room. It wasn’t what he expected.

Her home wasn’t cluttered, wasn’t in disarray, but there was something about it that felt… off. A life suspended mid-thought. A place inhabited by a mind too consumed to fuss over the details of living.

Against one wall, three blackboards leaned slightly askew, their surfaces dense with math—long, elegant trails of equations and symbols that curled and darted in sharp, decisive strokes, a handwriting that came from obsession, not care. At their base lay a scatter of chalk nubs and crumpled paper, some balled tight, others torn through in places, as if discarded mid-frustration into a wastebasket that stood nearby, perpetually missing its mark.

Shelves lined the walls with quiet precision—solved Rubik’s cubes, notebooks snapped shut with elastic bands, rows of empty pens jammed upright in a clay mug. Everything had a place, yet none of it did—more like artefacts left behind after long stretches of deep work. On the table, a coffee mug sat with dried stains at the bottom, an imprint of hands that had used it over and over, mindlessly, then set it aside without a thought.

Joel glared through it all, taking it in.

A fucking scientist. That was the last thing he’d ever have guessed about her. Dr Leela last-name-something, the resident nerd mom.

He didn’t know what he wished to see when he ascended the stairs, only that everything about the house still put him on edge. It wasn’t just the oddity of it—the blackboards filled with numbers, the pages of equations scattered like fallen leaves—it was the fact that none of it felt lived in. Clinical. Like the house had been built to serve a purpose, but never for a person.

He reached the top step just as he heard the baby girl’s soft fussing from down the hall. The sound made him hesitate. It wasn’t the sharp, desperate cries from the sleepless night before; this was more peaceful, almost a coo, the kind of sound that made that knot in his chest tighten before he could push it down.

Carefully, he strode forward, peering into the nursery.

Leela stood by the cradle, one hand rubbing slow, absentminded circles over the baby’s tiny stomach. It was almost an imitation of what he’d done the night before, but the difference was clear—where his movements had been practised, knowing, hers were unsure, a mimicry, like she was following a set of instructions she didn’t quite understand.

She looked different in the daylight. Dressed neatly in a long, thin nightgown that fell to her ankles, her black hair was left loose, unbrushed, hanging past her hips in uneven waves, obviously never having seen the business end of a pair of scissors. The exhaustion was still there—was part of her, woven into how she held herself—but her face was smoother, her shoulders less rigid, like she had settled into the shape of a mother.

The floorboard groaned beneath his boot. Leela darted a glance. She even tried for a small smile. A little, ghostly quirk of her lips.

“Hello, Joel.”

He didn’t respond. Something about how she looked at him, or maybe how she looked past him, disturbed him. He didn’t like feeling that way—not in someone else’s home, not when he was meant to be in control of the situation. Instead of answering, he stepped toward the cradle, glancing down at the baby.

The baby girl let out a high-pitched whine, stretching, her fingers curling and uncurling before she kicked her little legs. Then, as if noticing him, recognising him through her childish daze, her mouth widened into a gummy, toothless grin, her round face alight, untouched by the world’s cruelty.

Joel couldn’t help himself. His lips twitched, just slightly, before he shook his head.

“Managed to—?” He gestured vaguely toward her chest before pulling his hand back, curling it into an embarrassed fist against the cradle.

Leela caught on. Her fingers fidgeted at the pearly buttons of her nightgown. A small, involuntary movement.

“Oh… Maria told me to hold her close to stimulate… secretion, you know.” She hesitated, shifting her weight. “I fed her one of the bottles she gave me, too.”

Joel nodded. “And?”

Leela looked down at the baby. “She stopped crying.”

He frowned. “That’s it?”

Leela’s fingers tightened against her arms. “I… don’t know how to hold her without making her cry.”

The words made a darkness flicker through him; he didn’t have the energy to name it. It wasn’t quite anger, but it was close. Frustration. Exasperation. A sharp-edged bitterness he couldn’t swallow down fast enough.

Joel scoffed. “You can’t hold your own baby?”

Leela hung her head, her heart breaking in her eyes before she managed to mask it.

Joel sighed, pressing his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “It’s not all math. Just instinct,” he muttered.

He didn’t wait for her to answer. Instead, he reached into the cradle, slipping a hand beneath the baby’s head, cradling her against his arm, gingerly, gently. He eased her up, letting her body idle against his forearm, her head resting in the crook of his elbow.

The second she was in his arms, warm, beaming, the fault line inside him splintered.

She was tiny. So fucking tiny. Tinier than Sarah had been.

Joel swallowed, feeling the light weight of her against his chest. He hadn’t held something this fragile in years—hadn’t let himself. But muscle memory took over before he could stop it, before he could remind himself that this wasn’t the same. It was already clawing its way back to him. He rubbed a slow palm over her back, feeling the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. She was everything akin to bedtime and warmth, her tiny fingers twitching against his shirt.

For a second—a half a second—he let himself sink into it.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered.

The scent of her, like the faded remnants of old cotton, the delicate press of her body against his. A ghost of something long lost. A time when his arms had been full like this, when his days had been nothing but cradling Sarah against him, balancing a baby bag on his shoulder, and pushing a stroller down the sidewalk, loaded with groceries, with the Texas sun blistering overhead.

A different life. A different world. One he had no business remembering.

Joel forced himself to blink out of it. He cleared his throat, shifting, pressing the feeling down before it could take hold.

“And that’s it,” he said gruffly. “Ain’t that hard.”

Leela was watching him. Not like she was waiting for him to call her an idiot again—or she even expected him to. She was watching the way he held the baby, the way she settled so easily against him. Studying him, the way he imagined she studied numbers and equations, looking for a formula, an answer.

He breathed out. “Here,” he muttered, adjusting the baby carefully toward her. “You try.”

Leela didn’t reach for her baby at once.

Her hands hovered, hesitant, fingers twitching like she wasn’t sure how to move them. Joel could see it—the tension coiling in her shoulders, the stiffness in her posture. Her breathing shallowed, her chest barely rising, as if even that movement might disturb the delicate balance between her and the tiny life in front of her.

But finally, she forced herself to move.

Her hands, sporadic, cupped beneath the baby’s body as if she were handling something breakable, foreign. It was inflexible, too careful—unnatural in a way that the baby could sense. And sure enough, the second Leela pulled her close, her arms locked tight, all too unconfident, and the child stirred. A tiny whimper. Then a sharp, warning cry.

Leela stiffened, her grip faltering. The sound made her flinch, her breath catching, as though she’d been struck.

She barely lasted five seconds before her resolve cracked. She was already veering forward, pushing the baby back toward Joel, who carried her without hesitation.

“No, I can't.”

The crying stopped almost instantly.

Joel settled the baby against his chest, bouncing her gently, an informed movement. He didn’t have to think about it—his body just did what it knew, routine kicking in where hers faltered. The baby let out a soft, sighing coo, her tiny body relaxing, as if she knew she was back in capable hands.

Leela, however, looked shaken. Her hands curled into fists, pressing against her stomach like she needed to hold herself together.

Then, she winced.

Joel’s attention snapped, his gaze dropping to the way she clutched at her lower back, her body tilting forward ever so slightly like the pain had taken her by surprise.

“Hey.” His voice softened. “You wanna sit down for a bit?”

She nodded, barely. A tiny dip of her chin.

Joel glanced around. There wasn’t much in the nursery. Just the crib, a long wooden bureau, and a mattress on the floor pushed against the far wall. No chair, nothing to lower herself onto easily.

With a quiet sigh, he adjusted his hold on the baby and stepped closer, offering an arm. “C’mon.”

Leela wavered at the suggestion. Not out of pride—he could tell—but maybe out of uncertainty, like she wasn’t used to being helped. But when she tried to move on her own, another sharp grimace crossed her face, and that was enough to let him guide her.

Joel remained prudent, supporting her weight without making a big deal of it. The baby stayed nestled in the crook of his other arm, still resting peacefully, unaffected by the movement. It wasn’t easy—manoeuvring both of them at once—but it was instinctual.

He helped her lower onto the mattress, feeling the way her muscles tensed beneath his touch before finally giving in to the pull of exhaustion. Leela eased back against the wall and settled into the thin cushion. A long, quiet sigh left her lips, her posture unwinding slightly like she’d been holding herself taut for hours—maybe longer. But even then, she still didn’t entirely relax.

Joel watched as she lifted a hand to her face, brushing back loose strands of hair, her fingers pressing briefly into her temples.

“I'm sorry, Joel.”

His brows ticked down. “For what?”

She inhaled deeply. “It’s only been three... four weeks since I delivered. I’ve just been feeling out of it ever since.”

There was no shame in her tone, no self-pity. A quiet fatigue. A statement of fact.

Joel pressed his lips together.

Four weeks. Jesus. That explained a lot. The weariness, the stiffness in her movements, the way her body still seemed like it hadn’t recovered from what it had been through. Hell, no wonder she looked like a ghost of herself. The human body wasn’t meant to bounce back that fast—not without help. And from what he’d seen so far, she wasn’t the type to ask for it. No midwife, no warm meals, no one watching over her in those first brutal days. Just her and the baby and that awful, aching silence.

“She came too soon,” Joel murmured, mostly to himself.

Leela turned slightly, her gaze drifting toward him without fully meeting his eyes. “Eight months and seven days,” she said quietly. “That’s not normal, is it? That’s why she’s so small.”

Joel opened his mouth, but nothing came. What could he say to that? To her?

Leela waited a beat—just long enough to hope for something more—then slowly drew her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them, rested her chin on top, and looked past him.

She rubbed a tired hand into her eyes. “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”

There it was. No frustrations or helplessness. It was her calm, relinquished reality.

Joel glanced down at the sleeping baby, still curled against his chest, her little breaths unwavering and even. One tiny hand had fisted itself into his shirt, gripping instinctively—like she knew, on some level, that she had to hold on to something, someone, to stay safe. His grip on her tightened scarcely.

Leela’s words lodged in his chest like a thick splint. I don’t know how to hold her without making her cry. And now this—I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. He’d heard those words before, from sleep-deprived parents who hit the wall. Hell, He’d stood in that same darkness, said those same things to Tommy when the world felt like it was slipping past him. But the way she said it—flat, detached, mechanical—like she’d already stopped trying to fix it, the part of her that cared was fading out. And that left a mark.

Joel breathed out, shifting his arms so the baby settled more comfortably against him, and she felt so heavy all of a sudden.

Too much quiet, too many things unsaid pressing at the edges of his mind. He didn’t want to sit in it—didn’t want to acknowledge what it stirred in him. So, he broke the silence the only way he knew how.

“You could start by giving her a name,” he said, glancing at Leela. “Not that 'baby girl' is a terrible name.”

Leela blinked, then looked down at her daughter, studying her as if she were just now realising that, yes, she still had to name the kid.

After a thoughtful moment, she lifted her gaze back to him. “Do you want to pick one for her?”

Joel snorted. “Me?”

She nodded, entirely serious.

He shook his head immediately. “I think I'm gonna stick with 'baby girl.'”

Leela let out a small breath of laughter, barely there, but it softened that apathy in her face. She bit her lip, thinking of a name, then murmured, “I always liked the name Maya.”

“Maya?” He tested the name on his lips. “I like that. Maya. It’s pretty. Rhymes, too. Leela, Maya.”

Leela’s lips twitched at that, and she shifted forward, moving closer without thinking, drawn in by something unspoken. She leaned down, her head dipping toward the baby still bowed against Joel’s chest.

And for the first time since he stepped into this house, Joel saw it.

That fondness—subtle, but unmistakable. A faint, aching kind of love that didn’t ask for words. It lived in the way her fingers moved over the baby’s forehead, gentle, mindful, tracing the soft landscape of tiny wrinkles and delicate features. It showed in the subtle curve of her body, how she curled—almost unconsciously—toward her daughter. Even in her exhaustion, some part of her was always reaching, always drawn to protect.

“Maya, Maya, Maya,” she whispered, breathing the name into her daughter's ear as if speaking it into existence.

Joel watched her for a long moment, an unfamiliar phantom kick in his ribs. It was too much. Too close to something he didn’t want to touch, something that felt like the past reaching for him with cold fingers.

He should leave. He knew he should. Should’ve gotten up, handed the baby back, given some half-hearted promise to Maria that he’d check in later tomorrow, and then walked out that door.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he settled in a little more, stretching his legs out, arms still loosely cradling the baby girl. Maya.

He finally broke the silence with, “So, you’re some kind of scientist?”

Leela glanced up at him, a small, tired smile tugging at the corner of her lips. “I’m more towards math. Theoretician, perhaps.”

Joel couldn't help the roll of his eyes. Math. In a world like this?

People didn’t survive with numbers. They survived with bullets and knives, knowing when to run and when to pull the trigger. You either killed or died. You either protected or raided. You didn’t see too many folks walking around trying to save themselves with goddamned math equations—unless they were Fireflies with delusions of rebuilding the world. That was the kind of thinking that got you shot.

His gaze flickered back to the crib. What the hell kind of life was she leading before all this?

He leaned back against the wall. “And just how long have you been here alone?”

“A long time.” She didn’t elaborate. Just glanced down at the baby, adjusting the folds of the swaddle with careful fingers. Then, softer, almost like an afterthought—“Not anymore.”

Joel didn’t know what to make of that.

His gaze flicked toward the stacks of books on the baby’s bureau, thick with dust on the edges but well-thumbed through. He hummed. “And you do… math?” He made it sound ridiculous because it was.

She only nodded, unbothered. “Analytic geometry and lots of mechanics. My parents used to work at NASA. I took up their research once I was old enough to understand. They loved to teach me all about it. The Riemann Hypothesis.”

Joel blinked. NASA? Ellie would lose her little mind if she were here.

He studied her again, reassessing. She didn’t look like someone who used to be involved in something that big. Not now, anyway. Dressed in an old nightgown, her hair hanging in dark, tangled waves, bruised-looking eyes that made her seem older than she was.

He hesitated before asking, “And just how old are you?”

“I’m turning thirty soon.” She didn’t sound glad about it. Then again, no one ever did.

That number sat wrong with him, irked him. Twenty-nine. Maybe it was the contrast—how, for all her intelligence and clinical detachment, she looked so damn young beneath the weight of everything she was carrying. Or maybe because twenty-nine didn’t seem old enough to have gone through the kind of hell that made a mother flinch at her own baby.

Joel wanted to press further. Wanted to ask why she was alone, how the hell she had made it this long without the baby’s father, how a girl who could run equations for NASA ended up here—malnourished, exhausted, hunched over on a mattress like she was carrying the whole world on her back.

That was until Maya decided to stir.

A small, sleepy movement. Tiny fingers wriggled their way free from the swaddle, barely curled, stretching toward the air. The whimpering started softly, then built, that newborn cry that was both heartbreaking, needy and urgent all at once.

Leela straightened instinctively, her hands jolting toward her daughter. But this time, when she lifted Maya from Joel’s arms, she didn’t hesitate. She held her with a little more certainty, a little more care, cradling her close to her chest as if she were nestling something precious rather than foreign.

Joel let out a slow breath. Good. Progress.

Then, before he could so much as glance back up, Leela started unbuttoning her nightgown, the lapel falling open.

His eyes snapped away so fast it nearly gave him whiplash. “Christ.”

“Oh, god—! I’m so sorry, Maria said to try—”

“’Sall good,” he muttered, fixing his gaze firmly on the ceiling, the floor, anywhere but at her. “Just, uh—go for it.”

“I’ll cover up. Sorry.”

Joel nodded stiffly, still keeping his head turned. But in the silence that followed, his body didn’t quite relax.

He listened. Not just to her, but to everything. The rustle of fabric, the faint, uncertain exhale as she adjusted her hold, the wet, rhythmic sound of the baby nursing, the occasional tiny sigh. A noise so small it barely existed, but it filled the quiet all the same.

Joel let out a breath, sinking into himself, gaze flickering absently around the room. He took in the details he hadn’t paid much attention to before.

The crib—old, but sturdy. The mess of books stacked against the walls, as if she had been trying to build some kind of fortress out of paper and ink. The curtains were drawn too tight, like she didn’t want the outside world bleeding in. And the emptiness—the distinct lack of anything that made this place a nursery. No toys. No clutter. No warmth.

He knew that kind of space. Knew what it meant when a room felt temporary, even when someone had been in it for years.

“I’m decent now,” Leela offered.

Joel glanced over his shoulder. A blanket was draped over one of her shoulders, concealing both her and the baby beneath it. His eyes traced over her face, the way she was staring down at Maya—not with the ease of a mother who had done this a hundred times, but with the focus of someone trying to get it right. Like she was handling some delicate equation she couldn’t afford to miscalculate.

The baby suckled noisily, and Joel saw the way Leela’s fingers curled against the fabric, white-knuckled.

“Do you have many children, Joel?” she asked suddenly.

He stilled. The question—simple, almost offhanded—landed like a hammer.

His fingers curled into his knee, knuckles going white. It wasn’t the first time someone had asked, but something about hearing it from her—a strange woman he barely knew, cradling a baby no more than a handful of weeks old—cut deeper than it should have.

Did he have many children? No.

But he had one. Had. That word sat on his tongue, sour and heavy, pressing against the backs of his teeth. He could say it. Could let it out, let it breathe. But if he did, it would only linger, thick and unwelcome, in the air between them.

He grunted out, “Not your concern.”

Leela nodded once, quiet and accepting. She didn’t pry—just dropped her gaze back to Maya, adjusting the blanket with slow, careful fingers.

“I understand,” she murmured.

Joel wasn’t sure why, but he believed her. Maybe it was the way she said it—flat, simple, unbothered. Not some empty reassurance, not some half-hearted attempt at sympathy.

Silence patched their looks, lingering but not uncomfortable.

Joel exhaled slowly and turned his gaze toward the window, where pale morning light bled in through the edges of the curtain. The town was stirring—people rising, stepping into their routines, moving through the simple rhythm of another day. Normal. Predictable. But this—sitting in a quiet, half-empty house with a woman he barely knew and a baby who’d already been asked to survive more than most adults—wasn’t easy. This wasn’t anything close to normal.

Then, her voice—quiet, hesitant.

“Did your baby ever feel like a stranger?”

He turned to look at her, watching as she nursed the baby beneath the blanket. Her head was slightly bowed, her fingers absentmindedly rubbing slow, rhythmic circles against the tiny foot poking free. It was such a small, natural gesture—one he’d seen a thousand times from mothers who loved their children without thought, without hesitation. And yet, coming from her, it felt… disconnected. As if she were mimicking something she wasn’t sure she believed in.

The question slipped beneath his ribs and pressed, gently but insistently, against an old bruise.

“Never.” The answer came without thinking. Without doubt.

Sarah had never been a stranger. From the second she was in his arms, slick and tiny and furious at the world, she was his. He hadn’t known what the hell he was doing, but love—that complete astonishment had been instant, bone-deep. A gut punch. A freefall. A terrifying, irreversible thing. It had been impossible not to love his daughter.

That’s how it should feel. But Leela—she looked like she was still waiting to wake up from a dream. Or maybe a nightmare.

Leela exhaled softly, barely a sound, but Joel caught it. It hit him harder than it should have.

“I wish I felt that way,” she muttered.

That did something to him.

It wasn’t pity—not quite. Leela didn’t strike him as someone who wanted sympathy. No, it was a quiet understanding. The recognition of a loss that ran deeper than words, taken from her before she ever had the chance to claim it.

Joel knew that kind of grief. He’d carried his own version of it. And while this pain wasn’t his, it brushed up against something familiar, something he hadn’t let himself feel in a long time.

Leela had slipped back into that blank, distant sadness, like she was stuck in it, unable to claw her way out. And Joel wasn’t the kind of man who offered words where they wouldn’t make a difference, but Maria had asked him to help, and he’d told her he would. He wasn’t good at this kind of thing. He never had been. Words were never easy for him. Feelings even less so. But he knew how to read people, how to see what they couldn’t bring themselves to say.

So, he did what he could.

“She looks like you,” Joel mused, almost without thinking.

Leela hesitated, blinking at him like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “You really think so?”

He smirked, nodding toward Maya. “Look at that. The eyes, the nose, the hair. That’s all a mama’s girl.”

She glanced down at the baby in her arms, her fingers stilling against Maya’s tiny foot. For a second, that disregard in her expression wavered—like she was trying to see what he saw, trying to find herself in this child. “Mama’s girl,” she murmured, testing the words on her tongue as if they didn’t quite belong to her yet.

Joel felt a smile in his chest, just a little one.

Still, his eyes drifted over the room, taking in the stark walls, the empty corners. The mood in here was cold—not from the weather, but from the lack of anything. There was no sign of her in this space. No warmth, no comfort, no life. It felt transient, like Maya hadn’t put down roots just yet.

Or maybe she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to stay in this particular room.

He tipped his chin toward the crib. “Though, she’s gonna be real disappointed when she sees the state her mama’s kept her room in.”

Leela’s brows knit together as she looked around as if really seeing it for the first time. “I tried my best. Is it that bad?”

Joel huffed, shaking his head. “It could use a little more work.” He gestured toward the crib. “Fix another one of those.” Then to the bare space near the window. “Somewhere to sit. Some shelves there.” His gaze travelled to the walls. “Fresh coat of paint. Some new lights. Some toys, clothes, blankets.”

Leela studied him carefully, her lips pressing together. “I don’t want to impose.”

He shrugged, leaning back on his palms. “You won't. I like to keep busy.”

Leela gave him a look—one of those assessing, sceptical looks he was starting to recognise from her. The one that suggested she wasn’t sure if she could trust him yet. “Are you sure?”

Joel let out a short, dry chuckle. “I was a contractor before the world went to shit, sweetheart. This is a cushy job.” Then he cocked a brow. “And I’m fifty-six, not dead.”

Leela bit her lip to hide a teasing smile. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Joel levelled her with a look, but there was no real heat behind it. “You want me to take that crib back down?”

That did it. She laughed—an actual laugh. Not the polite kind. Not the uncertain kind. A real, full sound, one that cracked through the quietness of the room like sunlight breaking through clouds.

The motion jostled Maya, making her let out a startled cry of protest.

Leela immediately sobered, her expression softening as she adjusted the nursing baby under her blanket, tucking her closer. She began to coo under her breath, “Oh, I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Mama’s here.”

Joel caught it. That shift again. That slight change in her voice when she said Mama. Like she wasn’t quite sure of it yet, but it wasn’t just an obligation or just guilt, or uncertainty.

This time, it sounded like she meant it.

He didn’t say anything, only sat back and watched, letting her find her way.

Seventeen days.

That was how long he’d been here. How long he'd been wedging himself into a life that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t his, with a mother and child that weren’t his to take care of.

And yet, every night, when the baby cried, he found himself plodding up the stairs like it was instinct. He’d lean in the doorway, watching as Leela sleepily nursed Maya, her heavy arms curled around the tiny, wriggling body. Some nights, she fed her from the bottle, but as the days passed, that sippy cup gathered dust.

It was gradual. Subtle. She was feeding her baby more.

And Joel—well, he was still fucking here. He didn’t think much about the why of it because he figured if he did, it would only lead to questions he wasn’t ready to answer. All he knew was that it felt natural, falling into this quiet rhythm with them. Like it had always been this way.

The couch downstairs became his bed. It wasn’t particularly comfortable, but it didn’t matter much. As long as he didn't throw his back out. It was easier than going back to an empty house. Leela, for her part, never asked him to stay, but she never told him to leave, either. Maybe that was her way of saying she wanted him around. Or maybe she just needed him to be.

“You don’t have to—” she had started one night, catching him setting up his makeshift bed.

“I know,” he cut off before she could finish.

He kept his hands busy, too. That helped a lot.

The crib came first. A slow project, one he didn’t rush, because what else did he have to do? He sanded the edges and smoothed them down so there’d be no risk of splinters. He reinforced the frame, extended the width, and even managed to track down some pink paint to liven it up.

It was a stupid thing, but it made him feel like he was doing something. Like he was helping in a way that made sense.

Leela had caught him painting one afternoon, crouched over the crib with careful, measured strokes.

“Pink?” she’d said, standing in the doorway, one brow raised.

Joel had glanced up, brush still in hand. “What? You don’t like it?”

Leela had hummed, considering. Then, softer, “I think Maya will like it.”

It was the way she said it—like she was finally thinking about that, about what her daughter would like—made him grin to himself. He continued the long stroke of paint down the crib.

Then there was Leela. It had been easier, at first, to pretend he was only here for the kid. That his concern for her was secondary. But after the first week, it became clear—that wasn’t true.

She was unraveling.

Joel noticed it even when she thought he hadn’t. The unbearable insomnia. The way she startled awake, legs thrashing in a single jerk, pushing against some imperceptible force near her, like she was being wrenched from nightmares. The way her eyes stayed shadowed, dark-rimmed and tired, and how she never seemed to eat a full meal.

Just because he tried not to bother, didn’t mean he didn’t notice. She had once fallen asleep at the kitchen table, arms folded beneath her head. Joel had set a bowl of soup down in front of her, the sound making her jolt awake, eyes wide, gasping and panicked.

She blinked at him, disoriented, pushing her unruly hair out of her face. “I—I wasn’t sleeping.”

“Alright,” he said, pushing the bowl closer. “Eat.”

Leela wavered, nose scrunching. “I’m not—”

Joel shot her a look. “Eat.”

She sighed. But she picked up the spoon.

He didn’t bother to push or pry any further. He stopped himself there. Because what the hell was he supposed to say? He wasn’t Tommy or Maria. He wasn’t the kind of person people confided in. It was better off this way.

So he willfully ignored it. Turned the other way when she wiped her eyes too hard. Pretended not to notice when her shoulders trembled just slightly—barely enough to catch, unless you were looking for it. But Joel always saw more than he let on.

And he heard it, too. The way her sobs came muffled through the thin walls at night—quiet at first, like she was trying to bury them in her pillow, then deeper, harsher, like something inside her was breaking open slowly.

Every part of him—every part that still gave a damn—wanted to move. To cross that invisible line, to knock, to say something.

Instead, he stepped outside. Leaned against the doorframe. Let the cold night air scrape against his skin. Stared at nothing.

Leela cried harder.

And then—one night—the floodgates broke. Her sob, raw and sharp, now pronounced, tore itself loose on the way out. It wasn’t just grief anymore. It was wreckage.

Joel stood at the bottom of the stairs, jaw clenched, fists knotted at his sides. He stared up at the dark landing, every muscle in his body pulled taut, as if he just took one more step—

Never mind. He turned away. Walked out onto the porch and sat down on the cold wooden steps, elbows resting on his knees, breath fogging in the night. Let the chill dig into him like punishment. Good. He stayed there, still as stone, while the sounds from inside climbed and fell. That wasn’t his problem.

One unlucky day, the second he stepped into the stables, Ellie gave him a knowing, annoying look. "Jesus, what's worse than shit? Because that's what you look like."

Joel huffed, adjusting his grip on the saddle he was carrying. “Thanks, kiddo.”

Ellie narrowed her eyes, stepping closer and giving him a once-over. “Seriously, you look like hell. Where the fuck have you been?”

Joel grunted, busying himself with the straps, not looking at her. “Been around.”

Ellie scoffed. “What the hell does that mean? You've been busy playing house with the lady at the big cabin?”

His jaw flexed, and fingers tightened on the cords. And Ellie caught it. Her smirk sharpened.

“Oh my God. That’s exactly what you’ve been doing, huh?”

Joel shot her a look. “No.”

“Yes,” Ellie drawled, crossing her arms. “Dude. I knew something was up. You’ve been MIA. I thought maybe you finally croaked in your sleep, but nope—turns out, you’re off fixing pipes and babysitting.”

“I ain’t babysitting,” Joel muttered, too quick.

Ellie smirked harder and sang out, “Riiiight.”

Joel let out a long, slow exhale through his nose, shaking his head. “She needed help. That’s all.”

Ellie clicked her tongue, rocking back on her heels. “Hmm. Right. Just help. No attachment, no paternal instincts kicking in. Oh, definitely not. Not Joel Hardass Miller. He’s just the neighbourhood handyman now.”

He cut her a sharp look. “Ellie.”

She grinned, enjoying this way too much. “What? Just saying. It’s kind of adorable. Old man Joel, all domesticated. It's nice.”

Joel muttered something under his breath and turned away, ignoring her. Oh, but she was far from done.

“So, uh…” she cleared her throat. “How’s the baby?”

He hesitated.

He hadn’t realised how much he’d started watching that kid. Listening to her. He knew Maya’s different cries now—hungry, fussy, lonely. He knew the way she liked to be held, the way she calmed when he rubbed her tiny back. And he knew, without a doubt, that he would hear her tonight, whether he was there or not.

“She’s uh, good,” he said finally. Kept his voice level, unaffected. “Stronger. Sleeps better.”

Ellie studied him. “Bet she likes you.”

Joel shrugged, trying to play it off. “Babies like warm bodies, Ellie. Ain’t that deep.”

Ellie snorted. “Sure. And you're a warm bundle of joy.” And then, just when he thought she was about to let it go—“You’re gonna miss her after, huh?”

Joel's hands dropped to his sides. Ellie wasn’t teasing anymore. Her voice had gone softer, something knowing creeping in.

And he didn’t answer. Because he wasn’t about to start thinking about that. About leaving. About hearing those cries and knowing he wasn’t supposed to be the one answering them anymore.

Joel slowly adjusted the saddle and grunted. “You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna help me get this horse ready?”

Ellie sighed, shaking her head, but didn’t push. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever you say, Dad.”

“Knock it off.”

But she was already cackling her goddamned head off. “This is rich. Daddy Joel.”

Still, Joel stayed in that big house. Just a few more days. And the more he stayed, the harder it became to keep his distance.

It had started small—fixing things around the house, making little adjustments to help Leela care for the baby, and bringing her food. He fashioned a sling for her out of an old scarf and showed her how to wear it. At first, she’d been rigid, reluctant. But Maya—baby girl took to it immediately, burrowing into her mother’s chest, small fingers grasping at the fabric.

Joel wasn’t sure what it was, exactly, but something about that moment had stuck with him.

Because for the first time, he saw Leela hold her. Not just carry her.

And then there was Maya herself. The little ray of sunshine was growing, filling out. No longer that fragile, underfed thing he’d first seen in the cradle. Her limbs weren’t so thin anymore, her eyes brighter, more alert. She’d started watching things with intent—fixating on his hands when he worked, tracking his movement around the room, watching the light filter through the window, making little fists and clumsily bringing them to her mouth.

She smiled more, too. At him, all the time. And it did something to him. It shouldn’t have.

He shouldn’t have felt that warm pull in his chest every time her tiny mouth curled into something resembling a grin, flashing her gums. Shouldn’t have liked the way her whole body wriggled when she was excited. Shouldn’t have let himself get used to the small weight of her when Leela, in her exhaustion, wordlessly passed her to him, and he found himself rocking her without thinking.

But it had happened, slowly and without permission. And now, when he held her, it felt natural.

Maya knew him. Trusted him.

That realization unsettled him more than he cared to admit.

And then, on what must’ve been the third week, Tommy and Maria showed up at the door. Joel knew it the second he opened it—that this was an extraction.

Tommy stood there with that damn smirk, the same one he used to wear when Joel got him out of trouble—except this time, it wasn't his brother who had been looking for a way out.

“You're officially relieved of duty, big brother.”

Joel grunted, letting his brother pull him into a quick hug. He clapped him on the back, but his grip was just a little too firm. A little too final. “Didn’t know I was on duty.”

Maria stepped in next, squeezing his shoulder, her eyes warm with something Joel didn’t want to name. “Thanks a lot, Joel.”

He didn’t say you’re welcome. Didn’t say anything at all. Just gave a small nod, because that was easier than acknowledging the importance of what he’d done. No need to attach importance to what he was walking away from.

He felt Leela before he saw her.

She stood behind them by the front door, her arms loose at her sides, watching but not interfering. She was dressed in a warm sweater and pants this time, although he liked seeing her in that long nightdress of hers, the one with the pearl buttons.

She didn’t say anything. And neither did he. Because there was no point in goodbyes.

Instead, he gave her a nod—brief, almost impersonal—and then he turned, stepping off the porch, his boots heavier than they should’ve been.

Maria’s voice, quiet but clear, carried behind him as she spoke to Leela like she was approaching a wounded deer. “You feeling okay, baby? Come on, let’s talk.”

Joel kept on walking. Crossed the street.

And for the first time in seventeen days, he realised—he didn’t want to go home. Because home meant silence. Home meant absence.

Home meant walking into a house where there was no tiny, fussy cry in the middle of the night. No bleary-eyed woman fumbling with a bottle, no soft, small weight curled against his chest when exhaustion finally won out.

For seventeen days, he had fallen into something. A tempo. A system. A purpose. A role. And now, as he stepped through his own front door, into the empty space that used to feel routine, Joel realised he’d done something reckless. Something he never should’ve allowed.

He’d let himself care.

[I really like this one, so much! I love how sweet it turned out, how JOEL of him it is, and how Leela is just that sweet, confused mother. I think I'm going to really love building on this one! ]

[ taglist : @cuntstiel , @bubblegumpeeeach , @evispunk ]

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springtrapsspringlockedbussy · 2 years ago

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fuck man im actually really glad i got to write about subtle body horror with nolan being transformed into a furry. yeah the concept is dumb but u genuinely think the execution being that he tried protecting his loved ones for what he assumed to be the last time before it bit him in the ass so badly he now figuratively wears the skin and fur of his lost lover is heart wrenching. yes i can write dumb humor about nolan's tail or his ears now but no wonder he's suicidal in this new series-

#this man also absolutely looks like springtrap too #covered in scars. mildewy green fur that used to be yellow. blood-soaked from all the gunfights he's been through.#god fuck he's going to suffer so bad in this new series poor babygirl #fnaf #fnaf fandom #five nights at freddy's #husband material #fic drabble #springtrap fic #oc lore #oc #my ocs

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sunderwight · 1 year ago

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AU where there's no system (or a decidedly less restrictive one) and Shen Yuan transmigrates into an OC rogue cultivator before the start of the novel, and decides he's gonna steal the protagonist before Luo Binghe even gets to Cang Qiong.

The logic is sound -- he'll keep Luo Binghe from experiencing neglect and abuse at Shen Qingqiu's hands, raise him away from the pressure of the sects and the likelihood that anyone else might find out about his heritage and try to harm him over it, keep him fully away from the Immortal Alliance Conference, and then Luo Binghe's course will change trajectory because he'll have no reason to want revenge against the world and no access to Xin Mo. Shen Yuan will be able to spare Luo Binghe some suffering and possibly survive in a world less subject to the harrowing whims of a half-mad tyrannical overlord. Win-win!

However, the tricky bit is that he's not sure exactly how far ahead of the novel he is, and also Airplane didn't specify where Luo Binghe grew up. This means that Luo Binghe could be any age younger than twelve and in any number of places along or near to the Luo river.

Shen Yuan decides he's going to approach this by pretending he is looking for the long-lost son of his sister, traveling through the likeliest areas, asking after abandoned children who might fit the protagonist's description. It's a long shot, he knows, and he's mostly relying on the existence of Narrative Destiny. But eventually he is directed by several people towards a particular city, which is not as close to the river as he'd have expected Luo Binghe to grow up, but then again he only knows that was where baby Binghe was found, not where the washerwoman who took him in ultimately lived.

It becomes clear to him, though, that he's been sent to the wrong target. But also why he's been sent astray is apparent in nearly the same breath, because among the slave children living in this area is a little boy who could be his much younger clone.

Seriously, this kid looks just like him! Or, well, close enough. He looks a lot like Shen Yuan's actual nieces and nephews from his past life. It's uncanny.

Also, because of his search, the slave kids get wind of what he's looking for (his long-lost nephew) pretty quick. The boy with the obvious resemblance to him greets Shen Yuan's own assessment with wary cynicism, but he's just a little boy. So it's not difficult to notice the way he's also practically vibrating with hopefulness, half-hiding behind a protective older kid and looking at Shen Yuan with big dark eyes like he expects to be rescued or destroyed with whatever he has to say next.

Shen Yuan has a big problem now. He just knows that if he says something like "actually no this boy is too old to be my nephew" or whatever other excuse, no one will believe him, and also this poor kid is going to be permanently scarred by it. He's going to think Shen Yuan is lying just so that he can reject him. On top of that, he's not in a good situation here. None of these children are even remotely well cared-for.

Shen Yuan's rogue cultivator self isn't rich on the level of being like a wealthy sect leader or anything, but he's made some money since transmigrating by doing random cultivator jobs and quests along the way here. He uses it all to purchase two little slave boys (Do Not Separate), then takes another job and uses that coin to acquire a somewhat rundown manor which used to belong to the local gentry. The Qiu family (rings some bells but that's not exactly an uncommon name) kept it up for a while in case a branch family sprung up in need of a residence, but they've been in decline and the place is downright decrepit, so they had been looking to sell it instead. It's too big for a wandering bachelor like SY to ever need on his own account, but that's sort of the idea. He makes more money taking on cultivator work, at first taking his boys along with him for lack of any alternative. Nerve-wrackingly dangerous! Eventually he hires workers to start restoring the manor, particularly setting up a yard to be a school area, and then starts taking on any freelance jobs he can get in order to steadily buy out the contracts on all the other kids. He gets it nice enough to house and care for as many orphans as he can acquire.

Not because he's a big old softie though!

His story of looking for his nephew is a bust now, since he's apparently "found" the kid. So he's got to change tactics! If he can't find baby Binghe and the washerwoman, the next best approach is to create an opportunity for them to come to him. So once he's got his new household established, he starts offering free lessons to all the local kids. Not just the ones he's taken in, but also any who come by and want to learn some things. It's a tempting setup for anyone who wants their child to get education but can't afford a tutor, and Luo Binghe's mother had been entirely the sort of person who would have packed up and left her situation if there had been an opportunity for it.

On that note, SY also starts hiring single mothers to help look after his new gaggle of children and do the work he doesn't know how to do in these times, like keeping house, laundry, cooking, actually raising kids, etc.

His "little school" is not universally popular. A few groups try and ruin him, because the poverty in the region provides a basis of business for them. The ringleaders of the human traffickers in the area don't want their trade to dry up, even if it means selling all of their merchandise for this round, so when they find out that their underlings let Shen Yuan buy off all the kids they try and intimidate him into returning them (it doesn't go well for them). The Qiu family also isn't thrilled after it becomes clear what he's doing, and get him investigated by the local authorities (read: use their bribed officials and local goons to try and interfere.)

When that doesn't work either the sects get involved, because the Qiu go crying to Huan Hua Palace that Shen Yuan is sketchy and is trying to establish his own sect. So Shen Yuan talks his way around the matter, and frankly the Qiu are small fish even if they're the biggest ones in the local pond, so HHP doesn't care to pursue things much further. (Read: SY could mop the floor with the disciples they sent to investigate him, and it's not worth it to piss off someone this mysterious and powerful just to bully some impoverished children.)

Shen Yuan is appalled by all this bullshit though. Trust the world of PIDW to make it so hard just for a guy to teach some poor kids how to read and do math!

It makes him dig in his heels about it, because he is at heart a stubborn bastard. The fires that once fueled a thousand angry screeds on zhongdian literature site is now aimed at the local magistrate. One of the women he's hired on has some dirt on the Qiu family, which leads SY to dig up some more until he eventually has enough to turn the tables on them. Local officials won't investigate because they've all been bought, but that in and of itself is of some interest to their superiors closer to the palace, and so SY arranges an investigation of his own that goes way further than he thought? Turns out there are some ugly skeletons in the Qiu closets, and the imperial investigator comes down on them hard.

Well, he can't say they didn't have it coming? Though he does feel bad for the children in the family, especially the oldest son, who gets hauled off to jail along with his father. At least the girl is sent to live with relatives. Maybe he should have done more to shield the minors in the situation...?

His kids tell him not to worry about it, though, that apparently young master Qiu was known to run people down in the streets and beat his servants and do other cartoonishly awful things. SY's not sure how much of it is true and how much of it is his little flock of fluffy sheep trying to ease his conscience, though they do all seem to take a lot of vindictive delight in the whole affair. Especially Nephew, who clings to his sleeves and loudly declares that the investigator should have publicly flogged the discredited nobles so that everyone could go watch, and then begs him for sweets as if that wasn't a creepy thing to hear come out of an eight-year-old's mouth. SY just sighs and tells him he can have something good when he finishes his calligraphy practice.

Of course, it's not exactly easy running what is basically an orphanage-slash-school (and maybe a budding sect...?), especially when pretty much all of the kids have been traumatized and faced stuff like rampant dehumanization, food insecurity, abuse, and neglect. Hiring single mothers soon becomes not only a plan to try and lure in Luo Binghe's mom, but an absolute godsend of an idea because SY has no clue WHAT he would do on his own about the discipline issues or emotional breakdowns or acting out that some of the kids get up to once it registers that they're in a safe enough place to unpack their baggage.

Apart from Nephew, SY's favorite kid is the one who came with him, the oldest of the flock of former slave children. He's the big brother of the group, the one who tries his best to look after the others and to not make any trouble himself. But even poor Little Yue is still just a kid who has been through too much, and he also eventually starts having some meltdowns and struggles with processing everything that has happened to him as a vulnerable child in an unkind world.

SY really didn't mean to start a trauma center for mistreated children!

Though, that's still not necessarily a bad thing for Luo Binghe to one day come across, provided he ever actually shows up...

Eventually, Shen Yuan does figure out that he must be ahead even of Luo Binghe's birth, though he still doesn't put together that he's interfered in the scum villain's backstory. Probably something even more amusingly obscure, like the creation year of some random artifact Luo Binghe used in some wife plot or other, tips him off and he mentally throws his hands up in the air. He's got to wait DECADES? Maybe he ought to try and find Luo Binghe's biological parents and just follow them around at this point!

Not that he can, now, though, because he has to make sure no negative IQ villains (who will probably just be cannon fodder for a subplot one day) decide to send goons to literally burn down his orphanage. Also if he's gone for too long his kids get upset. Probably because no one else is as weak to their puppy dog eyes and pleas for treats and toys as he is.

At least it gives him time to shore up his position, and train Nephew and Little Yue more extensively in cultivation. Despite his initial assurances to HHP that he was but a humble orphan wrangler who was only incidentally a cultivator, Shen Yuan does also teach the other kids some basic cultivation exercises. There are a few reasons for that.

One is just the principle of the thing. No, these kids don't all have the potential to become great immortals or anything, but they can still learn some of it and it's good for their health if they do. The only trouble is if they try and push too hard or attempt things beyond their range, and that's a risk with everyone who cultivates. Or even just exercises!

Another reason is that it helps stave off the jealousy that some of the kids have towards those with more cultivation potential. Teaching a lot of the basics all around makes it into just another topic at school. Some kids might not be as good at it as others, but those kids might also be better at math, or memorization, or board games, and while cultivation can open more doors to people as adults, for the children this is generally enough to satisfy their sense of fairness. Or at least reduce outbursts and fights.

Finally, the impression that any of SY's kids might be a cultivator also makes wicked people more reluctant to try and abduct or interfere with them. Cultivators are revered and nearly mythological figures in the public consciousness. It isn't difficult to see why, if even a rogue cultivator NPC like SY* can mop the floor with most random muggers (*Shen Yuan is not a normal rogue cultivator). Not many people want to risk bringing SY's ire down on them, but of those who might chance it if he wasn't around to immediately react, even fewer want to risk that the kids themselves could kick their asses.

Not knowing that only two of the orphans probably could in fact mop the floor with them helps keep all the rest safer, and is more believable when all of them can conduct themselves enough like disciples to fool anyone who doesn't know what to really look for.

Developments that surprise Shen Yuan but wouldn't surprise anyone else who is paying attention:

People start leaving unwanted babies and younger children on his doorstep. Not all the time, but more than once has he had to frantically find wet nurses and worry that he's changed things enough that some fishermen might just randomly drop the protagonist outside his gate, and he wouldn't even know because Binghe would be a literal infant??

Nephew (SJ) and Little Yue (Yue Qi -- only Shen Yuan calls him "Little", especially when he gets taller than SY by the time he's sixteen) are prodigies who get really good at cultivation, really fast, and between that and Shen Yuan's OP skills they completely warp Shen Yuan's ideas for what normal cultivation potential looks like. This would probably cause more problems if he wasn't teaching all the kids how to cultivate anyway, but means his students actually do kinda run the usual range of skills for a small sect.

SJ and YQ swiftly reach the point where they need more advanced equipment than just SY's teaching can provide, if they're going to keep building their skills. Gaining access to certain tools, aids, and materials (like spiritual swords) is a real hurdle though, and usually is for rogue cultivators (one of the major disadvantages of no sect affiliation.) Shen Yuan is hesitant to use stuff from the plot, since it's For Binghe, but he eventually caves and starts going after some things that he doesn't think the future protagonist will miss much. He also ends up buying stuff from HHP, since they're willing to sell things like spiritual tools and weapons if the price is right, whereas most other sects like Cang Qiong reserve them for members only.

They get an invitation to the Immortal Alliance Conference. Not the one where the Abyss opens up, obviously, the one where (originally) Shen Jiu reunited with Yue Qi and killed Wu Yanzi. Shen Yuan debates on going but the boys really want to, and things have calmed down enough that no one's trying to burn down the school whenever he leaves these days, so eventually he figures it'll be interesting to see some of the Cang Qiong characters and should be safe enough if he keeps his disciples close.

They don't run into young Yue Qingyuan or Shen Qingqiu on the trip, but Wu Yanzi does show up and get killed, and SY only hears about it and assumes they just missed all that action. (WYZ just got caught by some senior cultivators who recognized him and killed him to avenge some disciples he murdered.) Nephew and Little Yue do meet young Liu Qingge, Shang Qinghua, Mu Qingfang, and Su Xiyan though! Which gives Shen Yuan the opportunity to tell them all (mostly Su Xiyan) that if they're ever in trouble near his school, they can come to him for help. Hint hint.

This open invitation ends up being accepted broadly by a lot of traveling cultivators after the conference, who from then on treat Shen Yuan's school like a free motel whenever they're passing through. Plenty aren't even people SY met, but it seems his statement was taken as a general one to fellow righteous cultivators all around! Luckily, this has some advantages. Shen Yuan has no qualms running off anyone who tries to take unfair advantage of him or especially his kids or staff, and no shame in conscripting anyone who is decent enough to help teach his students, even if it's nothing to do with cultivating, and somehow word gets around and people start bringing school supplies, medicine, food, or other useful things along with them as gifts to help repay the hospitality. Young Liu Qingge comes by a lot on his way to and from various quests, or even seems to just turn up randomly sometimes (he comes to challenge YQ and SJ to fights), and SY's just like "I guess this is happening now" and teaches him to recognize the early signs of qi deviation and advises strongly against meditating in caves.

At one point a young Shang Qinghua turns up in one of the spare rooms, very obviously hiding an ice demon. Shen Yuan again is just like "I guess this is happening now" and shelters them until Mobei Jun has recovered, and sends a message to Cang Qiong that one of their An Ding caravans was attacked and their disciple is recovering under his roof but isn't well enough to travel yet. Much less stressful situation for Airplane (who is desperately trying to figure out what he did to manifest SJ's benevolent uncle from somewhere???)

Su Xiyan seems like the only person they met at the Immortal Alliance Conference who doesn't turn up at their door in a state of emergency at some point.

A few years later, there is a big scandal involving her and the demon emperor. Su Xiyan disappears, Huan Hua Palace accuses Tianlang Jun of plotting against the righteous sects, and Shen Yuan is even invited to the meeting where they try and rally everyone to go kill Binghe's dad. Naturally, he declines to participate in the witch hunt, but the major sects agree to it. By luck (or narrative fortune) Shen Yuan comes across Zhuzhi Lang on his trip back home, and mentions the ambush and his distaste for it (not knowing who ZZL is). ZZL warns Tianlang Jun and the confrontation goes very differently, especially since there's no Yue Qingyuan wielding Xuan Su.

It doesn't go well for the sects involved. Huan Hua Palace gets decimated. The Old Palace Master gets killed. Shen Yuan is like uhhhh that's... whoops? Didn't Luo Binghe need that in the future?? Fuck.

But the sect isn't wiped out completely, they just take a massive beating. Some of their younger disciples end up leaving and turning up on Shen Yuan's doorstep, for some reason. The manor house is becoming too small to account for all of these foundlings! They have to expand. Though the expansions would be a stretch to term a "palace" they end up occupying a much larger chunk of territory, and even investing in farmland and some storehouses to help support the sect. That's still not really a sect, of course. Even if a lot of the business that would have normally gone to Huan Hua Palace starts coming to them instead. Once HHP is back on its feet the stream will probably dry out. Probably?

Zhuzhi Lang starts hanging around. He's actually looking for Su Xiyan or their baby, dead or alive and per Tianlang Jun's instructions, but he uses Shen Yuan's school as base camp for his kind of hopeless efforts to find any traces of them, while also looking for ways to try and repay Shen Yuan. All the kids are just like "oh great, another weird man has fallen in love with Shizun -- someone go run interference" about it.

Some years later, an older woman and her young son turn up. Shen Yuan's off on a quest at the time, so SJ receives them. As is standard procedure he gives the woman a job and places the boy in classes, after giving him the aptitude tests. The kid is cute and precocious, so SJ uses him to distract YQ while he himself sneaks out to go join LQG on a monster hunt (and claim the valuable parts of the beast's remains for himself), and neither SY nor ZZL notice anything until SY's going over the paperwork for stuff he missed while he was gone. Since he procrastinated, it takes him like a week to find out that Luo Binghe is finally under his roof. He's going over the admission form right when SJ arrives with The New Adorable Child to try and distract SY enough that SY will let him go on a solo hunt -- as far as being distracted goes, it is way more effective than even SJ anticipated.

Then he has to figure out how to let ZZL know, so that ZZL can let Tianlang Jun know, so that Luo Binghe will have more family than just his mom and more resources than just a shabby little not-sect! But even once he figures it out and sets up the dramatic reveal, TLJ is just like "great! so can he just stay with you? he's probably fine there" which... irritates SY.

SJ fully conscripts Luo Binghe as a minion in his many cons. He never lost his street kid conman tactics, although he now uses them less as a ruthless survival tool or weapon and more to just get things to go his own way. LBH has the face and disposition of a little angel, which SJ no longer can pull off as a full grown adult, so he fills a gap. LBH also knows full well what's going, especially since a lot of SJ's tactics involve throwing LBH at SY like a smoke bomb.

Luo Binghe inevitably still develops a big fat crush on SY, so this is fine by him. Especially when he gets older, he starts bringing SY tea and making him breakfast and running his errands until even SJ is like "wait a minute, this little brat's stealing my job!" and by then it's too late. Luo Binghe is SY's personal assistant, the disciple at conman puppydog eyes has surpassed the master! While SJ was busy being like "I'm going to trick this idiot into doing my chores" LBH was going "I'm going to trick this idiot into giving me his job".

SY takes too long to officially name his school so everyone calls it the Shen Sect, much to his embarrassment.

#svsss #scum villain's self saving system #shen qingqiu #shen jiu #scum villain #long post #bingqiu

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caramelkoo · 9 months ago

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be still my heart — jjk [one]

the one in which you get a sex dream about the grouchy hockey player you work for.

genre : childhood best friends to frenemies to lovers, physical therapist!reader x hockey player!jungkook, slow burn, smut, fluff, angst

word count : 5.2k

chapter warnings : strong language, mature, slight smut (because im a tease), reader’s name is Destiny, jungkook is a bit grumpy towards her (she makes him nervous leave my boy alone), fat shaming (not by any of the main characters), oc had daddy issues, mentions of allergy. that’s about it, please let me know if i missed something.

a/n : here it isssssss drumrolls please because im so excited for this. jungkook as a hockey player??? *deep breaths* enjoy my lovely people. you’re so so loved. asks, reblogs and likes are much appreciated. kisses <3

read part two here

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

“Babe, you know you're not going to win right? Don't be wasting your breath.” Bella challenges.

You’re sitting on the chair in your office going through the personnel file of the players. Verifying their names with their contact numbers and photographs which, you’re not going to lie, look like mugshots. Jeez, does smiling a little bit cost them? Anyways, once you’re done you close the file and look up at your assistant bickering with her boyfriend. Phone pressed against her ear.

You mime hanging up the call and she lifts her index finger, indicating for you to wait. She throws in words like hmmm, yeah, you don’t know what you’re saying, yeah i love you too. Once she’s done, she drops the phone on the glass table in front of you and leans back in her chair.

“He thinks I will let him get away with anything just because I love him”

You chuckle, “What’s going on?”

“You know, I’ve been wanting a cat for so long I even made a pinterest board for that. Last Sunday he surprised me with one and when I told him that I lowkey manifested it, he was not having it. I even showed him the mood board and I NEVER show it to anyone. Evil eye is real.” she all but cries out.

That’s Bella for you. Highly spiritual and a firm believer of the universe. She claims that everything happens for a reason. She’s like a little ball of sunshine. Ever since you joined the Ice Dominators’ hockey team as a physical therapist, she’s been assisting you and you couldn’t be more thankful seeing the lack of female workers here. Seriously, there's no other female worker here except yourself and Bella which is so diabolical to you.

And it’s not like the men on the hockey team are a bunch of misogynist jerks. On the contrary, they act like they’ve known you for years. It didn't take you long to feel like home here. They are obedient, friendly and pretty nice. Few of them are married with kids while the rest of them remain single. They’re not like a bunch of teenagers, they know what they’re doing.

Except one, what’s his name? Jeon Jungkook. You would describe that man as crude and closed off to a pathological degree. You still remember when you asked him to come to your office so you can look at any possible previous injuries, he lied to your fucking face. Claiming he doesn’t have any when you could clearly see him hobbling sometimes just a tiny bit when he walked away. Years and years of dedication towards your studies have made you capable enough to catch that it is an old injury.

Despite your better judgment, you blamed it on the fact that his team lost the game that day. Poor guy was having a bad day and took it out on you. Big deal.

“Earth to Destiny” Bella waves a hand close to your face and you shake your head as you look at her.

“Leave the poor man alone” You plead and then ask, “Any details about the new player? I’ll have to add it in the file”

“Not yet, as far as I know they’re still contemplating the guy named Park Jimin or something”

That gets you real quick. Park Jimin. The name feels like acid on your tongue .The last game being unsatisfactorily resulted in the federation trading one of the players. It was cruel but was done for the better. Bound to happen sooner or later. You had expected it but what you had not expected was you both sharing a same room, sharing the same air.

“Alright then. We’ll cross that bridge when it’s—”

Knock, knock

“Miss Kim, sorry to interrupt but the manager is asking for you” Taehyung’s head pokes through the door.

You stand, picking up the file and sliding it into the tableside drawer, running a free hand over your scrubs. Bella does the same as she plucks her phone from the table and puts it inside her back pocket.

You look at him. “Sure Tae, thank you for informing”

He flashes you a quick, pretty smile before leaving. Bella turns to you with a worried look on her face.

“What do you think it is for?”

You bite your lip. “I have no idea. I wanna say it's about the new player but who knows?”

You hope it is and as unfortunate as it is for you to discuss him, you will have to hold your own. You know better than to be invited into the manager’s office. Though, judging by the temperament of him you would not predict anything. Last time when he called you, it was about Jeon Jerk, asking you to be more serious about your job as if it was your fault the man spared you the necessary details.

The asshole asked YOU to do your job better by virtue of HIS player not being sweet enough to listen. Maybe, there is indeed a misogynistic asshole going around and it’s the manager. No wonder women don’t volunteer to work for him.

Since, You love your job —god knows you wanna keep doing it— you kept quiet and took every jab he threw at you.

“Wait, Do I have time to pray? Should I pray?” she’s clearly panicking and you pat her on the shoulder.

“Just hope my job is still intact” you say, warily reaching for your purse. You both head out.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

“Miss Kim, have a seat” James nods at the chair before him.

Once you’re settled, he continues, “I asked for you to join me here regarding the upcoming game. Care to fill in about the status of injury assessment?"

You clear your throat, “Absolutely, I was planning on getting on that today”

“Well, I would love for you to do it soon as you know we have a new player in the team with us now”

You jerk, leaning forward. “We do?”

“Yes, and if you can please hurry with the assessment I would be grateful. You can do that right? Not too much of a work for you, eh?”

Someone give him a medal from the way he's trying to hide the venom in his voice.

“Sure I can” you give him a firm nod.

James Adams is an entitled, self centered asshole who thinks he’s above everyone else just because of his position. You reckon he does anything for the team besides talking bullshit. He kind of reminds you of your dad who also has the nasty habit of thinking the world of himself.

You’re all about self love but when that self love turns into chronically demeaning everybody in their close proximity, it boils your blood. This man in front of you is no better than your father. What's that saying? Out of the frying pan into the fire.

So you say nothing further and excuse yourself. You would have barfed in his face if you stayed there a second longer. Actually that's not a very bad idea. Bella is standing outside waiting for you as you close the door behind yourself.

“What did he say?”

You bark, “Bunch of horseshit”

“Typical”

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

Jungkook

There is a buzzing noise somewhere around Jungkook. Fuck, his head hurts. He frantically searches for his phone, still not opening his eyes. When he finds it, he slides his thumb on the screen and picks up the call.

“Dude, how big do you want your coffin to be?” He loves his best friend but right now he would rather be sleeping than listen to him bark in his own ear.

He finally squints his eyes open, “What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Have you looked at the time?” says Taehyung.

“What time- FUCK!!!” he shrieks as he looks at the clock.

Somebody kill him right now. No wait, he’s gonna die either way so why bother. If he didn’t scream loud enough before, he does now. He all but jumps off the bed when he sees the blondie on the other side sleeping like she fucking owns it, wearing nothing but a thong. She must have heard him malfunctioning because soon she stirs, groaning as she slowly wakes up like a Disney princess. Who the heck is she and how did she get in here? Then it comes to him.

“Please Jungkook just take me to your room and fuck me. Show me what those hockey hands are capable of.”

He wants to swallow a fistful of iron nails. Speaking straight from his shoulders, he has made plenty of bad decisions throughout his career and this is not his first time bringing a puck bunny up to his room but it has never come to this. Missing his hockey practice because he was too exhausted to get his sweet ass up and run to the academy.

Taehyung screams from the other side of the line, “Are you there? Hello?”

Shit, he forgot he was on a call.

“I’ll be there soon. Cover for me until then.” With that he presses the red circular button and ends the call with him muttering some curses.

He glances back at the blondie, “Why are you not gone yet?”

She’s looking at him with those fuck me eyes she had last night but right now when he’s well aware of the fact that he’s in hot water, they don’t do shit to him. Coach will have his head on a platter today for sure. Honestly, they wouldn’t have done shit to him if it was not for the great deal of alcohol last night.

“I thought of you as a morning sex person” she twirls a strand of hair with her finger, sitting up now. Her tits hang free and he can see his hickeys decorating her chest.

He wants to laugh. She’s not even close to his type. His type is the woman in blue scrubs with her brunette hair slicked back in a ponytail. His type is the woman who looks like she could be watching grass grow rather than to look at him. His type is the woman who walks into a room and lights it up. His type is the woman who is too bright for him and his mundane personality, who has a face worth millions. His type is Kim Destiny.

“No need to waste your precious time thinking about me. You can go”

He places his phone back on the table and saunters over to the bathroom, not bothering looking back at her. He has boundaries and he intends to keep it that way.

He quickly goes through his routine of taking a shower, making a cup of coffee, sliding into a pair of sweatpants and the Ice Dominator’s jersey with his name on the back. Not in that order, of course.

The girl is thankfully gone by the time he finishes. Once he’s done with his coffee he picks up the car keys and a protein bar from the kitchen counter and heads to the academy hoping his limbs remain intact by the time he’s home.

The Academy is bustling as usual with players keeping themselves busy with hockey and their gym sessions. He heads straight for the rink not even bothering to change into the uniform. He needs to see for himself that everybody is still on the ice. Everything comes after that.

Surprisingly, he sees not a single guy when he reaches there. His heartbeat stops.

“Hey Pixie, where are the boys? Did they already leave?” he asks the brunette kid who looks like he just saw a ghost. Or it’s just Jungkook who he saw.

He shakes his head, “They’re all in the gym. The doc called them earlier, said she had something important to get done with them”

Jungkook gives him a quick thanks and walks towards the gym. What could be so important that she had to call the boys mid practice? Is someone hurt? Is she hurt? His heart leaps in hid throat as he runs. Fuck, please let him be wrong.

The first thing that he sees as he enters the room full of equipment are his teammates. Taehyung and Yoongi are in the corner lifting weights, Namjoon is using the treadmill as he runs on it. The rest of the boys are all scattered around doing their own thing. He still can’t find Destiny anywhere but her assistant, Bella, is talking to Namjoon while holding a file so he lets out a sigh, relieved that nobody is in fact hurt and in need of help.

“Do you wanna get a tattoo on the peni— oh look who’s here. Jeon Jungkook as I live and breathe.”

Taehyung drops the weight on the ground before walking up to him. He’s dressed in a black tee and sports shorts. The man looks good in everything. Bet he’d look in a sack too.

“Whoa!! Why do you look like you wanna kill somebody or wanna get killed? Is everything okay?”

Jungkook lets his face relax, focusing more on the eyebrows which had gone tensed due to his unnecessary anxiety. “Yeah, all’s good. The practice ended early?”

“The practice ended just on time. It’s you who’s late” he pats my shoulder.

He runs his fingers through his hair and walks towards the bench, dropping his bag on it. Taehyung follows him ignoring Yoongi who’s calling him back for the weightlifting.

“Doc wanted to assess our injuries for the last time before our game if you’re curious which, I know you are. You’re always curious about her”

He winks at Jungkook and he punches him on the chest. Taehyung laughs as he rubs the spot.

“Keep your voice down, will you?”

Bella’s voice echoes across the room, “Jeon, you’re up next”

He takes out his water bottle, takes a swig and stands. A wince leaves him as he gets a flashback of the last time he had to face her. It didn’t go very well and he’s sure she hates him now. He would too. After all, he not only talked to her rudely but also lied through his teeth about his injury. It’s pretty old so he had not felt the need to mention it.

He sees a guy coming out of the office just before he’s about to enter. He has brown hair long enough to reach the nape of his neck. Even from where Jungkook’s standing, he can say the man doesn’t reach above his shoulders. Who the fuck is he? Oh wait, he must be the new player that got traded down here. The guy must have sensed him making a hole through his head by the way he’s staring because he’s begins walking towards him with a bright grin.

“Hey man, you must be Jeon Jungkook? Heard a lot about you. I’m Park Jimin” He holds out his hand, asking Jungkook to shake it and he gives it a firm handshake. Word to the wise : never give someone a weak handshake. His grandfather has been asking him to do that ever since he was 15, said it doesn’t leave a strong impression and he’s be lying if he says he was wrong.

He offers Jimin a nod, “Nice to meet you. Excited to get on the rink with you.”

He takes his hand back. “Oh the feeling is mutual but—”

“Jungkook, please join me inside”

Destiny’s voice cuts him off as she looks over to both of them with an eerie expression on her face. Her eyes bounce between them, resting a second longer on Jimin. Does she know him? Do they have a history? Wait, are they a thing? Even if they are, why does it bother him? Jungkook couldn’t care less about the pretty physical therapist who wears her blue scrubs like armor and white crocs with strawberries on them.

He gives Jimin another nod and follows her into the office. Although, he’s not sure if a massage table and a stool resting beside it counts as an office. The room which she works in is much better. This one is just for examinations and massage therapy so he guesses it doesn’t need that much of an upgrade.

She gestures towards the table, “Please sit”

He says nothing and settles himself up, clearing his throat.

“Look I know we got off on the wrong foot last time and it could have gone so much better, but we can still start over right?”

Destiny takes a deep breath, filling her chest with air. She’s wearing her hair in a bun today. It sits at the top of her head and some strands are set loose cascading down her face. God, she’s pretty.

He looks down and back up at her. “Sure”

Her face shows her annoyance with the one word response. He doesn't blame her. He'd be pissed too.

She’s quiet for a moment, “Why don’t you tell me about your knee injury to start with?”

“What are you talking about?”

She sighs, “You know what I’m talking about Jungkook. Please don’t make me work for it. It’s my job to know about your past and present injuries, if any. The manager has already given me crap about it”

He freezes. His hackles rising and his relaxed face long gone.

“What did he say?”

“Nothing”

He levels her with a stern face, “What.did.he.say?”

She’s not obligated to answer him. Hell, she could just slap him in the face and leave but he needs to know what went down with that son of a bitch. When and if she decides to let him in the details and it turns out something wicked, he’s gonna hunt that man down and make his life miserable.

Much to his surprise, she takes a step back and starts talking. "He called me in his office today and," she halts,

"Well let's just say there were some words thrown around which clearly meant he thinks of me as a feather brained bitch"

He might look unbothered from outside but the indignation inside him could just about burn the whole city down. He tries to keep calm and pries some more.

His jaw clenches. "What else?"

Destiny shakes her head, shuffling on her feet. “Jungkook it’s really not that seriou—”

“It is serious. You work for us, you tolerate our asses and in return if we fail to give you the respect which, you deserve by the way cause it’s the bare minimum, we might as well save everyone’s time and money by giving all of this up.”

“Why do you care?” she shakes her head.

He takes a step forward, “Because you— Because you work for us, Destiny. You look out for our bodies, our injuries, our fuckups. Is that not enough?”

She barely reaches his shoulders. It’s cute how she has to crane her neck up in order to look him in the eye. She keeps looking at him for a long minute, searching his face.

“You think I don’t know that? Do you really think I don’t have what it takes to ask for my own dignity?”

He takes a long step back. This conversation was as unforeseen as they come. The room gets filled with heavy silence and he can hear Destiny’s heavy breath. He can tell she’s trying to calm herself as if his words have blindsided her.

Needless to say she’s a tad bit taken aback. Jungkook would be too if someone who never bothered to speak a word to him and when he did, there was nothing pleasant about his tone suddenly started to care.

But that’s where she’s wrong, nothing about his care or concern for her is sudden. He still remembers the day she accidentally drank the almond smoothie Bella brought not knowing the fact that she’s allergic to it. She’d started choking the second it went down her throat. He also remembers how Yoongi injected the epipen against her thigh as she came back to life.

Meanwhile, he stood behind shaking in his goddamn boots. Too scared to let her out of his sight and too pathetic to hold her close. Yeah, he’s not proud of that.

He sighs, “You know that’s not what I meant—”

Namjoon walks inside with a hand towel around his neck “Doc, you about done? The boys are being incorrigible over there. If you don’t hurry, one of them is gonna call a tattoo artist and get their dick tattooed. Right here”

The room falls silent.

“Jesus” she looks over to where the guys are bickering about something, propping her hands on her hips. “Yeah, give me a minute.”

“Sure” and with that he walks away.

She picks up a blue file from the stool, not looking at him. Why is she not looking at him?

“If you don’t want to tell me about your injury right now, that’s fine. Since, I know it’s pretty old and It’s unlikely that you’re gonna get affected by it in the upcoming games, there’s no need to worry. However, I would still suggest you be careful. Anything can happen out there and your knee is in a vulnerable position. Don’t pick unnecessary fights, don’t let the opponent know your weak link.”

She glances at him, dropping the file back to where it was.

“You can go”

Without a preamble, he heads outside, passing Taehyung. He hears him cracking a joke about penis tattoos and piercings with his girlfriend’s name on it. Destiny cracks up and Jungkook wonders if she would have done the same, had he been the one cracking the joke. Only, he doesn’t crack jokes. Not around her at least. It’s not like he's some grumpy bastard who wants nothing to do with anybody around him and thinks of him as omniscient.

There’s just something about Destiny which puts him at loss of words. Knotting his tongue it in such a way where he can’t get an expression out. Only look at her and god, does he look at her. He's not stupid. He knows it’s a crush but she’s like a mirage to him. She’s unreachable, forbidden and so fucking beautiful.

Does he want to make her his? Yes, Is he going to risk his career and hers over it? Absolutely not. So, he makes use of the only right nobody can take away from him. Not even her. Admire her from afar. Fantasize more about tasting her, licking her slender neck and worshipping the ground that she walks on and one day if she lets him, Jungkook will do anything to turn all of that into reality.

He finds Yoongi seated on of the benches, scrolling on his phone.

Facing him, Jungkook speaks in a low voice. "Do you have any idea where James is?"

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

Destiny

Never have you ever wanted to run away as much as you did when you saw Jimin in front of yourself, standing all tall and proud. You had wished it to be a dream, wished you just had a nightmare about him joining the same team you happen to work with but reality is a goddamn bitch and it bites hard when it does. He had grown out his hair longer but he still has the same smile, same eyes and the same charm he used on you back then. Park Jimin is a man people don’t ever forget once they see him. He has an aura which traps everyone so hard they can never escape. How do you know? You have been a victim yourself.

You meticulously go through the consequences and eventualities of being in the same room as him again. You seeing him everyday and him reminding you of every single detail you have tried so hard forgetting about, the boys finding out about you both and putting you through the wringer or worse, him. The possibilities are endless and you feel the sudden urge to square everything with him.

Contrary to what you had thought, he reacted pretty normally when he saw you as if somebody had already told him about you. You had expected him to get shocked or at the very least pretend to be shocked.

Having said that, he just gave you a single nod as if you're someone he passes by every morning at the park. Are you this forgettable? Are you someone people just brush aside like that? Your father’s words echo in your ears like loud drums,

“You know, nobody will love you if you keep looking like this. Eat less”

“Girl, do you ever stop eating? Every time I see you, you're stuffing something in that mouth of yours!!”

“Don’t come running back at me when no guy gives a shit about you”

You were 10 and he was an asshole. He still is.

Thanks to him, you now have a tendency to cook when you're stressed over anything. It brings you comfort and diverts your mind from the excessive overthinking. You would go bald if it puts the voices into silent mode.

After already wasting half of your life speculating what to eat, counting calories and whatnot, you came to the terms that you can’t actually operate that way and began eating whatever the fuck you wanted. Yet still, you need to go a long way in order to fully love yourself and your body. It's a journey and you're moving ahead step by step. One day at a time.

One would even say you're hot. You have received compliments from several people over the course of time except you don’t have a thigh gap, your arms jiggle and you also happen to have a love handle. You would have adored them if it wasn’t for your dad making you feel shitty about having them.

A knock on your door stops you midway as you're kneading the dough. Biscuit runs over to you, jumping on the counter.

“Coming”

The knock comes back again, this time slightly louder.

“Oh my god wait I’m coming”

The door swings open and you gasp. “Mina?”

She passes by you, dragging her suitcase along with her.

“Hey bestie”

You close the door and follow her further into the hall. “What’s going on? What’s with the suitcase?”

Your best friend’s sudden arrival must have caught you by slight surprise but your cat is rather pleased to see her. Traitor. She starts clawing at her feet excitedly.

“What a good girl you are? Yes, you are” Mina coos at her and then glances up at you from where she has biscuit nestled in her lap,

“I need a place to live for a few days because my shitty boss kept rejecting all my articles and I really wanna bring her something worth the front page. Apparently, writing about the famous coffee shop around the corner and their secret ingredient being maple syrup wasn’t good enough.”

You round the counter and continue kneading the dough for your strawberry pie. It’s not unlikely for Mina to show up unannounced. In fact, she has done that plenty of times but the suitcase was never involved. This one is new.

“So you decided to barge in here without even asking?” You tease.

She flashes you a dramatic look. “Look at us, Destiny. Aren’t we the same girls who giggled about living together after college? With matching slippers and movie marathons?”

“Okay okay you dramatic bitch. How long are you here for?”

Biscuit runs to do her business and she gets up, setting her suitcase to the side.

She sighs, “Not sure. As long as it takes me to come up with a new topic to write about–HEY— why don’t I just write on the hockey team you work with? What are they called? Ice…ice”

“Ice Dominators” you fill in for her.

She slaps her thigh. “That’s the one”

You shrug, “I mean you can, but you’ll have to call in on the coach first. He operates everything inside and outside the team”

Coach Ian is too nice to turn her request down. He’s one of the most genuine people in the federation. Maybe this is why the team is so strong and united. He respects every single boy and receives it tenfold. It's a mutual thing.

“Shit, How come I didn’t think about that” she bites her lip, her enthusiasm replaced by nervousness.

“Don’t worry. He won’t make you work for it. Ian is as nice as they come” you assure.

She takes a deep breath and lets it out. As you watch, she opens your fridge, taking out the box of frozen blueberries and pops one into her mouth.

“Do you want me to give you a hand?” she mumbles while chewing.

You point towards the bathroom, “Go and take a shower, right now. You stinky”

You duck the blueberry she throws your way, laughing as you do. Giving your cheek one last kiss, she excuses herself.

˚୨୧⋆｡˚

Warm hands roam over your thigh, squeezing them. You muffle your moan with your palm and take every thrust.

“Yeah, you like that? You like how I’m pounding into this ass right now?”

You gasp.

“Such a good girl” he praises.

The man behind you presses a kiss to your naked shoulder as he rasps in your ears, “Were you walking around all day dripping for me?”

He pulls his cock out and thrusts again. You meet him with equal passion and hunger.

“Tell me”

You nod.

“I need your words, Destiny”

You cry out, “Yes Oh god, Yes. I wanted you in me so bad”

He cups your pussy and rubs your clit with his palm until you're rolling your eyes to the back of your head and squirming. Thrust after thrust he brings you to your sweet release while talking dirty things in your ear. You're about to melt into a puddle of goo. He’s got you totally at his mercy.

“So beautiful like this. Taking my cock so well huh?”

“Ahh it feels so good, right there. Just right there, don’t stop”

He bites down your shoulder, “Come for me and let everyone outside hear the name you’re screaming, you dirty whore”

Your heartbeat picks up as you squeeze him with the tight ring of muscle, orgasm crashing over.

“FUCK. Oh my god Jungkook!!”

Your eyes fling open and you sit up so fast your head starts spinning. Everything around you is pitch black. Wait, where am you?

Mina is at your side in an instant, “Destiny, are you okay babe?”

You look around and release a sigh of relief. You run your fingers through your hair, ruffling them.

“Yeah um… I’m fine. It was just a bad dream. Go back to sleep.”

Except it wasn’t. It was one hell of a dream where you were getting fucked into oblivion by your player. You're not even going to lie and say that you didn’t like it. C’mon you're a woman of needs, it’s just that, him fulfilling those needs was not on the cards for you even if it wasn't real.

You check the time on your phone and wince at the bright light flashing up at you. It’s 2:45 am and you just had a back breaking sex dream about a man who you want nothing to do with. Who, as beautiful as he is, annoys the hell out of you with those one word replies and grumpy face. An edgy feeling threatens to rise.

Oh god it’s going to be awkward now. It’s only normal to walk on eggshells around someone people have these sort of dreams about. You have read your fair share of books where the female character gets a sex dream about a man and then they don’t talk to each other for the rest of their lives. Okay, that's a bit of a stretch but it might as well not be.

Yeah, you admit you guys don’t talk to each other a lot as it is, or are longtime best friends tiptoeing around their feelings, but you're afraid you're gonna have to ignore him forever for the sake of your own sanity.

I’m so fucked. You think.

tags - @httpjeonlicious @lovingkoalaface @rpwprpwprpwprw

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kumkaniudaku · 6 months ago

Text

101

Summary: When Asia's in need of a few lessons regarding matters of the bedroom, her colleague and friend, Kelvin, offers his expertise.

Pairing: Kelvin Harrison Jr. x Black!OC

Warnings: Mature Content (18+)

Word Count: 5.5k

MASTERLIST

"So…you come here often?"

In a crowded bar tucked into a rapidly changing side of town, Asia sat perched on a barstool, listening to yet another potential suitor court her uninterested best friend. They always approached with unearned confidence, dropping some variation of the same tired lines only to be tossed back into a sea of misfit boy toys to make room for the next poor, unfortunate soul.

Sabrina loved the attention, though. At a statuesque 5 '10", she didn't mind being worshipped like Aphrodite and choosing her favorite from the litter until she was bored and ready for the next man up. Asia loved it, too. Watching men fall all over themselves in a way they'd never done for her was weirdly empowering. She didn't get to take home any of the night's trophies, but she did get to listen to the stories of every Tom, Dick, and Devante that passed in and out of her friend's life.

Barely interested, Sabrina sipped through a tiny black straw and regarded her latest contestant with tipsy indifference. "Not really. Why?"

"Uh…I don't know. Just, uh, just wondering?"

"Mhm. I'm drinking tequila." A loud slurp from liquid long evaporated from scratched glass filled with more ice than anything else brought the young man's attention to her hands and then back to her face. She offered him her best sweet smile and proposed, "Get me another?"

Asia had never seen a man getting absolutely nothing in return move so fast to wedge himself between a handful of patrons vying for the bartender's attention.

Sabrina let off a cackle loud enough to eclipse various pockets of chatter and music as she elbowed a laughing Asia. "That's, what, three for you tonight?" Asia asked, still swirling around the pity Jack and Coke she was gifted an hour ago. "One more, and you might get the record."

"Girl, I'm not drinking that shit. I'm supposed to be meeting Eric later tonight, and I can't be drunk like I was last time. It's been a month, and I need that."

"He's back from Portugal?"

"Fuckin' finally," Sabrina gushed. "I don't mean to be a 'my man, my man, my man' ass bitch about a nigga that is not my man, but…"

Sabrina didn't need to finish. Four years of their on-off whatever the fuck had been as much a part of Asia's life as it was Sabrina's. She'd been there for all the dates, all the late-night phone calls that pulled her friend away from plans, every blow-up and breakup, and the eventual reconciliation that would, once again, leave her as a lonely party of one. Unfortunately, she never got any of the fabled mind-blowing sex that came from their strange arrangement. Only the stories and the occasional video if Sabrina was feeling spicy.

Asia downed the rest of her drink along with the jealousy brewing in her chest and slid the glass across the bar for someone to collect later. "Well, hey, as long as you're happy." Happy was relative. She really wanted to say as long as you're willing to keep your business out of my bubble, but swallowed the thought before it could breach her lips. "Should I keep my phone off DND just in case?"

No immediate answer made Asia pause her casual scan of the room to look over at Sabrina, who'd all but buried her nose into her cell phone to grin at whatever was keeping her preoccupied.

She called out to her friend again. "Sabrina!"

"Huh," she sputtered out, snapping from her Eric-mania. "N-no, I should be good. We're on good terms. Or I'll just go to my sister's house. Did I tell you she moved? Oh, shit. Let me take this."

Sabrina didn't leave much time for objection, though Asia couldn't say she would offer any if given the chance. She was used to flying solo. She liked moving around the city as a lone wolf, looking for any cocktail lounge or off-the-beaten-path late-night spot to slink into and observe the happenings of 20 and 30-somethings looking for something or someone to get into before trudging home when daylight came back around.

The night was still young enough to hit up a cigar bar her old work friend Marcus had told her about. She didn't smoke, but the brown liquor was always smooth, and their food wasn't half bad.

While she sat trying to get the bartender's attention to close her tab, a presence at her side made themselves known with an accidental shove that nearly knocked her off balance.

"Gahdamn," she hollered, gripping the bar top for dear life to avoid starting a dangerous domino effect. Her mind didn't register the frantic apology from her newest enemy or the way he grabbed her waist to return her to a steady state. All she saw was his smile's familiar, gorgeous gleam when he realized who he'd bumped into just as his night was beginning and hers was coming to a close. "Kelvin?"

He slowly let go of her body and tried to appear taller than he was. "Good, I'm glad you noticed. Thought you might beat my ass. I know how you get down."

"I still should. What the hell are you doin' in here, and did they card you at the door?"

"Ha-ha. I'm a grown-ass man. Don't let the stature fool you." His fake laugh gave way to a real one shared between coworkers who cared enough about their jobs not to get fired but never enough for rapid advancement.

Life as a creative in a city where just about everyone was a "creative" had a way of uniting strangers from all walks of life. When Asia stepped into her new agency searching for exciting new clients and an actual team of people to see in the office a few times a week, she didn't expect to be accosted by the bright-eyed Associate Creative Director who had no business fraternizing with the project management team. But there Kelvin was, half-sitting on her desk with his Nike-clad foot swinging while he rattled off lunch spots within walking distance for them to check out once she was done with her first meeting with HR.

"You always this chatty," She asked while trying to make sense of her new Macbook.

Kelvin sported a mischievous smile. "Only with the other Black folks. We gotta stick together. There ain't but six of us, and two of them are married."

He quickly grew into one of her favorite people to see during the week while they worked side-by-side to meet deadlines and ward off culturally insensitive questions from well-meaning white folks trying to sell products to urban communities. She'd seen him be gregarious during long nights in the office filled with thumbtacks and beer from the bar cart. She'd also sat with him on Teams calls, saying nothing for some of the day while he quietly worked through lines to inspire consumers to do what they did best.

But she'd never seen him outside the strict confines of work culture. In public, they were free to cross the lines of office politics and show their true selves. Asia's true self included a departure from relaxed trousers and professional shoes to make way for short shorts and sky-high heels that accentuated a figure Kelvin couldn't help but notice.

His eyes slowly swept over her body while he finished his thought. "I'm in here because my boy just got his heart broken and needed some comfort. What you doin' in here? I ain't know Asia knew how to have fun!"

"Nah, I can have fun. I just don't like y'all like that."

"That is abundantly clear," he laughed. "You haven't had lunch with me in like two weeks. We got a problem?"

Asia chuckled at him, trying to press her while she pulled cash out of her purse to pay the bartender. "I knew you missed me. I've been busy. Kam's been on my ass about the Moet timelines, and I'm trying to slim down a little bit for my birthday trip anyway. I can't keep eating smash burgers with you three times a week." Kelvin listened as he lazily pushed her hand away as soon as he could reach it and replaced her payment method with his.

He lightly bit down on his bottom lip, trying not to look down at her legs again. "You definitely doin' that," he complimented, a flirtatious lilt thick in his delivery. "Make it up to me tonight."

"How?"

"Kick it with us. We won't be out that long." Kelvin used his head to gesture toward a table to people Asia assumed to be his friends. Two girls and three guys, leaving her to make the group even. He caught her trepidation and stepped a little closer so that she could see his face clearly under blinking strobe lights. "I got you. We can leave at any time if you want. Drinks on me."

Asia rolled her eyes. "I'm not askin' you to do that."

"You don't need to. I aim to please, love. C'mon."

Part of her wanted to refuse his invitation and use Sabrina as her scapegoat. After all, she did step out as one half of a pair.

Then, the other part directed her attention to the tall woman conspicuously making her way to the front entrance, her phone pressed to her ear, and an Uber waiting as her chariot to carry her away from the ball and to a man too shady to ever be a prince.

Kelvin stood awaiting her answer, his eyebrows doing a bit of a cha-cha as he made them wiggle.

Fuck it. "Alright. Start with a lemon drop, and make sure to introduce me as your favorite coworker. Really do your big one."

"Still demanding outside of the office. I like that." He bit his lip again, this time checking her out without shame. When she returned his brazen act with one of her own, he chuckled and flagged down someone who could really get the night going. "Aye, my man! Let me get something for my favorite coworker."

By the time he'd ushered her over to his group of way too cool art friends, Kelvin had dropped the coworker portion of Asia's title and shortened it to "my favorite."

They all sat huddled at a small booth in the back of the bar, nearly stacked on top of each other. It was Kelvin's idea for her to sit sandwiched between him and his homeboy, all but forcing her against his warm chest for any chance at comfort. It was his idea for the group to continue their conversation about sex and relationships even though it had fizzled to focus on a Black sitcom hierarchy debate. And it was absolutely his idea for him and Asia to hang back together once the other members of the group had set off to find comfort as pairs for the night.

She could only take credit for dropping the frills in their cocktails and settling for straight shots of her good friend, vodka.

Kelvin tossed back shot number he didn't know and let his mouth curl into a devious smirk while he watched Asia reapply clear lip gloss that caught the light just right. "You use dating apps, or you more of an organic meet-up type of lady?"

"I have profiles, but I can't tell you the last time I used one. And nobody is checking for me outside." Asia laughed quietly at the idea of someone approaching her for any reason other than asking for directions.

"What's so funny?"

She shrugged. "I don't know. That you think people are interested in me to the point that they're swiping right of whatever the fuck."

"So you just be on there for fun? Nothing is happening?" He scoffed to himself and plucked a lukewarm fry from a basket in front of him. "You're at least hooking up."

"I've never hooked up in my life."

Asia tried to rush past her drunk confession, tried to push away the words just as quickly as they'd entered the atmosphere, but Kelvin had already heard them.

He nodded, mostly to himself, then shrugged. "That's okay. Nothin' wrong with it. You waiting for marriage?"

"Fuck no," she scoffed. "I'm just waiting for someone nice enough to not make it weird. It's embarrassing enough being 30 and a virgin. Not really trying to make it weird by discussing it over appetizers."

"Like we doin' now?"

Asia laughed and finally took her shot while Kelvin watched her with the sheen of drunk thoughts clouding his eyes. He brushed her hair over her shoulder softly, his fingers lingering on her collarbone for a few seconds before he threw his arm over the top of the booth's seat and scooched lower, settling into a comfortable manspread.

"This is different. You're easy to talk to and not being creepy about it."

He nodded in understanding. "So somebody nice. What else?"

"I don't know. Somebody willing to teach and be patient. I'm a quick study. I just need the opportunity to learn somewhere safe." Vulnerability shared with a man she only kind of knew personally made Asia shrink in embarrassment as she rushed to clean up her verbal mess. "That's stupid to want, though. Nobody's trynna teach a grown woman how to fuck. I'm cool with missing out."

She'd started to try to cover her tracks so much that she didn't hear when Kelvin spoke back to her until the last words had tumbled from his lips in a broken sentence.

She doubled back. "Wait. What did you say?"

"I said I'll do it. I'll teach you."

"Teach me what?"

"How to fuck," he said so matter of fact that he sounded like he was talking about his grocery list or errands to run and not having sex. He continued despite the clear look of shock on Asia's face. "Only if you want me to. I'm cool either way."

"I-I mean…I don't…if you want. Maybe we shouldn't –."

He cut in and pointed at her shot glass. "You done or want another one?" Asia sputtered out that she'd had all she could drink in one night, and he nodded, reaching into his back pocket to pluck a credit card from his wallet's inventory. He tapped her hip to silently tell her to let him out, and she followed directions blindly for a reason she couldn't explain. Once he was standing, he looked down at her with a soft smile and kind eyes. "Just think about it and let me know. No pressure."

Asia didn't know what made her text Kelvin after work the following Thursday evening. All she knew was that he told her that his Friday was booked, but Saturday was all hers.

They agreed on him stopping by at 8:30 p.m., after anybody planning to go out had started their dressing routines and those intent on staying in had wrapped up any reason to leave the house and turned in for the evening. In her mind, that ensured none of her neighbors would see her bringing in a man clearly there for a singular purpose.

His prompt knock on her apartment door scared her even though she was the one who told him how to access guest parking, gave him a visitor's code, and told him her apartment number.

Wiping her sweating palms on her pajama shorts, she padded toward the door and took a deep breath before pulling it open.

He smirked when she came into view. "On the first knock? That's hospitable."

"Shut up," she admonished, though the joke had done its intended job and chipped away at building nerves. "And take off your shoes. There's fresh slippers in the basket if you need 'em."

Kelvin took Asia turning her back to him as an invitation to enter her apartment and to take a gander at the space he'd partially seen in meetings and their solo "work sessions."

Despite not being a hands-on creative, he could tell she had an appreciation for art. Reyna Noriega art prints and classic hip-hop album covers formed a gallery wall over her couch. A display of CDs that he had no idea people still collected sat stacked by a vintage boombox he was sure cost her a pretty penny. Potted monsteras and a well-loved fiddle leaf fig took up space beside a large window overlooking a bustling street below. It was clear she loved color from the maroon sectional in her quaint living room and the complementary pillows crowded in the corner he usually saw her sit in. He immediately recognized her desk and the lit 'on air' wall sign above it, making him feel like he knew something about her with the present situation carrying the kind of nervousness and uncertainty that typically came with first dates.

This wasn't a date, though. This was business—an agreement—a short-term arrangement for long-term success.

Asia cracked the seal on a fresh bottle of water before sliding it across the island to Kelvin, who took a generous sip from his spot in one of her barstools. She watched him intently as she stood on the other side, waiting for less abrupt words to populate her mind. They never came, and she couldn't stand the wait any longer.

She ran her hand up the back of her head to adjust flyaways beneath her fresh bun before speaking. "We should discuss a few ground rules…if that's cool."

"It's your world," he laughed. "I'm just here to help. By all means, go ahead."

Asia took a deep breath and then reached for her phone to navigate to the unnecessarily detailed note she spent the previous night typing out. "Okay. To start, I need to see your most recent test results, and they can't be older than three months from today's date."

"Cool," Kelvin shrugged, tapping at his phone screen before placing it back on the counter. "Those are from, like, two months ago. I can get you something more recent if that isn't enough."

A soft buzz in her hand signaled the delivery of his test results neatly packed in a PDF sent via iMessage, making her swallow a lump in her throat. Things were getting too real. She continued. "I'll…give those a look," she started, semi-impressed that he was keeping up with his health in that manner. "Next, no bondage or sub/dom play. I'm not into it. I haven't tried it, but I just know I'm not."

"Me neither. What's the next one?"

"We gotta use protection every time."

"Copy."

"No staying the night."

"I don't like it over here that much anyway."

Amusement tugged at Kelvin's lips while he watched her scroll further down her list. Deep brown skin. She had narrow hips that almost duped you into thinking there was no ass behind her. Strong thighs. A beautiful smile. A good head on her shoulders. Perfect lips. Pretty —

Kelvin blinked back into the present when he heard his name called. "Say that again. My fault."

Asia rolled her eyes and spoke a little louder. "We can't change our behavior at work. No one can know about this."

"Bet." He was so nonchalant all the time, so unbothered by the circumstances no matter the topic at hand. Deadlines didn't matter. Client gripes and regroup after regroup did little to deter him. He'd always shrug his shoulders under one of his many distressed hoodies and proceed unphased. Kelvin took another sip of water before answering the question he sensed in Asia's eyes. "I'm rolling off of the only work we share anyway, so we won't interact that much."

"Woah, how come?" Asia caught her reaction and tried to dial her sadness back a bit. "I mean, you're… you're not leaving, right?"

Kelvin flashed a toothy grin while adjusting the blue velour durag tied tight on his head. "Nah, I'm still around for now. I raised my hand to take on some pitch work for a challenge. I'm bored." He paused to turn his lips up in an accusatory pout. "You gon' miss me, huh?"

"Stop trying to distract me. Which brings me to my next rule: no kissing during sessions or otherwise. Let's try to keep this as platonic as possible."

"Oh, nah." The one rule Asia assumed Kelvin would accept with no pushback was the one that gave him the most pause. He twisted his face into one of instant disapproval. "I don't have sex with people I can't kiss or hang out with. I know it's just physical, but I still need to like you as a person. Nah. We gotta kiss. Go get some food every once in a while. Something. Nah."

He was adamant and unyielding in his need for physical and emotional intimacy despite their arrangement not being one meant for the comforts of a relationship.

Asia noted his gripe and raised a hand in surrender while she backspaced in her note. "Okay, okay. We can kiss. I'm probably not that great at it, but — "

"You don't need to worry about what you're good at with me. Nobody goes to swim lessons expected to know how to swim. I'm teaching, and you're learning. That's the point of all this."

Stunned silence dropped Asia's jaw for a half second until she had enough nerve connections in her brain to pick it up and try to salvage her image. Kelvin tried to hide his smile behind his near-empty plastic water bottle while he watched her with satisfaction dancing in his eyes. For someone usually so poised, so sure of themselves as they moved through the tiny world that overlapped between them, Asia was flustered easily. A crack in the armor. Endearing. It made her human to Kelvin, who saw her as a mythical creature filled with unattainable magic.

Standing, Kelvin pulled his hoodie over his head, a question muffled as he disappeared behind thick fabric. "Can I ask you some stuff, or is this more of an interview? I know I got movie star charm, but I do like a back-and-forth every once in a while. Keeps me humble."

"Oh, brother," Asia groaned. "Ask what you gon' ask, Kelvin, before I change my mind."

A glimpse at his abdomen as his disrobing incidentally lifted the crisp white tee beneath did all the heavy lifting to stir Asia into crackling embers of desire masked by a deteriorating cool exterior.

He caught her looking, eyes wide like deer in headlights and winked on his way to plop down on her couch. "This is niiice," he drew out, scooting deeper to get comfortable. Where you get this? Don't let me find out you've been letting me pay for lunch, and you're rich."

"That's why I gave you a break the last few weeks. See how I look out for you." she joked, earning a dimpled smile in return. "Now, ask your question."

Kelvin called her over with a quick tilt of his head and a disarming smile. "Come over here first."

In her inner monologue, Asia passed the blame for her slow walk toward him to the fleeting gleam of his earrings under her bamboo floor lamp acting as a homing signal. In reality, it was simple attraction. Bare bones, uncomplicated attraction. He was boyishly handsome, the type of man you meet in college and remain "friends" with until one of you gets bored. Clean facial hair, glowing skin, straight white teeth, a sturdy hairline – all the makings of a classically fine man. What he lacked in height, he made up in personality and a beguiling genuineness.

That's what carried her the few steps from the kitchen to Kelvin's side, her eyes low until he tugged her down into his lap. He chuckled into her ear as his soft hands rubbed a soothing path up and down her exposed thigh while he cradled her. "You ever hear your neighbors in here?"

"That was your question, Kelvin? If I can hear my neighbors? Not usually, no."

He quietly scanned the corners of the room, nodding to himself in silent confirmation, then looked back at Asia with a lazy smile. His lips pecked at her neck before he spoke against her delicate skin. "And I wanted you to tell me about Friday. I saw you got the Hustle this week. That's big, girl. Congratulations."

His deep mumbles vibrated across Asia's body, awakening nerve endings in places she didn't know could feel so electrified. Her legs tensed as she fought for a response. "Thank you. I…I wasn't expecting it."

"I don't know why. You been bustin' your ass. Stayin’ late…” His voice trailed as his fingers danced across her stomach to the waistband of her shorts, hovering. Waiting. Teasing. "Comin' early. Skipping lunches. The least they could do is recognize you."

All of Asia's words came out in a needy rush of air. "Yeah, I guess so."

"I know so." Long, deft fingers slid into Asia's shorts and over her thin underwear, looking for tension to relieve. "Tell me to stop whenever you want." Kelvin kept his lips attached her neck just as his hold on her waist tightened and her eyelids started to flutter closed. He spoke low and smooth, like warm honey. "What'd you do today?"

A sigh and a whimper tumbled from her lips, fragmented and surprised. "I…I went to the farmer's market. The one uptown by the Whole F-foods."

"What'd you get? More of that fruit juice you let me taste?"

"Mhm."

Asia had something else to say, something possibly important, had it popped up at a different time. However, the words faded into a haze of disjointed thoughts once Kelvin started making slow revolutions against her clothed center. The spot grew wetter with each pass. He listened to her try to breathe for a few seconds with the ghost of a smile on his lips while he focused on easing her into more stimulation.

He rubbed his nose against her cheek to gently direct her to say more. "And what else? Focus on that so I can focus on you."

Heat came first. An uncontrollable, blazing internal heat radiated from Asia's shoulders to her clenched toes. The fire inside created steam in her mind that needed a minute to clear before she could mentally wipe it away and think about the moments in her day that meant more than having her body controlled by a man who, less than a week ago, had never even seen her ankles.

"Lunch," she panted. "I had lunch at…at a, um, a vegan spot. It was terrible. I…oh my God…I wasted my money."

"You're vegan?"

"No. Just…thought I'd try something different today."

"Oh yeah?" Kelvin pulled his hands away long enough to lick the tips of his fingers before returning them further south. Slick and searching for warmth, he carefully led them into her panties for skin-to-skin contact. "You're full of surprises today, huh?"

Asia's answer became a shuddering sigh that never quite let all the air out of her lungs before she went to inhale.

They sat like that for what felt like forever. Asia breathing in an uneven pattern, eyes closed and twitching behind crinkled lids. Kelvin slowly, deliberately circling the center of her pleasure with his nose pressed to her neck, inhaling the shea and sandalwood body wash coating her skin. Both of them caught up in the rapture of an impromptu lesson one.

Kelvin snuck his free hand beneath Asia's shirt, caressing his way to both nipples that ached for contact. He ran his thumb across his favorite one a few times over before cupping her entire breast to gently hold it in the palm of his hand.

"I didn't know this was the first session," Asia whispered as her body grew rigid and wetness coated her thighs, the words almost lost to the low roar of her dishwasher across the room.

"It doesn't have to be. Consider it a chemistry test," he answered. "Wanna stop?"

Asia rushed to answer, "No! Stay right there…please."

Hearing her beg for his touch, for the feeling he was producing, sent Kelvin into a tailspin of emotions that he fought to put back into the mental box he never planned to open. But he couldn't escape the burning desire to press kisses from her shoulder to the corner of her lips. "Look at you. I think you know what you want," he commented as he increased the pace to elicit the whimper she tried to keep tucked away. "Don't be shy. Speak up."

She couldn't. Even with the words knocking against the container of her mind like cold rainwater on a tin roof, she couldn't fight the sighs and sultry mewls taking precedence over making requests. All she could squeak out as her stomach clenched to welcome the first shocks of impending orgasm was a measly whimper.

"That's okay," he murmured. "We can work on it. Breathe deep for me."

Or don't breathe at all. Asia's lungs chose the second option, involuntarily holding in a breath to receive the single digit tentatively plunging inside her while tears leaked from the corner of her eyes. Kelvin kissed away the initial shock until she nervously returned the affection.

It was all too good. The taste of mint on his tongue, the feeling of his hands dragging out every sigh and sound she could concoct, the way his moans mingled with hers, how his eyes seemed to try and convey something more than the carnal situation they'd found themselves in – all too good and far exceeding expectations.

Plush lips moved against each other like seasoned lovers, syncing up without much pomp and circumstance. Asia was right. She was a quick study. She'd learned the ebbs and flows of a solid kiss in no time as she relaxed into Kelvin's touch. Nervousness had quickly dissipated into familiar passion, loosening the bolts on what they both assumed would be an awkward first encounter.

Her hips swiveled against his lap in time with each push and pull of his middle finger. She could handle more. She deserved more.

When his ring finger joined the show, Kelvin pulled away from their lip lock to let Asia's throaty moan ping off the walls and ceiling. "There she is," he cooed against her lips. "I knew you had it in you."

Her private time had nearly gone unrivaled until he came along. She'd mastered how to get herself off efficiently with nothing more than a little mental stimulation and time on her hands. This was different. This was exhilarating. Having praise and pleasure in equal measure scratched an itch that she'd almost believed would never be satiated. Now, she had her first taste of a drug she wasn't sure she wanted to quit.

Kelvin's reminder to breathe echoed through Asia's mind as her body welcomed release. Waves of warmth cascaded across her limbs to match the near sob in her throat. Sweat pooled beneath her t-shirt. He kept his lips pressed to hers, creating a heady feeling that juxtaposed the pressure quaking her insides and sending her essence all over his knuckles. Her breathing all but stopped until the slow tingle of feeling returning to her toes reminded her that not only was she still alive, but her coworker still had his hands in her pants and a silly, self-satisfied grin on his lips.

"You sound so pretty when you're not yelling at me through a screen." Kelvin pulled his fingers out of her warmth and immediately stuck them into his mouth for the taste he'd been fiending for. Asia watched him with shock and intrigue on her face as he hummed in approval at his reward for all his hard work. "And you acted like you didn’t wanna kiss but you're not bad at it. I've had way worse."

Asia's rolling eyes matched the deadpanned response she used to hide how flustered she was. "Oh, great. I was starting to worry," she scoffed. "Get out of my house, Kelvin. I'll see you next weekend. Same time?"

A pang of disappointment hit him as she stood to scurry toward her bathroom without sparing him a second look. "We don't have to be like that," he called after her. "It's up to you, but I got a Disney bundle and Uber One until the end of the month. And you gotta eat, right?"

"I guess so," Asia answered, leaning on the frame with her arms crossed while she quietly committed the dimples in Kelvin's cheeks to memory. "Can we get something I can put hot sauce on?"

"You want your Wednesday usual?"

She smirked and turned her back to leave. "Don't go browsing around my Netflix messing up my recommendations and shit. Wait 'til I come back!"

Kelvin kept his smart remark to himself and sank deeper into the couch to scroll through dinner options until he found his target. An intentional lick of his lips when he knew he was completely alone brought Asia back into the room by taste and imagination, reinvigorating a stirring below the navel that he couldn't relieve until he was in the privacy of his own thoughts.

Adjusting himself to find relief, Kelvin released a low chuckle and licked his lips again for the thrill.

All business and no play was boring. Next Saturday couldn't come soon enough.

--------

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#kelvin harrison jr.#kelvin harrison jr. x black oc

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dreamersparacosm · 7 days ago

Text

jeon jungkook - off the record (part five)

part five ; bergamot and cedar

warnings ; extreme alcohol consumption!

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

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

playlist here

series masterlist here

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“In your dreams, Jeon.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Very bleak indeed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Would it work if I was?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I do.” He lifts his chin confidently.

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

“Huh?”

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

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

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

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

“How is that supposed to—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why wouldn’t I?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oneeeee, come on,” he coaxes.

“No.”

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

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

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

“One.” He holds up a singular finger.

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

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

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

“You smell really good.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Bitch, where’s your drink?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“To go home?”

She scowls. “More alcohol, dumbass.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart stutters like a scratched CD.

Damn it.

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

How many glasses of wine has it been?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What are you thinking about?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, god.”

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

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

“Holding hands?” you ask incredulously.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What is your type?

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

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

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

She’s now dancing with Paul.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Enjoying yourself?”

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

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

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

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

Damnit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Market failures.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But now he wants to dance with you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing about this is funny anymore.

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

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

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

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

Fuck. If he were anyone else but Jungkook…

“I should… go home.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You have absolutely nothing to say to him. Nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh.”

What else are you supposed to say to that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

You mutter something under your breath about climate change.

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

“Everything okay?” he asks.

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

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

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

Uber arriving in 4 minutes.

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

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

“Dangerous pastime.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll take that as a thank you.”

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

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

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

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

“Very noble of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pretty?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Hey.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Which is…”

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

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

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

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

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

“I am not soft.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ask my mom.” He shrugs.

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

“Whatever you say, bestie.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The corner of Jungkook’s mouth quirks up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. Oh. You’re getting somewhere.

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

You shoot him a glare, but Monroe laughs loudly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know about that in more ways than one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your pen stills again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your laugh is stuck behind your ribs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your pen tip presses an inky bruise into the paper.

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

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

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

“Oh?” One side of Monroe’s lips curl.

“They all think you did it for money.”

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

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

“Him.”

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

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

Monroe nods. “I have.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

We’d love to rewrite it.

We.

When the hell did that start happening?

Nine years ago, you had a boyfriend.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Huh?” You blink up at him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m not pitying you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing good has ever followed a sentence like that.

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

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

“Wait, so…” you deadpan.

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

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

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

Oh no. You know exactly where this is going.

Your hangover headache returns with a vengeance.

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

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

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

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

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

Jungkook looks between you and Mark with an unreadable expression.

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

“Fine. I’ll go.”

It surprises you when it leaves your mouth.

“Yeah,” Jungkook echoes. “Me too.”

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

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

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

masterlist + ask

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#jeon jungkook #jeon jeongguk #jungkook smut #jungkook #jungkook x reader #bts jungkook #jungkook x you #jungkook fluff #jungkook angst #bts #bts x reader #bts smut #bts x you

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darkbluekies · 1 year ago

Text

A little game

Yandere!king oc x fem!reader

Summary: Edmund going insane when he finds you hurt and unconscious and swears to kill everyone in town.

Warnigns: behading, insanity, blood, guns, abuse, arson, everything like that

Word count: 2.3k

His eyes wander over your lifeless body. Numerous signs of brutal harm can be seen on your body. He can't even imagine what you've been put through, and when he tries he feels sick.

“Kill them all.”

His secretary widens his eyes.“But … your majesty-”

Edmund turns to him with eyes burning with rage. “Do I speak another language?!” he screams. “Kill them all! Every single one of them!”

Maids look at each other in fear, the secretary gulps. Edmund can feel his body tremble. He wants to grab the glass bottle on the bedside table, break it and plunge it deep into someone's, anyone's, heart. Wants to see blood, wants to kill.

His hammering heart thumps in his ears. A chanting “kill them all, make them pay” repeats in his head, sounding better and better each time.

It all had happened so quickly, and yet so slow. You were kidnapped on a town visit and hurt by someone, badly. A knight had found you after hours of search lifeless in the forest, body torn and beaten. Edmund had thought that you had died. The few moments of uncertainty had felt like hours. Millions of thoughts had passed through his head. What would he do if you were dead? Could he live without you? Why did it hurt so much? Why couldn't he breathe? Was he dead too? Why was he alone again?

But now he was only angry. Someone had hurt you … and the entire town hid the truth, protected the culprit. Edmund didn't care who had done what, everyone was guilty. They are no individuals, only a herd of characterless peasants. And he hates them all.

He wants to touch your face, but he doesn’t dare to. He’s scared that if he touches you, he’s going to kill you. His touch is deadly. You’re already so fragile, so vulnerable.

“Take families, one by one”, Edmund starts, still shaking, “and bring them here.”

“What are you going to do, your majesty?” the secretary asks, sounding worried.

“Give this castle a fucking paintjob.”

His hands are bloody — they’re never bloody. He never gets down and dirty, always watched. His heart is beating even quicker, but he can’t seem to get enough. He can’t get rid of the unimaginable anger he feels. It’s like a beast has taken control over his mind and soul and given him a new unclenched blood thirst. Every time he lets his fist make contact with a poor peasants body he sees your broken face in front of him. It makes him hit them more, with even more force. He enjoys it, he finds.

“Your majesty, please!” the man he’s holding begs. “Please spare me, I’m sorry!”

“What are you sorry for?” Edmund questions harshly. “What can your filthy little peasant heart be sorry for, huh? Was it you who abused my wife?!”

“No! No, your majesty, I didn’t-”

His voice echoes across the court yard. “Then who did?! Who was it?! Who are you covering up for?!”

Before he has the time to answer, Edmund has thrown the man against the castle’s wall with such force that he cracks his skull open on the harsh, sharp stones. Blood splatter. Edmund’s heavy breaths are enough to cause his head to spin. He runs a bloody hand through his black hair. Bodies are lined up against the castle’s walls, stacked on top of each other.

Edmund turns to the knights standing a few meters away from him.

“If no one fesses up I will kill the entire town!” he shouts. “Every single one!”

“Your majesty, if you kill everyone, who will you rule over?” a knight asks.

In a swift motion, Edmund grabs a gun from the nearest knight and shoots him.

“Does anyone else have idiotic questions?!” he screams, directing the gun around. “Huh?! Ask them now so we can get them over with!”

To show that he’s not kidding, he shoots a bullet straight up into the air. None of the knights answer. Edmund scoffs and throws the gun to the side. He catches a glimpse of himself in the reflection of the window and flinches. He didn’t need his mirror to let him know that he’s drenched in blood and sweat. The look inn his eyes is what is startled by. He looks … animalistic. There’s no humanity left in his ice blue eyes anymore. He can feel himself drift into insanity, but he can’t stop it — maybe he doesn't want to.

“Bring the next group”, he demands.

“They are fleeing into the woods, your majesty”, a knight says.

“Then stop them?!”

“How, your majesty?”

He thinks for a moment. Head spinning, heart thumping in his ears, tast of blood in his mouth.

“Burn it all down”, he decides. “Burn every possible way out. Burn them in, if necessary.”

The knights nod. Edmund turns back to the poor body on the bloody gravel and picks him up by the collar, carrying him to the others.

“Isn’t it pretty? The color?”

His secretary tilts his head as he studies the flames in the distance. “I suppose so, but the smell is God awful.”

“Smells like victory to me.”

Edmund turns away from the window, eyes darting to all the things scattered all over the floor. His office is near destroyed. Things lay broken everywhere after his tantrums. He used to value his materialistic obsessions highly, but now they’re not worth a dime to him. Nothing is. Only you. He has to avenge you rightfully.

“How is my darling doing?” he asks and gives the secretary a stern gaze. “You know to tell me the second she awakes, right? If you don’t, I will drag you out on the court yard and put you with the other bodies.”

“Of course, your majesty, I will come running right away”, the secretary answers. “You can rest assure. I won’t betray you. Besides, her skin is healing. You won’t have to see her grotesque marks.”

Edmund nods. “I want to see her now. To see if you are telling the truth.”

The secretary leads Edmund through the large, dark halls. The people passing him makes his blood boil. They haven’t done anything, but he’s ready to lash out in case anyone gives him a foul look. Anyone showing any signs of distrust need to be killed. Roughly. He will not be made a fool.

A maid opens the door to your shared chamber and Edmund walks over to the bed. For a few seconds, he doesn’t believe that it’s you sleeping under the white sheets. You look so awfully small in the big bed, so unbelievably broken. Your skin looks so weird compared to the white sheets … washed out, somehow. He hates it, absolutely despises it all.

Edmund sits down on the side of the bed and takes your hand in his, sighing heavily at the state of you. Seeing your frail figure makes him even madder. Why aren’t you waking up? What have that creature done to you to make you look like this? His secretary was right, however, you seem to be doing a bit better. Your body heals. So why aren’t you waking up?

“I will punish them”, he whispers and kisses your forehead. It must be one of the sweetest gestures he has done since you disappeared and came back in whatever state you are in now. “I promise. I love you so much, my darling, I will make them pay.”

The guillotine is working over time. The blade is covered in blood, heads everywhere. Edmund has realized that all people about to be beheaded has either of three possible reactions. Pleading and crying, begging for forgiveness, and emotionless and accepting. He likes to guess who will have what reaction, and when he guesses right he gives himself a clap on the shoulder. He’s standing on the balcony, leaning forward against the railing with his arms resting on it. Smiling. It’s all a big game for him. Like how hurting you and covering up the deed is a big joke to them. But now he’s the hunter, and they’re the pray. They are the punchline in his joke. Not the other way around. His blood boils when he thinks about what the ones hurting you must have been thinking while performing such a merciless act. Were they thinking about him, about how mad he would be? Thinking: “we will have caused a reaction to form in him but he will not know who have done it”, in that case they were wrong. Everyone is punished for their stupid game.

“Please, please!” a woman screams, about to be beheaded. “I know who it was!”

Edmund freezes.

“Wait!” he shouts to the man holding the rope controlling the blade.

Edmund hurries down to the court yard and walks over to the woman with her head in the locked hole. He grabs her chin roughly, trying to direct her head up without luck.

“Who was it?” Edmund spits. “Tell me their names.”

She seems to have lost all speaking ability when nearby Edmund. All color is drained off her face. She faints. Angrily, Edmund lets go of her chin, grabs the rope and lets the blade fall. Her head falls down on the gravel and rolls towards the others. No one says anything.

“Your majesty!” he hears his secretary shout. “The queen is awake!”

Edmund feels his entire body go numb. He spins around, looking at the secretary in the doorway with large, shocked eyes. He runs after.

You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake. You’re awake.

“Get out of my fucking way!” Edmund growls and shoved a maid into the wall when she tries opening the door for him.

You’re laying in the bed, but your eyes are open! Edmund runs over and throws himself at you, hugging you tightly. You start to cry the second he wraps his arms around you and brings your face into his shoulder. He can’t believe that he’s holding you again, to feel your body tremble under his fingertips. He wants to cry.

“It’s okay”, he whispers and caresses your hair as you sob against his neck. “Everything is okay, my dear. I’m here now, I will not let anything happen to you.”

He can feel his entire body relax. He has you back. Your shaking body feels so … alive.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

You nod against his shoulder and try to pull back, out of his embrace. He doesn’t let you, he only moves you closer. What if you slip away when he lets you go?

“Not yet”, he whispers. “Stay with me a bit longer.”

His hands grab at you, trying to reassure himself that you are, indeed, alive.

When he does let you go, your eyes are red with tears. He puts his hand on your cheek, wiping your tears carefully with his thumb.

“I’m so sorry”, he mumbles and feels a stone in his throat. “I really am.”

“Your hand smells like blood …”, you whisper.

He becomes cold as your eyes start to widen in fear.

“No, no, no!” he says quickly and grabs your face in his hands. “I will stop. Is that what you want? Hm? I-I’ll stop, I’ll show mercy to the ones left if you just give me the name of who … who hurt you. Okay? Please?

The name you give is one he’s familiar with. It’s suddenly clear why everyone wanted to shield the guilty one. His father is one of the richest men in the town. Edmund has yet to kill him.

“I will take care of him”, he says. “Everything he did to you, I will do to him. I promise. Not more, not less.”

Your shaking hand takes his. Edmund gulps and lifts your intertwined to his lips and kisses.

“I love you”, he whispers.

“What is that?” you ask and point towards the forest.”Why is it so black?”

Edmund hesitates and hugs your other hand tighter. They have cleaned the entire court yard and scrubbed the walls so that you won’t have to see any of the horror that has occurred while you were unconscious, but he can’t replace the forest with a new one.

“A wildfire happened while you were unconscious”, he lies. “It was just fixed. Nothing to worry about.”

He continues to walk with you, hand in hand, through the large corridors. He’s on his way down to the dungeon where a certain someone is waiting for him. Edmund’s hands itch when he thinks about what he’s going to do to him. He can’t wait.

You suddenly hug him. He flinches, but is quick to wrap his arms around you, to secure you against his body. You fit so well against him

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing”, you say, sounding shy. “Thank you for saving me. I think that I would be dead without you.”

“I would kill everyone in this world for you. You know that.”

But hearing you say ‘thank you’ to him, after everything hes done for — and towards — you causes his stomach to to fill with butterflies. He really would kill everyone for you. Over and over again.

“I’ll have to leave you here”, he says as you reach the stairs down to the dungeon. “I have something to do. Will you wait for me here?”

“What are you going to do?” you ask hesitantly.

Edmund smiles, showing off his teeth. “Play.”

#yandere #yandere x reader #yandere x you #yandere imagines #yandere drabbles #yandere oc x you #yandere oc x reader #yandere fics #yandere stories #female reader #yandere king #yandere oneshot

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igwb · 3 months ago

Text

A Black Eye & Two Kisses. (II.)

"keeping guns in his locker, and he denies it, like it's actually important, but he lied 'cause i sure did watch him."

pairing: jeon jungkook x oc

genre: strangers to lovers au, angst

summary: you thought jungkook would be different, that he would show you another side of men but as the days passed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he might not be as different as the rest.

word count: 23K

warnings: angst, set in the 90s, mentions of; sexism, patriarcal society, shitty husbands/men in general :(, violence, child abuse, jk becoming suspicious & his story explained (my poor bby♡)

playlist: the boy with the thorn in his side, forwards beckon rebound, chihiro

author's note: this isnt a one shot! you can find the first part here;

part I. part II. part III.

You were still floating in the haze of last night when the first rays of sunlight slipped through the thin, ineffective curtains. Blinking against the light, you let out a small chuckle, still unable to fully process what had happened. But the warmth in your chest quickly faded when you reached out beside you and found nothing but empty sheets.

Panic set in almost immediately. Your heart pounded as you threw the covers off, your mind racing to the worst possible scenario. Not again. Not after everything.

“Stupid Jungkook,” you muttered under your breath, rummaging through your backpack in search of a clean pair of jeans, your hands shaking slightly. “If those men don’t kill you on Friday, I swear I’ll be the one—”

“So now you wanna kill me, sugar?”

His voice came from behind you, laced with amusement, and you spun around so fast you almost tripped. Standing there, hair damp from the shower, bare chest glistening with leftover droplets of water, Jungkook smirked at you. He was wearing only his jeans, belt still unbuckled, looking completely unbothered. Meanwhile, you felt like a complete fool for immediately assuming the worst.

“You idiot,” you huffed, smacking his thigh in frustration. But your annoyance was quickly replaced with concern as your eyes traveled down to his stomach. The bruise from last night was even worse in the daylight, a deep, ugly shade that made your chest tighten. His eye was nearly swollen shut now, and the cut on his lip, just beneath his piercing, looked painfully raw.

How many times had he come home looking like this? How many more times would he have to if he didn’t find a way out? You hated seeing those dark bruises stain his golden skin, and you silently vowed to never let it happen again.

“Come on, we need to go to the pharmacy and clean that up,” you said, nodding toward the bruises on his stomach and face.

Jungkook scoffed, grabbing a towel and tossing it lazily onto the bed. “We don’t have money for that, honey,” he reminded you, his tone almost mocking, but there was something bitter underneath. The reality of the situation was suffocating.

Your shoulders slumped as you let yourself fall back onto the bed with a heavy sigh. He was right. Even something as simple as treating a wound required money—money neither of you had anymore.

You let yourself fall back onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling as the weight of the situation finally settled in. Last night had been a blur of warmth and safety, but now, reality was creeping in, forcing you to face the consequences of everything that had led you here.

“What do you owe them?” you finally asked, voice quieter than you intended.

Jungkook hummed in response, seemingly unbothered as he settled between your legs, his fingers lazily playing with the hem of your t-shirt, occasionally brushing over your belly button. His touch was light, teasing, and he chuckled like a child amused by his own game.

“Jungkook,” you sighed, grabbing his hands to still them. “Be serious.”

He only smirked in return, clearly enjoying how easy it was to distract you. Instead of answering right away, he leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek before pulling away entirely, walking toward the small table by the window.

You sat up, watching his back, frustration bubbling inside you. How could he act so casual when the situation was this dire?

“800,000 won,” he finally admitted, his voice flat.

The number hit you like a slap.

Your breath caught in your throat, and you felt your stomach drop. “Jungkook,” you gasped. “Are you serious?”

“I’m glad you’re not overreacting,” he muttered, rolling his eyes as he leaned against the table, refusing to meet your gaze.

Your hands clenched into fists against the sheets as you tried to wrap your head around it. 800,000 won. And only one week to get it.

“How the hell are we supposed to find that kind of money?” you asked, panic creeping into your voice.

Jungkook didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just exhaled slowly, as if he had already accepted the inevitable. But you weren’t ready to give up yet.

There had to be a way.

Jungkook ran a hand through his damp hair, exhaling sharply. “I may have some ideas,” he admitted, though his voice lacked any real confidence. “But if it goes wrong… it’ll be even worse.”

You stepped beside him, glancing out of the motel window. The view wasn’t anything special—just dim streetlights flickering over empty sidewalks—but it gave you something to focus on instead of the panic creeping into your chest. The thought of what would happen if you didn’t find the money made your stomach twist painfully.

No. That wasn’t an option.

You took a deep breath, straightening your shoulders. “I might have an idea too,” you said, turning back to him. “But you need to accept it without throwing a tantrum.”

Jungkook scoffed, crossing his arms over his bare chest, smirking at you like he wasn’t standing on the edge of a cliff. “Go on, then,” he challenged.

You hesitated for only a second before speaking. “My mom can—”

Before you could even finish, Jungkook pushed himself off the table with an angry scoff, pacing around the small room.

“For real?” He spat your name, his frustration dripping from every syllable. “You seriously wanna go back there and ask them for money? The same people who threw you out like a goddamn dog?”

You sighed, bracing yourself. You knew he’d react like this.

“My mom would do it,” you insisted, gripping his shoulders firmly, forcing him to look at you. “She’d do anything just to piss off my dad. I’m sure of it.”

Jungkook’s jaw tightened as he poked his tongue against the inside of his cheek, the way he always did when he was trying to hold something back. Then, with a sharp shake of his head, he muttered, “I don’t want your stupid daddy’s money.”

Shrugging off your hands, he stepped back, putting space between you. His expression hardened, frustration flickering in his dark eyes. “I’d rather die than accept a single won from a man who disrespects women.”

His words hit like a slap, and for a second, you just stared at him. Part of you wanted to argue, to tell him that pride wouldn’t save him when those men came knocking—but another part understood. Understood why Jungkook would rather take a beating than owe a man like your father anything.

Still, you refused to just stand there and let him throw away his only chance.

“So what? You’re just going to accept your fate?” You scoffed, shaking your head in disbelief. The thought alone was impossible to stomach.

Jungkook let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Fuck yes, why not?” he threw back sarcastically, his expression unreadable.

Your fingers twitched at your sides—you wanted to grab him by the shoulders and shake some sense into him. But before you could, he sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Of course not,” he muttered.

“I’ll work my ass off like a goddamn man,” he added, finally tugging a t-shirt over his bruised torso.

Something in you twisted at his words. The way he spat out the word man like it was something that determined his worth, like it meant he had to suffer to prove himself. It made you want to gag. You were starting to hate everything about toxic masculinity, especially when it came from him.

You pulled on your jeans, grabbed another shirt, and threw it over your head before standing tall in front of him. “Then I’ll work too,” you said, voice firm with determination. “I’ll help you find the money myself, without asking anyone. And you won’t have a say in it.”

Jungkook leaned against the table, watching you with an amused smirk, one eyebrow slightly raised. He couldn’t believe how stubborn you were—so angry, so determined, so ready to prove yourself. It was frustrating, maybe even reckless. But at the same time, something about it made him want to fight even harder, made his chest feel tight in a way he wasn’t used to.

“Where exactly do you think you’ll work, huh?” His voice was teasing, but there was an edge to it. His mind immediately jumped to the worst possibility—the one job he would never, ever associate you with.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, tying your sneakers. “A bar, a coffee shop, anywhere that’ll take me.”

Jungkook’s jaw clenched at that. A bar. He could already picture it—drunken men, leering stares, hands that didn’t know boundaries. The thought alone made his stomach turn. But he knew better than to argue, knew better than to act like one of those men who tried to control women. You had already lived under that suffocating grip for too long.

After a long pause, he sighed, running a hand through his damp hair before finally meeting your eyes. “Go to Sukchul.” His voice was serious now. “He’s the only man I trust to take good care of you.”

“What about you?” you shot back, tilting your head slightly as you watched him. Your heart softened at the thought—if you had to work somewhere, at least it would be with Sukchul, the old man who had always treated you kindly. A place where you felt safe, where you wouldn’t have to put yourself in dangerous situations just to survive.

Jungkook shrugged, a casual smirk playing on his lips. “I’ll find something else. Don’t worry about me,” he assured you before leaning in to kiss you softly. His hand found yours, fingers lacing together effortlessly. “Let’s go, independent woman,” he teased with a grin, pulling you towards the door.

You couldn’t help but smile, warmth spreading through your chest. The words sounded beautiful—almost unreal—coming from a man.

As you walked hand in hand toward the old man’s shop, a small flicker of hope started to take root in your chest. It was fragile but steady, growing with every step. Maybe—just maybe—things would turn out okay. Maybe Jungkook would be safe, and you would be too. If you worked hard enough, if you pushed through, you could gather the money, put this nightmare behind you, and finally start the life you both deserved.

But you didn’t dare voice your thoughts. Speaking them out loud felt like tempting fate, like inviting the universe to take it all away before it even had a chance to happen. So instead, you just squeezed Jungkook’s hand a little tighter, letting the warmth of his skin ground you.

He glanced down at your hands as you swung them gently between you, a soft chuckle escaping his lips. “What’s that for?”

You only shook your head with a small smile, unwilling to break the moment with words. Instead, you let the quiet understanding settle between you, filling the space with something that felt an awful lot like hope.

The soft chime of the bell echoed through the small shop as you stepped inside. Almost immediately, Sukchul emerged from behind the counter, his pace slow and measured as always, but his grin widening at the sight of Jungkook.

“Ah, Kook!” he greeted, his voice carrying a note of relief. He gave Jungkook a firm tap on the shoulder before turning to you with a small smile of acknowledgment. He might not remember your name, but he knew who you were—and that was enough.

Jungkook, still holding your hand, lifted it slightly toward the old man, his grip tightening just a little. “She wants to work with you,” he said, his voice tinged with something shy, almost hopeful.

Sukchul’s gaze flickered between the two of you, his expression unreadable at first. He let out a low chuckle, then turned on his heel, making his way back behind the counter.

A long moment stretched between you, heavy with anticipation. You knew you weren’t the usual type to work in a place like this. Maybe he’d refuse. Maybe he’d laugh at the idea.

But then, finally, he spoke.

“I’d be happy to have you by my side,” he said simply.

The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding escaped in a quiet sigh of relief.

Jungkook immediately bowed, a deep, respectful gesture, and you followed suit, gratitude filling your chest. You had no idea what the coming days would bring, but at least for now, there was a plan. There was a chance. And sometimes, that was enough.

Jungkook turned you around gently, his hands resting on your arms as he looked into your eyes. His voice dropped lower, softer, filled with something raw and real.

“I’m so fucking proud of you,” he murmured, leaning in as if to kiss you. But at the last second, he seemed to remember Sukchul was still nearby, so instead, he awkwardly patted your head, making you roll your eyes with a small laugh.

As he turned to leave, you instinctively grabbed onto the fabric of his shirt, your fingers curling around it as if holding onto him could stop him from going.

“Wait, Jungkook,” your voice came out shakier than you intended.

He stopped immediately, turning back with concern already etched into his bruised face. You could see it in his eyes—he thought you were going to back out, that you were going to tell him you couldn’t do this after all. That you didn’t have to.

But that wasn’t it.

“Where are you going?” you asked instead, your gaze traveling over his face, trying to memorize every detail like he might disappear the second he stepped out that door. The thought unsettled you, that terrible, lingering fear that one day, he might not come back.

“Finding work, sugar,” he said with an exaggerated grin, despite how swollen his lip was and how his eye was nearly shut. The sight was so ridiculous you couldn’t help but smile.

“Be careful,” you warned, your grip tightening for a second. “Don’t do anything too dumb.”

He chuckled, but before he could respond, you glanced over your shoulder, checking to make sure Sukchul was no longer behind the counter. And when you saw that he wasn’t, you quickly leaned in, pressing a kiss to Jungkook’s lips before he could react.

It was soft, fleeting, but enough.

You couldn’t help the wide smile stretching across your lips as you walked back to the motel, crisp bills clutched tightly in your hands. You kept counting them over and over again, as if the numbers might change, as if seeing them again would make it all feel more real.

There was something deeply satisfying about it—money earned by your own hard work, not given, not borrowed, but yours.

80,000 won. You were certain of it. But still, you counted again, just to be sure.

If things continued at this pace, you could gather two-thirds of Jungkook’s debt on your own. And if you added whatever money he managed to make, you might even have more than enough—for him, for you, for whatever came after this.

You pulled the lollipop Sukchul had given you from your lips, the sweet taste lingering as you smiled up at the neon lights flickering above the streets. The same ones that once felt suffocating, their artificial glow a reminder of everything you hated about this place.

But now?

Now, they didn’t seem so bad. Now, they marked the streets you walked with purpose, the world you were learning to navigate on your own terms.

This place would be your home for the next week.

Maybe even longer.

You push the door fully open, stepping inside with a proud grin, still shaking the bills in your hand. The door hadn’t been locked, which meant Jungkook was home. Your eyes flicker to the worn-out boots by the entryway, a sight that immediately reassures you.

“Kook!” you sing-song, excitement bubbling in your chest. “Look!”

But he doesn’t turn right away. His back is to you, shoulders tense, his movements rushed as he fumbles with his backpack. Something about the way he moves—quick, deliberate, almost frantic—makes your smile falter.

You slow your steps, watching him more closely now.

“Jungkook,” you say again, this time more firmly.

At last, he turns. His breath is uneven, and as he moves, you catch the subtle motion of him tucking something behind his belt before hurriedly pulling his shirt down over it.

“Hey,” he exhales, as if trying to sound normal, but you don’t miss the way his voice strains, like he’s just been caught doing something he shouldn’t. “How was it?”

Your fingers tighten around the money in your hand.

Something is wrong.

You shake your head, pushing away the uneasy feeling creeping up your spine. You don’t want to let whatever he’s hiding ruin the happiness still buzzing in your chest. Instead, you toss the bills into his hands, watching as his eyes widen slightly before a slow, proud smile spreads across his bruised lips.

Without hesitation, he steps closer, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. The warmth of it lingers, making it harder to question him.

You throw yourself onto the bed, stretching out with a deep sigh. Your feet ache from standing all day, and before you can even complain, Jungkook is already sitting at the edge of the bed, taking your foot into his hands and massaging it gently.

For a moment, you let yourself enjoy it. The quiet care in his touch. The way his thumb presses into the sore spots with just enough pressure to ease the pain.

“What did you do?”

His fingers pause for half a second before continuing, and you catch the way his tongue rolls over his lip ring—a habit of his when he’s thinking too hard.

“I found something that’s gonna pay so well,” he says, exaggerating his tone like he’s telling you the best news in the world. His voice is dramatic, playful even. “After this, when my life isn’t hanging by a thread, we could even go to Jeju.”

Before you can respond, he suddenly throws himself onto you, wrapping his arms around you tightly. He presses a quick kiss to your lips before rolling onto his back, his eyes drifting to the ceiling as if lost in thought. Then, almost hesitantly, he speaks.

“Wait… are you even planning on staying with me after… that?”

You blink at him, taken aback by the question. As if he really thought you’d just walk away.

Without a second thought, you turn onto your side, cupping his face between your hands, your fingers spread wide across his cheeks. His skin is warm beneath your touch, his jaw slightly tense.

“Of course, idiot,” you scoff, rolling your eyes. “You really think you’re getting rid of me that easily?”

At your words, a slow smile stretches across his lips—one of those rare, genuine ones that make his eyes crinkle at the corners. He shakes his head slightly, almost in disbelief, before pulling you down into another kiss, this one deeper than the last.

It starts soft—gentle presses of his lips against yours—but then he tilts his head, his grip tightening ever so slightly on your waist, and the kiss turns heated. Your hands slip down from his face, tracing over his jaw, his throat. You feel the way his pulse stutters under your touch.

Jungkook groans softly when your lips trail down to his neck, pressing warm, open-mouthed kisses against the skin there. His fingers twitch against your hip, gripping a little harder like he’s trying to ground himself.

“Shit,” he breathes out, voice raspier now, “you’re gonna be the death of me.”

A soft laugh escapes your lips as your fingers trace the lines of his torso. You settle onto his thigh, your grip tightening on the hem of his shirt, ready to pull it over his head. But just as you start to lift the fabric, Jungkook’s hand wraps gently but firmly around your wrist, stopping you in your tracks.

“Wait,” he breathes out, clearing his throat before pushing himself up into a sitting position.

You frown, searching his face for an explanation. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. His jaw clenches, his tongue running over his lip piercing—a nervous habit you’ve come to recognize. And then, without meeting your eyes, he shakes your hands off his shoulders and looks away.

Something twists in your chest at that.

“Jungkook,” you say more softly now, your voice dipping in concern. “Talk to me.”

He exhales sharply through his nose. “I just—” He stops himself, clicking his tongue in frustration before forcing out a dry laugh.

You sat back on your heels, watching him pace the small room like a caged animal, his hands running through his hair, his jaw clenched.

“You’re acting like a freak right now,” you huff, frustration bubbling in your chest. “Just tell me what’s going on.”

Jungkook stops abruptly and turns to you, his eyes filled with something unreadable—fear? Guilt? Desperation? He crosses the space between you in two strides, his hands landing on your shoulders, his grip not tight but firm enough to ground you.

“You have to trust me,” he murmurs, his voice softer now, pleading. “Please.”

His gaze searches yours, wide and vulnerable, and your heart clenches at the way he’s looking at you—like he’s afraid you��ll disappear if you don’t say the right thing.

You inhale sharply, exhaling through your nose as you hold his stare. Every instinct in you screams to push for answers, to demand the truth. But instead, you sigh, nodding slowly.

“Okay,” you breathe out, the word heavy on your tongue.

But deep down, something in your chest tightens—a lingering feeling that whispers you shouldn’t let this go.

The bell above the door chimed and without hesitation, you made your way to the storage room to greet the old man. It was only your third day working at the shop, but seeing Sukchul had already become a source of comfort—something familiar in the midst of all the uncertainty. You were grateful it was him and not someone else.

The morning had started like the others: waking up alone in the motel room, Jungkook already gone. You didn’t ask questions anymore, at least not out loud. He was doing whatever job he had found, the one he still refused to give you any real details about. But you trusted him—you had to.

“Hey, darling,” Sukchul greeted, his voice warm as he stepped inside, carrying a large box in his hands.

You quickly moved to take it from him, placing it on the counter with ease. “What’s this?” you asked, already prying open the lid.

The moment your eyes landed on the contents, a breath of excitement escaped you. “Damn,” you whispered in awe, carefully lifting one of the vinyl records from the stack. The sleeves were slightly worn but well-preserved, the kind of treasures collectors would fight over.

“You like them?” Sukchul chuckled, watching your expression with amusement.

“Like them?” You shook your head, flipping through the records with admiration. “It’s my dream to have a collection like this.”

The old man hummed in response, moving to help you unload the box onto the shelves.

“And a shop like yours, too,” you added, glancing around the store with fondness. It wasn’t big or flashy, but it had character. It felt like a place where people came to escape, to find something special among the shelves.

Sukchul shot you a knowing look. “Good thing you’re close with Kook, then.”

You raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to elaborate as he wiped down a shelf before carefully placing a record in its new spot.

“He’s the closest thing to family I’ve got,” he admitted after a moment. “I don’t have kids of my own, so I always figured I’d leave this place to him someday.”

You stilled at his words, warmth blooming in your chest. The thought of Jungkook inheriting this place—of having something stable, something that truly belonged to him—made you smile. He’d never had that before.

“He’d be so happy,” you murmured, meaning it.

Sukchul turned to you then, his sharp eyes softening as he observed you. “You kids seem to get along well,” he remarked, a teasing glint in his gaze.

Your cheeks flushed instantly, and you tried to busy yourself with the records, but the old man’s knowing grin only grew wider.

“Jungkook, he’s a good boy,” Sukchul’s voice cuts through the silence, making you freeze in place. There’s something in the way he says it, a tenderness in his voice that you hadn’t expected. As he speaks, you can feel yourself hanging on to every word, though you try not to. There’s something invasive about hearing these details, but it’s too late—you’re already drawn in, craving every piece of the puzzle that is Jungkook’s life.

“Life hasn’t been easy on him,” Sukchul continues, his gaze distant as he sets down a record. “His mother was a sweetheart,” he smiles softly, his eyes softening as he remembers her. “But his father… he was a terrible man.” The words hang heavy in the air, a mixture of sorrow and regret, as Sukchul pauses to remember her and the man she had married.

You glance down, your stomach twisting. For a moment, you can’t help but picture your own father in place of Jungkook’s—so much darker, colder. You know deep down that Jungkook’s father was far worse than yours. At least your father never killed your mother. But sometimes, the lines blur, and you wonder if the cruelty, the hatred, is so far removed from the day-to-day suffering that it almost feels too normal.

You try to shake the image of your own home from your mind, but it’s hard. You know all too well how many men beat their wives, how many women live in fear, trapped. The thought of it makes you feel nauseous. You hate the idea that one day, it might be your own mother in the same situation as Jungkook's one. That fear, that uncertainty—it clings to you, even as you try to push it away.

Sukchul’s voice pulls you back to the conversation, his tone quieter now. “With Jungkook, too,” he adds, his face darkening as he finally addresses the truth you hadn’t dared to ask about.

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat. “What do you mean?” You can feel your heart beat harder in your chest. Your mind flashes back to what Jungkook had told you—his father didn’t care about him. He wasn’t even worth the effort because he was a man, too strong to be controlled.

Sukchul turns to you, his expression somber, yet kind. He seems to hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether or not to share more. Finally, he speaks again. “His father never wanted him to be anything but a shadow,” he says quietly. “He never treated him like a son. He only saw him as something to control, to break. It was all about power for him. Jungkook couldn’t win against that kind of man.”

Your throat tightens at his words. Jungkook’s entire life, it seems, has been spent fighting for his humanity, trying to scrape together any sense of self-worth against a backdrop of rejection and violence. It makes you ache for him in a way you can’t even describe. And it makes you want to wrap your arms around him, to tell him that he’s safe now, that he doesn’t have to fight alone anymore.

You swallow hard and, without realizing it, you find yourself asking the question you’d been dreading to ask. “How was his father with him, exactly?” The words come out almost in a whisper, as though you’re afraid the answer might shatter you.

Sukchul’s eyes soften when he meets your gaze, but his voice remains steady. “His father… he didn’t care for him at all. Jungkook was never good enough, not strong enough, not obedient enough. His father’s love came with a price, and Jungkook couldn’t—and wouldn’t—pay it. That made him weak in his father’s eyes.”

The revelation hangs in the air between you both, the silence thick with the unspoken reality of what Jungkook has lived through. And for a long moment, you don’t know what to say. There’s nothing you can say that will make it better. The truth is painful—too painful for you to bear.

Sukchul seems to notice your hesitation, the discomfort settling on your face, and he gives you a small, sad smile. “I don’t mean to burden you with all of this, but Jungkook deserves to know that not everyone is like his father. He deserves to know that there’s kindness left in the world.”

You can feel the weight of his words sinking into you. You nod, but inside, your heart is heavy, weighed down with the knowledge that Jungkook, despite all of his strength, has carried so much more than anyone should have to. And yet, he’s still standing. Still fighting.

“I’ll make sure he knows,” you finally say, your voice steady, though your heart feels like it’s shattering all over again. You have to be strong for him, just like he’s been strong for everyone else.

Sukchul looks at you, nodding in approval. “I know you will.”

After a few moments of heavy silence, you finally find the courage to ask the question that’s been gnawing at you. “Do you know where his father is now?” you ask, your voice tight, betraying the anxiety building in your chest. The thought of Jungkook ever facing that man again—of him being forced to confront the one person who had caused him so much pain—was unbearable. You could never imagine allowing that to happen. Jungkook deserved so much more than to face the one who had made him feel weak, worthless, and alone.

Sukchul scoffs, a harsh sound that seems to come from deep within his chest. “Far away from here,” he mutters, as if the thought of that man is enough to ignite the anger and frustration that Jungkook has carried with him for so long. The old man rolls his eyes, a bitter expression clouding his face. “After he…” He stops for a moment, closing his eyes as if to shield himself from the painful memory, his hands pausing mid-air. For a brief second, it feels like the room itself holds its breath, waiting for him to continue.

“He just left,” Sukchul finally says, his voice breaking slightly. “Didn’t care that his son would have to grow up alone, without a home. Without anyone to protect him. He just disappeared into the night, like a coward.”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. You already knew the man was terrible, but hearing Sukchul’s account of his abandonment, of the way he let his son suffer without a second thought, makes you feel a surge of anger you didn’t know you had. It’s a cruel thing to do to any child—to just walk away and leave them to face the world with nothing but empty promises and the ghosts of a broken past.

A sense of sadness fills you, the reality of Jungkook’s past hitting you even harder now. How could anyone do that to their child? To leave them like that, abandoned and unwanted? The injustice of it all stirs something deep within you—something protective. You would never allow Jungkook to feel that kind of abandonment again. You would never let that man back into his life.

The evening air was cool against your skin, but the warmth in your chest kept you steady as you walked, your thoughts consumed with Jungkook. It was like the universe had shifted slightly, and now, no matter what happened, it seemed like every thought, every breath was centered on him. He was everywhere, woven into the very fabric of your days, more than just a presence—he was a part of you, a beautiful part that had attached itself to you in ways you never imagined.

You had never believed in love at first sight, or any of the romantic notions that people dreamed about, but with Jungkook, everything felt different. He had snuck into your life quietly at first, but now, it felt like the most natural thing in the world to want him close. To need him there, to be near him. It was like he had filled spaces inside of you that you didn’t even know were empty. And even though you had been through so much together already, you knew you were only just beginning to learn about each other. Yet, despite that, you already felt something strong, something undeniable, growing between you two.

You paused in front of a beautiful garden, the delicate, fragrant flowers stretched out before you, their colors vibrant against the evening sky. The scene was peaceful, untouched, as if this little part of the world belonged to no one but the flowers and the stars above. It was the perfect place to find something for Jungkook—something meaningful, something that would show him what you felt inside. You may not have money anymore, but you knew the one thing you could give him that would speak volumes: a gesture, a symbol of your love.

With slow, deliberate steps, you moved forward, heart pounding a little faster with every inch closer you got to the garden. The flowers, in all their glory, seemed to call to you, and you could feel the same quiet, certain energy of the night wrapping itself around you. You weren’t sure what kind of flowers you were looking for, but something about the idea of picking one felt right. It felt simple. Pure. Just like the first night you shared together under the mountains, with only the moon above to witness your connection. That was when everything started to change. That was when you first felt the deep, unspoken bond begin to form between you.

You glanced around, making sure no one was watching, hoping your luck would hold out. The thought of being caught didn’t scare you, but the idea of ruining something so small and meaningful just because you took it for granted made you cautious. The garden, despite its beauty, was not yours, and you knew it was wrong to take something from it without permission. Still, the feeling in your chest pushed you forward.

Reaching down, you carefully plucked a soft purple flower from the ground, its petals delicate between your fingers. It felt like a promise, like a piece of your heart in bloom, a small offering to someone who had unknowingly grown so deep within you. It wasn’t about the flower itself, but the gesture. The thought behind it.

You couldn’t wait to see his face again, to hand him this small, beautiful token of your feelings. You just knew he’d appreciate it. You hoped it would be a moment you’d both remember.

And as you made your way back to the motel, flower in hand, you couldn’t help but feel that familiar flutter in your stomach. A feeling that you knew by now was love, the kind that was growing, blooming, and maybe, just maybe, it would last.

As you stepped in front of the motel, the last thing you expected was for someone to collide into you, knocking you off balance. The impact was sudden, forcing the small flower from your grasp, sending it fluttering to the ground. Before you could even reach for it, a heavy boot came down, crushing it beneath careless steps.

You froze, your lips parting in silent disbelief as you watched the petals crumple under the weight of the stranger’s stride. He didn’t stop, didn’t even spare you a glance. Just kept walking, his broad shoulders cutting through the dimly lit hallway, his presence an unmovable force that paid no mind to anything in its way.

Your first instinct was to snap at him, to demand he at least acknowledge what he had done. But you knew better. Men like him—cold, indifferent, towering with an air of entitlement—never bothered with consequences. They moved through life unchallenged, their carelessness something the world had long since learned to excuse.

So, you bit your tongue, swallowing down the sharp words burning in your throat. It wasn’t worth it. Not here, not now. You had never been the type to cower in front of Jungkook, had no trouble standing your ground with him, but with a man like this? A stranger whose power came not from love but from the silent threat of what he could do? No. You weren’t stupid.

You simply clenched your fists at your sides and watched as he disappeared out the door. Moments later, the roar of an engine filled the air, his car speeding off into the night. The tires kicked up loose gravel, a few stray stones skidding toward you, as if mocking the way you had been so effortlessly dismissed.

Only when the dust had settled did you finally allow yourself to exhale. Slowly, you crouched down, reaching for what was left of the flower. It was ruined now—the delicate petals torn, the stem bent and broken beyond saving. The small, simple gift you had wanted to give Jungkook had been destroyed in a matter of seconds, crushed underfoot like it had never mattered at all.

“Motherfucker,” you muttered under your breath, the words tasting bitter as they left your lips.

You stared at the flower for a long moment before finally letting it go, watching as the wind carried the damaged petals away. There was no salvaging it, no way to undo what had been done. But maybe, just maybe, it didn’t matter. Maybe Jungkook didn’t need a flower to understand what you felt for him.

With that thought, you straightened your back, brushing the dust from your clothes before stepping forward. Whatever tonight had in store for you, one thing remained certain—you couldn’t wait to see him again.

The door to your room was slightly ajar, a thin sliver of darkness spilling into the dimly lit hallway. Your steps faltered as a cold dread crept up your spine. Something felt wrong.

Your breath hitched when your gaze dropped to the doorknob—small droplets of blood smeared across the metal surface, stark and unforgiving against the cheap, peeling paint.

For a moment, you couldn’t move.

Your stomach twisted painfully, nausea creeping up your throat as your mind raced through the worst possibilities. Every nerve in your body screamed at you to turn around, to run, but your feet betrayed you, moving forward before you could think twice.

With trembling fingers, you pushed the door open, careful not to touch the bloodstained knob.

“Jung—” His name barely made it past your lips, coming out in a shaky whisper before you heard it—low, pained groans and quiet curses slipping through the partially closed bathroom door.

Panic surged through you, your heartbeat deafening in your ears as you rushed forward.

Your breath caught in your throat the moment you saw him. Jungkook was sitting on the floor, leaning back against the shower with his legs stretched out in front of him. His bare chest rose and fell heavily, glistening with sweat. His hands—his hands were covered in blood.

Your eyes traveled lower, stomach churning at the deep gash across his right side. A needle and thread were clutched between his fingers, the makeshift stitches half-done, his skin raw and angry where the wound split open.

He lifted his head at your sudden presence, his dark eyes hazy but sharp, assessing your expression.

“Shit,” he muttered, pausing in his work as he took in your pale face.

You dropped to your knees beside him, your backpack slipping from your shoulder, forgotten in the urgency of the moment. Your hands hovered uselessly over his wound, shaking too much to even reach for him.

“What the hell happened?” Your voice wavered, but you barely noticed.

Jungkook let out a breathy chuckle, though it was strained, his lips twisting in something that wasn’t quite amusement. “It’s nothing, sugar. Just a scratch.”

Your stomach flipped. A scratch? His skin was split open, bleeding freely, and he called it a scratch?

Your fingers twitched, aching to press against the wound, to help in any way you could—but the sight of so much blood made your head spin. The coppery scent was overwhelming, and suddenly your stomach lurched, bile rising in your throat.

Jungkook must’ve noticed, because his bloodied hand reached for yours, gripping it weakly. “Don’t pass out on me,” he murmured, a teasing edge to his voice despite the obvious pain he was in.

You swallowed hard, forcing yourself to stay grounded. You had to push past the nausea. You had to help him.

Taking a deep, shaky breath, you met his gaze. “Let me do it.”

You had a million questions running through your mind—where had he been? What had happened? Who had done this to him? But none of them mattered right now. Right now, all you cared about was stopping the bleeding.

With shaky fingers, you grabbed the needle, barely holding it at the tips to the blood. Jungkook’s breath was ragged, but he still managed to guide you through it, his voice tight with pain.

The first attempt was disastrous.

As soon as the needle pierced his torn skin, Jungkook let out a strangled groan, his hand instinctively gripping your wrist in a bruising hold. His body tensed, muscles flexing under the strain, and he hissed out a string of curses that made your heart clench with guilt.

“Shit, fuck—!” His jaw clenched, breath coming out in sharp gasps.

“I’m sorry, Kook, I’m so sorry—” Your voice cracked as you tried again, forcing yourself to stay steady despite the way your hands trembled. The sight of his blood, the sound of his pain—it made you want to break down.

But you couldn’t.

So you sucked in a deep breath, gritted your teeth, and pushed through the nausea pooling in your stomach.

You had to do this.

Swallowing back your nerves, you guided the needle through his skin, this time steadier, smoother. Jungkook sucked in a sharp breath but didn’t protest.

“You’re doing good, sugar,” he murmured, voice hoarse but laced with reassurance. “Just keep going.”

And you did.

As soon as you finished stitching his wound, you dropped the needle onto the floor like it had burned you, your fingers shaking from the tension. Without a second thought, you yanked your t-shirt over your head, using the fabric to wipe away the blood smeared across his stomach. You hated the sight of it—the deep red against his skin, the way it felt warm and sticky under your touch. It made your stomach twist painfully.

Jungkook exhaled a ragged breath, his head falling back against the cold tiles of the shower wall. His whole body trembled, his muscles rigid as he fought against the pain.

“Jungkook,” you called softly, but his eyes remained shut. Panic flared in your chest. You gave his cheek a couple of light slaps, trying to keep him alert. “Hey, don’t pass out on me—stay with me.”

A small, lopsided smile tugged at the corner of his lips before he forced his eyes open, lids heavy with exhaustion. His hand found your bare waist, his grip weak but reassuring.

“I’m good, baby,” he murmured, though the way his body swayed against yours said otherwise. “Just… gimme a second.”

“Can you stand up?” you asked, your voice softer now.

He nodded sluggishly, and without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his waist, bracing yourself as he leaned against you. His weight was almost too much, but you gritted your teeth and held firm.

“Alright, come on,” you encouraged, guiding him out of the bathroom step by step.

You barely made it to the bed before Jungkook collapsed onto the mattress with a heavy sigh, his body sinking into the worn-out sheets. You stayed by his side, still holding onto him, as if letting go meant he’d disappear.

You guided his head onto your chest, and he settled against you without hesitation, as if this was where he belonged. His left arm wrapped loosely around your waist, his breath warm against your skin. The weight of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, was the only thing keeping you grounded. His soft fingertips brushed against yours, a quiet reminder that he was here—that he was still breathing, still alive.

But the thought of what could have happened if you had arrived just two minutes later made your stomach clench painfully.

You closed your eyes, your fingers gently combing through his silk hair as your mind wandered. If you were to lose him, if he were to slip through your fingers like smoke, you knew you wouldn’t survive it. The thought alone was unbearable.

Then, your mind drifted back to Friday.

Your gaze flickered down to his face, the bruises darkening his skin, the way his eyelashes rested so delicately against his cheek despite the pain he had endured. He looked so soft like this, so human. How could anyone want to hurt him? How could someone look at Jungkook—someone whose heart was so big, whose presence was so warm—and wish to kill him over something as meaningless as money?

His life was worth more than that. More than anything.

Your grip around him tightened instinctively, pulling him impossibly closer. You blinked rapidly, trying to push back the tears threatening to spill, but they burned in the corners of your eyes, stubborn and unrelenting.

If Jungkook reminded you of a flower, it would be a rose.

A beautiful, delicate thing—so vibrant, so captivating—that you would reach out and take it into your hands, breathing in its scent, feeling the softness of its petals. But roses had thorns, and Jungkook was no exception. He had built his own armor, layer after layer, sharp and unforgiving, to protect himself from a world that had tried to crush him too many times. And if you weren’t careful, if you held on too tightly, those thorns would cut you open.

And yet, knowing all of this, you still couldn’t let him go.

Your night had been restless, haunted by the lingering fear that clung to you like a second skin. Every time you drifted off, you would wake up again—eyes immediately searching for him, ears straining to catch the soft rhythm of his breath. You held your own breath each time, waiting, listening, only allowing yourself to exhale when you heard the steady rise and fall of his chest. It felt almost maternal, like checking on a newborn, making sure he was still there, still alive.

But now, sleep was out of reach.

The thought that someone could come and hurt him again—or worse, hurt you both—left your stomach twisted in knots. You stared at the ceiling, willing yourself to push the thoughts away, but they only pressed harder against your mind.

Beside you, Jungkook shifted, a low sigh slipping past his lips as he blinked an eye open. His voice was rough with sleep when he spoke. “Can’t sleep?”

You hummed in response, turning your head to look at him. He pushed himself up, sitting against the headboard as he turned on the small bedside lamp. The dim glow softened his bruised features, but it didn’t ease the tightness in your chest.

“Why?” he asked, as if nothing had happened.

A scoff left your lips. Sometimes, you hated how he tried to brush things off, how he pretended to be unfazed, like his own life didn’t carry the same weight as everyone else’s. And more than that, you hated the world for making him believe it.

“Because I came home and you were covered in blood, Jungkook,” you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended.

He only shrugged, leaning onto his side with a small wince, propping his head up with his hand. “I’ve had worse, you know?”

Your jaw clenched. “I don’t care. You still got hurt, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

For a second, he just looked at you, then a lazy grin spread across his face—one of those stupid, playful grins that usually made you want to kiss him. But right now, it only made you more frustrated.

“You’re cute,” he teased, his fingers tracing absent patterns over your stomach. “You care that much about me?”

You took a slow, shaky breath, staring at where his fingers danced over your skin. When you finally answered, your voice was quieter but firm.

“Yes. I do.”

His lips traced a slow path along your shoulder, leaving warmth in their wake. You shivered under his touch, but before he could go any further—before you lost yourself completely in the haze of him—you spoke.

“Who was it?”

Jungkook sighed and flopped onto his back, fingers absentmindedly drumming against his stomach. “Some asshole I got into trouble with,” he muttered, his voice laced with nonchalance.

Your brows furrowed. “Some asshole?” You turned onto your side to face him, searching his expression for anything that might give you a clearer answer. “How many men have you gotten yourself into trouble with, Jungkook?”

He scoffed, rolling his eyes. “It’s nothing, really. You know how they are—bruise their ego just a little, and suddenly, they act like you’ve declared war on their entire bloodline.”

You frowned, suspicion creeping into your voice. “And what did you do this time? Stole from him, too?”

The words had barely left your mouth before Jungkook shot up, the casual demeanor melting off him in an instant. His dark eyes locked onto yours, filled with something sharp and unforgiving.

“For fuck’s sake,” he snapped. “So it’s always me, huh?”

You opened your mouth, ready to explain that you hadn’t meant it that way, but he didn’t give you the chance.

“It’s them,” he bit out. “They’re the problem. The rich bastards like your daddy.” His voice dripped with mockery, the words landing like a slap.

Your spine stiffened, and anger coiled hot in your chest. “Maybe you should be more careful,” you shot back, sitting up now, your pulse hammering in frustration. “You act like the whole world is against you, but—”

You watched as he threw the sheets off himself, standing up despite the pain that made him clutch his stomach. His eyes burned with something sharp, something reckless.

“I won’t let myself get walked over like you did your whole life.”

His words cut deeper than any wound.

The words echoed in your chest, setting fire to every nerve in your body.

You shot up from the bed, heart hammering against your ribs as anger surged through you. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Jungkook scoffed, shaking his head as if you were too naïve to understand. “It means I won’t sit back and take shit from people just because they have power. I won’t bow my head to some rich asshole who thinks money makes him untouchable. Not like—”

He stopped himself, but you knew what he was about to say. Not like you.

Your blood ran cold. “You think I had a choice?” you spat, voice laced with disbelief.

Your chest rose and fell with heavy breaths. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t. He hadn’t lived in your skin, hadn’t spent years learning how to survive in a world that never let you win.

“You don’t know what it’s like to be powerless,” you shot back, voice shaking.

He let out a bitter laugh. “Are you serious? You think I don’t know what it’s like?” His fingers curled into fists at his sides. “I grew up with nothing. I had no home, no family, no safety. My own father beat me bloody and left me to rot, he killed my mom because he felt like it, and you wanna talk to me about power?”

You swallowed hard, your anger twisting into something else. Something closer to guilt. But the fire inside you refused to die.

“You don’t get it,” you whispered, shaking your head. “Survival isn’t just about fighting, Jungkook. Sometimes, it’s about knowing when not to.”

His eyes softened for a second—just a second—but then his walls shot back up, and he scoffed. “Yeah? And what has that ever gotten you?”

You clenched your fists, blinking back the sting in your eyes. “It got me here. With you.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched. For the first time since the argument started, he looked at you like he wasn’t sure what to say.

For a moment, the room was silent except for your ragged breaths. Then, without another word, he turned his back to you, running a hand through his hair.

“I need some air,” he muttered, grabbing his hoodie from the chair.

Your stomach dropped. “Jungkook—”

But he was already walking to the door. And when it shut behind him, you felt like he took all the air with him.

You pulled the sheets over yourself again, as if they could shield you from the cold that had nothing to do with the breeze slipping through the cracks of the motel window. The air felt heavier now, thick with the weight of words that had cut too deep, leaving wounds neither of you knew how to tend to.

You knew you’d go to him eventually. You always did. No matter how heated the argument, no matter how much his words stung, something in you would always pull you back to him. But right now? Right now, you couldn’t face him.

You understood why he was angry. Jungkook had never been given the privilege of stability, of safety. He’d fought for everything, carved his place in the world with clenched fists and bloodied knuckles. And in his eyes, you—no matter how much you had suffered—would always be someone who had been given a life he never had.

But that didn’t mean his words hadn’t hurt. It didn’t mean he had the right to make your struggles feel small. He knew what it was like to live in a world that saw you as something lesser, something disposable.

You curled into yourself, biting your lip to keep the emotions at bay. The night stretched on, silent and still. Somewhere outside, Jungkook was probably pacing, cursing under his breath, maybe kicking at the gravel in frustration.

And eventually, you would go to him.

Eventually, you would remind him that you weren’t his enemy.

You don’t even make it two minutes before grabbing your sweater and denim, the cool air pressing against your skin as you step outside. Jungkook is sitting on the edge of the small stone wall in front of the motel, his fingers curled around a cigarette, smoke drifting in the night air.

The moment you step closer, his eyes ignores you, and you can see the tension in his face. You can’t help but scoff, “Very mature, Jungkook.”

“Yeah, maybe I should ask for some education from them if I’m so—” he starts, but before he can finish, you jump on the wall beside him, shooting him a pointed glare. He immediately gets the message and shuts up, the smirk that had been tugging at his lips fading.

You rest your head on his shoulder, and for a moment, everything feels like it’s slowing down, the world falling away just to make space for the two of you.

“Im sorry,” you whisper softly, your voice breaking the silence between you. “I shouldn’t have asked you to shut down when I know how much it hurts.”

Jungkook’s body stiffens slightly before he throws the cigarette on the ground. He then shifts, moving his head to rest gently on yours, and for a moment, everything feels right again, as if this is exactly where you both needed to be.

“I’m sorry too,” he murmurs, his voice low and rough. You can hear the sincerity in his words, feel the weight of them pressing against you as much as the silence that had hung between you earlier.

In the stillness of the night, you both let your mistakes hang in the air, unresolved yet somehow understood.

Jungkook turns your head gently, his lips pressing against yours in a soft, fleeting kiss. It isn’t rushed or demanding—just a reassurance, a silent promise that you’ll both be okay.

You’re not used to this kind of gentleness. The idea that problems could be solved without shouting, without fists, without bruises. That love could be given without fear. Your parents had always shown you that things were fixed with a slap, not a kiss. But with Jungkook, it was different. It was easy.

As you both make your way back to the room, his fingers laced through yours, a quiet warmth settles in your chest. But just as you reach the door, your body suddenly tenses.

Your heart stops.

Your grip on Jungkook’s hand tightens as your breath catches in your throat.

Because there, just a few steps away, walking out of the motel in the dead of night—

Is your father.

Jungkook felt it immediately—the way your entire body stiffened, how your fingers gripped his with a force that was almost desperate. Your breath hitched, your eyes wide and unblinking as you stared at the tall figure walking ahead.

Your father moved with his head hung low, his shirt slightly unbuttoned at the top, his steps unhurried but purposeful. It was clear he didn’t want to be seen.

But you saw him.

And suddenly, as much as you had tried to ignore it, as much as you had spent years avoiding the thought—there was no doubt anymore.

He was like them.

Like every man who saw women as disposable.

Like every man who took what he wanted and walked away without looking back.

Your stomach churned, bile rising in your throat. Because you knew. Even without seeing the room he had come from, even without hearing the exchange of money or the whispered goodbyes—you knew.

Your father was no different.

You turned away, unable to bear the sight any longer, your breath coming out in short, uneven gasps. The weight of it—the truth, the disgust, the betrayal—pressed down on your chest, suffocating.

Jungkook pulled you into him, nestling you against the crook of his neck, his arms wrapping around you protectively. The moment the first tear slipped down your cheek and dampened his skin, he felt his own heart shatter.

His jaw clenched as his dark eyes followed the man’s retreating figure, his hands twitching at his sides. If you weren’t here, trembling, vulnerable in his arms, he wouldn’t have thought twice. He would’ve walked straight up to that man and made him feel just an ounce of the pain he had inflicted.

Even though your father was nothing but a stranger to him, Jungkook already knew what kind of man he was. The type who would look down on someone like him. Who would scoff at his anger, his presence, his existence.

But Jungkook didn’t care.

He hated the man.

More than before.

More than he hated most men.

Because he had seen what that man had done to you. And Jungkook could never forgive that.

The day dragged on endlessly, every second stretching into what felt like an eternity. The usual warmth you found in working with Sukchul had faded, replaced by a dull, persistent ache in your chest. It was Wednesday now, and for two days straight, your mind had been consumed by thoughts of your father. But more than him, you thought of your mother.

Did she know?

Did she turn a blind eye, or had she convinced herself of a lie to keep surviving?

The rhythmic ticking of the clock echoed in your ears, a reminder of time slipping away. No matter how much you tried to push it from your mind, Friday loomed closer. And with it, Jungkook’s fate.

You had gathered a decent amount of money. Enough to give him a chance. But what about Jungkook? He was still so vague about his job, refusing to give you details no matter how many times you asked. The only thing he kept repeating was how well it paid.

You trusted him. You really did.

But you also knew that blind trust wasn’t enough—not when his life was at stake.

And you were done staying in the dark.

Whatever he was doing, you had to know. Because if he was putting himself in danger, you weren’t going to stand by and let it happen.

Jungkook had been acting strange.

Leaving before you even had the chance to wake up. Coming home when you were already in bed, staring at the ceiling, trying—and failing—to fall asleep.

Your mind was a battlefield of worst-case scenarios, endless possibilities circling in your head like vultures, each one worse than the last. And the only thing that ever silenced them was his presence beside you.

But lately, even that had become a rarity.

The only time you caught a glimpse of him was when he would slip into the bathroom, careful not to make a sound. He thought you were asleep, but you weren’t. You would watch him through the mirror, noting the fresh bruises blooming on his skin, the tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers trembled slightly as he splashed water onto his face.

And it was killing you.

That was why, the moment you woke up that morning to find his side of the bed cold and empty, you made a decision.

You were going to follow him.

Sukchul hadn’t questioned it when you told him you wouldn’t be coming in today. The moment you mentioned Jungkook, worry flashed in his eyes, but he only nodded.

“Go,” he said simply, as if he understood everything without needing an explanation.

And so you did.

You followed him from a safe distance, careful to keep your steps light and your presence unnoticed.

Jungkook walked with purpose, his backpack slung over one shoulder, his posture tense. Every few steps, he glanced around, his sharp eyes scanning the streets as if he expected someone to be watching.

He was cautious. Too cautious.

It only made your anxiety grow.

What was he so afraid of? Who was he looking out for?

And more importantly—what was he about to do?

You watched as Jungkook disappeared into the alleyway, your heart pounding in your chest. You hesitated, afraid that if you followed too closely, he’d catch you. So you stayed put, counting the minutes.

One… two… three…

When he finally emerged, something was different.

His backpack was gone. And so were his clothes.

The black hoodie he had been wearing was replaced by a fitted long-sleeve t-shirt, and his usual denim had been swapped for a pair of black trousers. Only his boots remained the same.

You swallowed hard as you watched him climb the stairs of a random apartment complex, his movements quick and precise, like he knew exactly where he was going.

Your pulse quickened as you rushed into the alleyway, eyes darting around for any trace of Jungkook. Then, you spotted it—his backpack, carelessly discarded into a rusted bin like it meant nothing. A cold pit formed in your stomach as you hesitated for a second before reaching inside, fingers fumbling through the fabric. His hoodie, his jeans—everything he had been wearing earlier.

Before you could process the unsettling thought, voices echoed from the stairwell above. You barely had time to duck behind the bin, pressing your back against the cold wall as you strained to listen.

“Our typical motherfucker,” an unfamiliar voice sneered, his tone dripping with amusement. Laughter followed, mingling with another—Jungkook’s. The sound sent a shiver down your spine.

You clenched your jaw, forcing yourself to stay still, even as your mind screamed for answers.

“Do what you want with him. She doesn’t give us anything special to follow,” the man continued, his words cryptic, yet ominous.

Your fingers curled into Jungkook’s hoodie, knuckles turning white. She? Who were they talking about? And him—who was the man they were discussing?

Then, Jungkook’s voice cut through the tension. Steady, indifferent. “Consider it already done.”

Your breath hitched. You didn’t recognize him in that moment. There was no warmth, no hesitation—only cold certainty. It terrified you.

You waited, pressing yourself against the cold metal bin, your heart pounding in your chest. The voices above grew quieter, and you risked a glance toward the staircase just in time to see the unfamiliar man disappear into the apartment complex.

He was young—not much older than Jungkook—but old enough to have seen things, to have done things. He carried himself with a kind of confidence that came with experience, but not the kind built from a stable life. No wedding ring, no signs of a man with a family waiting for him at home. Just another lost soul in this world, much like Jungkook.

The silence stretched on, two minutes of nothing but the distant hum of the city.

It was now or never.

Taking a deep breath, you carefully stepped out of your hiding spot, your body tense as if expecting someone to jump out at you. Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up, your only goal now to find him. You had to.

It wasn’t hard to spot him amidst the busy crowd. His dark hair stood out, and his black outfit seemed out of place among the well-dressed people around him. He looked like he was trying to blend in, but his attire only made him stick out even more. He wasn’t trying to hide. His gaze flicked down to a paper in his hand, eyes scanning it before he kept walking, heading toward a neighborhood that reminded you of your old one. A place that felt familiar but distant now.

He came to a stop in front of a house. It was tucked away, hidden by overgrown bushes, and he crouched down, his movements quick and purposeful. You stood there, your breath catching in your throat as you watched him unzip his backpack and pull out something that made your heart skip a beat.

He took out a shoulder holster with a practiced ease, strapping it onto his chest. The gun, heavy and cold, gleamed in his hand for a brief moment before he slid it into place. He didn’t flinch, didn’t hesitate. The action was so casual, like it was second nature to him now.

Jungkook, who had always seemed so full of contradictions—so gentle and yet capable of such violence. It was like watching someone you loved slowly lose themselves, piece by piece, to a world you didn’t understand.

You felt the urge to approach him, to call out and tell him to stop, to beg him to leave whatever this was behind, but you couldn’t. Not now. Not when you saw the man he was becoming in front of you.

Instead, you stood frozen, watching from behind the corner of a building, your heart heavy with fear and a sense of loss you couldn’t shake off. You wanted to save him, but you didn’t know how.

Jungkook never had a say in his own life. His father never let him forget how weak he was, how useless he seemed to be, and how he wasn’t manly enough. The words were like daggers, sharper because they came from the one person he should have been able to look up to, to feel safe with. He was only eleven when his father’s cruel words first cut deep.

But it wasn’t just his father who shaped his world. His mother, gentle and loving, always knew when he needed her most. She would be there, a soft light in the darkness of his father’s criticisms. Whenever he cried, feeling small and lost, she would hold him close, reassuring him that it was okay to be sensitive, to feel deeply. “Don’t tell your dad,” she would whisper, “and let’s go get ice cream.” And so, with a small hand clasped in hers, they would slip away from the house, the weight of his father’s harshness momentarily forgotten.

They shared secrets, laughter, and tears over ice cream, the simple joys of childhood that Jungkook would cling to, knowing they were the only moments where he didn’t have to be someone else. His mother taught him that he was allowed to feel, that his gentleness wasn’t something to hide or be ashamed of. It was something his father despised, but to Jungkook, it was the one thing that made him feel human, feel real, even in the face of all the hate he received from the person who should have been his protector.

Jungkook’s hatred toward men began when he was just seven years old, the first time his father’s fist landed on him. It wasn’t just a bruise on his skin; it was a scar that dug deeper into his heart. From that moment on, he began to associate every man, every male figure, with the same cruelty. His teachers, classmates, even strangers on the street—whenever they got too close, his body would tense, and he would start crying, clutching his thumb tightly against his mouth as if that small act could offer him any comfort, any sense of safety in a world full of men he no longer trusted.

His mother, always the protector, would rush to the school whenever his cries grew uncontrollable. He had become a disruption in the classroom, but it wasn’t his fault—how could it be? His emotions had a way of spilling out when the fear took over, when the memories of his father’s abuse resurfaced. She’d gather him in her arms, her touch gentle as she ran a hand through his hair, soothing him in the only way she knew how. Then, without any explanation to the teachers, she’d take him home. She couldn’t bear to tell them the truth. She couldn’t risk them taking him away, the only thing that kept her from falling apart. Jungkook, despite everything, was her only hope, her only reason to keep going.

She knew the truth, deep down. She was acting out of fear, selfishly keeping her son close because he was the one thing in that house that made her feel like she wasn’t completely alone. She could never admit it, though. She never let anyone see how desperate she was to protect him, even if it meant staying in a home that was more prison than sanctuary. Every time she took him away from school, every time she shielded him from the world outside, it was because she didn’t want to risk losing him—her child, her hope, her salvation.

She had finally reached her breaking point. After years of enduring the torment, the silence, and the fear, she couldn’t take it anymore. That night, Jungkook’s sobs pierced through the thin walls of their small, crumbling home. His fragile heart, always so sensitive, had been crushed once again by a classmate’s cruel words. He had always been so easy to hurt, so vulnerable to the world around him. And now, in the midst of the quiet night, his cries filled the house, echoing in his mother’s ears as she sat in the dim light of the living room.

His father, meanwhile, was oblivious to the pain his son was enduring. He sat slumped on the couch, a can of beer in his hand, the bottle nearly empty as he let the alcohol do the talking. He could hear his son’s wails, but they did nothing to stir his conscience. His response was anger.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his words slurring as he tossed his beer glass against the wall. The loud crash made Jungkook’s mother flinch, her body instinctively tensing at the sound. Her eyes were wide with panic, but she couldn’t seem to find the strength to move. She was so used to the violence, the rage, but every time it happened, it shattered her all over again. She bit her nails, trying to distract herself from the helplessness creeping in.

Jungkook’s cries only seemed to fuel his father’s anger. He shot up from the couch, his body stiff with rage, and as he stumbled toward the door to their son’s room, he spat, “I swear I’ll kill him.”

The words hit her like a slap. In his drunken haze, he was threatening their son—her precious boy. The thought of him going into that room, storming in with the same fury he always carried, was too much to bear.

In a surge of desperation, she stood up, her legs shaky, and rushed to intercept him. With hands trembling but determined, she grabbed him by the shoulders, trying to hold him back. “No,” she whispered, her voice barely above a breath, “It’s my fault he’s like this…”

Her eyes welled up with tears, her chest tight with helplessness. She couldn’t let him hurt their son again. Her heart was breaking for both of them. She had always been the one to protect him, but this time, the realization hit hard. She had kept him safe, but she had done it by shielding him too much, by not stepping in sooner, by not protecting him from the monster in their home. And now, it was coming to a head.

“I protected him too much,” she whispered through a choked breath, her words falling heavy between them. “Kill me!” she suddenly shouted, her voice raw with anguish. “If someone has to die, it’s me!”

Her heart ached with the weight of her plea. She would take it all if it meant saving him, if it meant saving her son. The anger, the frustration, the helplessness—all of it could be on her. If it meant keeping Jungkook safe, she’d sacrifice herself. But instead, her husband just stared at her coldly, the alcohol still clouding his judgment.

Without another word, he left the living room, leaving her standing there, her legs weak beneath her. Her body trembled as she heard the door close behind him, but she knew this moment of peace would not last. It never did. It was only a matter of time before he would come back for their son again.

With the echo of his footsteps fading away, she let out a long, shaky breath, feeling the tension in her shoulders begin to release. But it wasn’t over. It would never be over until they were away from this place. She rushed to Jungkook’s room, where the muffled sounds of his cries filled her ears, and found him sitting on the bed, his small frame trembling. His eyes were wide, filled with confusion and fear, his cheeks flushed from crying.

“Mom?” he whispered, his voice fragile, like he wasn’t sure whether to expect comfort or more pain. His once bright eyes were now bloodshot and swollen from crying.

“Baby,” she croaked, crouching down beside him, her hands shaking as she gently touched his face. Her heart broke all over again at the sight of him, at how small he seemed, at how much pain he carried for someone so young.

Without another word, she reached for his little backpack and began packing it with the things that would bring him comfort. His favorite bunny plushie, the one his father always mocked him for carrying, the one he held onto for dear life every night when his father’s rage threatened to engulf him. She stuffed it into the bag along with a few other familiar things—his drawing book, a set of colored pencils, a worn-out blanket.

“Do you want to go eat ice cream?” she asked, forcing a smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. She needed to give him something, anything to cling to.

Jungkook, still sniffling, nodded, his eyes wide and uncertain, but he took her hand and followed her out the door. His trust in her, in the only person who had ever truly protected him, was unshaken. And as they walked down the hallway, heading for the door that would lead them to a temporary escape, she promised herself that she would do whatever it took to keep him safe. Even if it meant leaving everything behind.

She would protect him—no matter the cost.

Together, they made their way to the Han’s house. The Han family had always been kind to them. Sukchul, the grandfather, was the only man Jungkook seemed to have any trust in, and Hyerim, his wife, had always treated them with such warmth. In a world where men had mostly let them down, the Hans were a beacon of normalcy, a reminder that not all men were like the one she was trying to escape.

When they arrived at their modest home, she didn’t need to say much. As soon as she knocked, Hyerim opened the door, her face immediately reflecting concern as she saw the state of her and Jungkook.

Without hesitation, she explained what was happening, and although Hyerim didn’t ask for details, her eyes spoke volumes. She could see the fear, the desperation in her friend’s face, and without another word, Hyerim handed her the keys to the car. She knew the urgency in her voice, the panic that was barely held together by the need to protect her son.

“Take care of him,” Hyerim said softly, her voice laced with understanding. “You know you can always come here.”

“Thank you,” she whispered, her throat tight with gratitude.

Jungkook didn’t speak a word as they got into the car. He climbed into the passenger seat silently, his eyes blank, too exhausted and hurt to ask what was going on. She could feel the weight of his silence, how heavy the air between them had become in such a short time. She could only imagine what he was thinking, how much he was trying to hold it together. He was only a child, and yet, he had carried more weight than any child should ever have to bear.

As she started the engine and pulled out of the driveway, her foot pressed hard on the gas. The car shot forward, the tires screeching slightly as she sped through the familiar streets. Her heart was racing, the thudding in her chest a constant reminder of what was at stake.

Her eyes flicked over to Jungkook every few moments, trying to read him, trying to figure out what was going on behind the blank stare. But he wouldn’t look at her. He kept his gaze straight ahead, his hands clenched in his lap, his fingers twitching from the anxiety. She wished she could tell him everything would be okay, but she didn’t know if she could promise that. She didn’t know if anything would be okay until they were far away from here, until they were safe.

Jungkook never imagined his twelfth birthday would be spent in such a grim, cramped motel room—dust settling on the worn furniture and the stale smell of the air making his stomach churn. It wasn’t the day he had dreamed of, and it certainly wasn’t what he deserved. But in that moment, as he sat there on the edge of the bed, his heart softened just a little when his mother stepped into the room, holding a small cupcake, the candle flickering brightly on top of it.

“Happy birthday to you, my Kookie,” she said, her voice a little shaky but filled with love. The bright smile she gave him was the only thing that kept the room from feeling completely bleak, though the exhaustion in her eyes couldn’t be hidden. She tried not to let her mind wander to the price she had to pay to be here with him, the sacrifice it took to rent that bed for the night, to get that cupcake and candle. Every penny counted, and every smile from Jungkook was a reminder of the reason she kept going, even when the weight of the world was crushing her.

She had hoped, for his birthday, they could at least sleep somewhere safe, somewhere clean—something that felt like normal for once. The car had been their home for the last week, and Jungkook’s complaints had become a constant soundtrack in the background of her thoughts. He hated it. She hated it too, but there was little she could do.

She couldn’t work a traditional job, not with the way things were. So, she did what she had to. She gave what she could. Her body, her warmth, her time—anything to scrape together enough for them to survive. She tried not to think about the toll it took on her, tried not to think about how the men who walked away after they were done with her left her feeling empty inside. But it was worth it. Every single time Jungkook’s smile lit up, every time she saw him happy for a moment—she told herself it was worth it.

And now, watching him blow out the candle, making a wish with a shy grin, she realized something. No matter where they were, as long as they were together, there was still a kind of magic in the moment. For just a second, they were free from the weight of their circumstances.

Jungkook’s eyes met hers, and in that brief exchange, she saw the love and trust he had for her, despite everything. It made all the sacrifices worth it.

“Thank you, Mom,” he whispered, his voice soft, but the sincerity in it made her heart ache. She nodded, swallowing the lump in her throat.

“You’re welcome, baby,” she replied, her voice trembling, but she pushed through it. She smiled at him, a genuine smile this time, because, in this moment, they were okay. For now.

Jungkook grinned, and for the first time in a while, his eyes sparkled with a light that wasn’t dimmed by fear or doubt. That was all she needed. That smile, that moment, was enough to get her through another day.

“Let’s eat it,” she said, grabbing a fork and cutting into the cupcake, the frosting smearing slightly as she handed him the first piece.

Together, they ate, the simple sweetness of the cupcake offering a rare moment of peace in their chaotic world. Even in the worst circumstances, they still had each other. And sometimes, that was all they needed.

The moment the door crashed open, the world seemed to shift into something dark and unrecognizable. His father’s presence filled the room like a storm, overwhelming everything in its path. Jungkook’s mother froze, her body tense with dread, knowing exactly what was coming.

“You fucking slut,” he spat, his words sharp and venomous, as he threw the small table with the cupcake across the room. The sweet, innocent little moment they’d managed to create was shattered instantly, just like everything else in their lives. “How dare you fucking go away from me?” His voice was dripping with disgust and rage, and it wasn’t just directed at her—it was like he hated everything she was, everything she did, everything she tried to be.

Jungkook, his tiny heart pounding with terror, scrambled to hide behind the headboard of the bed. His hands trembled as he pressed them over his ears, trying desperately to block out the sounds, trying to block out the reality of what was happening in front of him. He held his bunny plushie close to his chest.

The shouts, the punches, the cries of pain—all of it blurred into a sickening hum in Jungkook’s ears. He closed his eyes tightly, curling up into himself, hoping somehow that by shutting everything out, he could make it stop. But it didn’t stop. The sound of his mother crying, the muffled thuds of slaps and punches, each one more violent than the last. His heart ached with each passing moment as he cried silently, feeling utterly helpless, knowing that he couldn’t protect her, couldn’t protect himself.

Time seemed to stretch on forever, and it felt like the darkness had swallowed everything whole, leaving only the pain and terror. But then, after what seemed like an eternity, there was a sudden, chilling silence. The shouting stopped. The sounds of the violence ceased, and all that remained was the thudding of his own heart in his chest, a reminder that he was still there, still alive, still hurting.

And then his father appeared in front of him, his face twisted with disdain, his presence looming like a suffocating shadow. Without a word, he walked up to Jungkook, his hand raising before coming down with a hard slap. The force of it left Jungkook reeling, his cheek stinging as he stumbled back. His father didn’t even look at him after that. He just stood there, cold and distant, as if Jungkook’s existence meant nothing at all.

“You’re nothing but a disturbance,” his father muttered, his voice devoid of emotion, as if the words didn’t even matter anymore. “Do whatever you want. You won’t last long in a world like that anyway.”

And with that, he left. He turned on his heel and walked out of the room, leaving nothing but a trail of destruction in his wake. Jungkook was left there, in the aftermath, his mother’s lifeless body beside him.

Jungkook’s anger grew like a fire that could never be extinguished. From the moment he witnessed the violence his father inflicted on his mother, he made a vow in the deepest corners of his heart: to never trust another man, to never allow himself to be vulnerable to the kind of cruelty that men like his father carried.

As he grew older, his anger transformed into something else—something sharper, darker. His pain drove him to make himself into something different, something stronger. He covered his body in tattoos, a visual representation of his defiance and his anger. Piercings adorned his face, as if he could pierce through his pain and somehow make it more bearable. The more he changed on the outside, the more he pushed his rage inward. He looked for fights, not just with men who would give him trouble, but with anyone who dared to challenge his perception of himself.

He sought out men to fight, people who he knew would be easy to rile up. He would provoke them, knowing they would retaliate. But the real satisfaction wasn’t in the violence itself—it was in proving to himself that he could overpower them. Jungkook knew, deep down, that when it came to men, he could never let his guard down. He had to be stronger than them. He had to make sure they knew that no matter how hard they tried to break him, he could stand up for himself.

When he threw punches, he always scoffed at how easy it was. Men like them—pompous, self-assured—were nothing more than a punching bag. They relied on their strength to intimidate, but when faced with someone who didn’t flinch at the thought of pain, someone who had endured far worse, they crumbled. Jungkook relished in that moment of power. It felt like justice—like every man who hurt someone would eventually pay for it, in one way or another.

That was how Jungkook found himself standing in the pristine halls of a vast, cold house, the walls echoing with emptiness. His mind was sharp, his thoughts focused solely on the task at hand. It wasn’t his first mission, and it wouldn’t be his last, but something about this one felt different. The woman’s plea had shaken him, her voice cracking under the weight of years of suffering. He’d heard similar stories before—stories that made his blood boil, that set a fire in his chest.

She had barely told him anything—just enough to point him in the right direction, just enough to know where he needed to go and who he had to face. But it was enough. Jungkook didn’t need much more than a name, a face, and the knowledge of what had been done. He didn’t need to ask questions or hear the full story. He already knew what kind of man he was dealing with.

He reached the room where he knew the man would be. His heart didn’t race; it didn’t need to. He wasn’t afraid of men like this anymore. He had learned to channel his anger into something productive. It was about precision, about being the action behind the words that so often fell on deaf ears.

He opened the door without hesitation.

Inside, the man was lounging on a leather chair, a drink in hand, as if he owned the world. His arrogance was palpable, his face one of entitlement. The moment Jungkook stepped in, his eyes lifted, narrowing in confusion, then in recognition.

“Who the hell are you?” the man sneered, his voice dripping with condescension.

Jungkook didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. The man’s eyes widened as he took in the sight of Jungkook’s calm, unyielding expression. He could tell something was different—this wasn’t just some random intruder. This was someone with a purpose.

Without warning, Jungkook moved. In an instant, he was standing in front of the man, his fist connecting with the side of his face with a force that sent him crashing to the floor. The man gasped for breath, looking up in disbelief.

The man tried to stand, reaching for a weapon, but Jungkook was quicker. He grabbed the man by the throat, lifting him off the ground with ease, his fingers tightening around the fragile neck.

“You’re nothing,” Jungkook whispered, his voice icy cold. “You’re weak. And you’ll never hurt anyone again.”

In his world, women held the power, providing clear instructions on how they wanted things to unfold. Jungkook’s role was simple: to carry out their demands without question. And what they asked for, more often than not, was the death of their husbands.

Without a second thought, he drew the gun from his holster and fired, the bullet finding its mark between the man’s eyes.

Within minutes, other men arrived to handle the aftermath, taking care of the body. That wasn’t his responsibility. He was the one who acted, the one who made sure the job was done. The action-taker.

You ran back to the motel, your heart racing, before you could see him leave the house. You were overwhelmed with confusion. Jungkook, in your eyes, wasn’t capable of violence. Even though you knew he had been in fights before—like that one time in the alley when they took his bike, or when you walked into the motel to find him stitching up his own wounds—he always seemed to be the one getting hurt, not the one causing it.

The thought sent a shiver down your spine. The image you had of him—gentle, kind, a boy who’d never harm anyone—suddenly shattered, leaving you with a cold, unsettling feeling you couldn’t shake.

He came home earlier than usual, his presence filling the room before you even heard his footsteps. The moment his hands slid around your waist, you felt a sudden urge to pull away, but you stayed still, frozen in the warmth of his touch. He was dressed in his usual attire, and that ever-present playful smile tugged at the corners of his lips, as if nothing had changed, as if everything was still light and carefree.

“You had a good day?” His voice was soft, almost soothing, but it didn’t reach you the way it normally did. He plopped down onto the bed casually, kicking off his boots and setting his backpack beside him. His movements were so natural, so familiar, but all you could focus on was the sight of that backpack. The same one that probably carried the remnants of his darker side—the side you hadn’t truly seen, but felt creeping at the edges of your mind.

Your gaze lingered on it, the thought of where he’d been, what he’d been doing, and who he’d become when he wore that outfit—the one that made him capable of violence—made your stomach twist with a sense of dread. It was all too much. The image of the gentle, playful Jungkook you thought you knew was starting to crack, splintering into something darker, something you hadn’t expected.

“Sugar?” His voice cut through your thoughts, a note of concern creeping in as he noticed your unusual silence. He furrowed his brows, a frown beginning to form. “What’s wrong?” The words were simple, but they felt like a lifeline thrown to you in the midst of a storm, and you weren’t sure whether to grab onto it or let it slip through your fingers.

You exhaled sharply, your breath shaky as you sank down onto the bed, burying your face in your hands. The weight of everything pressing on you felt suffocating, like you could hardly breathe.

Jungkook crawled over to you, concern etched deeply on his face. He reached out, gently placing his hands on your shoulders, his touch warm and comforting in contrast to the turmoil inside you. He kissed the top of your head softly, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulled back slightly.

“Hey, what happened? Was it Sukchul? Did he do something to you?” His voice was soft, filled with a quiet urgency, as though he needed to fix whatever was wrong. His eyes scanned your face for any sign of distress, and the thought that anything could have happened to you made his mind race in a hundred directions. He wasn’t thinking straight, wasn’t sure of anything, but one thing was clear: he needed to protect you, even if it meant doing whatever it took.

You pushed him away gently, your body tense as you looked up at him with wide, almost frantic eyes. “Fuck, Jungkook, no,” you said, your voice tinged with disbelief.

He frowned, a furrow appearing on his brow as he leaned in slightly, trying to bridge the distance between you. “You need to tell me if something happened, something I don’t know about. If someone—”

“So what? You’ll kill him too?” The words came out before you could stop them, sharp and biting, a rush of anger and hurt spilling from you. The instant you spoke, you froze, the weight of your own words hanging in the air. You shut your mouth quickly, as if regretting the outburst, but the tension still lingered, suffocating.

Jungkook’s eyes went wide at your words, as if they struck him deeper than anything else you could’ve said. He opened his mouth to respond, but for a moment, no sound came. He stepped back, his lips trembling slightly, as if trying to make sense of what you’d just said.

Jungkook’s grip tightened on your wrist, his fingers almost painfully firm, but his eyes… his eyes were soft, filled with something close to desperation. He was silently pleading with you, begging for you to understand.

“What do you mean?” His voice trembled, barely above a whisper, as if saying the words aloud might make it all too real. His breath was shallow, like he was holding on to something, afraid that if he let go, the truth would spill out in ways he couldn’t control. Not that he didn’t trust you, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of you seeing him as something you should be afraid of.

You refused to meet his gaze. The weight of his hold made it feel like the air was closing in around you. You tugged at your wrist once more, but he didn’t release you. His eyes were still fixed on you, pleading for understanding, for something he wasn’t sure how to explain.

“Jungkook, please,” you whispered, your voice breaking slightly as the distance between you felt insurmountable. You didn’t know what you were asking for, didn’t know how to stop the flood of emotions rushing through you.

Then, in an instant, he stood up abruptly, and the sudden motion made you flinch, your heart racing in your chest. His tone was sharp, as if trying to convince both of you that there was nothing to fear. “Wait, seriously? You think I would hurt you?” His voice was a mix of disbelief and frustration, the kind of frustration that came from feeling misunderstood.

“I don’t know you.” The words came out in a rush, raw and honest. It felt like a slap in the face, but it was the truth. You didn’t know him, not the way you needed to. You only knew the parts he chose to show, the parts that made you feel things you couldn’t quite put into words. But the rest? The side that might be capable of violence, of things you couldn’t even imagine? You didn’t know that Jungkook, and that thought was enough to make your heart ache.

You stepped back slightly, your chest tight with emotions you couldn’t control, trying to create some kind of distance from the confusion swirling in your mind.

“Well maybe if you let me explain—”

“What do you want to explain?” you interrupted, your voice sharp, but there was a tremor of fear in it that you couldn’t hide. “That you’re a monster just like every other man here?” Your words hit him like a punch, and you could see the flinch run through him. His eyes darkened, a coldness creeping into them as he heard you compare him to the very thing he hated most—his rival, the men he despised.

“Do you even do this for money, or for your own pleasure?” you asked, your voice trembling, but the anger inside you was hard to ignore now. You needed answers, and you needed them to be true, no matter how much it hurt.

The question seemed to throw him off, as if you had hit him with something unexpected. He opened his mouth, then closed it, as though the lie he had been telling himself and others was on the tip of his tongue. But this time, the lie stayed stuck. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, not to you, not now.

“Be honest for once,” you said, your breath shaky but your eyes not leaving his. You could see the hesitation in his face, the battle between his usual deflection and the truth that was forcing itself out.

Jungkook lowered his head, his gaze dropping to the floor as if he couldn’t meet your eyes anymore. It was in that moment, in the silence that stretched between you both, that he finally spoke the words you were terrified of hearing.

“Because I want to. Money is a plus.”

The words hit you like a wave, your body freezing in place as the meaning behind them sank in. If he was doing it for money, you could almost understand, because you knew his life in danger. But this? This was different. This felt like a choice, and it was a choice that made your stomach twist.

You grabbed your backpack, your hands shaking as you hastily packed your belongings, trying to escape the suffocating tension in the room. You couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think straight, and the only thing you knew was that you had to leave.

Jungkook was there, his presence overwhelming, his hands gently cupping your face, forcing you to meet his eyes. Those eyes. The same doe-eyes you had come to love, the eyes that once made your heart flutter, now filled with pain and confusion.

“Where are you going?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper, the words breaking through the thick air, on the verge of tears. His fingers trembled as they hovered near your cheek, begging for an answer that made sense, but there was no way to make sense of this.

“I want to go home,” you muttered, your voice shaky, trying to pull away from his grasp as you moved frantically around the room, gathering the rest of your things. You could feel your chest tighten with each step, each moment that passed.

“Home? You can’t be serious,” he scoffed, disbelief clouding his voice. “Your father’s a bastard and—”

“At least he’s not a fucking killer!” you snapped, your words cutting through the air like a knife. You turned to face him, pointing an accusing finger at his chest, your body trembling with anger. “Don’t tell me what’s right for me when you should be the one I should be running away from!”

You grabbed the plastic bag with the money you had won and you tossed it at his feet, the crinkling sound of the bag hitting the floor echoing in the silence that followed.

“Here,” you spat, your chest heaving with rage. “Take that.”

He didn’t even acknowledge the money as it fell at his feet. Instead, he dropped to his knees, his body sagging, and his head hung low. His silence was deafening, the weight of your words settling in the space between you both.

“The money I fucking worked for your stupid life!” you shouted, your voice cracking with the sheer intensity of your emotions.

He stayed kneeling, the tears you had been holding back now threatening to spill. His lips parted, but nothing came out. You had shattered something inside him—something that even he hadn’t been ready to confront.

And you couldn’t stand there anymore. You couldn’t stand to watch him fall apart, because the truth was, you were falling apart too.

You closed the door behind you with a quiet click, the weight of it sinking deep into your chest. Each step you took away from the motel felt heavier than the last, as if the walls were closing in around you. Shame clung to your skin, suffocating you with every breath. You didn’t even know if you were still welcome in your own home anymore.

Your father’s words rang in your ears, a reminder of how unwanted you had become in his eyes. His cruel dismissal was something you’d never be able to forget, but despite it all, the thought of returning home was the only thing you could hold onto right now.

With every step, you wondered if your return would only confirm that you were nothing more than a burden, unwanted and lost. But you kept walking anyway. Because it was the only place left where you might find something to hold onto. Even if it was just the walls, the stale air, the broken pieces of a home that was no longer yours.

You felt a strange mixture of relief and guilt when you saw your mother open the door. Her expression was cold, and her eyes narrowed when she saw you standing there, but she quickly pushed the door wider, letting you in without a word. There was no warmth, no embrace, only a faint flicker of something behind her eyes that you couldn’t quite place.

“He isn’t here,” she said curtly, not bothering with a greeting, her tone sharp and detached. Her movements were quick, almost frantic, as she grabbed you by the shoulders and steered you into the house, guiding you towards your room without a second thought. “You shouldn’t be here. What happened?” The faintest trace of concern flashed in her eyes, though it quickly vanished behind her guarded expression.

The words were stuck in your throat for a moment before you spoke, the realization of what you had learned about men “I was wrong,” you said softly, your gaze dropping to the floor. “They’re not one better than the other.”

Her hands were on your chin before you could even react, forcing you to look at her. Her fingers dug into your skin with surprising strength as she locked her gaze onto yours, her eyes searching you in a way that made you feel exposed. “Does he hurt you?” she asked, her voice calm but there was an edge to it—a raw, demanding edge that you had never heard before.

The words flew from your mouth without hesitation, fueled by the raw confidence and certainty you felt in that moment. “Never.” The anger in your response surprised even you, as if your own heart had built a wall in defense, not just for Jungkook but for yourself. You were almost angry that she would ask such a thing, even though, deep down, you knew why she was concerned.

Her grip loosened slightly, but her face remained stern. She looked at you for a long moment, as if weighing the truth in your eyes. Then, after what felt like an eternity, she spoke again, her voice a bit softer, yet still tinged with that same determination. “Then he is better than them,” she said, her words almost resigned, as though she had already come to that conclusion in her mind.

“Your father made it clear, he doesn’t want you there,” your mother finally says, her voice low and resigned as she stands up from the bed. She walks over to the window, peeking through the blinds to see if your father’s car isn’t parked outside. She lets out a heavy sigh. “I can’t keep you hiding here for long. Things would be terrible for me if I did.”

She gestures towards the bruises on her arms. Your body tightens with rage at the sight, and something inside you burns. Anger floods your chest, but you stay silent, the truth sinking in. She had to keep quiet. She had no choice.

She presses her fingers to her temple, brows furrowing as though she’s trying to come up with an escape, a way out. “My hairdresser…” she starts, her voice suddenly shifting. You look up at her, confused. She smiles, but it’s not the smile you’ve grown used to. It’s something unfamiliar, almost like she’s found the solution to her problem. A spark of something new. “You know Park Yejin, right?”

You nod slowly, your mind struggling to catch up. Yejin was the small woman your mother always went to for her haircuts. The one place where your mother could be herself, if only for a moment, away from the suffocating presence of men. Yejin’s shop wasn’t just a place for hair—it was a sanctuary for women. A place where they could sit together, laugh, and share stories without fear of being judged or watched. It was the rare space where they could be free, even if just for a little while.

You remember the joy in your mother’s eyes whenever she returned from those visits. She would always speak about Yejin with such warmth, telling you how the other women in the neighborhood would gather there, all of them gossiping and laughing, sharing a rare kind of freedom.

Your mother’s eyes gleam now as she thinks of something, a plan forming in her mind. “She’s a good person,” she continues, almost to herself. “She wouldn’t turn you away.”

“I’ll come to see you tomorrow,” she said, her voice filled with an odd sense of finality as she moved toward the window. She opened it wide, the cool air rushing in. “Climb out here, follow the same path, and you’ll find her.”

Her words were clear, almost rehearsed, as though she had thought this through many times before. Without hesitation, you nodded and swung your leg over the windowsill. Your heart pounded in your chest, unsure of what you were walking into, but trusting her in a way that only a child could.

Following the directions your mother had given you, you made your way through the winding streets. The same familiar neighborhood that you had grown up in, where everything felt safe and comforting, but now it seemed different. You were walking through it with a new purpose, your thoughts swirling with confusion and uncertainty. Each step felt heavier than the last, but you kept moving forward.

Finally, you reached Park Yejin’s shop, nestled between two other small buildings. The warm light from inside filtered through the windows, casting a golden glow onto the sidewalk. You could see the faint silhouettes of women inside, their laughter and chatter muffled by the walls. This was it. This was where your mother had found her moments of freedom, her small haven away from the chaos.

Taking a deep breath, you stepped forward, lifting your hand to knock on the door. The moment felt surreal, as if everything was leading you to this point. The woman who had been your mother’s safe space, now holding the key to your escape.

You quickly explained your situation, the words tumbling out as you felt the weight of everything that had led you here. Park Yejin, without hesitation, opened the door wider, letting you in without a single question when you mentioned your mother’s name. It was as though she already understood.

She guided you inside, offering you a glass of water, the cool liquid a soothing relief as it ran down your throat. She led you to the back of the shop, where a soft beige couch rested against the wall. The simple, cozy space seemed like a world away from the chaos you had just left behind.

Without a word, she handed you a blanket, its warmth wrapping around you like a hug. It was the first time today that your heart finally began to slow down, the tension in your chest starting to ease.

You sank into the couch, the exhaustion of the day catching up to you. Your mind raced with everything that had happened—your mother, Jungkook, the things you’d said, the things you’d learned. It was all too much.

“Rest,” Park Yejin said quietly, her voice gentle but firm. “You’re safe here.”

You nodded, your eyelids heavy with exhaustion. You didn’t know what tomorrow would bring, but for now, you allowed yourself to close your eyes and drift into a fragile, peaceful sleep.

Kim Taehee was a woman consumed by anger, a rage that had burned within her from a very young age. A rebellious spirit that refused to bow to the limitations society and family imposed on her. She had always known, deep down, that she didn’t want to fall into the same destructive spiral her mother had lived. Yet, despite her fierce resolve, she eventually found herself bound by the very chains she swore to avoid when she chose to marry Lee Minhyeok.

At first, everything seemed perfect. He was kind, promising her the life of luxury and security she had always dreamed of. Beautiful houses, expensive jewelry, and a life of comfort that seemed too good to be true. For a while, it was a fairytale—she felt cherished, important, and above all, loved. She thought she had found a man who truly cared for her. But like all fairytales, this one was fleeting.

The moment she gave birth to their daughter, everything changed. Minhyeok, once so attentive and loving, became distant and indifferent. He had gotten what he wanted—a child. He had only ever wanted one, and after that, her role was reduced to nothing more than the mother of his child. No longer the wife, no longer the woman. She was just a vessel, a caretaker for their daughter, nothing more. The love they once shared withered away, and Taehee found herself trapped in a marriage that had lost all its meaning. She became everything she despised—just like her own mother.

Her rebellious fire, the one that had always burned so brightly within her, only grew fiercer with time. She was no longer content with being a mere shadow of herself. The woman who once dreamed of a life of autonomy and power now sought more than mere survival. She sought freedom, control, and, above all, the power to change her fate.

As she climbed the stairs of the apartment complex, a smile tugged at her lips. Her lipstick, a deep red, was perfect—bold, unapologetic, just like her. She had long fantasized about a space where she could take charge, a place where she could dictate her terms, and the men inside would bend to her will. She had imagined this for years, but now it was becoming a reality.

It was almost a dream came true when while Kim Taehee sat in the salon chair, her hairdresser carefully wrapping a curler into her hair, she half-listened to the hum of the hairdryers around her. Her fingers drummed against the edge of the magazine she was flipping through. It was the only place where she could exist without the weight of her marriage bearing down on her—without the suffocating presence of her husband.

Her friend, who had been quietly getting her hair done at the station beside her, leaned in close. Her voice dropped to a hushed whisper, filled with an air of secrecy. “Taehee,” she began, her eyes scanning the room before settling back on her. “My husband… he’s dead.”

At first, Taehee froze, she was ready to apologize. But then her friend began to laugh, and with that, something inside Taehee clicked. The air between them shifted, and she could see the satisfaction in her friend’s expression.

Taehee let out a soft laugh too, unsure whether it was from disbelief or the strange relief creeping into her chest. She leaned closer, lowering her voice. “What do you mean? How did that happen?”

Her friend leaned back, looking around as if checking for anyone else who might be listening before she spoke again, this time in more of a confidential whisper. “I did it. I had him killed—paid men to do it for me. Men who’ll do anything for money. I told them everything, everything they needed to know. And now, I'm free.”

The words hung in the air for a moment, heavy with unspoken truths. Taehee’s heart pounded, the reality of what her friend was saying sinking in. “You really had him killed?” Taehee murmured, her voice shaky, but inside, a new excitement was building.

“Yeah, Taehee. Just like that. We made the deal. They took care of it. And now I can do whatever I want, without him breathing down my neck. I'm free.”

Taehee let the words settle in her mind. It was almost too surreal to comprehend—until she looked around at the other women in the salon, who had gathered to listen. The three of them erupted into laughter, mocking the situation, laughing about the man’s death, about how easy it seemed. In a space where women often shared their secrets, their frustrations, and their gossip, this was just another story, another tragedy turned into something absurd.

But Taehee’s mind was far from the laughter around her. While the others continued to mock her friend’s late husband, she was lost in thought. Her heart raced, her mind spinning with ideas and possibilities. Could it really be that simple? Could she also find a way out? A way to be free from the suffocating grip of her marriage?

For the first time in years, the spark of rebellion flickered in her chest, rekindled by the stories of men willing to kill for a cause—willing to erase the obstacles standing in the way of freedom. In that moment, her mind was already racing, already devising plans for her own escape. She didn’t have all the pieces yet, but she knew one thing: if others could do it, so could she.

She looks at the paper in her hand, her friend’s handwriting scrawled across it with the address she was supposed to go to. With a deep breath and a heavy heart, she knocks on the door.

The door opens, and a young man stands there, his sharp, cat-like eyes studying her with a penetrating gaze. For a second, the silence between them feels thick, almost suffocating, before he steps aside and gestures for her to enter. The click of her heels echoes through the small apartment as she steps inside, the faint smell of smoke and the dull hum of city life seeping through the walls.

On the couch, another man lounges lazily. He’s younger than the first, dressed in a tight black shirt, one long sleeve and the other bare. His chest is adorned with a holster, and he’s smoking quietly, the cigarette dangling lazily from his fingers.

Taehee notices his disheveled appearance—his eyes are red, his hair a mess, and there are bruises on his face. His doe-eyed gaze seems oddly familiar, but she can’t place where she’s seen him before.

The first man finally speaks, his voice deep and calm, as he sits himself down at a desk, his eyes never leaving her. “So,” he begins, folding his hands in front of him, “I’m sure you know what we’re doing.”

She meets his gaze, unsure of how to respond but knowing there was no turning back now.

Taehee shook her head, finally finding the strength to stand taller, her posture changing as she squared her shoulders.

She took a cigarette from her own packet, her fingers trembling slightly as she brought it to her lips. The small, familiar motion grounded her, and the smoke was almost comforting as it filled her lungs. Exhaling slowly, she leaned back against the wall, her voice steady but firm as she began explaining how she found them—and why she needed their help.

“My husband,” she began, her voice low. “I need him gone. And I don’t care what it takes.”

The man sitting at the desk—his eyes calculating, patient—nodded, absorbing her words. He didn’t interrupt, letting her speak freely. When she finished, he leaned back, eyes narrowing slightly.

“Tell me,” he said, his voice smooth but with an edge, “what makes you think you can trust us? And why now? What changed?”

Taehee straightened, her gaze unwavering. “I’ve been living in a prison for too long. I can’t keep pretending that things will get better. I need him out of my life, once and for all. You’re my only way out.”

The man at the desk exchanged a glance with the other one, the one with the bruised face. He took a long drag from his cigarette, eyes still locked on Taehee.

“We’re not in the business of doing favors,” the man at the desk said, his tone sharp. “But if you’re serious, we need to know everything—how, when, and where. Every detail matters. One wrong move, and it all falls apart.”

Taehee nodded, her expression cold but determined. “I know what’s at stake. I’ll give you everything you need.”

She watched as the man jotted down some notes, preparing to make her request a reality. The weight of her decision was heavy, but for the first time in years, she felt like she was finally taking control of her life.

She provided them with every detail they needed—when he would be home, where he usually spent his time, the places where he could be found without delay. Her heart raced with a dark sense of satisfaction, the anticipation growing as she laid out the plan.

“Make him suffer,” she said, her voice steady but cold, as she tapped the ash from her cigarette into the ashtray on the desk. Her gaze never wavered as she continued, her words laced with a cruel finality. “Don’t kill him right away. I want him to feel every ounce of pain before the end. Let him beg for mercy.”

A smile tugged at the corners of her lips, and it was almost unnerving—this smile wasn’t the kind of expression you’d expect from a woman in her position. The two men exchanged a glance, their eyes flicking between each other, both surprised by her intensity. Most women who came to them were broken, scared, or hesitant. But this one—this woman—was different. She was calm, almost eager for the outcome.

Jungkook, however, was more focused on something else. He wasn’t just listening to her words; he was studying her every movement, every subtle change in her expression. He knew her. There was something about her that seemed familiar, something that resonated deep within him. As he watched her speak, something clicked—a recognition. Her posture, her coldness, her sharpness—it all reminded him of someone. You.

The way she held herself, the fire in her eyes, the way she seemed untouchable despite everything she had been through—it was eerily similar to you. He could see it now—the rebellious spirit, the drive to survive.

It wasn’t just a sense of familiarity—he knew her.

His gaze sharpened, and he stepped forward, slowly crossing the room toward her. There was no mistaking it now. This was her. This was the mother he had heard so much about.

“Any children we should be aware of?” Jungkook asked, his voice low, his tone more serious than before. His eyes were fixed on her face, studying every detail, looking for any sign that she was lying. He couldn’t afford to miss anything.

“My daughter is safe,” she said firmly, and Jungkook let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. He was relieved, but that relief didn’t last long.

“But while that fucker is still alive,” she continued, her voice growing colder, “I can’t guarantee she will stay safe. I need him out of my life. I need him gone so I can protect her, to care for her the way a mother should.”

Jungkook nodded slowly, a quiet understanding passing between them. His thoughts aligned with hers. It was everything he needed to know before he spoke again.

“I’ll do it,” he whispered, the resolve clear in his voice.

The older man nodded in agreement, and with that, the plan was set. Jungkook knew his next move, and nothing would stand in his way.

It would happen on Thursday night. Tomorrow.

Your mother had told them everything—how he always came home early that day, how work finished earlier than usual. On Thursdays, he was often exhausted, too drained to even raise a hand against her. It was the one night where silence filled the house instead of violence. The perfect day to strike.

But after it was Friday and it wasn’t just any other day for Jungkook.

It was the day he, too, would have to face the men who wanted him dead. A confrontation he had been preparing for, one he had always known was inevitable. But that didn’t matter. Not right now.

He had a job to do first.

He would make sure the bastard was gone before he even thought about his own fate. If he had to die, so be it—but not before he saw this through. Not before he knew that you were safe.

If finishing this mission meant risking it all, then he would. Without hesitation.

“Still okay?”

It was the first thing he asked when Jungkook stepped into the dimly lit apartment. He always checked in before they did something they couldn’t take back.

Jungkook gave a firm nod, not a hint of hesitation in his movements. He double-checked his gun, ensuring it was fully loaded before strapping the holster securely across his chest. His fingers slipped into his half-finger gloves, tightening them as if they were part of a ritual.

“I did,” he said, his voice steady, offering silent reassurance to the older man.

There was a pause before the man exhaled a slow drag from his cigarette, observing him through the haze of smoke.

“You seem different today,” he finally noted, tapping the ash into an overflowing tray.

Jungkook didn’t respond, merely raising an eyebrow as he adjusted the straps across his shoulders.

The man sighed, his tone turning more serious. “Listen, Jeon.” Jungkook’s fingers twitched at the sound of his last name. He hated it—hated what it reminded him of, who it tied him to.

“The woman paid well. She’s determined. If you mess this up, it won’t end well.”

“I know,” Jungkook said simply. His voice carried no doubt, no room for error. He clapped the older man on the shoulder before stepping toward the door.

Outside, the night awaited.

Jungkook was grateful the streets were empty. He always preferred to do this kind of work under the cover of darkness. Sometimes, he didn’t have a choice—some targets lived their lives in broad daylight, forcing him to move under the sun. But tonight, the absence of light was a relief. He could already feel guilt creeping into his chest, tightening its grip around his heart.

He thought of you. Your face. Your eyes, the way they looked at him before you left. Did you know? Had your mother told you what she had planned? He hoped—God, he hoped—you did. Because if you knew and hadn’t tried to stop it, maybe that meant you understood. Maybe, in some twisted way, you agreed with what he was about to do.

The house loomed ahead, dark and silent except for a single light near the entrance. Just as your mother had said. A signal. An invitation.

It was unsettling how methodical she was, how she had orchestrated everything from start to finish like she had done this before. He had worked with desperate women before—women who barely spoke above a whisper when they gave him their husbands’ schedules, who hesitated, who broke down before the deed was even done. But your mother? She was something else entirely.

Jungkook made his presence known with a quiet knock, and almost immediately, the door creaked open. She stood there, her manicured fingers pressing lightly against her lips, a silent nod directing him inside.

It was easy. Too easy.

Most times, he had to break in, move like a shadow through unfamiliar halls. But here? Here, he was welcomed like a king into the home of a man he was about to kill.

She didn’t speak, just pointed toward the living room. And there he was—sprawled on the sofa, mouth hanging open, his breath a slow, rumbling groan.

Completely unaware that his life had just run out of time.

Jungkook’s gaze flickered around the house, taking in every detail with sharp precision. But when his eyes landed on the family portrait hanging on the wall, his breath caught in his throat.

It looked like something out of a picture frame catalog—perfect, polished. A family that seemed whole. Your hands rested on your father’s shoulder, your smile bright, your eyes shining. You were beautiful.

But Jungkook knew better.

To anyone else, that smile could be convincing. But not to him. He had seen your real smile before—the one that made your nose scrunch, your eyes crinkle at the corners, the one where your teeth showed in an unguarded, genuine laugh. The one you gave when you were truly happy.

This? This was rehearsed. Controlled. A mask.

Your mother watched him, her brows furrowed in silent observation. He had been calm, detached, efficient throughout the planning of this whole thing. But now, he was standing there, staring at a photograph with more care than he had shown the entire night.

Then, she followed his gaze. Her daughter.

And suddenly, it clicked.

Her lips parted slightly as she finally recognized what had been nagging at her since the first moment she saw him—the familiarity in his face, in his eyes. Doe-eyes, fixated on the girl in the photograph.

It was him. The man you had clung to and the one you had apparently run away from.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Your mother’s voice was quiet, almost testing.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. He tore his gaze away from the portrait, shaking his head quickly as if to rid himself of the distraction. Focus.

He felt like an idiot for letting his thoughts drift when he was supposed to be here to kill a man.

“I’m doing it for her,” your mother murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. She cast a quick glance toward the living room, ensuring he was still asleep. Then, with unwavering certainty, she met Jungkook’s gaze. “So think about her while you do it.”

Jungkook didn’t respond—he only gave a sharp nod before stepping forward.

It should have been easy. It had always been easy. But now? His heart felt heavier than it ever had before.

Your mother lingered by the doorframe, watching intently, her arms crossed as if bracing herself for what was to come. She wanted to witness it—the moment the man who had caged her for so long finally felt powerless. She was waiting for Jungkook to make the first move, for the violence to begin.

Jungkook’s eyes flicked one last time to the family portrait on the wall. His breath came out slow, controlled, but his chest burned with restrained emotion. His gaze locked onto yours—the same eyes that had glared at him with betrayal as you walked out of the motel room. The same eyes that had widened in fear when you realized what he was capable of.

Then, he thought about your father.

The man who had thrown you out into the night like you were nothing. The man who had slaped your cheek without remorse. The man who had made you suffer in ways Jungkook couldn’t even begin to understand.

And suddenly, the guilt in his chest burned into something else entirely.

Without hesitation, he seized the sleeping man by the collar, yanking him upright. The sudden movement jolted him awake, but before he could even process what was happening, Jungkook threw him down with brutal force. His back slammed against the corner of the coffee table, the sharp crack of bone meeting wood echoing through the silent house. A muffled groan of pain escaped him as he writhed on the floor.

Jungkook didn’t hesitate.

He stepped forward.

Jungkook’s fist met the man’s face with brutal force, knuckles splitting against skin and bone. The impact jolted through his arm, but he barely felt it. The man beneath him groaned, weakly trying to grab Jungkook’s wrist in a feeble attempt at defense. It was useless. Jungkook didn’t stop. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding as he threw another punch. And another. And another.

A sharp, ringing laughter broke through his daze.

Jungkook’s breath hitched. His vision, which had been tunneled on the bruised and bloodied face beneath him, flickered to the side.

Your mother was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, legs crossed, a cigarette between her manicured fingers. Her lips curled into a smirk, eyes alight with something that unsettled him. She took a slow drag, exhaling smoke as she tilted her head.

“Add more pain,” she murmured, her voice smooth, almost amused.

Jungkook’s grip on your father’s throat tightened instinctively. The man beneath him coughed, a wet, gurgling sound as blood dribbled from his mouth. His swollen eyes barely opened, his expression a mixture of confusion and agony.

Jungkook didn’t look at him.

He looked at her.

His stomach twisted.

This was not the reaction he had come to expect. He had seen women filled with rage, with desperation, with grief. Women who sought vengeance through gritted teeth, who flinched at the sight of blood but swallowed their fear for the sake of justice. Women who paid him because they had no other choice.

But she? She was different.

She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t trembling.

She was enjoying it.

Jungkook could see it in the way her lips curled, the way her eyes gleamed with something almost… eager. The way she leaned forward slightly, as if she wanted a closer look at the damage he was inflicting.

It unsettled him.

He thought he was the monster. The killer. The animal. He had believed it himself, accepted it, worn it like a second skin. But now, sitting here, watching this woman—your mother—smile at the suffering before her, he felt something foreign settle in his chest.

Disgust.

For the first time, he wondered if maybe he wasn’t the real monster in the room.

Jungkook’s mind was spiraling.

He couldn’t understand it. You were their daughter? You, who recoiled from violence, who looked at him with something close to fear when you found out what he had done? How could someone like you come from people like them—one cruel, the other heartless?

His breath shuddered as he loosened his grip.

The man beneath him gasped sharply, chest rising and falling in ragged, uneven breaths, his body trembling from pain but still clinging to life.

A sharp sound of heels clicking against the floor.

“The fuck are you doing?”

Your mother’s voice sliced through the air, cold and sharp as she loomed over him. The amusement in her tone was gone, replaced with something more threatening. She stubbed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray with unnecessary force, eyes narrowing in fury.

“I want him dead.”

Jungkook stayed still.

His body felt heavy, his hands limp at his sides. He was kneeling over your father, straddling him, his head hanging low. He could finish it—one final blow, a bullet to the skull, an end to it all.

But he couldn’t.

Not when he saw your face in his mind.

You may have hated your father. You may have wished him gone, but death? Death was different. It was permanent. Unforgiving. No matter how much he deserved it, Jungkook knew the weight of it would stay with you. He knew the burden of living with the knowledge that someone took your parent away from you. That someone played god with their life.

And that someone would have been him.

His fingers twitched at his sides. His jaw clenched.

He couldn’t do that to you.

“Are you even listening to me?” Your mother’s voice dripped with venom now, her patience thinning.

“I—”

A flash of movement.

Pain exploded across his jaw as your father, fueled by desperation, threw a weak but determined punch. His knuckles collided with Jungkook’s face, sending his head snapping to the side.

The room seemed to still for a moment.

Jungkook inhaled slowly, tasting blood. Then, exhaled.

Your father had the upper hand now.

Jungkook barely had time to react before another punch landed, this one more forceful, knocking his head back. Pain burst through his skull, sharp and dizzying.

“Who the fuck are you?” your father roared, voice raw with anger and desperation as he grabbed Jungkook by the collar, shaking him.

Jungkook’s fingers fumbled for his holster, for the cold metal of his gun. His vision was blurry, but he knew if he could just—

CRACK.

The sound was sickening.

The weight on top of him slumped suddenly, heavy and lifeless.

Jungkook blinked rapidly, his breath ragged, tasting blood on his tongue. He smelled it first—the thick, metallic scent of it filling his nostrils—before he saw it.

Your mother stood above them, her chest heaving, fingers tightly clasped around the heavy glass ashtray. Its edges were darkened, slick with blood.

Jungkook’s body stiffened as he processed what just happened.

The back of your father’s head was caved in. Blood pooled onto his shirt, soaking into the fabric like ink spreading over paper. His body was completely still. Silent.

Jungkook spit out blood onto the floor, his breath shaky. His ears were ringing.

For the first time since entering this house, he wasn’t sure what terrified him more—what he had done, or what she had done.

There was no turning back now.

One of your parents was gone. Erased from existence in an instant. And even if Jungkook hadn’t been the one to deliver the fatal blow, he had still been part of it. He had still held the gun in a way.

The weight of it crushed him.

He felt sick—dirty. Like the blood soaking into the carpet had somehow seeped into his own skin.

And what made it worse—what made his stomach churn with something close to disgust—was that your mother didn’t seem to care.

She let the ashtray slip from her fingers, the sound of it hitting the floor sharp and final. She didn’t tremble, didn’t even hesitate. There was no shock on her face, no guilt in her eyes. Only cold satisfaction.

Jungkook sank onto the floor, ignoring the lifeless body beside him. His chest heaved, his mind racing.

“What the fuck was that?” she snapped, voice sharp and accusing. “I paid you, and you—”

“I can't hurt her!” The words ripped out of him, raw and desperate. His hands clawed at his hair as he doubled over, his body shaking with sobs.

He was a monster.

And the worst part?

He had no idea if you would ever forgive him.

At that, her frantic pace came to a halt. It was as if the weight of her actions finally struck her—like she was just now realizing the gravity of what she had done. Her mouth fell open, her eyes wide with disbelief.

“Oh no,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Fuck, what did I do?”

Jungkook could only watch in disbelief, his eyes narrowed. She was a lunatic, pacing frantically around the room, her fingers tugging at her hair like she was losing her mind. She had been so cold, so calculated, but now… now she was unraveling, and it was only making him more confused.

Without warning, she dropped to her knees in front of him. Her hands gripped his face, and the sensation made his skin crawl. He hated it. He had always loved it when you touched him, your fingers gentle and warm, but this? This was suffocating. The coldness in her touch was a stark contrast to anything he had ever known.

“Listen,” she urged, her voice a mix of desperation and confidence, her eyes scanning his face like she was studying him, gauging his reactions. “She can’t know it was me.”

Jungkook’s breath hitched.

“I’m her only parent now,” she continued, her grip tightening on his face as if she could will him to understand. “I promised her—I promised I would take care of her. And now I will. No matter what it takes.”

He wanted to scream. He wanted to throw her hands off of him, demand she understand the mess she had made. But instead, he was silent. His heart raced with guilt, with confusion, and with fear. Fear for you—because in the end, this wasn’t about her. It was about you.

“It was you, you did it, okay?” she snapped, her hands tightening around his face, forcing him to meet her gaze.

Jungkook recoiled, pulling his head back in disbelief. “What—” he began, swatting her hands away, his heart pounding in his chest.

“You heard me,” she said, standing tall, her voice cold and firm. “I’ll give you money, whatever you want, but—”

Her words fell on deaf ears as Jungkook stormed toward her. His anger surged, raw and uncontrollable, as he grabbed her by the shoulders and shoved her into the kitchen. The force of his movements made her stumble slightly, but she didn’t falter, only meeting his eyes with an icy stare.

“I don’t want your money,” he spat, his voice trembling with fury. “How can someone like you even think you can take care of her? A cold, heartless bitch like you?”

Your mother’s hand lashed out with lightning speed, striking him hard across the cheek. The sharp sting of the slap burned his skin, but it was nothing compared to the weight of her words.

“Because you can?” she retorted bitterly, her voice laced with venom. “With all the blood on your hands? Don’t act like you’re any better than me.”

Jungkook froze. Her words cut deeper than the slap ever could. His hands trembled with rage, but now, something else gnawed at him. Something darker. What was he doing? How could he judge her when he was no different? His actions were just as guilty, and the weight of it hit him like a ton of bricks.

“So either you run away, leave her life, or I tell the police it was you,” she threatened, her voice sharp, each word cutting through the air like a blade. “They won’t ask any questions. You scream trouble,” she sneered, her eyes scanning him with a judgmental gaze. “You’re the perfect culprit.”

Jungkook’s heart raced, a mix of anger and panic flooding his chest. He could already feel the weight of her words sinking in. She was right—his appearance, his bruised face, the tattoos and piercings that made him look like nothing more than a criminal; to anyone who didn’t know him, he was the ideal scapegoat. All she had to do was point the finger, and he’d be the one to take the fall.

He refused to be imprisoned for something he didn’t commit. It would be unjust, unequal—everything he had spent his life fighting against. He wanted fairness, not a life where he was sent to jail simply because he had nothing—no money, no home, no power.

“I’ll leave her,” he finally says, the words heavy in his chest. The thought of running away again feels different this time, more painful. He had spent his entire life moving, escaping, but now, it felt impossible to walk away. For the first time, there was something worth staying for—someone to care for, someone to love.

Your mother smiled, her hand resting coldly on his shoulder, guiding him toward the door. “When will the men come to take care of the body?” she asked, her voice almost casual, her smile unnervingly calm.

Before Jungkook could respond, she pushed him out of the door with a swift, practiced motion. He stumbled back, feeling a mixture of anger and confusion. Inside, she sat down on the couch again, eyes focused on the lifeless body of her husband, as if waiting for the next step to unfold—calm, patient, and completely detached.

He stood frozen, his body tense and rigid, eyes locked on the door. Anger surged through him, every fiber of his being clenched as if ready to explode.

“Jungkook?”

The sound of your voice hit him like a punch to the gut. His heart stopped, his palms suddenly drenched in sweat. His thoughts became a blur, a chaotic storm of confusion and guilt. He couldn’t even bring himself to turn around, to face you.

Your voice—quiet, shaky, full of vulnerability and worry—pulled him back from the storm inside his head. He wanted to answer, wanted to make things right, but all he could do was stand there, paralyzed by the weight of the moment.

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