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vanillasingularity · 2 months ago

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hold me tight epilogue│ jjk 18+

"I never stopped loving you."

Trigger Warning: This story contains emotional and physical abuse. (Jungkook is not the abuser btw)

pairing: jeon jungkook x reader (f)

genre: exes to lovers

rating: 18+, fluff w smut.

synopsis: Y/N is untouchable, his dare: "Make her fall in love with you."

Two years ago, Y/N was just a dare—a game Jungkook never meant to take seriously. But somewhere between the laughter, late nights, and whispered promises, he fell. Hard. Then the truth came out, and everything shattered.

Now, Y/N is a single mother trying to rebuild her life when fate throws Jungkook back into her world. He’s changed. Older. Steadier. But the past still burns between them. As secrets unravel and emotions resurface, they’re forced to face everything they tried to leave behind.

Some wounds run deep. But some loves never die.

3 months later

The first time Jiho calls him dad on purpose, Jungkook drops the strawberry he was holding.

It rolls off the couch and onto the floor, forgotten.

Jiho doesn’t notice. He’s half-asleep, thumb in his mouth, body curled into Jungkook’s side like he always ends up—warm, sticky, still in his dinosaur pajamas. He’s been asking for strawberries for the last ten minutes, blinking slow, barely awake.

But this time, the ask is different.

“Daddy,” he mumbles, voice small and tired, “more strawberries please.”

And just like that, something shifts in the air.

You freeze in the kitchen mid-pour, juice sloshing over the rim of the cup in your hand. Your heart stutters.

Jungkook goes completely still.

Not like he didn’t hear it. Like he heard every syllable and doesn’t know how to keep breathing.

Jiho doesn’t even look at him. He’s too busy snuggling deeper into the blanket, fingers reaching out for the bowl without lifting his head.

Jungkook stares down at him like he’s looking at a miracle.

His mouth opens. Closes.

But he doesn’t speak. Not for a moment.

Instead, he reaches back into the bowl with a trembling hand and places a strawberry into Jiho’s sticky fingers.

“Here you go, baby,” he says softly. So softly. Like he’s afraid the word might vanish if he says it too loud.

Jiho hums, content, and munches happily.

Jungkook brushes a hand over Jiho’s hair with a quiet tenderness that makes your chest ache. Then he leans in and presses a silent kiss to the top of his head.

You don’t say anything.

You just stand there, watching the two of them tucked into the corner of the couch, the glow of the cartoon flickering gently against their faces.

Later, when Jiho’s fast asleep—draped over Jungkook’s chest, arms loose around his neck like he’s the safest place in the world—you hover in the doorway for a minute too long.

Jungkook notices.

He lifts Jiho carefully and carries him to bed, tucking him in with practiced hands and brushing his fingers over his forehead like muscle memory.

He stands there a beat longer than necessary, watching Jiho breathe.

You watch him.

The apartment is quiet again when you both end up on the couch. The TV is off. The only sound is the hum of the heater and the way both of you are breathing like you’re bracing for something.

“He called me Daddy,” Jungkook says eventually, voice low and distant, like he’s still trying to believe it. “Like it was… normal. Like I’ve always been that for him.”

You nod slowly. “It is normal. Now.”

He swallows hard.

And then he laughs—but it’s not funny. It’s cracked, raw.

“I missed everything,” he says. “His first words. His first steps. I wasn’t there when he was sick, or scared, or learning how to sleep through the night. I missed it all.”

His eyes are rimmed red.

“I hear him laugh now and wonder if he sounded like that a year ago. Or if he used to sleep on your chest like that. Or if he cried when he got his first tooth.”

You sit next to him and reach for his hand, fingers interlocking like instinct.

“You’re here now,” you whisper.

His jaw flexes. “That doesn’t undo anything.”

“No,” you say. “But it matters. He loves you. He trusts you. That means something.”

His hand tightens around yours.

And then, softer: “What about you?”

You meet his eyes. They’re so vulnerable it hurts.

“I’m trying,” you admit. “Some days I feel okay. Some days I still get scared. But I see how you look at him. I see how you’re showing up. And I feel it—I feel you trying.”

He exhales like he’s been holding that breath for months.

“I never want to let either of you down again,” he murmurs. “Not ever.”

You lean in, forehead touching his. His hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing gently beneath your eye.

“You won’t,” you whisper. “But if you ever do… we talk. We fix it. We don’t run.”

His other hand lifts—covers yours where it's resting over his chest. His heartbeat is fast beneath your palm, steady but full of unspoken things.

“I think I’m still scared you’ll leave,” he admits, voice barely audible. “That I’ll wake up and this will all be gone.”

“I used to be scared of staying,” you whisper. “But I’m not anymore.”

He blinks, and one tear escapes down his cheek.

You wipe it away before he can.

Then, gently: “We’re building something new. From scratch. No pretending. No perfect.”

“Just us,” he finishes. His voice shakes. “Me. You. And Ji.”

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say, voice thick. “Just us.”

And when he kisses you—it’s not rushed. Not desperate.

It’s deep. Slow. Like he’s anchoring himself in the weight of this moment.

Of you.

Of what you’ve become.

And when you pull away, his forehead rests against yours. His hand never leaves your face.

“I love you,” he says, and this time, it doesn’t ache. “So much it makes me dizzy.”

You close your eyes.

And say it back.

Not just because he needs to hear it.

But because you mean it.

The apartment looks like it was ransacked by prehistoric creatures.

Plastic dino footprints lead from the front door to the living room. Streamers hang like jungle vines from the ceiling fan, fluttering every time it spins. A pack of balloons, most of them green or covered in tiny cartoon teeth, bounce against the windows, trapped by the breeze coming in.

Jungkook’s mom is in the kitchen with yours, arguing lovingly over frosting consistency while whispering about whether Jiho’s too young to remember this. (He won’t forget. He remembers everything.) Jimin and Taehyung are trying to blow up a giant T-Rex float in the hallway, failing miserably. Your cousin’s on the floor trying to keep Jiho from tearing into his presents before the cake.

And right in the middle of the chaos—your son, in a paper crown and a dino t-shirt that says I’m Rawrsome, is vibrating with energy.

“Cake!” Jiho shrieks, running in circles. “I want cake now!”

“Patience, baby,” Jungkook laughs, catching him mid-lap. “You gotta blow the candle first.”

“And wish!” Jiho adds like he’s the one explaining it.

Jungkook lifts him up, balancing him easily on his hip as he brings him to the cake table. It’s a glorious mess of frosting, candy rocks, and a sparkler candle in the shape of a gold 3.

The room crowds in.

Everyone sings. Loudly. Off-key. Jiho claps for himself halfway through the song.

And then the music ends.

The candle flickers.

Jiho raises one chubby hand and says, “WAIT!”

The room quiets.

You exchange a look with Jungkook. “Uh-oh.”

Jiho straightens his spine dramatically, one hand on his hip. “You have to kiss.”

You blink. “What?”

He points at you and Jungkook like it’s obvious. “Kiss first. Like the movie!”

Laughter ripples through the crowd—your aunt snorting into her wine glass, Taehyung clapping like this is his favorite show.

Jungkook grins. “He’s been watching Sleeping Beauty on repeat. There’s a kiss before every happy ending now.”

You sigh, cheeks warm. “Okay, okay.”

You lean in to kiss Jungkook’s cheek.

But at the last second—he turns.

And your lips land right on his.

It’s not dramatic. Not planned.

But it stops time.

Just for a second.

The kiss is soft. Familiar. Comfortable in a way that makes your chest ache. His hand brushes your waist, steadying you like he forgot there were people watching.

You pull back slowly, flustered, blinking up at him.

He just smiles. “Didn’t want to waste it.”

Jiho lets out the biggest cheer of the night.

“YAYYYYY!”

Everyone claps.

“NOW I BLOW!” Jiho yells with all the authority of a tiny dinosaur prince.

He puffs his cheeks and blows the candle with all his strength. It sputters out with a little spark.

“Make a wish?” Jungkook murmurs beside him.

Jiho thinks very hard for two full seconds.

Then, proudly: “I wished for more cake tomorrow.”

Laughter explodes around the room.

“You’re definitely my kid,” Jungkook says, kissing his head.

As the crowd breaks into conversations and the cake is sliced (with Jiho insisting on choosing who gets which color of frosting), Jungkook wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you close.

You lean into him, both of you watching your son smearing icing on Taehyung’s face like he’s a canvas.

“He’s never going to forget this,” you whisper.

“Neither will I.”

The envelope isn’t hidden. It’s sitting right there on the counter, like it belongs.

Cream-colored. Sturdy. Real estate letterhead in bold at the top.

My stomach drops the second I see the logo.

I already know what it is. I don’t even need to open it — but I do. My fingers tremble slightly as I tear the flap, tugging out the thick packet of papers inside.

Deposit confirmation. Edelridge Realty. A house.

My name isn’t on it.

By the time Jungkook walks in from Jiho’s room, I’m leaning against the counter, envelope open, anger barely contained beneath the surface.

He sees me — sees the papers — and stops like he’s stepped into a minefield.

“You wanna explain this?” I ask, voice calm. Too calm.

He rubs the back of his neck, already looking guilty. “I was gonna tell you tonight—”

“You were gonna tell me?” I lift the papers slightly. “Not ask me?”

“Y/N…” He exhales, like he already knows where this is going.

“A house, Jungkook. That’s not a throw pillow. That’s not a car lease. That’s a life.”

“It’s just a deposit,” he says quickly. “It holds the place until we decide—”

“We didn’t decide shit.”

“You’ve been saying we need more space—”

“Oh my god.” I bark out a laugh. “So because I said this apartment felt cramped, your solution was to go full HGTV without me?”

“I was just trying to do something good.”

“For who?” I snap. “You? Me? Jiho? Because from where I’m standing, it feels like you’re writing a happy ending and hoping I catch up before the credits roll.”

His jaw clenches. “That’s not what I’m doing.”

I step around the counter. “You didn’t even think, did you? That maybe I’d want to see the house too? Walk through it? Imagine us there together?”

“I was going to show you—”

“After you handed over a deposit and made the decision alone?”

He steps forward, hands out. “Come here. Let’s just—talk this through.”

When he reaches for my hand, I slap it away without thinking.

“Don’t touch me when I’m still mad.”

He goes still.

“I’m not trying to fight,” he says, voice low.

“Well, I am,” I bite. “So if you don’t want to hear it, there’s the door.”

His brows knit together. He runs a hand through his hair. “Y/N, I messed up. I should’ve asked. But do you even hear yourself right now?”

My arms tighten across my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You say I don’t talk to you—but you hide how you feel all the time. You say everything’s fine, smile like nothing’s wrong, then I find you crying in the bathroom with the water running.”

My throat goes tight. “That’s not the same.”

“Yes, it is. You keep things in because you don’t want to burden anyone. I make decisions because I don’t want to scare you. And we’re both just guessing at what the other person needs.”

I blink fast, eyes burning.

He sighs again, softer this time. “I’m trying, baby. I just want to give you a future. Something solid. Something that doesn’t disappear when things get hard.”

“I don’t need a house to feel safe, Jungkook,” I whisper. “I need to be part of the life we’re building.”

A beat passes.

Then he reaches again. Slowly. His fingers brush mine.

I swat his hand again. “I said I’m not done being mad.”

“I know,” he says quietly.

And then he wraps his arms around me.

I freeze. Arms pinned. Jaw tight. He smells like baby shampoo and laundry sheets and home and I hate that I want to melt into it.

“I said—”

“I heard you,” he murmurs into my hair. “But I’m not letting you spiral alone.”

I exhale hard against his chest.

“I hate that you’re always the first to apologize,” I mutter.

He lets out the faintest chuckle. “Yeah. I don’t.”

And I let him hold me, even though my pride is still fuming — because his chest is warm, and his heartbeat is steady, and I think maybe I needed this hug more than I wanted to admit.

His hand moves up, cradling the back of my head like I might slip away again if he lets go.

We stay like that for a long time—breathing in the same rhythm, surrounded by silence that isn’t heavy anymore, just full. Like maybe it’s making space for something softer to move in.

His voice breaks through, quiet and close.

“I’ve never done this before,” he says. “This… family thing.. Being a dad.”

I pull back enough to look at him. His brows are furrowed, eyes low, like he’s confessing something shameful instead of something achingly honest.

My chest tightens.

“Jungkook…”

He shakes his head once, slow. “I keep trying to get it right. To do things for you. For Ji. But I don’t always know how to do it with you. And that’s what I keep screwing up, isn’t it?”

I blink hard. My throat’s too tight to answer right away.

“I know I should’ve asked,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over the curve of my waist like muscle memory. “I just… I wanted to make something real. Something solid. Something that doesn’t leave.”

My voice cracks when I finally speak. “You think I don’t want those things too?”

“I know you do.” He meets my gaze again, and he looks wrecked in the most vulnerable way.

I nod slowly. “I don’t want perfect. I want us. Mess and all.”

His lips twitch into the faintest, saddest smile. “We’re definitely messy.”

“But I still want to come home to you.”

That’s what breaks me.

He exhales through his nose, leans in, presses his forehead against mine like he’s grounding himself in me. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too.”

For a long time, we don’t move. We just stay there, stitched together in the stillness—two tired hearts finally meeting in the middle.

And in the quiet, we start again.

Always.

authors note: i actually adore part 1 of hold me tight its probably my fav story so i decided to make a 2nd part! part 6 of fwb will be out soon pls be patient its kinda hard to write it as of rn.. but pls comment! anonymous requests open!

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