It's Really So Cute 🥰🥰. It’s Short, Sweet, Heartwarming. Ahh Loved It. And I Love Nerdy Jungkook

dextrocardia | 04

Dextrocardia. Originally a medical term, but also a way to describe someone who's got their heart in the right place.

"She's been moved to another operation to help out. This pairing is necessary because you'll be undercover as spouses. I know you two can be professional about this."

"What?!" It's Jeongguk's upset voice that sounds, and for once, you share his displeased opinion.

Spouses.

pairing: cop!jk x f detective!reader

genre: undercover cops, fake marriage, e2l au, angst, fluff, smut

word count: 5.3k

warnings for this part: none really, except sexism and insults and jk is HOT but confusing (also,,,, k i s s i n g)

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 4/? 

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© dextrocardia is copyright jeonstudios. this fic can not be modified, re-posted, or translated without my permission.

Behind you, Jeongguk must be looking even more confused than you. 

“It’s hard not to notice the tv when you don’t have any curtains and really big windows,” Eunha elaborates with a chuckle.

Shit. Your heart starts to race, and you can feel your hands go clammy. That’s your fault. You leave the ginormous tv on during the night whenever it’s your turn on the couch. 

“He snores,” you blurt. “And I don’t wanna disturb him so I sometimes go downstairs because I know he needs his sleep.”

You know you’ll be skinned alive the moment you’re alone together, but you needed a believable explanation and you needed one fast. Technically, you could’ve pinned the snoring on yourself, but… no, Jeongguk and his friends have made your life a living hell, and you’re not about to forget that just because he’s got a tender touch and kissable lips.

“Oh?” It’s Hoseok who speaks, “That must be rough.”

“Yeah, I’ve told her to wake me, but she insists on going down, herself,” Jeongguk answers, his voice gentle and warm, and even if you can’t technically hear it, you do hear it; the irritation.

You zone out after that, relieved that your quick thinking worked but still frozen in some kind of fear, the others’ voices becoming muffled as they move on to small talk. You nod here and smile there, but soon enough, you and Jeongguk turn to leave.

“Why the fuck did you have to say that?” he seethes the moment you’re out of sight, turning to walk down the neighborhood’s sidewalk. 

You keep your eyes forward and your emotions in check, knowing that there could be neighbors watching. “Because we needed an excuse.”

“And of course, your first instinct is to throw me under the bus.”

“No, but I don’t see why I should always be the one to sacrifice myself?”

“‘Sacrifice yourself?’ I can’t recall you sacrificing anything, actually.”

You can’t say that he doesn’t, once again, disappoint you, but you glance at him, your lips parted. You definitely shouldn’t be surprised.

“You’re an ass,” you inform, “and on second thought, I think I’ll head back. Don’t really feel like hanging out with you.”

Holding your hand out, expecting him to pass the leash to you, you have to admit that what does surprise you is seeing him sigh and almost look… apologetic. Almost.

“I can still take him for a walk. I know you said he needed it, so I can do it, I don’t mind.”

For two seconds, you contemplate. But you don’t have the energy to argue and while you stare at Jeongguk, Fenrir pulls on the lead, excited for a long walk. You may dislike Jeongguk, but he seems weirdly fond of your dog.

“Fine.”

They’re gone for nearly two hours, leaving you to plan the coming days in peace, and when they return, Fenrir snoozes off happily under the dining table.

 

It turns out that the house’s sad excuse of a flower bed comes in handy for you. There are weeds and corpses of a few different plants you can’t identify sticking up from the dry dirt that lines the inside of the fence in the front yard. It’s not like you have an extreme interest in gardening, but thanks to your grandma, you know a few things, and coincidentally, working on it will give you a good reason to be outside, observing both the neighbors and possibly that god forsaken cat.

Wiping your forehead with your wrist so as to not transfer dirt from the gloves to your face, you gaze up, irritated at the sun. It just had to be an exceptionally warm summer, didn’t it? Insane beyond words, Jeongguk left about an hour ago to join Namjoon on his jog, and you almost hope he perishes from sunstroke or dehydration while away.

You’re wearing another light blue, flowy dress, your bare knees on the grass as you’re kneeling in front of the dirt. Despite the result of the flower bed being absolutely not important whatsoever, you’re still happy with what you’ve accomplished during the last hour or two.

Behind you is the pile of weeds you’ve managed to unearth, which is a lot. Unfortunately, you don’t have any live plants or even seeds to plant, so there’s just one more thing you can do today, which is watering the flowerless flower bed thoroughly.

It takes way too much effort to unroll the garden hose from its wall-mounted holder, but with the hose on the ground and the tiny little lever pulled just right, you hear the telltale sound of water moving through it.

The area you’ve “moved” into is a fairly dry one, so you’ll have to really drench the soil all the way down, and you waste no time.

As soon as you twist the muzzle, the water sputters until there’s a steady stream flowing. You twist some more, and the stream evolves into something more like a shower. It’s pretty, how the sun’s rays scatter on the many, many droplets, and you feel the slight breeze carry the very smallest of them to your skin. 

You take a deep, relaxing breath, enjoying the feeling and letting some tension go. You’ve been so uncomfortable here. Unsurprising, really, considering who else shares your house and what the mission means, but it’s really put a dent in your health. You have a hard time sleeping, scared of being snuck up on and murdered, and you don’t eat much, paranoid of being poisoned. Danger and evil is everywhere, around every corner.

You lift your gaze from the ground, and it falls on a specific house on the other side of the street. The cat, a ragdoll?, has shown himself maybe once. Perhaps you’ve also seen a suspiciously fluffy tail swish past a window once. His relative absence confirms your suspicion that he spends most of his time at a window facing the backyard and not the front.

You’re in the middle of planning a shorter side mission that might entail you, dressed in black from head to toe, and crawling through the tiny little, tree-sparse forest behind the Jung’s backyard fence when a sound catches your attention.

Before realizing that it’s Jeongguk calling your fake name, you’re startled, your body tensing up and turning around.

Still with the hose in your hand.

“What the?!” he exclaims, as he’s doused in the cold hose water, and you’re immediately trying to get your surprised hands to twist the muzzle shut.

“Oh my God, I’m sorry,” you apologize, eyes lowering from a half-naked (to whose surprise?) and dripping Jeongguk to your hands. 

The wet, slippery hose doesn’t cooperate, and so all you can do is redirect the water down onto the ground while you try your best to shut it off. 

Somewhere in the back of your head, you register… laughter, and big hands suddenly appear in your vision to take the hose from your hands.

When you peer up, you’re eye to eye with your partner, his hair wet and dripping water onto his face. But he’s grinning, seemingly carefree and not… angry?

Gently, he takes the hose and twists it shut, and when you look around, you notice the reason. There’s laughter coming from the small audience of Namjoon, also half-naked and sweaty from their run, and Eunha and Hoseok, leaning against their own fence on the other side of the street. Perhaps you also spot one of the older ladies living in a house further down the street peek her head out the open door at the ruckus.

“Thank you. And, uh, sorry,” you smile sheepishly, watching a droplet run down Jeongguk’s face and drip from the tip of his nose.

“It’s okay.”

But his smile grows as he takes a step back, and before you know it, he’s turning the water on again with you as his target.

“Jeo–Jaehyun!!” you shriek, holding your hands out in a feeble attempt to stop the cold stream from soaking your dress.

Oddly enough, your nemesis turns the setting to the softest stream, but you realize it perhaps wouldn’t look the best if he was witnessed trying to powerwash his wife’s skin from her bones.

Luckily for you, he only keeps it on for a few seconds, but you definitely think he enjoys it. When he shuts the water off again, he drops the hose to the ground to approach you.

You lock eyes, your heart beating heavily, and you don’t have the brain capacity to think about the others watching.

He steps closer, so much so that you’re nearly chest to chest, and your heart comes to a standstill instead as you peer up at him. Your skin is wet, almost as wet as his although your hair remains a bit dryer.

A water drop threatens to fall from a black strand hanging nearly in his eyes. Eyes that don’t waver from yours. They’re warmer, almost freckled with gold under the sun.

“Your dress is see-through.”

Not once, as he walks you back to the front door, shielding you with his own body, does he look down. Not even as the distance between you increases when you go to open the door to slip inside, instead, he looks away.

“Thank you.” You don’t know why you’re thanking him. Well, you do, but you don’t.

“No problem,” he smiles, turning around to head back to his new-found buddy.

 

Around twenty minutes later, when you’re in a dry change of clothes, Jeongguk enters the house. 

“Eunha’s visiting her mom in two days. She’ll spend the night there too.”

You look up from your laptop where you’re sitting on the couch. Jeongguk is still half-naked because when is he not, but he’s also still a bit wet. Not as much, so you figure he must’ve dried off quite a bit out in the sun, already disappearing into the bathroom to return with a towel to pat the remaining water away with.

“What? How do you know that?”

“I heard her. She asked Namjoon where to buy a bonsai tree for her mom.”

“Oh,” you answer, trying not to stare as Jeongguk rubs the towel all over his hair, making his abdominal muscles flex. “That’s good. So, today is… Tuesday, meaning that she’ll leave on Thursday, and spend the night. Their cat’s favorite window is guaranteed at the back of the house, so if we find a way to figure out which exact window it is by Thursday… We can get inside then.”

“No, that’s too early. You want me to go to the poker night–the first one I’ve been invited to–and skip out early? Even if we do crack which window it is, it’s too risky. Too suspicious. I say we wait a week; watch the cat in the meantime, and I’ll leave early next week.”

You’re almost a bit taken aback. Since when does Jeongguk know how to converse–about your different opinions nonetheless–without calling you names and looking at you with disgust? Silently, you wonder if he slipped and fell on his head outside.

“It’s not. We use one of the battery-powered mini cameras and we set it up on their backyard fence tonight after dark, and you go to Namjoon’s on Thursday, stay for a drink or two, for maybe… an hour or two? I’ll call you and tell you that I’m sick.”

He watches you, still unconvinced but with a surprisingly optimistic look on his face.

“The quicker we get even the smallest lead that we can use in the investigation–and we can leave, the better. Even if it’s a bit less suspicious to postpone a week, the risks increase each day we’re here. Besides, we don’t know when the house will be empty again.”

Jeongguk doesn’t say anything, and so you shut your eyes for a second before opening them and looking at him. “They’re not telling us anything; our best bet is to bug the house as soon as possible. You can tell them I’m pregnant or something. Say that it’s early on but that I’m still affected. You can even say that I’ve been sleeping on the couch because I throw up a lot and want to be near the bathroom and not disturb you. That I lied about you snoring because I didn’t want to tell anyone yet. ”

Finally, he seems to actually consider it, biting his cheek before he speaks. “Fine. We rig the camera tonight, and depending on how it goes, if we get clear enough evidence on the cat, we do it this week.”

“What do you say?” Jeongguk’s quiet voice sounds from your phone that’s lying on the kitchen table.

“A little more to the right. No, no, tilt it to the right,” you guide, both hands gripping the Ipad screen. Jeongguk follows your instructions and the Jungs’ house moves within the borders.

“There, there! That’s good; all windows are in frame.”

“Good, I’ll just… fasten it,” he informs, and you can hear the slight rustling and see the camera move minorly. “Still good?”

“Yeah.”

“Great. I’ll be back within five.”

With that, the call ends, and you sigh. The house is still displayed on the screen, in the night vision mode’s green tint. You make sure the screen is plugged in properly, and you adjust the settings to start recording at the smallest sign of movement.

Then, with approximately one minute left until Jeongguk’s return, you start preparing. He’s been more focused on the job the last few hours which is positive because the more focused he is, the less vile he is toward you.

You take a deep breath when the front door opens, silently reminding yourself to not stare at his body. Before he left, he got changed into a black, long-sleeved compression shirt and black cargo pants, and you’re not sure what’s worse, the usual lack of a shirt or this one because you can still see every little shape and bulge and dent in his upper body.

“Works?” he asks the moment he steps into the kitchen, heading directly toward the cupboard with glasses.

“Yeah, good, uh… job.”

The second it’s out, you shut your eyes briefly. You didn’t need to say that, he was gone for less than fifteen minutes. He taped a camera to a fence. Immediately, you brace yourself for the incoming insult. ‘It’s not hard when you have the slightest bit of talent in your body,’ or ‘do you really think I need compliments from you?’

“Thank you.”

You blink, certainly surprised. 

It would’ve been your turn on the couch if you hadn’t gotten fucking exposed. What bothers you is also that, after hearing Jeongguk’s reasoning, a small part of you is actually considering sleeping in the bed with him.

“We don’t even have curtains. And our windows are too big, if they look through them even from the street, they’ll most likely see you.”

Maybe you’re the one who hit their head somehow? Because you’re currently standing in the bedroom, watching Jeongguk pull the covers away. 

“That’s all you’re wearing?” you question, fidgeting with your hands and nodding toward his mostly-naked body. Of course, he’s bare up top, only wearing a pair of shorts, and it’s ridiculous how fit and muscular he is. The muscles in his arm flex when he grabs a pillow, and his abs move too when he positions it to his liking.

“Uh… Yeah? It’s summer; it’s hot as fuck.”

It doesn’t matter that he isn’t spitting insults in your face–you’re still not comfortable with him. Maybe even less so because why would he suddenly not take a very good chance to hurt you? Why didn’t he insinuate that you’re lucky to be able to witness a body like his? Sleep next to him in bed?

Should you do it? What happens if you don’t, and they notice you on the couch? You don’t think your neighbors are suspicious of you but will they be? If the mission fails–if you fuck it up–what will happen? You won’t pretend that your safety isn’t at risk.

“Are you just gonna stand there, or…?”

“What about Fenrir?”

Jeongguk plops down on the bed in a sitting position with his back against the headboard and clasps his hands behind his head. You try not to look at how his biceps bulge.

“I don’t mind him. In fact, I’d rather sleep beside him than you, so he might as well sleep in here too.”

There it is, some sort of insult. In fairness, you guess having someone as gorgeous and talented as Jeongguk also be kind would offset some sort of balance in the world. You just can’t have it all. 

While he watches, you open the closet and gather some shorts and a t-shirt in your arms, and without a word, you head out to the bathroom on the bottom floor.

Fenrir looks at you with his big, brown eyes when you unlock the bathroom door a few minutes later, having washed up and changed for the night. He’s an attentive dog–that’s why you got him–and he surely knows that you’re nervous. 

“Okay, we can do this,” you whisper to the dog, “It’s just one man, and you’ve got my back, and I’ve got yours.”

Not that Jeongguk would even look at Fenrir with anything remotely close to disgust, but it feels better when you remind yourself that Fenrir’s on your side. Sure, Jeongguk may like him, and perhaps Fenrir likes him back, but the dog is yours, and you are his favorite person.

When you return, Jeongguk is still sitting in bed, but he’s preoccupied with the phone in his hands. 

“So what’s the plan for tomorrow, then?” you ask, flicking the light switch off and trying to ignore your nerves as you approach the bed. 

“I’m not sure,” Jeongguk answers without looking up. The only lightsource in the room is the device in his hands, and it illuminates his face, “what do we need before we’re ready to enter the house?”

“Well, we’ve got the equipment and hopefully the window of time when Eunha’s away and Hoseok’s at Namjoon’s. If we’re lucky, we’re able to confirm which window to enter through tomorrow. I’d say all we need to do is perfect our excuse as to why you’ll have to return home without it seeming suspicious.”

You stop at the foot of the bed, disgusted at the thought of having babies with Jeongguk, even if they’re made up. 

“Also, we should probably see if we can find out more about their cameras, if there’s, you know, a plug to pull before entering just in case either of them decide to take a look. You could always try to steal Hoseok’s phone during the poker night or otherwise prevent him from looking, but Eunha might want to check in on the cat through hers.”

“I can have the chief make some calls to cut the power to their house for a few minutes?”

Surprised, you look at him with wide eyes and raised eyebrows.

“I mean–yeah, if that’s a possibility? I didn’t know it was?”

He puts the phone down on the bedside table. “I think it is. It won’t work for the alarm since those have backup batteries, and there’s a small risk the cameras could as well, but it would be better than only disconnecting the router while already inside in case they have their own connection. We don’t know if the cameras are set to record movement or, like you said, Eunha decided to take a look either.”

His suggestion is good, you can’t deny that, but it makes irritation bubble in your veins. Yes, the chief is sexist like so many men in law enforcement, and your relationship isn’t the best, but to hear Jeongguk speak of the man as something like a friend? You doubt he’d be cutting power if you asked.

“So, are you getting in, or?”

Blinking in the low light, you realize that you’ve just been standing at the foot of the bed with both Jeongguk and Fenrir watching you, Fenrir from the floor beside the bed.

“Yes,” you sputter, not wanting your nerves to show. More determined than you’ve felt in quite some time–fake determination or not–you grab the duvet on your side to get under it. “Just a warning, though. If you touch me, I’ll get Fenrir to bite you. Fenrir, up!”

The big dog jumps up and lies down between you and Jeongguk, and you feel confident enough to lie down with your back toward him.

“If I touch you? You think I want to touch you?”

Like so many times before, your heart sinks. Of course, it doesn’t make sense that you care since you hate the man, but evidently, you do. You’ve begun to reach the conclusion that something’s wrong with you.

 

Unsurprisingly, you don’t sleep much. At all, really. So, you rise with the sun because what’s the use in lying in bed with an unconscious Jeongguk? He’s definitely pretty to look at, and sleep somehow makes him look almost… endearing, but you definitely know you shouldn’t, so you grab a change of clothes and leave the bedroom.

It’s eight a.m., and you’re sitting at the kitchen table when a newly awoken Jeongguk drags his feet into the kitchen. You look up from the tablet just in time to see him stretch his arms over his head and yawn. Still half-naked, of course.

“Didn’t expect you to be awake at a reasonable time,” he comments, nearly tripping over his own feet. It makes you snicker, and you curse to yourself.

“Dude, I don’t think you’re even awake.”

Jeongguk squints his light sensitive eyes at you, his hair sticking out in every direction and swaying as he approaches the fridge. After opening it, he reaches for the orange juice, and you think you feel the air turn slightly… awkward.

“So, today… We should look happy. Like, even happier than just newly-weds. As if we just found out you were… pregnant? Or should the story be that we’ve known a little while?”

Oh. Your fingers trace the rim of your own mug.

“Well, if I’m supposed to be sick tomorrow, then maybe it would be best if we say that we, or I, have been suspecting it because I’ve been feeling… the symptoms? And that it’s the reason I decided to test for it yesterday? We can act like we’re happy but trying to keep it a secret for a little while longer because it’s still early?”

Taking a sip from the blue mug in his hand, Jeongguk nods. “I’ll do the rounds, looking excited, but I won’t tell them until poker tomorrow when I explain why I’ll need to go home.”

“Because I’m sick and worried something might be wrong?”

“Yeah. By the way, did you have time to look through that yet?” he gestures toward the screen in your hand. “Did it show anything?”

“Yeah, I think we got it,” you smile hopefully.

 

Your sleepless night catches up to you, and while Jeongguk locks the door behind him to meet Namjoon for yet another morning run, you dive back into bed. Can you call it a nap if it’s not even ten a.m.? Who knows, but the extra sleep in a quiet house does you good.

At eleven, you stick your feet into your sandals to take Fenrir for a walk, but it isn’t long after you’ve stepped outside that you spot Jeongguk and Namjoon outside your short fence. Both are breathing heavily and more or less drenched in sweat. In all honesty, Namjoon is both slightly taller and bigger than Jeongguk, even if Jeongguk looks more… defined, but… it bothers you how your eyes are drawn so much more to Jeongguk. You, if anyone, know what a terrible person he is, and how he finds you appalling and gross and disgusting, yet you find yourself looking at him.

You manage to pass the men quickly, but since you’re supposed to be extra happy and in love today, you still make an effort to give your fake husband a heart-eyed smile and a kiss from your tippy toes, your hand on his sweaty chest. He looks down at you warmly, and you hope that you manage to look as happy as he does.

You allow Fenrir to do his business, and then, you’re on your way to Hyeji’s house. She’s on her porch when you approach, excitedly waving you closer.

“Good morning!” she greets, and even Bubbles comes running from inside the house, barking.

“Morning, how are you today?” you lean your arms on the fence, giving her your best ‘I just found out I’m having a child with the man of my dreams but I’m keeping it a secret for now’ smile.

“Great! How are you? Care for some tea?”

“I’m pretty great too. And sure, I’d love to,” you smile, intending on acting like you’re feeling sick but pretending to be good. Layers.

Hyeji grins, and as you head inside the fence and toward her porch with Fenrir in tow, you realize that perhaps you’ll miss her when all of this is over. If you make it out, that is, there are still a ton of risks.

For almost three hours, you sit and chit chat. You even forget that you’re supposed to act somewhat happy because you don’t have to act. In a way, Hyeji reminds you of your friends back home, of Sana and Jihyo, but despite how much you’d rather stay and talk about anything and everything (except your real life) with her, you should probably get going. 

Your mind is in overdrive during the short walk back to the house. Dark, mysterious eyes, friends, assignments, weapons. Gunshots. When you slide the unlocked front door open, the house is eerily quiet. Your heartbeat picks up.

“J–Jaehyun?” you call carefully, just in case Jeongguk is home but not alone. There’s no reply, but another sound. Like… groaning?

Briefly, you wonder if someone’s hurt, and logically, it would be Jeongguk. Slowly, you sneak through the front part of the house with Fenrir’s collar tightly gripped, until you see him.

It is Jeongguk, and he’s doing pull ups on one of those bars he installed in the doorway to the bathroom. Like earlier, he’s wearing shorts, his sweaty back facing you, and he appears to be listening to music through his headphones. For just a second, you let yourself admire him; his strong back and arms, and the sounds he makes. Then, you unleash Fenrir, chuckling a little to yourself when he lunges in excitement, startling Jeongguk to the point he almost falls on his ass.

“Didn’t hear you,” he heaves, bending down to scratch Fenrir behind the ears. 

“We noticed. How has it gone today, so far?”

Jeongguk straightens up, “Uh, pretty well. I’ve mainly been, you know, trying to build relations and acting extra happy. Also went through the footage up until now, and the result’s the same. It’s for sure that window.”

You nod, “That’s… good. Means we can proceed with the plan.”

The plan may not have been the most detailed or…  planned, and it definitely didn’t contain Jeongguk moving the old hammock–left behind in the backyard by the old owners–onto the porch and waving you closer when you step outside.

“It’s… cold,” you excuse, looking out over the street. It’s nine p.m., and the sun is setting over the neighborhood, but it doesn’t mean that its residents have retreated inside yet. In the distance, there’s still laughter and chatter echoing from someone’s backyard, and two houses over, people are sitting on the steps of their porch with wine glasses in their hands.

In a surprisingly good mood, Jeongguk keeps motioning for you to come closer. You do slowly, wrapping your arms around your dress-clad self.

Seeing Jeongguk look anything other than seething confuses you and nearly has you squinting your eyes at him in suspicion. An hour earlier, you went looking for Fenrir, calling his name throughout the house and starting to grow worried. Then you saw them through the window, playing in the backyard, and you stayed there, watching.

You don’t like seeing Jeongguk happy. It’s just not believable. To be fair, he didn’t know you were watching him, and he was alone with your dog with no one else around, so there was no use for him to pretend, but… it just can’t be real.

The eyes that are usually so dark with hatred and disgust–or at least used to be–crinkled in a way you’ve never really seen before. He smiled as he called for your dog’s attention, laughing happily when Fenrir went running for the ball Jeongguk threw. You observed as they played for a while, and then as Jeongguk sat down in the grass and patted his lap, Fenrir trotting over with the ball between his jaws and lying down across Jeongguk’s legs.

“Stop whining,” he teases, looking so handsome as he rises to stand before you, “and sit with me.”

Taking you by surprise, Jeongguk shrugs off the navy sweatshirt he’d been wearing and places it over your head before you can say anything about it. Somewhat reluctantly, you put your arms through the holes, gasping in surprise when Jeongguk tugs you down beside him by one of the inevitable sweater paws.

“Do you think they’re fooled?” he wonders quietly, still holding onto the sweater, “Do we look like newlyweds that can’t keep their hands off each other?”

“Umm, I don’t know. Never been a newlywed. Or married at all, actually.”

You’re not sure what it is, if it’s your quiet voices in the summer night air, or if it’s something else, but a calmness starts to settle in your chest.

Jeongguk chuckles, locating your hand in the fabric, “Well, me neither. But we look like we could be, at least I think. You’re not the worst actress, after all. Or wife.”

Eyebrows raised slightly, you meet his eyes. “How generous of you.”

He keeps smiling but doesn’t say anything more, and slowly, he raises his hand, stroking your cheek before gently holding your chin. Then, he moves closer, and he kisses you.

You let him, and you definitely do kiss him back. Slowly at first, then a little more eager. He tugs a little on your waist, and carefully, and with your heart beating out of your chest, you move onto his lap. He keeps his warm hands on your waist, rubbing soft circles with his thumbs, and you feel the rough fabric of his jeans against the skin of your legs.

At that moment, he’s sweet. Kind. Funny. You don’t think about the cockiness, the arrogance, the rolling of eyes, and insults directed your way. You live the fantasy, ringed fingers and feelings growing warmer. Being cared for, desired. But even if all of it were true, you’d have a lot to work through. And it isn’t true, it’s an act, especially from his side. The neighbor you saw peek over her hedge a minute ago just reminds you of it. It doesn’t stop you from coming to the realization that you want it. You want him to like you, you want him to want you.

Despite you not moving much on his lap, something soon happens. At first, you thought you imagined it, but no, he’s definitely getting hard underneath you while also slowly, slowly lowering one of his warm hands to the naked skin of your outer, lower thigh, and it triggers your fight or flight response. 

You pull back, fear in your eyes as you climb off him.

“Hey, I–” he tries, but you’re already back away.

“I gotta go, I, uh, have to get ready,” you excuse. 

Of course, there isn’t anything to get ready for, not until tomorrow anyway. But you turn, and you hurry inside, locking yourself in the bathroom.

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So cute, adorable, heartbreakingly beautiful. I love this so much. Such a strong, brave and beautiful OC 💜💜💜

𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐆𝐨𝐝 🔞

Personal trainer!Jungkook x Baker!Reader

.｡.:✽ You're everything he's not. You're irritating. You're weird. You're confusing- and you're also everything he wants to be.

.｡.:✽Genre: slice of life, Romance, heavy Angst, Fluff, Adult, comfort

.｡.:✽Other Tags: body-insecurities/body hatred (Jungkook), mentions of past abusive relationship (verbal/emotional), reader is a cinnamon roll (get it?), overcoming past trauma, strangers to lovers, cuteness overload, suggestive themes such as sensual touching, kissing, body worship, oral (Female receiving)

.｡.:✽Wordcount: Long, 7.1k

.｡.:✽Story type: Oneshot

.｡.:✽Masterlist: Click

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Jungkook liked sweet things, some time ago.

He'd enjoyed ice creams with mild flavors such as vanilla, or other sweet desserts that were similar to it. He snacked often and always got a little excited when experiencing a new flavor for the first time, adventurous and never judgmental when trying out things he's never eaten before.

Jungkook also loved junk foods, like ramyeon or fast foods. He couldn't help but give in from time to time, the convenience of it all being a quick meal convincing enough to walk through the food markets back in his hometown, just to get back home with a plastic bag full of treats.

But that was before he'd met her.

He's always been quite quick to fall in love, not only with people. With a soul as trusting and eager for affection as his own, he's always been someone to love others with a fiery temper and a full heart. But that also made him an easy victim, a target almost painted on his chest it seems; because he also was once someone who trusted easily, and never saw the bad in someone.

Now? He wishes he could go back in time and warn his naïve self of what's to come.

He's punching the black bag over and over again, arms already aching- but that's just a sign that he's pushing his limits again. He knows his body inside and out, takes great care of it- or at least that's what he likes to believe. Never again will someone be able to make him feel shame about himself, never again will he feel like he did years ago.

He knows his worth.

But on his way home, he smells it again; the scent of melting sugar and baked goods, faint but familiar by now ever since the bakery had opened up a few months prior. Whatever is sold there must be good, because he can see the people lining up at the front door every morning before it opens up- and even after the morning rush, the tables inside and outside seem always filled. He wonders what's it all about- maybe just a glance this time.

He won't buy anything, he's just looking.

Someone's humming to a newly released pop-song quietly playing from the radio, inside of the shop warm lit and inviting. It looks almost more like a home than a café- but it's empty now, a much different look than what's going on during the day. "Oh?" your voice finds his ears, and he needs to take two glances left and right to find where you are, broom in hand and standing behind the counter. There's a bit of flour on your apron, and what looks like sprinkles, the frilly blouse you're wearing underneath void of any stains however. Your face shape is absolutely not as sharp and angled as what he's usually surrounded by- be it men or women- and you're visibly not as tall as the average female from what he can see.

Cute, he thinks to himself. What?

No, you're absolutely not cute. You're probably not even aware of all the calories you're selling to costumers daily- and it must be pure irony that you've opened your shop in close proximity to a gym of all places. You probably never went to one in your life, absolutely careless about your weight or health-

A lightbulb starts to flicker aggressively above his head. You laugh sheepishly.

"My boss said he'd get that fixed tomorrow. It's been like that for a few days now." you tell him for no reason. He didn't ask. "it's a little creepy to me, you know, considering I'm working alone when closing. But I can't change it myself, you know." you explain further, putting the broom to the side. Again, he doesn't know why you're telling him this. He doesn't care.

"you're closed?" he asks after a moment of staring at you awkwardly, and you shrug, making him confused.

"depends. I have some iced coffee left?" you say, opening a small fridge behind the counter. Only now does he realize that the shelves are void of any goods.

"don't wanna cause you a hassle. It's fine." he waves off at that, and you nod, smiling. He just nods back dumbly, walking out the door.

"Oh- please be careful! Goodnight!" you call out, and he turns around, hands in his jogging pants' pockets. His brows are raised, irritated.

"I'm a guy." he tells you, and you nod.

"So?" you wonder, and he scoffs a little.

"whatever." he simply mumbles to himself, before closing the door behind him.

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Yoongi breathes heavily as he sits down on the carpeted gym floor, close to where his friend and personal trainer stands. "How's the shoulder?" Jungkook asks, mild worry in his words as he sits down close to him as well, crossing his legs.

"Better- but I think I should call it a day." He says, pushing a hand against the front of his shoulder before moving it in a circular motion. "Don't wanna overdo it." Jungkook nods at that, before another voice chimes in.

"I hope you're not overworking yourself already, Yoongi." You say, walking up to both of the men, and Jungkook himself can't help how his face shows his judgement of you. You don't fit into the scene at all, with your overknee socks and frilly skirt. You're wearing a blouse with cat-shaped buttons, entire attire showing that you visibly don't seem to care about your shape, seams of your socks already rolling down on one side from the fact that they sit so snug against your thighs, right where he can spot faint stretch marks lingering. Aren't you even the slightest bit ashamed?

Yoongi pats your head once, laughing at your words simply, before he looks into the white plastic bag you've brought. You're squatting now, Mary-janes making a slight sound as the leather bends to accommodate the way your feet are bending a little, and he tears his gaze away as soon as he notices that he can see almost under your skirt. You really have no shame, it seems. "What's that?" His older friend asks, rummaging around in the bag, while you just smile with excitement, your cheeks all round and a little blushed.

Would they look like that if you were to loose a bit of weight too? He hates how bloated he looks after eating, has kept his body-fat percentage low to make sure his face stays sharp and masculine- always remembering how much she praised his appearance if he did that. It's what's desirable, after all- so he can understand where she came from, back then.

Would she love him again if she saw him now?

"They're filled with a peach filling- but I played around a little so it's not too sweet, since I know you don't like that too much. And, you know, nowadays people are pretty scared to eat something sugary it seems." You joke, making Yoongi shrug while Jungkook feels irritated.

"Some people care about their diets." He speaks without holding back, and Yoongi looks at him a bit scandalized- but he doesn't get to scold him, because you're already talking.

"One single cream puff isn't going to ruin your body if it's once in a while." Jungkook hates how confidently you say that. And how he knows you're right, too. But he doesn't back down either, feeling threatened now.

"You don't look like one to know much about nutrition." He mumbles more or less, and Yoongi looks even more angry now- but you don't seem fazed at all, still smiling.

"Do you eat after working out?" You wonder, and he feels self-conscious now at that question. Oddly put on the spot. He doesn't like it- doesn't like you. You're not pushy, not at all, just asking, but he feels like you're interrogating him in a way he's uncomfortable with.

"No." He mumbles more or less to himself. "I have a tendency to, you know.. binge." He doesn't know why he's admitting that. You just asked a simple yes or no question, why does he feel the need to justify himself?

You're digging around in the plastic bag at that, before offering a small plastic container. "Here-" You say, friendly smile way too sugary for his tastes, like honey staining his teeth. "It's just fruit, nothing added to it. I brought them with me because I like to snack them during work, but you should definitely eat those instead." You tell him, and he looks at you with a questioning gaze.

"What will you eat during work then?" He wonders, and you shrug, an impish glint in your eyes.

"I'll hardly starve from one day without snacks. It's important to eat within the first two hours after working out- and we both know I didn't touch any of these weights here." You say giggling, and his heart stings a bit. While yes, he thinks the same, it's still tough to hear you say this so easily. He doesn't want you to think like that about yourself. He doesn't want you to feel like you need to adjust. "Alright- are you still coming Yoongs?" You wonder, and Yoongi nods, getting up and helping you stand as well. Your hand looks small in Yoongis large palms. Jungkook notices your little struggle. He himself can get up without any help.

"Yeah. We're eating at Jin's, you wanna tag along?" Yoongi asks the younger man, who instantly shakes his head.

"I need to put everything back into place again. Thanks." He simply offers, turning away from you both.

"Alright- maybe another time." You say, and he can only imagine the pitiful look you probably have put on for him. "I really wanna try his new dessert- he said he put some extra aside for me!" You giggle, voice becoming more quiet as you walk away. "Do you think I can watch him cook this time?"

"You know what Jin's like, but maybe-" Yoongi's voice becomes undistinguishable the further he walks off, and Jungkook dares to look around, seeing you smile effortless up to the older man, a little jump in your step, while the usually rather stoic producer looks at ease and genuinely friendly towards you. You both look so comfortable, so warm, and Jungkook suddenly feels like a kid left behind to stay at home alone for the first time- his inner thoughts not his own it seems as he watches you both leave the gym.

I want to come with you, too.

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Sex isn't really anything special anymore.

He tends to be the first leaving, just like now- having barely undressed anyways, but he knows how to work around being naked while satisfying someone else. They don't care about him anyways, simply out for pleasure and no strings attached, and he's fine with that too. It makes him feel something at least, even if it's barely anything. It tastes of nothing but stale bread, feeding his desires while his soul leaves starved yet again.

The door closes behind him, and he can hear the lock set in.

Walking home, he passes your bakery- or rather a side-project of Jin's he'd been told by Yoongi last time he'd trained with him. It's closed now, but he still walks towards it, looking at the dark interior inside, barely visibly and only lit from the streetlights outside. Some red dots are blinking, indicating the security system is active inside- though Jungkook doesn't know what one might want to steal from a bakery of all places. The chairs are all upside-down on the tables, neatly placed, floor clean of any crumbs. Tomorrow, the people will wait at the entrance again, standing in line to get their breakfasts and coffees, and you'll probably stand behind the counter again with all those stains on your apron like he's seen you before.

He really doesn't know how to feel about you.

It's clear to him that your body makes him feel uncomfortable- because you're lacking any sense of consciousness about the way you look, but at the same time that can't be true considering you otherwise looked very well put together. Yoongi likes you- so why doesn't he himself feel the same?

Maybe because he's jealous.

He likes to tell himself that you're standing home alone as well, in front of the mirror and judging all those unflattering parts like he does way too often. Maybe you're just good at masking your feelings- your work having stained your very touch to the point that everything you do is just so tooth-rottingly sweet. You probably can't help it. He understands that.

Jungkook liked sweet things too, some time ago.

He walks away from the shop and back home, where nothing but the buzzing lights wait. And a cold bed, because he left the window open.

Maybe in his dreams he could fly outside?

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"Oh, Jungkook, isn't it?" You ask, almost bumping into him in the furniture store.

"Yeah." He simply answers, a hand on your back pulling you a bit out of the way when he notices an elderly woman trying to push her shopping cart past you. Your back is warm. You're also way shorter than him. It's odd how he only notices now, it seems.

"Oh, thanks!" You say. "Uh- do you know where that spot is to get furniture you've ordered?" You ask, and he furrows his brows.

"I don't- what do you mean?" He asks, and you look up at him, clearly not uncomfortable standing close to him, because there's barely a step of space between you two. Or at least it feels like it to him. In reality, you're probably standing two steps away. At least. He puts his hands in the front pockets of his sweater- just to pull them out again. The pocket looks award when something's in it. He doesn't want to look odd.

"I ordered a small dresser a week ago, but they didn't have it here yet- so they ordered it and I could take it home later." You explain, and Jungkook nods at that, now realizing what you're talking about.

"That's up front- do you have a cart?" He wonders, and your eyes widen.

"Oh shit." You almost whisper, and a snort escapes him.

Oh god that's weird. He coughs to cover the sound up, but you're already laughing at him. He knew it. He can feel the tips of his ears turn red already-

"I'm so stupid I swear." You laugh- but it's at yourself, he realizes. "Ah, I'll get a cart then, and hunt down some employee so they can lead me there. It's no wonder they made those SCP-Horror stories about Ikeas stores." You giggle, and Jungkook can't suppress his smile this time. He can't force his lips down.

"You know about those?" He asks, he doesn't know why. He doesn't care.

"I'm on reddit and 4chan, I know more than I want to, to be honest." You say, faking a serious expression. "Someone made an experiment with his piss once-" You start, and Jungkook laughs at this, unable to be stoic about the way you so seriously say that. "I'm serious!" You laugh along, and he nods.

"No no, I believe you." He nods, using all his strength to make sure he doesn't grin, because his teeth look like a rabbits, she once told him. He doesn't want you to see it. Or maybe it's just become a habit. "Do you need help with that closet you bought?" He asks, and you giggle again. Did he say something weird?

"It's a dresser- but I guess it can classify as the same thing just smaller?" You think. "Wait when does a closet start and a dresser end- is it even size?" You begin thinking, and Jungkook apologizes instantly.

"You said dresser, I remembered that wrongly, sorry." He says, but you just playfully shake your head.

"No worries, maybe its even a closet and I just misunderstood." You tell him. "But yeah, if you could help me, that would be awesome! Gotta use those muscles for something, heh?" You joke, poking his stomach a little. He feels like you've just shot him. He doesn't know why he's so hyperaware of where you've placed your finger on his stomach, and it doesn't hurt, but in a way, it does. He doesn't know.

You're confusing him.

He trails after you like a lost dog and he's aware of it, but he can't help it. He's offered his help, it would be rude to just leave you be now, and he doesn't want to be rude to you. Even though he's been rude to you before already. Oh yeah- why do you seem so at ease with him?

You walk towards the place where he'd told you to get your furniture, and when the old man starts to place every piece in your cart, Jungkook helps without thinking. It's the same once you're at your car- he lifts it all into your trunk without thinking of the consequences it might have for him, adjusting the seats so everything can fit into the small vehicle properly. It's only when you go to bring back the cart that he realizes in horror what had happened.

The inside of his sweater feeling damp against his skin, body freezing as he can only imagine the darker stain on the back now where he knows he sweats the most. His neck feels just as cold as the wind passes him- even his hairline bothering him now. Why did he help you with that stupid furniture? He knows he sweats easily.

'Jungkook' she'd said, apologetic face when she'd spoken. 'you gotta do something about that. I don't wanna say its gross but.. well, it kinda is. No offense.'

Her voice doesn't let go of him even years after breaking up it seems. It echoes inside his head even as you're walking back towards him- and he falls into panic realizing he's gonna take public transport home. Maybe he should just walk. He didn't even get what he wanted to get anyways. "Thank you so much!" You say, grinning at him with genuine friendliness, and he just feels awkward standing like this in front of you. "Where did you park?" you wonder, and he shakes his head.

"Took the bus." He admits, and you nod.

"Oh- do you want to ride along? The least I can do is give you a lift home." You offer, but he's quick to shut it down.

"No no, it's fine, I'm all sweaty and gross now-" he rants, but much to his surprise, you simply shrug.

"Gross?" You ask, and he nods, ashamed.

"Yeah." He responds.

"Nah. Come on now, if you help be put it up too I'll put some chicken nuggets in the oven!" You giggle, getting in the car.

He doesn't know why he accepts your offer.

His smell is probably already noticeable to you in the small interior of the car. He doesn't rest his back against the seat- the fluffy covers way too clean to be touched by his sweaty back. He hates that he's like that. Maybe he should consult a doctor about this. This has to be an issue only he has. But then- your hand pushes against his front, forcing him to lean back into the seats.

You don't say anything, but you also don't need to. He just stares- because between all the horror of knowing now that you know about his insecurities and inner fights, there's a glint of relieve filling him. Because you're not annoyed. You don't seem bothered. You're still smiling a little, eyes on full alert while you keep your attention on the road in front.

While he right next to you can't help but think, how come he's never noticed how pretty your collarbones look? Not sharply protruding, or aggressively visible- but soft, delicate, and merely there to show that your bones underneath your skin are present. A simple necklace rests over them, pendant hidden in your cleavage, but the silver band alone seems enough to decorate that part of you perfectly. Your neck is a little red where you've scratched it a little earlier, itching the skin for no apparent reason- but it doesn't look out of place. It's like proof that you're alive, because looking at you now, he realizes what you remind him of.

Those old paintings of angels, with their soft bodies and rosy cheeks.

But that spot, and the slight redness on your nose is proof that you're alive. That there's blood running through your veins, that there's a heart beating and organs working inside of you. You're breathing next to him, and that alone makes him feel oddly out of place.

Because you're so at ease with just existing, it seems.

You know that he's staring, but you don't scold him either. You just smile, like always sugary sweet, when you have to stop at a red light- and he feels like he's drowning in honey.

But the strangest thing is that he's fine with that.

Because once in a while won't hurt your body, right?

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Your apartment is odd.

Its Sunday, and he's currently waiting for you to do something in the kitchen while he takes off his shoes, looking around the area of your small home. It all looks warm, chaotic but inviting- like a genuine home. You don't seem to follow any sort of decoration theme, more or less simply existing, just like always, and it's odd to him how it all still fits together. It looks like you. Cozy.

"Alright, so-" You start, leading him into what he assumes is your bedroom, considering the bed in the corner. "-I just need help with like, holding some of the heavier boards. I'll screw, and you hold, alright?" You offer, and he nods. That's what he's here for. Why are you saying this stuff as if he's got an option here?

He doesn't even know why he's agreed to it- or even when exactly he did in the first place. All he knows is that you're actually good at following those disgustingly confusing instructions- never seeming to misunderstand where something goes, confident in the way you screw in those metal pieces, as if you've done this multiple times before. And all is fine until you have to stand awkwardly in front of him- and he becomes aware that you can probably look into the wide and short sleeves of his oversized grey shirt. You can probably see that he didn't shave, why didn't he think of that?

But you just smile at him for a second, as if to pacify his thoughts, before you turn back to your task.

He falls into his habit of judging you yet again when you sit on the carpeted floor, reading the instructions with screws in your hand while the other turns the page of the tiny booklet. The board has left a red indent in your thigh where you'd leaned into the wooden piece not too long ago, soft thighs seemingly without muscle while your arms look similar. Your wrists are small, fingers dainty like a doll- while your stomach rolls up in several little folds from the way you sit a bit hunched over, legs crossed now. The thin straps of your top lay carefully over your shoulders, and only now does he realize you're not even wearing a bra- faint outline of your nipples against the inner fabric of the top giving him the clue to come to this conclusion.

There's oddly enough no sexual thought in his mind though. Only the mere question about, how?

How can you just sit there so comfortably, not even realizing how admittedly unflattering you're showing yourself to him right now? You're not wearing makeup, your hair a little messy, and he hates the fact that you still look pretty to him. You look adorable, with the way you lick your lips before biting the upper one a bit deep in thought. Is it a habit? He wants to know, and he doesn't even know why.

"Jungkook?" You ask, waving your hand in front of his face a little. He didn't realize he's sat down on the back of his heels by now, probably staring into nothingness. The carpet has created angry red imprints on his knees. They look awfully boney compared to yours- he can't help but pull down the seams of his sweat shorts, his gaze falling onto the little heart shaped pendant hanging from your necklace. There's a paw print on it, and he wants to know why. Do you like pets? Why don't you have any? Then his eyes fall back onto your cleavage. Your breasts look just as soft as the rest of you. Are you warm? Could you warm him up if he touched you? "You can let go now, you now?" You say, and his heart stops beating for a second, eyes snapping up to meet yours.

"The board. You.. can let it go." You giggle a little, and he swallows hard, and lets go of it. There's a sweaty handprint left. Great- he's being gross again.

"Maybe I should skip dinner today." You say suddenly, and he feels ripped out of whatever thought he might've had just seconds ago.

"What?" He asks, whispers almost.

"You know, to combat all of this?" You say, sitting back and stretching out your legs or a second. "Maybe if I work out hard like you I don't look like the Michelin man when sitting down?" You laugh, but he doesn't see the joke. Where is this coming from? He doesn't like that you talk about yourself like that. "Do you think if I lost weight my face would look like those models in the TV commercials?"

"Stop it.." He says, barely above a whisper, in no way an actual threat. You just rant on.

"But then again, it's probably genetics. Imagine my body being all toned but my face still all round. I'd look hideous- all for nothing, really." You sigh. "But plastic surgery is an option. The easy way. I mean, I saved up to maybe move into a bigger apartment, but imagine how my life could change if I was pretty!" You tell him excitedly, and he hurts. "Like, actually, conventionally pretty!" You tell him. "I'd finally be loved too-"

"Stop.!" He barks out now, having reached his breaking point. He wants to apologize for yelling, but you're still smiling, sitting right in front of you. Only now does he feel your knees touching his- skin warm, warmer than his own it seems. Or maybe he's just imagining it. He can't stop staring at the differences. "Don't say that.."

"It's rough hearing someone else talk about themselves like you talk to yourself, isn't it?" You say suddenly, quietly, softly, and he feels his eyes sting. Now he really wants you to stop. "Truth is, Jungkook, that I don't care." He looks up at you. "I don't care what you look like. I don't care what I look like." You say, and he swallows thickly before attempting to get up. But you don't let him, holding his arms, even though you're no match for him.

He lets you win.

He doesn't know why.

But he lets you.

And he cries into the crook of your neck, all ugly and loud, sobbing now because who cares? He's already crying in front of you, so fuck it. It doesn't matter now, he just wants to exist just for a moment too, without thoughts and expectations and deadlines and time, and your hands are so gentle running over his back, your body heavy on his lap, but in no way uncomfortable. He feels as if your weight keeps him from floating away, from breaking apart and being swept away by the waves.

He calms down only after a moment- but refuses to look at you. Embarrassment is already creeping up his throat, making its home in his mind when he realizes the way he'd cried all over your naked shoulder. He's being gross again. "Who hurt you, Jungkook?" You carefully ask, and he shrugs.

"No one." He answers, voice raspy.

"Bullshit." You respond. "This doesn't happen for no reason." You say, and it's quiet for a good moment, giving him the opportunity to break apart from you- but he doesn't want to. You're warm- and he hasn't had something sweet in years. He just wants a taste.

"I was gross back then. I still am, sometimes." He admits. "Like right now."

"You're not." You reassure, but he shakes his head.

"She loved when I worked out. Said I looked like a Greek god when I was at my peak." Jungkook explains, for the first time spilling anything about it. "She wouldn't sleep with me if I slacked with my workout. But when I managed to stay on schedule, she'd love me. And I loved her."

"Jungkook.." You say, but he continues to rant.

"She really loved me then. You know. All the bad things she told me, all the times she yelled at me, I could understand it then. It was to help me, so she could love me at my best." He tries to justify, but you just squeeze his body.

He likes that feeling. He wants you to do it again.

"That's not love, Jungkook." You admit to him. "She didn't love you, Jungkookie. She loved your body, nothing else."

"I don't care." He simply responds.

"But I do." You say, and he feels his eyes sting again. "I care about you."

"You said you didn't." Jungkook fights back, leaning back a little and your hands wipe his tears from his cheek without any sense of disgust.

"I said I don't care what you look like." You remind him, and he can't help but stare. Have your eyes always been this pretty? They're like two rare gemstones polished to perfection, moving so lively and looking so warm and inviting. Even the faint redness and blemishes look more like stars now than anything else. "I care who you are. You're such a handsome being, but it's all messed up because of someone who didn't even notice what she had." You say.

"You're just saying that to boost my confidence." He responds.

"I'm saying this because you deserve to have that confidence." You instead say, and he cant help but stare for a second. "Don't kiss me now." You say, and he blushes, stammering a bit.

"I-wh.. why not?" He wonders. The moment is perfect, so why don't you want to? He's confused. It all sounded so much like you liked him- maybe even loved him.

"Because right now, you're not properly thinking." You say. "Go home. Sleep. Go about your day- don't think about it." You instruct. "For once, just exist. You've got free will Jungkook, no one cares if you work out or not, if you go get a coffee or not, or if you stay at home and laze around all day. Do what you want to, just for once, and not what you think is expected." You say.

"And if I still want to kiss you after?" He asks, and you smile.

"Then I'll be here, waiting."

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It's been weeks since you've seen Jungkook.

Yoongi says he's gone on a trip, camping, something he's not done since he was a kid. You're happy- he deserves to do what he likes, and to exist without any boundaries. "He's looked.. a lot warmer these days." Yoongi says, speaking to you who's sitting on his couch in his studio. "I have a feeling I know who's at fault."

"Hmhm, maybe." You say. "I still can't believe how much damage that bitch has done." You grumble to yourself, loosing a game on your phone, and letting it fall out of your hand onto the carpet on the floor.

"Yeah. I remember how heartbroken he was when they broke it off." He sighs, before clicking some stuff on his computer. "Did he talk to you at all these days?"

You shake your head. "Not a single message. It's fine though- he's probably busy enjoying his newfound freedom." You giggle, and Yoongi turns in his chair, looking at you.

"It's okay to be upset." He tells you, and you nod, well aware. You're not upset though- you're happy for him, genuinely so. Maybe he'll find someone who will finally cherish him for who he is, and not what he looks like. He deserves feeling happy. "Come here, angel." He suddenly says, and only now do you realize the tears falling from the corners of your eyes.

Seconds later dampening Yoongi's sweater, while he holds you close in the quietness of his studio.

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"What do you mean he doesn't work here anymore?" Jungkook wonders, standing in front of Jin who simply shrugs, defeated.

"I think Yoongi said she's now a lyricist under his label. Don't know where she went now though, sorry." He offers, before going back to wiping the counters.

Outside, Jungkook calls his friend with eager taps of his fingers- but he's not picking up. You said you'd be waiting, you told him you'd wait- so why did you leave now? You loved that bakery, you had a passion for your work, so why did you just break apart from that?

Because you've got free will.

You're way more aware of it than he is himself, having only newly discovered it, but it hurts to think that you just left like that. Sure, it's been almost half a year, but is that really too late now?

Your apartment.

He takes the bus line he's taken before, stands in front of the building, tries hard to remember which apartment number was yours, but he can't for the life of him focus anymore. He doesn't remember, he doesn't know- how could he forget a fucking number like that? Maybe you tested him, tested his love and he literally royally fucked up that test like a champ, because he took all your advice, all your efforts and all your comfort and ran off with it instead of staying. He should've stayed. He should've insisted.

He should've fought.

"Jungkook?"

His phone vibrates in his pocket before it falls out, clatters to the ground. The screen is probably broken. He doesn't care.

"I still want to kiss you." He says.

You break out in laughter.

Before pulling him down towards you.

……………………………………….｡.:✽:.｡………………………………………

"That's not how you do it." Jungkook says, furrowing his brows.

"So?" You say. "Not a crime I'm committing here. Modern problems require modern so-lutions!" You struggle with the chopsticks, before the cork of the wine bottle finally plops out. "Hah! You see that? I'm a survival specialist, Bear Grylls has nothing on me!" You triumph, before pouring some in his glass, then your own.

"So you plan to survive a let's say, zombie apocalypse, with wine?" He raises an eyebrow, the warm fire between the two of you crackling away and painting your body in red hues.

"Hey, being drunk makes a lot of situations better." You offer, and he laughs- freely, corners of his eyes crinkling a little, bunny smile on full display. You like him most like that. Free.

Happy.

"Hm, I disagree." He says.

"Oh?" You challenge.

"Hmhm." He tells you, taking a sip of his wine after you. "For example, my first time with you shouldn't be wasted with alcohol." He cheekily says, and you blush- happy the fire covers that change in color for you. "I wanna remember it." He teases. He's become awfully bold- entire being evolving into something you can only describe as dangerous.

"Ah.." You just respond.

"Too much?" He asks, and you shake your head.

"No- just.." You say, unable to quite put it into words. "It's weird hearing someone say that, you know, to me." You say.

"Why?" He wants to know. Are you a virgin? He highly doubts that- considering you're pretty soul and pretty smile. There's no way he's the first to ever be interested in you like that.

"I don't know, it just.. happens, I guess. I'm good at giving advice left and right, but I'm bad at following that myself. I.." You admit, sighing as you look at the fire. "..tend to let myself be used, I guess."

"Why?" He asks again, but this time its whispered, like he himself can't believe what you're telling him.

"Because it lets me dream a little?" You giggle. "It's why I didn't kiss you, you know, right away. I know where it would've lead."

"And you don't want that with me?" He wonders, but you shake your head no.

"I do." You say. "I did back then too." You confess without shame. "But.. I liked you too much. It would've crushed me to wake up and realize it's been nothing but a short fever dream. I would've hated myself if you woke up and.. I don't know, realized that you don't like me like that after all, and that emotions were just hot and high."

Jungkook nods at that- because he can't say that it wouldn't have happened like that. You looked out for him that night as well, maybe without knowing it- and he's thankful you did. Because it gave him time, freedom, and the chance to really let everything sink in and flow through.

It made him realize that he still loves you, even if you hadn't been the one to wake him up like you did.

"Now I ruined the mood." You laugh, throwing your head back a bit in dramatic agony. "Ugh I'll never get anywhere like this."

Wordlessly, Jungkook puts his glass down on the plastic table, before he walks over to you and takes yours as well, helping you stand up. "Jungkook?" You wonder, and he just kisses you, soft and warm like he always does. It's silent, there's no need for words, especially not when he picks you up and opens the door of the campervan, bringing you inside where he immediately tries to shed your thick jacket and sweater.

"You're so pretty." He chants out, hands running over your warmed up skin like he has to convince himself that you're real. And he does, in a way- because it all feels absolutely surreal to him in every way.

He doesn't think about his own appearance at all. He doesn't care.

He doesn't mind when you pull his own sweater over his head, hood of it catching on his jaw and making you both laugh. Your hands on his skin feel like heaven, he's never realized how he'd burn the world down just to feel your skin against his own. You're holding onto him like he's worth millions, his lips chasing yours, teasing you every now and then by not letting you get as close as you'd like to.

Sex has never been so exciting and comfortable at the same time for him.

Every sound you make, every heavy breath or whine he drinks up like a starving man, hands gripping your flesh like you'll disappear if he doesn't hold onto you strong enough. There's trust in this- trust you'll tell him where to go if he looses his way, trust that you'll accept what he does for what it is, trust that you'll love him just as much as he loves you.

Your thighs are soft, laying over his shoulder as he holds onto them, his mouth busy on your core.

You're both cute and absolutely enchanting, writhing and squirming under his actions, whimpers accompanying his own obscene noises he doesn't care about making. You're divine, you deserve to be treated like it as well.

And you cum so prettily too, toes curled and hands reaching out for his own.

"I love you." He says, and you smile up at him, kissing his lips before you turn his chin towards the side.

"And I love you too, but maybe no kids yet?" You joke, making him laugh and nod as he walks over to fetch a condom out of his bag. He didn't specifically plan anything to happen on the trip with you- but he still prepared in hopes of it. "Jungkookie.." You say, when he's back above you, wrapping the contraceptive over his length.

"Hm?" He wonders, looking at you wide wide eyes, in all his naked glory and inked up skin.

"I love you." You say, and he grins, brightly even though he's barely illuminated by the little campfire outside.

"I love you too." He responds, adjusting your positions to push himself inside. "Everything about you." He adds on, before he moves, slowly, agonizingly slow, frustrating you. But he seems to enjoy that struggle, rather than feel like he needs to adjust anything. "We've got time." He chuckles, and you wrap your legs around his middle at that.

"Please..!" You beg, and he only cocks his head to the side at that, hair falling into his face a little. "Kook, please, come on-"

"Impatient now?" He wonders, and you huff.

"Obviously!" You call out, making him laugh again before he pushes your thighs towards you, adjusting his pace to a more brutal thrusting.

Your head spins.

"You look so fucking pretty like that." He praises, hands on your skin digging into your flesh, probably leaving imprints later on.

Good.

"Gotta mark you up all pretty too, right?" He grunts into your neck, kissing first, before he bites, sucks, claims almost. "Gotta make sure they know you're mine." He says breathlessly.

"Yours." You respond out of breath yourself, before you clench around him, orgasm hitting you hard at his ruthless pace. He himself can't help the obscene moan that escapes him as well, coming undone only a short time after you.

"Make sure they know you're mine?" You joke, out of breath. "Where did that come from?"

"My heart." He says, making you slap his chest. "Ow!"

"You're so cheesy!"

"You love me for it."

Yes.

Yes you do.

……………………………………….｡.:✽:.｡………………………………………

---

wartime child

synopsis. raising a baby in wartime isn’t easy. but when your baby starts showing signs of magical abilities, you’re forced to ring up the only other person you know he takes after: jeon jungkook.

genre. loosely based of the harry potter universe. wizard au. dad au.

words. 12.1k

after story.

side story (myg)  | side story (kth)

feedback.

cross-posted on wattpad.

x

it must be five o’clock somewhere. that is, if there is a part of the world that isn’t shrouded with ash grey clouds and recurring thunder of the mighty zeus. you don’t know - nobody does - but something’s very wrong somewhere upstairs. the newscaster’s words in the background is too fast to catch. you pace back and forth, anxious, restless. until you realize the thudding sound couldn’t have come from you - couldn’t have come from human footsteps.

the door.

you peek through the hole, relief washing over you as soon as you see the lock of brownish hair.

“___, hi-” his greetings are cut short as you pull him in, slamming the door behind you and making sure each lock is secured.

“it’s starting,” you say, almost sounding mad if it wasn’t for the baby you gave birth to ten months ago upstairs, “the first time i noticed, he was on the floor instead of the crib. i thought maybe he just crawled out but then the second time, i know and you know how i know? mr. tubs was floating past me while i was changing his diaper, jungkook,” you pause, eyes widened like a mad man, “the cat was fucking floating!”

jungkook calls your name, the voice you would usually find soothing is now a dread than a relaxant. but then again, it was never the voice. it was-

“mommy!” your baby reaches out his pudgy hands as the nursery door swings open.

there’s a still pause as you wait for something to fly at you. or float past you. or your own baby start drifting in the air like a balloon. but nothing.

“i swear, he has it too, kook.” you hold your baby in your arms, glancing over the man as though begging for him to trust you. as if you’re the crazy one! can you believe it? you! two years ago, you were just a waitress of a diner downtown, trying to get by. if you could take it all back, if you could press a reverse button and turn down that handsome charmer that sat by the window, reading a book (except it wasn’t any ordinary book that you can get a soft copy of - it was a spell book) instead of being on his phones like anyone his age would be doing, you would in a heartbeat.

Keep reading

i imagine you’re a home

Pairings: bestfriend jungkook X yn | Genre: Angst healing au | Trope: it’s complicated AU | SFW: PG-13 | Word Count: 1.8k

Summary:  it took one miscall to spiral Jungkook down again.

It was everyone’s fault. 

Keep reading

---

In Two Parts - jjk

Synopsis: Everyone warned you he was a heartbreaker, hell, he even warned you himself. But if warnings really worked, then there would be no consequences. 

Genre: It’s just angst sorry guys >:cc

Pairing: fuckboy!jungkook X  reader

Word count: 1K

Warnings: Theres like allusion to sex but it’s superrrr vague.

Note: This is going to be part of a set of drabbles from the poet Lang Leav, she’s amazing you should check out her book Love and Misadventure it’s great omg. Anyway, enjoy!! If this does well I might turn it into a story idk yet hehehe. 

“You come and go so easily, Your life is as you knew- While mine is split in two. How I envy so the half of me, Who lived before love’s due,   Who was yet to know of you.” - Lang Leav 

Everyone warned you, they had been vivid with their descriptions of how he broke hearts, how he charmed people into his bed and never let them into his heart. You were foolish, easily swayed because all you had experienced from life was the good, the pure, the innocent. He was from a different side of the world you thought you knew, like yin and yang, good and evil, you had been polar opposites - at least seemingly so. You had that same assumption, the assumption that you could change him if only you had the chance to show him love. You were one of many and in reality, there was nothing special about you. Nothing that could really sway his cemented way of life, his promise to never love for as long as he lived.

Keep reading

My lucky stars | jjk

pairing: dad!jungkook x mom!reader

word count: 4k (pls this was never meant to go over 2k but I suck)

genre: lots of fluff, domestic, parents au, established relationship, implied smut

summary: it’s been almost two years since your little weekend getaway at the beautiful lake house, the place that granted you memories you hold deeply in your heart. Now, it’s time to visit again as a family of three, and to add more of those wonderful memories to your ever growing collection.

a/n: hi loves! here’s a follow up piece for the wishing for you fam! I guess this can be read as a stand alone, but will make much more sense if you have read the story first, so if you haven’t done so, go check it out! I dedicate this one to my sweet and lovely @vaekth!!🥰 thank you so much for giving me this wonderful idea sweetheart, and for always being so supportive of my work and kind to me! I really hope you enjoy it!!

The scenery outside is just as beautiful as you remember. Just as mesmerizing as it was when you first admired it two years ago. The bright spring sun is reflected in the calm water, surrounded by greenery and pretty blooming flowers of all kinds of colors. The same small canoe docked at the side of the pier making the sight look straight out of painting. It’s wonderful.

Keep reading

jungkook x ‘my universe’ mv 

bonus:

GUILTY AS SIN? | JK | PART 𝐈𝐈

"He remembered how to stay—and you learned that some things are worth the mess, that love sometimes comes too late, but longing never does."

→ Pairing brother in law! Jungkook x widowed fem!reader

→ Genre forbidden love! au, childhood friends to lovers, angst, smut, fluff

→W.C 17.10k

→ Warnings oc is going through it, Jungkook is a flirty menace, ceo jk, lovesick jk, simp jk, possessive Jungkook, jealous Jungkook, rich people lunch time!!, mentions of blood and injury, mentions of drinking, yoongi makes an appearance, he has no lines, namjin, yearning?, bathroom escapdes, silly banter, sexual tension kissing, making out, explicit sexual content, fingering, an almost handjob, penetrative sex, dirty talking, soft Dom jk, praising, creampie, bathroom sex, fluff (you don't even wanna know my definition of fluff), hoseok is a victim, minho is haunting the narrative as he should, angst (sorry girls It’s my brand 😝), doomed siblings

→ Playlist dress by Taylor swift, I can't be more in love by the 1975, in the woods somewhere by hozier, I can see you by Taylor swift, last words of a shooting star by mitski

→A/N Hii! Hello!! First things first: THANK YOU. Like, thank you in all caps lock. The love you all poured into Guilty as Sin honestly made me giggle to myself more than once. Every comment, message, share, and heart, It meant the absolute world to me. You’ve made this messy little story so much more than just words. You made it matter. And it was just so disrespectful of me to keep you waiting so long for a part 2 that wasn't really in my plans but yeah. Life got a little too unbearable, the plot bunnies misbehaved (you know how they are). But I really hope it’s worth the wait and not me just reheating my own nachos 😅😅 This is also most probably the last thing I'm gonna write for this story, at least for a long while. Thank you for reading. Thank you for being patient and most importantly,thank you for being kind. I love you and please do let me know your thoughts. Message me. Tell your plants. I'm all ears.

| PART 1 | PART 2 |

A thing about churches is that they were built for quiet.

Not silence. No, silence is an absence. This is presence. Heavy and hushed and holy.

There was something about the air inside them—perhaps the solemn, how it was weighty, drenched in devotion—that made the world outside feel far-flung. The towering arches, the glow of candlelight flickering against stained glass, the low murmur of prayers threading through the smother.

The light is softer here too, filtered through the glass—fragments of crimson and gold painting benches and pressed shoulders. Candle flames sway slightly, flickering like they know secrets, like they remember everyone who ever sat here in search of something they couldn't name.

You tell yourself this stillness is what you needed. That this space—sacred and slow—would help clear your head. But the truth is, the quiet here doesn’t comfort. It exposes. Peels you open from the inside out.

You hear too much in it. Feel too much in it.

Even on days when you could still hear easy synchronicity—hands clasped, laughter spilling into the cool air. Especially on days like these.

Or maybe you're mixing that up with something else. Something that has been coloring your days blue for a while now.

Something that doesn't pauses for holidays, doesn't make exceptions for birthdays, doesn't even bother to step aside for just one evening and let one breathe.Does not give way to leaded glass windows or the allay of a congregation. No, it lingers, seeps into places meant for worship, curls around the edges of pews and prayers alike. Certainly doesn’t soften on afternoons like these. Even though the flowers hadn’t wilted.

You hadn’t given it much thought.

Or rather, you had avoided thinking about it altogether.

Perhaps that is why, sitting here now—hands folded neatly in your lap, shoulders drawn tight—yet you feel it, heavy as ever.

Your mother-in-law had insisted you come, refusing to leave you alone, her soft-spoken request leaving little room for refusal. Mira had chimed in too, linked her arm through yours with a smile that tried to coax you back into the land of the living, or like she was letting you in on some joke only the two of you shared.

And so, here you were.

Church had never been a place you frequented, even when Minho was alive—he hadn't been particularly devout, preferring to spend bargaining his way through the sunday market and believing in the way the sky could shift from blue to violet in the span of a single evening—though you both had come when his mother had asked you to, of course, had sat beside him in these very pews, but never like this.

Not without him whispering some irreverent joke about heaven’s waiting list, about how maybe angels got bored too.

But now, you found yourself here more often.

If only because there was no reason not to because what waited you was a quiet apartment, a neatly made bed you hardly slept in and a day untouched by plans, by purpose, by anything remotely significant.

Also because you thought he wouldn’t be here.

Your mother-in-law had told you he wouldn’t be able to make it, had mentioned something about work, something about how he's not big on religion, much like his brother and oh, how you’d clung to those words. Let them blanket your nerves in fragile relief. One more hour. One more day of—knowing you wouldn’t have to see him today, that you could go on one more moment pretending you weren't aware of the inevitable, that you weren't unraveling at the seams every time you so much as thought about him.

That, that's why you had been skirting around him.

Maybe not consciously. At least, that’s what it looked like (You knew. Deep down, you knew.) But ever since that night—God, you really don't want to think about that or him in front of.. God without feeling like you're going to burst in flames. But its not exactly easy.

Not here, where the quiet literally wangles you into the deepest darkest of your thoughts. Thoughts that you're sure would.

Because the quiet here curls around your memories like smoke, drawing them out from where you’d hidden them. It coaxes them up your throat and behind your ribs until they’re a dull, burning pressure you can’t shake off.

You shift slightly in the bench. Mira breathes beside you, soft and steady. You press your palms flat against your lap, grounding yourself.

It hardly works. Especially not when he arrives. That strange, electric knowing. Like the air knows him. Like the space adjusts around him.

The low creak of a door, the faintest hush falling over those nearest the back.

Late, quiet, slipping into the back like a ghost who had learned how to walk among the living, embodying every bit of the word 'handsome' in the most tailored of ways. Hair laid out in perfect symmetry. A ironed, muted blue suit hugging every bit of his perfect posture. Eyes so probing, so demanding of attention that you wonder why you ever got confused when everyday a new number of girls would approach you at school, especially at university for his number.

Then he had just been your doe eyed friend who you wanted to spare from heartbreaks. Not aware of the term-"heartbreaker" that had been given to him. Ironic, really.

Now you feel like you understand. You feel like you sense him before you see him. Sense every bit of his presence that you maybe had overlooked before. A shift in the air, the faintest murmur of acknowledgment rippling through the congregation.

Both Mrs Jeon and Mira are turned towards the figure, thier expression brightening in recognition, waving small hands at the figure that is approaching your way, pulse quickening with the footsteps.

No.

He said he doesn't do church.

He wouldn’t.

He wouldn’t sit—

The soft creak of the seat behind you made your breath hitch.

The older woman only smiled, a pleasant suprise. For her, atleast. "Jungkook-ah! You came! Oh, how lovely!"

She's sure the reason is that he is finally letting divinity in, you're sure you're losing yours.

You don’t turn but Mira does as she shifts beside you, knees bumping against yours to smile in greeting. Saying something about how her husband should learn a thing or two from him and give this a try, accompany her once in a while. A deep, warm chuckle in reply hits you square in the back of your head and your shoulders tense.

Low, rich, like warm amber poured over ice.

It lands like a bruise.

You feel it—real and impossible and close.

You swallow hard, keeping your eyes downcast, determined not to react any more. You fix your gaze on the marble altar, on the golden flicker of votive candles.He’s behind you. Of course he is.

Because where else would he be, if not the one place you prayed he wouldn't?

Even as the sermon continued, voices rising in unison for prayer, you could barely hear them, could barely not feel your dirtiest secret behind you, close enough that if you leaned back even slightly, you might brush against him.

The service moves forward, and you try to focus. You try to listen. Tried to will your ears to listen, to stay anchored in psalms and promises and the choir’s distant swell. Just get through this.It couldn’t possibly be so difficult. No one knows. No one suspects a thing. The polished congregation kneels and stands with rhythm and faith, unaware that your spine was stiff with a secret, that your breath refused to steady. Only you knew. Only he does. And that truth grips your tounge so hard there’s no way it’s ever slipping past your mouth.

But then a touch happens. As if maneuvering. A whisper of movement behind you, so faint it could be the air shifting, a trick of your mind.

Light. Fleeting. Not direct. Not quite.

You freeze.

Just the faintest brush of fingertips against the ends of your hair that spilled over your shoulders, the softest, most cursory pull. Just a teasing pass, like he’s testing the silk of it between thumb and forefinger. There’s a pause, then the strand is gently looped once, slow and idle, as though he’s turning it over in thought.

Then released.

The answer to that is that it happens again. A lazy twirl of a strand, a slow release.

Not enough for anyone to notice. Not enough to draw attention. But enough for you to feel it. Enough to make your skin prickle, your heartbeat stutter.

You shift in your seat, pressing your hands tighter into your lap, back rod-straight, lungs stuck in a breath that wouldn’t come. The sensation was too distinct now, too exact to mistake.

It doesn’t stop. Another strand. A drag of fingertips. A near-caress.

What the fuck is he doing?

You don’t turn. You don’t react when you should have thrown him a warning glance—but that would mean acknowledging him. That would mean facing him.

And you didn’t know how to look him in the eye and not think about it.

His mouth. Your sigh. The sound of your name said like prayer and profanity.

Didn’t know how to hear his voice and not remember the way how his lips shaped against your skin. Venal. Hungry.

Didn't know how not to follow the tattoos that ran through his sleeve and pretend that you haven't took your time exploring them. Aversly. Teasingly.

Didn’t know how to feel the weight of everything you weren’t supposed to want pressing down on you like a second heartbeat.

The way he had tugged your shirt up with reverence and bitten down like he wanted to leave a mark not even salvation could scrub away.

Do not react.

Do not move.

But he kept going. And the sermon blurred.

Gods, you were going to burn. You were going to hell. And he'd be there already, waiting with his hands in your hair.

When the sermon concludes, you stand too quickly, push your hair forward and Mira shoots you a look, her fingers grazing your wrist in question. You shake your head, offering her a quick, brittle smile before stepping toward the exit. You walked. Out of the stall. Out of the building. Out of your goddamn mind.

To your relief—you were still a perfectly coordinated bundle of cells when you were out. The sun hit you outside, sharp and sudden, dragging long shadows over the stone steps. You sucked in fresh air like someone who had been underwater too long.

The relief lasted long enough until Jungkook spoke under the sun casting long shadows against the stone steps. “I’ll drive.” Voice cutting through the polite chatter.

“Oh, that would be great, dear. Y/N, Mira, come on.” Your mother-in-law, oblivious, beamed, completely unaware that you had just spent forty-five minutes debating if setting yourself on fire in the house of God would be less painful than what had just happened.

The car ride should be easy.

It should be nothing. A short drive. A forgettable stretch of road between church and the Jeon family estate.

Should be.

But as you are pressed against the window, your coat bunched beneath you like a failed barrier, you want to either open the window for air or bolt from the moving car, with every inch of your skin crawling with awareness, tight and buzzing and flushed in ways that had nothing to do with the temperature.

The cabin is too quiet. Too warm. The low hum of the engine does nothing to drown out the sound of your heart, which feels like it’s beating directly into your throat.

And then there’s that scent again.

The scent of leather and something distinctly Jungkook curling in the closed space. A mix of his cologne—something dark and woodsy—and the faintest trace of laundry detergent, clinging to his shirt like it had no intention of leaving. It shouldn’t be so familiar, but it is. And that’s the problem.

“That sermon was lovely, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Jeon’s voice is light, warm, like freshly baked bread. The kind of voice that belongs in a home, not a car filled with tension so thick it could choke you.

Mira hums in agreement beside you. “It was.”

You blink, only now realizing how little of the service you actually absorbed.

“Of course,” Mrs Jeon continues, turning slightly in her seat, eyes alight with something rebuke, “not everyone was paying attention.”

You tense, breath catching, even when the accusation isn’t aimed at you. You feel it anyway.

“What?” He finally speaks, voice even. A little hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. Like his vocal cords were dry from silence and prohibition.

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know, Jungkook-ah." his mother huffs, shaking her head. “You join for the first time ever in a while, sit in the back, and then spend half the time looking like you didn’t even knew where you were." she finishes with a scolding tone.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, hand tightening against the steering wheel. He doesn't argue.

Because It did seem so.

Mira, ever the enabler, bites her lip to stifle a laugh, glancing at you with barely concealed amusement.

You do not look at Jungkook.

You absolutely do not.

Mrs. Jeon, unbothered by the quiet tension thickening in the car, continues, “You know who else was praying a little too hard?”

Silence. No one answers with whatever self preservation they have.

Not because they don’t want to. But because they know better.

Because when Mrs. Jeon starts on church gossip, there’s no stopping her because apparently it's what it's best for.

She leans in, lowering her voice like she’s about to reveal something sacred. “Mrs. Kang.”

Mira gasps dramatically. “No.”

“Oh, yes.” A firm nod. “She was crying, dear. Again. Right in the middle of the third hymn.”

You blink. “Why?”

The older woman tsks, as if the answer should be obvious. “That husband of hers. You know how he is.”

You makes a thoughtful noise, tilting your head. “Didn’t he… move to Seoul?”

“Yes, but does distance stop a man from causing stress? I don’t think so.” You didn't think so too.

Jungkook exhales, long-suffering. “Why do you know all of this, eomma?”

His mother waves a hand dismissively. “Please, son. I hear things.”

Mira leans in. “Did she cry last week too?”

“Of course,” Mrs. Jeon replies. “But last week was because he didn’t call her for three days. This week, I believe he’s dating someone half his age.”

Mira sighs. “Men.”

You let out an involuntary snicker before you can help it. You don’t even know if it’s a real sound or something your soul exhaled out of disbelief.

Then, you make the mistake of glancing toward the front.

Because Jungkook’s eyes are on you.

Not on the road.

Not on his mother, who is still detailing the tragic love life of a woman you barely know.Not at the red light blinking in the distance.

His eyes are dark and unreadable, barely hooded, like he’s watching you and also thinking about the last time you were under him, gasping. Like maybe he’s remembering the way your nails looked against his neck. Or the way you said his name like a prayer, far more pledged than anything the pastor could conjure.

And every so often, you caught him.

The first time, you looked away immediately. The second time, you stared out the window so hard you gave yourself a headache. The third time, you stared back, even as something molten and dangerous simmers in the quiet between you.

His gaze held yours for a beat longer than necessary before shifting back to the road.

Every part of you was aware of him.

Of the way he adjusted his grip on the wheel. Of the way the veins along his forearm flexed when he turned. Of the way he never looked away fast enough.

Mira nudged you gently. “You okay?”

You nodded through the lie. "Fine."

Your mother-in-law again turned in her seat, smiling warmly. “I hope you’ll stay for lunch, Mira. We have invited the kims too. It’s been long overdue." The word ‘lunch’ doesn’t quite capture what’s waiting at the Jeon house.

Because it isn’t just lunch.

It’s crystal glassware, centerpieces too elaborate for a midday meal, and courses that require cutlery you don’t know how to use properly. It's a show. A subtle flex. A performance wrapped in linen napkins and wine pairings. And if you had to guess, this lunch isn’t just a friendly catch-up.

It’s Mrs. Jeon doing what she does best—playing politics with a smile. Maybe it’s her way of returning the favor after that party the Kims threw. Maybe she’s angling for something else entirely. But it’s definitely not casual.

She then adds as an afterthought. “We thought it would be nice to host something a little more intimate after such a wonderful service.”

“Oh, I’d love to.” Mira grins, relaxing against the seat. “Y/N, you up for it?”

You forced a small smile. “Uh-yeah. Yeah, of course!”

It’s automatic. Reflexive.

Because you can't say what you really want.

Which is to get out of the car.

To breathe. To clear the fog from your chest that smells like leather, and cologne, and fire.

From then, from the backseat, you had counted the moments until you could step into open air again and feel the crisp edge of early spring, the scent of freshly turned earth and blooming jasmine lacing through the quiet garden. The table was set beneath the sprawling branches of the old oak, where dappled sunlight filtered through on the delicate porcelain plates, silverware so polished it reflected the light, dishes, conversations lively and layered with subtext in the way rich families knew how to be.

You, too used to know the dance.

Used to let the brezzy hum of conversation wrap around you, used to nod along at the right moments, used to catch the way Minho would kick Jungkook under the table just to make him crack a smile.You remembered that.

Now, Mira sat beside you, her elbow jolting against yours as she reached for a serving spoon, her plate already filled to the edges.“Try this one,” she whispered, already loading her plate still like she hadn’t eaten in days. And then there was Yoongi—her husband—sitting with a plate he barely touched, scrolling through something on his phone until Mira shot him a look. He cleared his throat and slid it away.

Across from you, your mother-in-law delicately dabbed her lips with a napkin before resuming conversation about Mrs kang with a woman- namjoon's mother- who had grayer streaks in her hair that only painted the greater picture of elegance, her voice carrying that effortless ease of someone used to commanding a room. Someone who had enough money to command at all

Then there's Jungkook who sits two chair away from you, separated by separated only by a stretch of linen and eating irons. Jungkook who could barely catch up to Namjoon's enthusiasm about his dad dying, something about the shifting board members, something that should require Jungkook’s full attention."And now that my father’s out, the balance is shifting," Namjoon said. “We’ve got a chance to pull things clean, finally. The new proposal’s solid.”

Especially when his father speaks. "You’ve seen the numbers, Jungkook," His deep voice cutting through the low hum of conversation. “The deal’s been in discussion for months now. The board expects your response by next week.”

“I’ll look it over.” He acknowledged it with a slow nod.

"Not look over, son." His father’s tone was measured, but firm—the kind of voice that had always left little room for negotiation. "Confirm."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, setting his wine down. "I won’t confirm anything without making sure it’s solid first."

He pauses. A glance. His father’s sharp gaze flickered over him, assessing. Not questioning—no, never questioning. Because Jungkook had earned his place, had spent years proving himself, had molded himself into the kind of son his father could rely on, because Minho never did.

Not that Minho ever needed to. Not that he ever wanted to.

Jungkook had understood that early on. That Minho had been different. That Minho’s place had always been elsewhere—with paint on his fingers and art in his head, with you curled into his side, laughing in a language he had willed himself to forget. And so it had fallen to him.

And Jungkook—Jungkook hadn’t minded. Not really.

Not when he could see the relief in Minho’s eyes every time their father skipped over him in business conversations, every time he looked at him liked he had birthed a catastrophe. Ambition morphed into inheritance and starry eyes jaundiced. Jungkook realized that this was what he was born for. That his older brother was a fool for denying everything that had been laid on a silver platter for him.

And because it had been easier than actually admitting that maybe he wasn't a fool at all. That maybe it wasn't the legacy he was born for.

Because every waking moment he finds himself tangled in the thoughts about what was right in front of him.

It had been days, yet it remained, stitched into him like something permanent—like the ink on his skin, like the weight of his own name.

It wasn’t just the memory of it. Not just the way you had felt beneath him, the way his name had left your lips in shuddering breaths. It was everything else—the before, the after. The way you had looked at him, wide-eyed and hesitant in the dim light of that unfamiliar room, as if realizing for the first time that he was capable of something like this. That he had spent years knowing, wanting.

Jungkook, who had spent years perfecting restraint, found himself breaking under the weight of it at only the sight of you that brought the memory of the night where he pretended you were his, like fever rushing through.

Because you would not look at him.

Because your eyes had skimmed past him all afternoon, slipping over him like he was nothing, like he hadn’t once been pressed against you, groaning into your skin.

And fuck if it didn’t drive him insane.

His fingers curled around the stem of his glass, his knuckles white as he brought the wine to his lips, stealing glances of you reaching for a pitcher of water at the same time as Mira, your fingers brushing, the smallest of startled laughs escaping you.

Soft. Effortless. Rivaling the intoxicity of the drink in his hand. He couldn't remember when it was the last time he heard it, only the withdrawals that came with it.

Jungkook exhaled sharply, setting down his glass before he did something reckless—before he let himself stare too long, let his thoughts slip into something visible, something impossible to ignore.

And then, as if the universe were intent on pushing him closer to the edge—you left, something he used to be best at.

You pushed back your chair, the scrape of wood against stone barely registering above the conversation which started with Mrs Kim going- “I should probably head home soon,” she said. "Joon's father probably running the househelp ragged by now.”

Namjoon huffed a laugh beside Jungkook, reaching for the hand resting on his thigh. “Let him. Maybe they’ll finally get him to stop redecorating the library every three months.”

Seokjin, seated beside him, shrugged. “Or maybe he’ll burn the place down and finally have an excuse to build that ‘modern masterpiece’ he’s been threatening to commission.”

Mrs. Kim sighed, exasperated but fond. “I wouldn't put it past him. He’s been threatening that ‘modern masterpiece’ since 2003.”

Mrs. Jeon clapped her hands together. “Oh, nonsense. Stay for tea at least. Mr Kim will be fine. Yoongi, you’ll take another pour, won’t you? Y/N, dear, why don’t you grab the set from the kitchen?”

"Of course. I'll be right back." you murmured, barely loud enough for anyone to catch, save for the ones listening too closely. Save for him.

Jungkook watched as you stepped away, disappearing through the doors of the house, something tightening in his chest.

The moment his hand closed around the stem of his glass again, Jungkook knew what he was about to do.

Would it be too obvious? Too stupid?

He doubted it.

Maybe it was reckless. Maybe it was childish. But as his grip tightened and the glass stem cracked beneath his palm, sending shards of glass and a sharp jolt of pain through his hand, he felt something darkly satisfying settle in his chest.

The table fell silent.

And all eyes fell on him. "I-I'm sorry. I didn’t realize." He cleared his throat and started to rise up from his seat.

Namjoon, the closest to him, attempted to reach for his hand and he instantly flinched. Just because the wound was intentional, didn’t mean it didn't hurt.

"What the hell, Kook? Are you okay?"

“Its nothing,” he muttered, jaw clenched as he pressed his uninjured hand to his palm, watching the thin trickle of crimson bead against his skin.

“Jungkook?” His mother’s voice came next to break through the quiet, sharp and immediate, her chair scraping against the stone as she pushed back. “Oh my god—what were you thinking? Do you need me to—”

“No,” he cut in, firm but even, already standing. “I’ve got it.”

Seokjin, looked up from beside his boyfriend, a just as suprised and bewildered expression taking over his face. The same one that mimicked every other person's that sat around the table, with Mira looking like she was going to choke on her food as she met his eyes before her husband smoothed a hand down her back.

"Are you sure? You don’t need any hel—"

"I'm okay, hyung. I said I got it." He said it with perhaps too much irration shimmering beneath his words and the table fell silent again.

Jungkook ignored them all.

He was already moving.

Already following.

Through the hallway, past familiar frames on the wall.

He finds himself checking his reflection in one, taking note of his hair that seem tousled and runs a smooth hand over them.

He finds you in the kitchen.

The afternoon light streamed through the windows, casting golden lines across the marble counters, across the soft fabric of your dress. You stood with your back to him, your hands grasping something—kettle, tray? Don't know.

You just know that you feel him before you hear him like you always do, the weight of his presence shifting the air, settling around you like something impending. You pretend you don’t notice. Pretend you’re too preoccupied with the cups in your hands, as if arranging over the same sets of cups for the fourth time will make it any more legible. It’s pointless, really—You had always known Jungkook, even in silence.

“Gonna keep avoiding me?"

It’s not exactly a question.

Not accusing, but certain. Because yes, you have. Not because you’re angry, not because you regret it, but because it scares you how little you do.

You swallowed. Still not looking. “I’ve been busy.”

He drawls out. “Have you?"

That makes you look up.

By this time you should have realized that it's always a mistake when you do that.

Because he’s leaning against the counter, a hand tucked casually in his pockets, sleeves still rolled up, collar slightly undone. And he’s watching you.

Not like at the table, where his expression had been smooth, unreadable or like that one time where you had been exactly where you are now and he was exactly where he was. Just then, it had been the same illegible look.

Here, in this quiet, his eyes are darker. He looks at you like he knows.

Its in the way his gaze dips, taking you in and how the amber light fluidly danced across your hair that framed your guilty face. So fucking adorable. "So busy you won't even look at me."

You hated how your breath hitched. Hated how you had no answer that didn’t sound like a lie.

You forced a slow breath and placed the napkins in the space left in the tray. "I've had a lot to do."

"No you didn't."

"I did."

"No you didn't, Y/N."

You force yourself to move, to wrap your hands around the tray, to act as if this conversation isn’t happening. “What do you want me to say?”

Instead, he pushed himself off the wall and came closer, close enough that the warmth of him touched your spine, close enought that you could see everything—the way his jaw tightens, the way his throat bobs when he swallows, the way his fingers twitch at his sides and when he finally spoke, it was low, just for you.

"Tell me you don't hate me. I can't go on like that." Has no idea how he has done that for years and has no intention to relive that ever again. He's a buisness man now. Buisness men learn from their losses and never give up profit.

Heat curled in your stomach.

Minutes passed. Too many, too few.

And he waits. He’s patient like that. He always has been.

But your eyes were drawn to something else entirely.

His hand.

The sharp contrast of crimson against his skin, fresh and glistening, pooling at the edge of his palm before dripping onto the tiled floor in slow, schemed drops.

You inhaled sharply, setting the tray down with a quiet clatter, your pulse kicking up. “What the—Jungkook, what happened?”

He didn’t answer right away, didn’t even glance at the wound. Instead, his eyes stayed fixed on you, dark and unreadable, watching the way you reached for his arm, fingers curling around his wrist, your touch careful and instinctive. Maybe it wasn't that bad of an idea, he thinks.

You turned his palm over, assessing the damage. A deep cut, but nothing catastrophic. "You're bleeding."

His voice was slow, aforethought. “I noticed.”

Your head snapped up, irritation flickering behind your concern. “What do you mean, you noticed? Why didn’t you say anything? You should’ve—”

Your breath catches, shifting your weight, as he steps closer, the space between you dwindling.

You try to ignore it. Try to recoil from it. Try to do anything but this. Because you recognized it now. This wasn’t about his hand.

Not really.

Not when his gaze flickered down to your lips in that moment.

Not when his fingers twitched at his side, like he was waiting.

Not when the air between you suddenly felt too thick, too warm, too charged. Too much like that one hallway.

You swallowed, cursed under your breath and forced your eyes away from his wound to take hold of the abandoned tray. You didn’t trust yourself enough with his. With him.

He seemed to revel in that fact.

His fingers brushed against your wrist in protest, dwadling, intentional. His head leaned in, lips grazing the curve of your jaw, just the lightest touch, just enough to rattle the glasses on the tray, just enough to summon a maelstrom of sensations.

Your hand flexed beneath his grip, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, quieter, like the world outside of it ceased to exist.

No. No. You reminded yourself of the straight stuff.

“Jungkook, let go. Everyone's ou—”

He doesn’t let you finish.

Jungkook’s breath ghosts over your cheek, his nose brushing against yours, the scent of him—sylvan cologne, something faintly sweet—pulling you under, drowning you in it.

He turns you, presses you back against the counter. His eyes are dark, searching of the surroundings for a moment before they are back on you. Then, so is the unrelenting heat of his mouth, catching your lips with his, slow and deep, like he had all the time in the world to corrade you.

His lips moved against yours, insistent, beguiling you to open up, to give him what he wanted. Because it had been days. Days since he had his first taste. Days since you have deprived him off it.

And so you did.

You gasped against his mouth, your fingers curling against the handle of trays, gripping, steadying yourself. He groaned at the way you responded, at the way you always responded, despite every calmour, despite every attempt to put distance between you.

You didn’t know who reached first, who needed more, who ached better—only that neither of you pulled away.

The kiss deepened, his uninjured hand slipping beneath the curve of your jaw, his thumb dragging against your cheek, his teeth grazing against your bottom lip. The wounded one curled around your waist. You gasped at the contact—at the warmth of his blood seeping through the fabric of your dress, staining the pale church blue with sin. You felt it against your ribs, hot and sticky. You didn’t care. You whimpered into his mouth, heat pooling low in your stomach, and that was all it took to prouduce a low, guttural noise in his chest, his fingers flexing against your waist, gripping, needing, wanting

And suddenly, the counter is the only thing keeping you upright. Your mind is spinning, lost in him, lost in this, in the fact that this is happening—

Here.

Now.

Where anyone could walk in.

“Y/N?”

Your heart stopped.

Jungkook froze.

Your mother-in-law’s voice was distant but getting closer.

Your breath hitched, panic flaring in your chest, but before you could pull away, Jungkook caught you again.

Pressed his lips to yours, stealing another kiss, this one shorter, sharper, like a punishment, like he was branding you with it as if he hadn’t already stained you with his blood, making sure you’d feel it long after he let go.

But he didn’t.

“Please” he breathed against your mouth, he kisses you deeper, hungrier. He drinks you in like he’s been starving, like he wants to ruin you.

Like he already has.

His tongue brushed against yours, hot and sure, and your stomach twisted, heat

licking at your spine. “Tell me you don't."

A voice—your mother-in-law’s, calling your name grows closer and semblance slams into you like a freight train.

Yet Jungkook stands untouched, refusing to let go, refusing to understand what's he doing, how it could end.

"Jungkook, stop—mhmm—Mom's coming!"

Your resolve is slipping.

Falling.

Falling.

Gone.

And then, when you finally find your voice—

You don’t tell him to stop.

You whisper—breathless, aching, a confession and a surrender all at once.

“I don’t.”

Jungkook groans a curse and he's swift in the way he pulls away because it's only in a second away that another figure breezes into the space.

Your mother-in-law stands in the doorway, looking between you and Jungkook , her brows pinching in mild confusion.

“What was taking so long, dear?”

Jungkook is the first to move, straightening, rolling his shoulders back like nothing happened. Like his tounge wasn't down your throat.

You, though, find it hard to hide the compact it had on you. You're sure everyone in the room can hear how your heartbeats, can hear how it wants to get out of your constructing chest. Your wide blown pupils gaze roams everywhere and stops at the tray in your hands.

Yeah, right.

You start to speak. “I was just—”

But before you can finish with whatever you come up with, her eyes land on his still-bleeding hand that's making a mess on the once polished clean floors.

“Why haven’t you cleaned that up yet, Jungkook-ah?” she scolds, sighing. “You’re going to get an infection.”

Jungkook exhales through his nose, and swips his tounge over his kiss bruised lips. “I was going to."

“I’ll help him, mom. Why don't you take this?” you blurt out, too quick, too loud.

Your mother-in-law’s eyes flicker to you. Something unreadable passes through them.

Then, after a long beat, she nods, smiling. “Youre a sweetheart, Y/N. I'll take this.”

She steps forward, plucks the tray from your hands, and turns toward the dining room without another word.

The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the weight of everything crashes into you.

Your pulse was still erratic, your lips tingling from his kiss, your hands shaking as you turned to him.

You whirled on Jungkook, eyes blazing at his audacity.

"What were you thinking?"

You wanted to kill him.

Your fingers curl into a fist before you can stop them, and you swat his chest, your palm colliding against solid muscle.

He catches your wrist before you can pull away.

And before you could yank off, he pressed a kiss to your knuckles. Your breath stutters.

His eyes flicker down to meet yours, dark and knowing. His expression pleased. Deliciously so. Almost resembling the look that crossed over his face after he had made you come on his mouth for the second time, saying something along the lines of how he could stay buried—

Oh, shit. Uh, scratch that.

“You’re going to be the death of me,” you heave out.

His lips quirk. “Likewise.”

You inhale sharply, snatching your hand from his grip, grabbing his unsullied wrist instead.

“Shut up and come here.” you mutter, tugging him toward the hall.

Jungkook lets you drag him to the bathroom, silent, unresisting. He thinks if it's you he has to follow, he will, even to the ends of the world. Wherever you want.

For now it's the bathroom that was silent, except for the soft drip of the faucet and the sound of your own heartbeat thrumming in your ears. The space was impossibly small with him in it, the air thick with something that hadn’t dissipated even after your mother-in-law had nearly caught you both in the kitchen.

And the moment the door closes behind you.

You realize two things.

One: His hand is still shaking, still bleeding, still a mess of raw skin and recklessness.

And two: You really don’t trust yourself to be alone with him.

Yet you always found yourself in closed rooms. Closed bathrooms, for this instant. Only places you can afford being this close.

You turned the tap, watching as the water rushed down, steam curling into the air. Jungkook stood behind you, leaning against the sink, his injured hand still cradled in his other. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, exposing strong forearms, tendons shifting beneath inked skin as he flexed his fingers experimentally.

The sight shouldn’t make your stomach twist the way it did.

“You’re a idiot." you muttered again, reaching for the first aid kit tucked behind the mirror cabinet.

Jungkook hummed, the sound deep, amused. "So, I've been told."

You turned, finally looking at him, and immediately regretted it. Because he was watching you. Again. Not passively, not carelessly—but like he was memorizing something, like he was still thinking about the way you had whispered I don’t against his lips only minutes ago.

Your throat tightened. You gestured toward the sink. “Hand. Under the water.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, his head tilted slightly, a slow smirk ghosting at the edges of his lips. “That an order, angel?”

You exhaled sharply, grabbing his wrist before he could make another smart remark, forcing his injured hand under the warm stream. He hissed at the contact, fingers twitching, but otherwise didn’t complain. Blood swirled in the sink, a diluted pink that spiraled down the drain.

You repeated, biting the inside of your cheek. “What were you even thinking?”

Jungkook’s voice was ceaseless, unfaltering. “That I wanted you alone.”

Your hands stilled, fingertips just barely brushing against his palm. His words lingered between you, weaving into the steam, settling into your bones.

Slowly, carefully, you lifted his hand out of the water, watching as droplets slid down his fingers, over the sharp lines of his knuckles. The cuts were shallow but jagged, the skin angry and raw, small flecks of glass still embedded in his palm.

Your chest ached.

You reached for a towel and dabbed carefully around the wounds.

This was ridiculous. He was ridiculous. But he was also In pain and a part of you has never liked him In pain. It reminded you of nights where he'd think too much about where he actually belonged. Something very candid. Something very raw. Something a child shouldn’t have to think. You had known how to bandage scraped knees and scuffed elbows. Knew nothing about those nights.

You refocused on his hand, plucking a pair of tweezers from the kit and leaning in, carefully pulling out the slivers of glass still buried in his skin. Your breath brushed against his wrist, your fingers gentle, your focus unwavering. Jungkook didn’t move, didn’t even flinch.

But he watched.

Watched the way your brows furrowed, the way your lips pressed together in quiet concentration, the way your hands trembled just slightly when his thumb twitched against your palm.

He inhaled deeply. "You're good at this. You always have been."

You ignored him, reaching for the antiseptic. “This is going to sting.”

Jungkook smirked. “You sure you don’t want it to?”

You pressed the gauze down harder than necessary.

Jungkook inhaled sharply, his good hand gripping the edge of the counter. “You're enjoying this, aren't you?”

“A little,” you admitted, pressing again just to make a point.

His laughter was quiet, but it was real.

You forced yourself to focus, wrapping a clean bandage over his palm, fingers tracing lightly over his knuckles as you secured it in place. His skin was warm beneath yours, solid, alive. You wondered if he could feel the way your pulse was hammering.

You sucked in a breath, finally, finally releasing him, stepping back like distance could fix what had already unraveled.

"This is reckless." You spoke, not knowing yourself if you meant his hand or him following you to the kitchen. "We need to stop doing this." You finished and looked up to gauge his reaction to your words, only to find that he was already staring.

Too close. Too secure. Too much.

You weren’t sure what you were excepting. Hurt? Regret? Guilt?

Definitely not the recap of what happened in the kitchen. Definitely not his good hand lifting. Again.

It’s imperceptibly, resolute. His fingertips brush your hip first, featherlight, a touch so barely-there that you almost convince yourself you imagined it.

Almost.

Until he grips.

Until he tugs.

And suddenly, you're slamming right against his unmalleable frame,

Your eyes fly up, locking onto his.

Jungkook’s gaze is unreadable, filled with something that makes your stomach clench. His hands plant themselves firmly on either side of you, caging you in.

“You tell me to stop,” he said quietly, “and I will.”

Your fingers tighten around his forearm.

You should.

You should.

But you don’t.

Because he shifted, tilting his head slightly, the smallest movement—one that said he’d do it again.

Kiss you.

Undo you.

His gaze flickers down, lingering on your parted lips. "Yet all you do is look at me like you want me to fuck you on this damn counter. And Jesus, angel, if it doesn't make me rock hard."

The crude words leave him like there’s no consequence to him. To you they rise goosebumps all over your body. For a moment, you try to convince yourself that it's a warning sitting heavy on your skin.

It shimmers through your mind, something about distance, about lines, about how you’ve already crossed too many. You could still say it.

You could still put an end to this before it tattered beyond repair.

But then Jungkook’s grip on your waist tightened, and suddenly, the ground wasn’t beneath you anymore.

Your breath caught as he lifted you. Effortlessly, hands firm, unwavering. The air shifted around you, heat rolling off him in waves, and before you could catch your breath, the cool press of marble kissed the backs of your thighs.

You swallowed hard, fingers instinctively curling into the fabric of his shirt. He settled between your parted legs, the warmth of his body bleeding into yours.

Your pulse thrummed, a frantic, uneven rhythm against your ribs.

"That," you breathed, trying to sound firm, trying to anchor yourself in reason, "sounds like a bad idea."

Jungkook exhaled through his nose, the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. "It does."

And then he kissed you again.

It wasn’t fair, the way he kissed.

Like he knew exactly how to disentangle you.

Like he knew that every time his mouth met yours, resistance becomes a footnote.

His tounge moved with yours, fingers traced the edge of your knee, palms gliding up the sensitive skin of your thigh before finding its mark at your hip with a confidence that says its his anyways. A soft ache that doesn’t seem to matter anymore. He doesn’t move closer. He doesn’t have to.

The space between you is already non existence.

But his hands need to be closer. Preferably, inside so one of his hands slides higher, disappearing beneath the hem of your dress. Unhurried, exploring, teasing.

Your thighs tensed against his hips, heat coiling in your stomach, something familiar and overwhelming pressing at the edges of your ribs. His bandaged hand then found the small of your back, fingers splaying against your spine as if mapping you, tugging you still until you could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours and the outline of his bulge against your thigh.

Your fingers curled into his shoulders, anchoring yourself, gripping onto something solid as his touch grew more confident, more certain when he found the wet spot forming on the lacy white material—so thin, so damn easy to tear—and something primal glinted in his gaze.

His lips dragged along the planes of your chin, the corner of your mouth, before he exhaled against your skin, voice hushed, but steady. "Still want me to stop?"

His answer was you pressing into his hands instead of pulling away, your breath catching when his fingers brushed higher, thumb pressed bolder and stroking slow patterns against your clothed fold, dragging his knuckles along the delicate fabric.

Your head tilted back slightly, your breath uneven, and Jungkook watched you—watched the way your lashes fluttered, the way your fingers dug into his biceps, the way your body responded to him, even without words.

He knew.

And he liked it.

His lips found your throat, his voice low, rough. "You should." A kiss, slow and deep. "You really should." Another, this one firmer, teeth grazing over your pulse.

A shiver rolled down your spine and desperation rolled on.

"Don't stop. Want your fingers." His cock twitched in his pants and he bit harder onto your neck. He thinks he's again gonna make a wreckage in his pants at the realization of you trembling for him.

"Good girl, angel. Already so wet for me." he breathed, and eased down your soaked panties from your thighs. His eyes glinting again when the thin white late is revealed to him. And god, when it slipped down, revealing glistening skin beneath, he exhaled something broken. "Fuck—have you been waiting for this? Is that what it is?" He wantons and bunches the fabric in his hand to tuck it in his pocket. You flush at the implications, at what he just did, at what he might do.

"Have you?" You dodge the question and he grunts, parting your folds with his thumb and forefinger.

"You have no fucking idea." His forehead pressed to yours, jaw clenched. "The idea of having you like this again consumed me. You consume me."

A soft whimper slipped from your throat, and he grunted again at the sound, his fingers pressing more firmly now, tracing, exploring, teasing you apart. "Did that charming mouth used to get you a lot of girls out there?" The question sounds like a taunt but tastes like lemon on your tounge. You don’t know why you ask it—why you let the thought slip past your lips when you could have buried it like all the others. Maybe now, with his hands on you, with the past and present colliding so violently in the space between breaths, the thought worms its way in.

If he had kissed someone the way he kissed you. If his hands had crammed the shape of someone else’s body. If, somewhere across an ocean, he had found something that didn’t taste like longing.

His fingers stilled. A sharp breath. A pause thick enough to drown in.

Then—he laughed. A low, disbelieving sound that sent a shiver curling up your spine. Not amused. Not really. More incredulous than anything, roughened at the edges with something else.

His bandaged hand tightened around your thigh, dragging you closer. "You think I’ve wasted this mouth on anyone else?"

His voice was low, velvet-soft but weighted, pressing into your skin like the heat of an open flame. Your stomach clenched.

"I don’t know." You swallowed, pulse fluttering against your throat. "I never heard anything, but—"

"But what?" His thumb dragged along your folds. “You think I’d let someone else have what’s yours? Thought I’d put my hands on someone else and think of anything but you?" The pads dig into your skin, his grip an demand for honesty because this is all he plans to give you now. The honesty that every time he tried to want something else, it was your voice in his head. Your name on his tongue.

Your lashes fluttered, the words sinks into your bones, pools at the base of your core. It terrifies you how much you like the way it sounds coming from his mouth—low aching, like it had been a curse, like you had ruined him without ever meaning to— how much you like the way him stressing every word with press of his fingers.

“I want things with you,” he said, the words dragging out of him like they’d been kept in a vault. “Not just this. Not just your body—though fuck, I’ll worship it until I’m in the ground.”

His hand stilled again, the stillness worse than movement, because now he was looking at you. Really looking. Voice softer now. Like he was afraid to let it live in the air.

"I want it all." He whispered. "I want every morning with your hair on my pillow. Every night with your hands on me." Your mouth parted, but no sound came out—just breath, shallow and stunned.

His fingers moved again, slow and reverent, his touch suddenly less about taking and more about giving. "Your clothes in my closest." Showing.

Promising.

Your head fell back against the mirror, your breath coming in sharp, uneven pants, every flick of his wrist sending another spark of pleasure shooting through your limbs.

"Jungkook," you gasped, barely able to form his name.

"Your name on every piece of paper that has mine." he kept going, his voice low, yet the way two of his digits slipped inside, slow, stretching, filling, setting a rhythm that had your thighs trembling wasn't exactly something you could keep quiet for. "Your moans in my ear that I'm gonna keep just for myself."

Your cunt clenched around him and head dropped to his shoulder in an attempt to muffle the sound. "Mhm. Fuck." Your body arched into him, chasing the fire that threatened to consume you whole. His pace quickened, his touch growing rougher, more desperate, as if he needed this just as badly as you did, as if he needed to become a devotee of the way you fell apart in his hands.

"Say it." He curled them just right, making a consistent squelching sound that bounced off the walls. "Tell me you want it. Tell me you want me." His mouth was scornful when it spoke but affectionate when it peppered kisses on the crown of your head.

"You know I do." Your voice was wrecked, barely more than a whisper against his skin, hips stuttering beneath his touch.

"Not enough." He growled, voice thinned by impediment, fingers curling again, slow and deep and your grip on him was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

"I—Jungkook—I" You broke off, a cry catching in your throat as he pressed and flicked. A merciless rhythm of knowing.

"Come on. Be my good fucking angel." He murmured against your hair, fingers pushing in and out of your slick hole with practiced ease, working you open, watching every shift of your body, every tiny gasp and shudder.

"I feel it," you breathed. "God, I feel it—I want you."

He too could feel how you seized against his fingers, how your breath started to come in short pants. "More." He husked. "I want you to lose it for me," his voice took a pleading note, his head dunking down, lips finding the curve of your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before soothing the bite with his tongue. "Fall apart. Come on my fingers knowing what I want with you. Knowing you're it. Let go, baby."

And then he found that spot—the one that drove knuckles deep into your quivering cunt, curling and flicking, shattering you, the one that had your eyes rolling back, your breath catching in a sharp, broken cry as teeth dug unconsciously into his shoulders, hips shifting, chasing his touch, needing more and he felt the urgent need to bury his cock into you the next second.

“Right there, fuck—Jungkook,” you whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, lashes damp.

“Don’t stop. I’m—god, I’m gonna cum. So close. So fucking close.” Eyes stayed fixed on your face like it was a masterpiece made for him alone. The heat of your slick coated his fingers, the way your body clenched down around him driving a ragged curse from his throat.

Your orgasm hit with brutal force, crashing into you like a wave breaking at high tide, leaving you boneless, trembling, and Jungkook caught you, his arm wrapping securely around your waist, his lips pressing into the side of your neck, as if searing the moment into your skin.

As if he had no intention of letting you go. As if he never had.

"Beautiful girl." He mummered. "So fucking perfect when you come for me." He praised and pulled his two digits drenched with your essence out of your pulsating pussy to slide them into his mouth. Eyes closing when the taste of you settled on his tounge, reacquainting himself what has been taken hold of every inch of his mind. The appreciative hum that starts to leave his mouth gets lodged in somewhere in the middle when he feels your thighs wrapping around him, your front pressing against his cock that throbbed with the need to be lamented inside your salivating warmth.

He cursed under his breath, his control fraying at the edges. "Needy little thing." he growled, half in awe, half in torment. "Still aching for me?"

You blinked at him, all wide-eyed innocence, but your hips shifted again, grinding up into him in a way that had his jaw clenching, his breath turning ragged.

“I can feel how hard you are,” you whispered, voice barely there. “What if I want more?”

"Fuck," he gritted out, "I need to be inside you." He needs and his hands gripped your thighs, clutching you closer with the intention to rub against your bare, soused pussy. You felt the heat of him, the weight of the orgasm he had wrung from you with nothing but his fingers, the sheer presence of him pressing against you, and your pulse fluttered, a mix of nerves and overwhelming want.

His hand that you mended, hooks up your chin. You barely registered his words at first, too dazed, too lost in the lingering ache of pleasure still pulsing deep within you. But then—his voice, low and thick with something rekt, something wanting.

"Think we've got enough time?" He asks, shrugging a glance at his rolex. His hands traced over your thighs, palms spreading against flushed skin to bunch up the silk material of your blood stained church dress, the delectable longness of his erection pressing against you. And though it was phrased like a question, it sounded rather possessive and certain, as if the answer had already been decided.

Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt, torn between reason and the undeniable heat pooling low in your stomach. "We'll have to find out." You whispered, teeth biting onto your lip as you grinded in response, letting you feel him—hard and urgent, straining against the fabric that abstracted you—until it didn’t.

Your fingers moved without permission, trailing down his stomach, feeling the taut muscle beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. Lower still, to the belt that had been teasing you with its presence, the polished metal of the buckle cool beneath your fingertips.

Jungkook inhaled sharply when you undid it, the sound rough. His hands around you clenched, but he didn’t stop you. Didn’t pull away.

Didn’t want to.

You took your time, savoring the way his breath hitched as you worked open the button, the zipper, how his body tensed beneath your touch. And then—when you pressed your palm against him, feeling the full length of his need—his head fell back, his throat bared in a perfect, aching display.

God.

Your breath stilled in your chest.

He was beautiful like this.

Not just in the obvious way—not in the way the world saw him, sharp-suited and composed, the perfect image of a man in control. No, this was something else entirely.

You traced your gaze over him, over the column of his throat, over the way the muscles in his jaw tightened as he swallowed. Over the way he looked like he was waging a war against himself.

“Y/N,” he gritted out, his voice tight, strained, as if he were warning you.

Or begging.

But you only pressed a little firmer, fingers teasing, tracing, thumb swiping over his swollen tip that leaked with pre cum.

With a growl, his hand wrapped around your wrist, halting your movements, dark eyes snapping open to meet yours. "Fuck, baby. I'm not patient enough for this."

And then he was lifting your hips, guiding you against him, his tip poking at your entrance, making you let out a shuddering  breath. He leaned in, his lips brushing over your cheek, feather-light, a stark contrast to the way his hands gripped your thighs.

"Let me feel you," he hiss, more plea than demand, his voice thick with restraint. "Let me have you all of you, angel."

And when you nodded—when you let him pull you to the very edge, let him replace his fingers with something hotter, heavier—your hands fisted in his shirt, nails biting into his shoulders as your breath hitched.

Jungkook groaned against your ear as he pushed himself all the way to the hilt, sworeing how he would never get enough of you, his fingers flexing at your waist as he stilled, letting you adjust to the sudden intrusion of his massive length, letting himself revel in the feeling of you wrapped around him like you always would in the sweetest of his dreams, like you did a certain night away. And from that moment he had wondered how had he ever functioned without this? How will he ever function without you if you keep yourself away from him?

Your hands slipped up, cupping his face, tilting him toward you until your lips brushed. “Move,” you whispered, voice barely there.

Slow at first, rolling his hips into yours, his mouth catching every broken sound that left you, his hands never stopping their worship of your body.

And when he felt his willpower leave him, when slow became desperate, when his name spilled from your lips like a prayer—he answered.

He met you in every way you needed.

It was urgent—messy and desperate and filled with everything neither of you could say out loud. Could only afford in hushed whispers and lips tracing sin on skin. Something he'd taken pain from you if it meant he'd get to kept this. Because it was better than nothing, better than those years when he wanted you with a desperation that should’ve dulled with time, with grief, with regret.

But it hadn’t.

It had only grown sharper.

It was too much. It was not enough.

The way he gasped softly as he pushed himself inside you—inch by inch, stretching you around him, your hands fisting his shirt like you couldn’t decide whether to pull him closer or push him away.

He pressed you further onto the counter, knocking over something ceramic that shattered on the tile, neither of you caring. The pace of his cock driving inside you turned desperate, driven by something raw, something that tasted too much like loss but felt too much like home.

Your fingers found his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan against your lips, his hands sliding up your back, pulling you closer, closer, closer. "Oh yeah! Fuck, just there!" You panted, hips snapping against his, encouraging him further as he outright pounded into you.

"You’re—fuck—so tight,” he rasped. “So warm. I knew it. You were made for me.” He highlighted with a squeeze to your boob, rolling your pebbled nipple between his digits. Your walls fluttered around him, still so tight, still taking all of him like you had been made to, eyes fluttering close when he gave it a pinch.

And fuck—he wanted to see that again.

“Eyes, Y/N.” he murmured, his voice rough, strained.

Your lashes lifted, glassy and unfocused, your lips parting around a soft gasp as he rolled his hips again, hitting deeper this time.

He smiled, dipping his head, lips brushing over your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “That’s it, baby. Let me see you.”

You swallowed hard, fingers pulling into his hair. “Jungkook I can't—Too much!”

His grip on your waist tightened, his pace faltering slightly. “Shhh. I've got you,” he whispered, voice shaking. “You don’t have to do anything. Just take me.” He cooed, his head falling to the crook of your neck. His teeth grazed over your pulse, tongue following, lips dragging along heated skin.

The sensation sent a shiver rolling down your spine, sharp and electric.

Your back arched, pressing further into him, your thighs tightening around his waist. You could feel yourself spiraling, the coil in your stomach winding tighter and tighter with every roll of his hips, every deep, mind blowing thrust.

You felt full.

Overwhelmed.

Like you were going to break apart any moment.

Jungkook must have felt it—the way your nails dug into his skin, the way your breath stuttered against his ear—because his grip shifted, one hand slipping between you, fingers pressing against your most sensitive spot, rubbing slow, lazy circles.

Your body jolted at the added sensation, a sharp cry tumbling from your lips that he caught in his own.

And he smirked.

“My angel's so close, hmm?" he murmured against your mouth.

Your breath hitched, a whimper escaping before you could stop it. "Yeah—shit—yeah. Wanna come again. Want come so bad, Jungkook."

Jungkook groaned, his cheeks hollowing, brows furrowing like he was barely holding himself together. “Fuck, you sound so pretty when you do that.”

You were right there.

Jungkook felt it.

And he wasn’t about to let you go without making you fall apart for him.

His thumb rubbed faster, tighter circles, his thrusts rougher, deeper, his lips brushing over your ear, his voice low, wicked.

“You’re gonna come for me again,” he promised, panting. “Right here. Around me. Look at me when you do.”

The coil snapped, pleasure crashing over you like a tidal wave, your body tightening, then releasing all at once. Your vision blurred, your entire body trembling, your nails raking over Jungkook’s back as you moaned his name, breathless and undone. "Shit, that's right." He heaved.

His thrusts started to get sloppier, trying to constraint the sound of his hips slapping against yours in the tiled bathroom only while he pursued his own release. More urgent—less about control and more about instinct. He could only last so long with your pussy milking him for all he's worth.

"Fuck—baby," he rasped, voice wrecked, forehead pressed hard against yours, sweat-slicked and trembling. "I’m close… fuck, I’m gonna come. Gonna fill you up."

You found yourself nodding mindlessly, relating with the wretched appetite in his voice to be warmed up to within.

“Such a needy girl,” he murmured, voice rough as gravel. “So desperate to be filled, huh? You want all of it, angel?” His hand moved from your waist to your jaw, thumb swiping your lip like he was trying to soothe something uncontainable.

Jungkook's thrusts slowed into something deeper, deliberate, chasing every inch of you as he buried himself to the hilt and groaned, full-bodied and guttural, like it had been torn straight from his chest. His release hit him hard, cock twitching deep inside you, thick warmth spilling in hot waves as his fingers dug into your hips hard enough to bruise like he was trying to memorize you, like he hadn’t spent the better part of his life trying to memorize you in ways he had never deserved.

He didn’t stop—just kept grinding into you, riding it out, chasing the feeling of being so deep inside you that the world didn’t matter. His jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut as he emptied every last drop, as if he could carve his name into you from the inside.

Like the years had never carved a distance between you, like nothing—no one—had ever come between this pull, this thing that always seemed to exist between you and him.

And yet, reality was creeping back in.

You could hear it—the soft murmur of voices beyond the door, the distant clatter of dishes, the low hum of conversation that you were supposed to be a part of.

The world you were supposed to return to.

You exhaled shakily, body still trembling in the aftermath, shifting against the counter, trying to gather yourself, trying to think. Your fingers curled weakly into his shoulder, and you felt it—his chest rising and falling against you, his breath warm against your temple, the quiet steadiness of him as he held you there, as if neither of you were quite ready to move just yet.The sweat cooling on his skin glistened where the low light caught it, and his nose nudged softly into your hairline, inhaling you like he wasn’t ready to let go yet.

"Still with me, angel?"

You hummed a airy "barely" and he kissed one, featherlight and sweet, dragging his mouth lazily toward your jaw. He was taking his time. He didn’t seem to care that your clothes were halfway off or that you were still tangled around him.

You weren’t sure how long you stayed like that, wrapped up in the quiet. You sighed, resting your head back on his shoulder, content and warm and glowing all over. The mirror behind you was fogged with breath, the air still thick with the scent of heat and sweat and him.

“We should go back now," you whispered and when you moved to slip away, his hands curled against your thighs, halting you in place. Not tight, not forceful—just there, just asking.

He shook his head, exhaling through his nose, his thumb brushing absentmindedly over your skin where he adjusted the hem of your dress after wiping the remnants of him with a tissue, doe eyes giving away the look a kicked puppy would have. “Not yet. Give me a minute."

Not yet.

Not don’t go. Not stay.

Just not yet.

And maybe that was why you didn’t move.

Maybe that was why you let yourself linger for just a second longer, your fingers smoothing over the collar of his shirt, tracing a wrinkle that your own grip had left behind. A pointless action, an excuse to touch, to feel the warmth of him for just another moment before you had to pretend like none of this happened. "Fine. I mean I wouldn't want to walk back smelling like sex and you."

Jungkook’s gaze darkened. His hands slid up, brushing over the curve of your cheekbone, his touch slow and sharp like satisfaction curling under his tongue.

“That right?” he murmured. “You smell like me?”

The question caught you off guard.

Too late. He was already drunk on it. He ducked down, nosing along your throat, breathing in deep with a groan like the idea physically did something to him. “Fuck. You do. You smell like me, angel."

You blinked, your fingers stilling against his shirt, your breath hitching in your throat.

Something darker lit his eyes—satisfaction painted in shadow. “Good.”

Your breath caught. “It’s good that I reek of you?” And definitely not the hottest scandal the neighborhood will get their hands on. Right.

He dipped his head, nose brushing your neck, lips skimming your pulse. “You should smell like me,” he whispered. “You should walk out there with your thighs dripping and my scent all over you. Glowing because you took every inch of me." he murmured, voice low and reverent. "Let them wonder."

You whimpered, helpless under the press of his mouth, the press of his words.

“I—” you started, but your thoughts tangled as he sucked gently at your neck, just above where your collar would hide it.

He pulled back just enough to meet your gaze again, a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Still want to go back?”

"Yes."

Jungkook studied you for a second longer, his eyes searching, tracing every inch of your expression, as if he was looking for something, as if he was still waiting for you to change your mind.

But you didn’t.

So he only exhaled, pressing his lips to your head. And then, finally, finally, he let you go.

You breathed out, fingers curling at the edge of the counter before you shifted again, moving to slide down—to plant your feet back on the ground, to leave but not before letting yours eyes drift to him for a second where he tucks himself in his slacks.

“Y/N.”

His voice was softer this time, but it stopped you all the same.

You barely had time to react before his fingers found your jaw, tilting your chin up, forcing you to look at him.

Your breath stilled.

Jungkook’s thumb brushed against your bottom lip, slow, lingering. And then, so softly, so quietly he asked—“when you walk out from here will you start avoiding me to the next Sunday again?"

Your brows scrunched up and you attempted to look away.

"Please don't, angel." He pressed his lips to where the crease formed for a brief moment.

And god help you, you wanted to listen.

The evening (6:25, you noted from your wrist watch) was quiet, the sky yawning open into a stretch of velvet dark, the stars distant pinpricks of light like secrets kept at a distance. You had always known the halls of the university to be full—full of voices, of conversations that layered over each other, of common stories and repeated gestures. Even today, it had been the same.

The evening air carried the last remnants of warmth, a hesitant shift between winter and spring that clung to the pavement, to the air, to you, you could feel reprieve take hold instead of a sort of suffocation.

You pulled your coat tighter around yourself, your breath curling in the cool air. The once-busy campus had emptied out, leaving only a handful of cars scattered beneath the flickering glow of overhead lights.Your heels clicked against the pavement, hurried, purposeful, as you wove between the cars, searching.

Hoseok was ahead, his figure easy to spot—relaxed posture, a casual sway in his step, his tan coat catching the dim light. It wasn’t hard to catch up with him. He moved like someone who never rushed, even when he should. But you still called his name, breathless from the rush.

“Professor Jung—Hoseok, wait up.”

His tailored blazer was unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up to reveal lean forearms, his usual crisp attire softened by the slight ruffle of his hair, undoubtedly from running a frustrated hand through it after a long day. His dark eyes lifted at the sound of your approaching footsteps, and when recognition flickered across his face, his lips curled into an smile.

"Ah," he mused, had just reached his car, one hand already on the door handle when he turned at the sound of your voice. His lips curved into an easy smile as he leaned against the frame. "To what do I owe the honor of you sprinting across the lot?"

You huffed, coming to a stop beside him, shifting the strap of your bag on your shoulder. “I think some of my test papers got mixed up with yours. I noticed a few of my poetry essays were missing, and I have a hunch they ended up with your psychology midterms.”

Hoseok made a thoughtful noise, rubbing his chin. “That… would explain why I was grading a sonnet on existential dread instead of cognitive behavioral theories.”

You sighed. “I knew it. I must have switched the stacks when I was in a rush earlier, I'm sorry."

“Don’t worry about it," he assured you, resuming unlocking his car. "I’ll check when I get home. Worst case, I’ll bring them to you tomorrow.”

You nodded, relief sagging through your shoulders. "Thanks, Professor Jung. You're a life saver. I planned to finish grading them tomorrow."

Hoseok made a mock grimace. “You work too hard.”

You smiled, shaking your head. “Says the guy who spent last night preparing an extra credit seminar.”

“That was different. That was for the kids who actually care about my class,” he countered, before nodding toward the nearly empty lot. “You’re headed home? Want a ride?”

It was harmless. A casual offer from a friend, from someone who had sat across from you in faculty meetings, who had lent you his pen more times than you could count, who had laughed with you over shared frustrations about students turning in assignments late. There was no reason to hesitate.

It had been a long day, longer than you realized. You would actually prefer it rather than waiting for the bus that always seems to be running late by minutes.

Yet the answer that came was.

"She's already got a ride." The voice wasn't yours. It had been the one you had come to realize that avoiding was futile, that whatever admissions it breathed into your ear ran deeper that you would have assumed, affected you more than you'd liked and you have started to come terms with it. The words weren’t sharp either, weren’t cruel, but they cut through the quiet with the ease of something unquestionable.

Hoseok’s brows lifted slightly as both of you turned toward the voice, towards the faint crunch of footsteps against pavement.

The raven haired man who had once been standing a few feets away, watching, was now stepping forward, minimizing the distance until he was right beside you, hands tucked into the pocket of his coat that was as dark as the night, the sharp cut of his jaw illuminated by the glow of the streetlights. His eyes didn't lock with yours as they usually would, instead they zeroed In on the psychology professor who was unaware of the sudden tension buzzing through the air.

What the hell?

“Oh, I didn’t realize you had someone waiting.”

You swallowed, grounding yourself. “Uh—yeah.” You cleared your throat. “Hoseok, this is Jungkook. My—" You cringed at how visibly you struggle to come up with words when the ardour of the man beside you pressed into your side. God, he was always so warm.

When Hoseok, ever perceptive, raised an eyebrow you snapped out of it and continued. "Minho's brother."

Hoseok glanced between the two of you, and his mouths part in understanding. Dots connect. His eyes glance at you with a look that says 'That Jungkook?' And you blink, 'That Jungkook.' All that you've ever told him about Jungkook making it clearer.

"Ohhh." He grins and extends a hand without hesitation, always one for politeness. “Well, nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I'm Jung Hoseok. I first met Y/N at a masters program. Been friends since then."

Jungkook’s gaze flickered to the offered hand before he shook it, firm and brief. Just a little tighter than necessary, enough to make Hoseok chuckle under his breath.

“Oof. Strong hands,” he said, raising an eyebrow but otherwise unfazed.

"Nice to meet you." There was nothing outright hostile in Jungkook’s voice. Nothing overly tense but you still felt like you were caught between two frequencies—one warm and familiar, the other crackling with something dangerously unspoken.

Hoseok seemed to pick up on it. He glanced between the two of you again, the corners of his mouth tilting into something unreadable before he shifted his weight.

“Well, I won’t keep you if you're settled then,” he said easily, flashing you a small smile. “See you Tomorrow?”

You nodded, grateful for the out. “Yeah,

see you.”

Hoseok gave Jungkook a small nod before slipping into his car, headlights flashing on as he pulled out of the lot.

You exhaled slowly, shifting on your feet, resisting the urge to lean into him. No, you were supposed to question him first.“What was that? And what are you doing here?”

“What was what?” He hummed, his mouth no longer set in that stern shape, his hand slipping from his coat pocket to brush a stray strand of your braid that barely seemed to hold its own away.

You narrowed your eyes, looking around instinctively before back at him. “You know what.”

Jungkook took a slow step forward, not even bothering that you were out in public, the space between you shrinking, charged. His head tilted slightly, voice deceptively light, tounge pushing against his cheek; That little tell of his, a habit you learned and found more attractive that it should have been, a habit he did when he was displeased with something. Maybe even pissed. Or both. "Didn’t know you were that close with Hozook, angel."

You blinked, thrown by the sudden turn in conversation. “It’s Hoseok.” You scoffed. “We work together, Jungkook. I’ve known him for years."

His lips pressed together, as if that information did absolutely nothing to quell whatever had flickered across his face moments ago.

Then—he opened his mouth, about to say something else, when you cut in, tone flat, unamused, every word sharpened.

“You’d know that if you hadn’t ghosted me for years.”

Whatever he was about to say dissolved right there on his tongue. His jaw twitched once. His brows dipped slightly, something unreadable passing through his gaze—but he said nothing. Good.

After a beat, he exhaled, shaking his head before motioning toward his car when he noticed the thin layers of your clothing, a dress shirt paired with a half sleeved sweater. “Come on.”

You frowned, your feet hesitating. You should be walking the other way. Should be dealing with public transport, going through the motions of an evening that should have belonged to you alone. He wasn’t obliged to be a part of this. “You didn’t have to come pick me up.” you say, smoothing down the strap of your bag.

He shrugs and his hand reaches you, or most specifically your bag, fingers curling around the strap and taking in his fist. “I was in the area.”

You snort, unimpressed. “Right.”

Still, you don't protest when he opens the door for you for reasons you don't want to analyze. And when you slide into the passenger seat, you don't mind how natural it's starting to feel.

He drives with one hand on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh. The city hums past you in streaks of gold and red, the kind of light that makes you feel like you’re inside a dream you once had and forgot the ending to. The faint murmur of the radio filling the space between you.

You’re both quiet for a while.

Then—“How was work?” he asks, without looking. His tone is mild, almost too careful, as if the question isn’t just about your day but about the right to ask.

It’s a simple question, casual, but the way he says it slows your thoughts. Like he’s trying, like he wants to know you again.

You shrug, shifting in your seat. “Fine. Uneventful. Spent half the day grading, the other half convincing students that deadlines actually mean something.”

He hums in amusement. “They don’t.”

You glare at him. “They do when I say they do.”

“Terrifying,” he muses, the corner of his mouth twitching.

You roll your eyes but it does little to conceal your own smile. “What about you?” It feels like you owe him the same curiosity.

Jungkook exhales through his nose, a slow, measured thing. “Had a meeting. Went as expected. Some numbers that needed fixing. Boring stuff.” You had always understood your husband's disdain for a life that was a repeat of listening to some guy talk too much, lose his temper when his ego would be on the line. But you had never known why Jungkook would prefer this or even why he wouldn't.

You look at him then, the sharp cut of his jaw, the way the city lights flicker across his skin in intervals—light, dark, light, dark—like the world couldn’t quite decide how to hold him. You weren’t sure you could either. Maybe you never asked enough questions, never studied every crease on his face liked you'd with minho and inspect it to hell.

“Sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” He steals a glance at you, quick, assessing. “Less exhausting now, though.”

But now that you do, now that you want to, you understand what he means.

It’s easy, this. Talking like this. Falling into a rhythm you hadn’t realized you still knew, one that had been untouched for years but still existed, waiting beneath the veneer. The intimacy of nothing in particular.

Jungkook has to force himself to focus on the road, fingers flexing again as he shifts gears.

If you scrutinize deeper, you'd also find that this—this slow glide through streets neither of you had named, the soft murmur of the radio, your shoulder nearly brushing his in the dark. This is what he’s always wanted. Not the secrecy. Not the stolen minutes behind doors that you had to double check if they are locked.

But this.

A ride home after a long day. A quiet conversation. The sound of your addictingly sweet voice in his car, in his space, in his life in a way that feels so woefully unpolished that it almost hurts.

“You’re not driving to my place.” Your voice pulls him back, your gaze sharp now, watching as the streets grow less familiar.

He doesn’t even pretend to be surprised at your realization.

“No.”

Your brow furrows. "Can you for once just drive me to my apartment without taking me to some place I don't want to go?"

"No."

That alone makes your fingers twitch where they rest in your lap.

You had spent so much time trying to untangle your own thoughts about him, about whatever this was turning into. Picking at it. Trying to name it. But Jungkook had been the picture of certainty. Unflinching. Unbothered. Like none of it had touched him the way it had touched you. Like he had already made peace with something you were still trying to name.Like he’d walked back into your life not to ask if he could stay—but to decide that he would.

Tonight, he seems different.

Its in the way his jaw tightens every time you shift in your seat, like he’s bracing himself. The way his tongue swipes over his bottom lip before he speaks, only to change his mind and stay silent. The way his gaze flickers toward you like he’s waiting for something.

You don’t know what to do with that.

Jungkook and hesitation have never belonged in the same sentence. At least, not since he came back.

You try again. “Where are we going, Jungkook?”

His mouth pressed into something unsure. Jungkook, unsure. It wasn’t something you were used to seeing now. It wasn’t something he looked when he pressed you against the kitchen counter, hadn’t sounded like this when he whispered his most cordial of dreams into the corner of your neck.

When he finally speaks, his voice is even, controlled. “Somewhere I want you to see.”

“That’s vague.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “It’s a surprise.”

Something about the way he says it makes your stomach pull tight.

Because you’ve seen Jungkook confident. You’ve seen him arrogant, smug, amused. You’ve seen him angry, cold, unreadable. But nervous? No. Not since he came back from a different life, not since he became the man that no longer fit into the spaces you had once saved for him.

And yet, right now, here he is. Inside, the space, one hand loose on the wheel, the other resting against his thigh, fingers drumming idly like a song he hadn’t decided to play yet. It was a small thing, a habit from when he was younger—back when he used to tap against the wooden desks in class, always restless, always itching to move.

Some things hadn’t changed.

Some things had.

Your fingers curled against the fabric of your coat. “You’re being weird.”

"I’ve always been weird, angel."

"No you haven't." There's something defensive in the way you phrase these words. "Don't change the subject."

This time, he smiled—brief but real. It softened something in his face, something he so rarely let slip anymore.

“You’ll like it,” he murmured after a beat, voice softer now, like he was almost convincing himself of the same thing. “I think.”

Just turned down a street you didn’t recognize, the road quieter here, the buildings spaced apart, until he finally pulled up in front of a modest, modern structure with floor-to-ceiling windows and a single light illuminating the entrance.The kind of place you wouldn’t look at twice if you didn’t know what you were searching for.

You couldn't help but ask again. "Where are we? What is this?"

Jungkook cut the engine, but he didn’t move right away. His fingers tapped against the wheel once, twice, before he finally exhaled and turned to you.

"I bought this place," he said simply.

You blinked up at the building again. "What?"

His lips pressed together, eyes flickering away before he cleared his throat. "Just—come inside."

You followed him out, your steps slow as you took in the building, the way the large glass panes mirrored the stars. The sky leaned against the windows like it, too, wanted to press closer, to see inside. There was a sign by the entrance—simple, elegant script, almost shy in how little it asked to be noticed. You don’t recognize it, and that alone makes you reconsider.

Jungkook said nothing as he unlocked the door, the quiet snick of the key turning loud in the stillness. He held it open for you like always, but this time his eyes didn’t meet yours.

You stepped inside and the push of the door revealed —A gallery.

Not just any gallery.

Paintings. Everywhere.

Paintings stretched across every wall, soft pools of golden light falling over their frames. Each piece breathed color—bold, bruised, aching with emotion. Blue melted into umber, ochre kissed the edge of crimson. Every brushstroke pulled something raw from your chest.

You moved forward, like your body remembered the path before your mind could catch up. Your fingers hovered in the air, trembling as they traced the lines without touching them, as if the act of reaching alone might wear you.

All of it look like what had been painfully dear to you.

Your stomach twisted.

Because you knew this work.

You knew it. Not just the style, not just the way the colors lived together in layered silence—but the soul of it. The way it looked back at you. The way it knew you.

You knew the hand that had created it. Been the first and last one to hold them close to you.

You reached for the closest canvas, your vision blurring at the name signed at the corner.

Jeon Minho.

The name cleaved through you like a wave, cruel and kind in equal measure. Your heart twisted. Your fingers hovered over a piece, afraid to touch, afraid it might slip through your hands if you weren’t careful. It was his—all of it, the way he saw the world, the way he translated it onto canvas.

It was like standing inside his head again, like hearing him laugh through color, like stepping back into a time where his presence still existed beyond memory.

Your breath shook.

“This…” Your voice wavered. “This is his.”

He was watching you instead, hands in his pockets, shoulders tense like he was waiting for you to feel it before he explained it.

And you did.

God, you did.

In the farthest corner of the room.

Your feet carried you again, before your mind could catch up, before you could brace for the impact of what you were about to see.

The world blurred at the edges.

The painting was soft, muted in color, like it had been caught in the golden hour of a fading summer. Three figures sat at the edge of a dock, backs turned, feet dipping into a painted lake that rippled with every brushstroke.

Two boys who's curves of smiles you would know even from behind.

One girl who knew.

It was them.

It was you.

Your throat tightened painfully, a memory rising unbidden, curling at the edges of the canvas, spilling into the quiet of the gallery until it was no longer just a painting—It was then.

You were twelve the summer Minho decided that the best way to survive the heat was to sit at the edge of the lake until the sun stopped trying to kill him.

Jungkook had been the first to follow, feet kicking idly at the water, arms propped behind him as he leaned back, his oversized t-shirt damp from an earlier splash war that he had definitely lost.

You had been the last to sit down, cross-legged between them, tossing small pebbles into the lake just to watch the ripples expand.

It had been quiet, warm, easy. The afternoon smelled of earth and sun, of laughter spilling into the open air.

“Stay still, Minho!” you giggled, reaching over to press another blade of grass into his already messy hair.

“Why?” he huffed, cracking one eye open. “You’re ruining my masterpiece.”

“You’re ruining my masterpiece,” you shot back, grinning as you tucked another strand behind his ear. A few away, Jungkook sat cross-legged, watching the two of you with quiet fascination. He was younger then, still round-cheeked, his dark eyes wide and serious as he curled his fingers in the grass.

“Are you gonna put grass in my hair too?” he finally asked, tilting his head.

You paused, considering, then reached over and plucked a small daisy from the ground.

“Not grass,” you said, leaning closer. “But hold still.”

He did.

Even then, Jungkook had been good at that—at waiting, at being patient in a way that seemed too big for his age.

Carefully, you tucked the daisy behind his ear.

“There,” you murmured, sitting back.

Minho snorted, pushing himself up on his elbows. “Now he looks really ridiculous.”

But Jungkook only blinked, reaching up to touch the flower gently, like it was something delicate, something that had been given to him and him alone.

He didn’t take it out.

It stayed there like the three of you—trapped in summer light, forever twelve, forever laughing, forever somewhere time could not reach.

A quiet exhale broke the silence behind you. But the deep ache stayed spread through your chest, slow and unforgiving.

"He never showed me this," you murmured, voice barely above a whisper. "He painted it the year before he…" Jungkook hesitated, the words catching. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, his gaze tracing the familiar lines of Minho’s signature. "Before he passed."

Your chest constricted. The truth never stopped feeling like a knife.

From the first time since you stepped inside, you finally turned to Jungkook then, eyes searching, waiting for him to tell you why.

Why he had done this.

Why had he crushed that one devastating voice in your head that would make it's appearance timely—you are forgetting him. You are forgetting the exact way his laughter curled at the end. The domesticity of how his step fell beside yours. Those were slipping with every sunrise you surived without him. Dissolving like fog under the sun. You are forgetting your min min.

And one night, you'd wake up desperate, breathless, trying to recall the way he said your name but you wouldn't. And the guilt—God, the guilt—would sit on your chest.

Until now that Jungkook had gathered every fragment of Minho’s soul and brought it back to life. Not as a ghost. But as something immortal. As something known. Someone someone will always know. A hundred things rise to the surface. None of them make it past your lips.

Jungkook exhaled softly, running a hand through his hair before shoving it back into his coat pocket. His shoulders were drawn tight, but his voice was steady when he finally spoke. "I started looking for them a while ago. A month before I came back, maybe longer. They were scattered—some in old studios, some with collectors. A few were in storage, collecting dust. I tracked them down, bought back what I could."

He hesitated before continuing. "Hyung's anniversary is next month." The words felt heavy, like they were scraping raw against the throat of a boy who had never quite come to terms with losing the only man he's ever looked up to. "And I—" A pause, like he was choosing his next words carefully. "We—never really did anything, did we?"

You blinked hard, trying to push back the sting behind your eyes.

"No." Your voice was barely there.

A muscle in Jungkook’s jaw ticked. "I didn’t want this year to be like that. I wanted to do something. Do you like..this, angel? We could open this to the public too if you want. Show mom and dad."

Something rises within you, vast and unnameable—less a feeling, more a tide. It isn’t just the gallery. It isn’t just Minho.

It’s the echo of affinity stitched into every frame. The invisible thread that leads back to Jungkook.

It’s the fact that Jungkook did this. That he spent God knows how long making this happen, gathering Minho’s work, making sure his art wouldn’t just sit in forgotten portfolios, lost in the quiet corners of time.He unearthed what time tried to bury. Preserved what you feared was lost.

And the immensity of it—the quiet significance of what he’s saying, of what he’s not saying—hits you harder than you were prepared for.

The gallery holds its breath. Your pulse does not.

Slowly, carefully, you reach for his hand like you would in the dreamiest of dreams.

Jungkook stills.

His fingers are warm beneath yours, rough at the knuckles, tense. But he doesn’t pull away. Not from you. Never from you.

“Thank you,” you whisper. It doesn’t feel like enough, but it’s all you have. Like gratitude too big for language. Like grief softened into approbation. “This is—” Your throat closes, a breath hitching past your lips, eyes blinking away tears that had nothing to do with sorrow and everything to do with love."This is beautiful. It's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

Jungkook doesn’t speak, but something shifts in his face, something almost imperceptible. In a way that made him want to take this moment where you're looking at him like he had hung the stars back in the sky and bury it deep inside his ribs, somewhere no one could ever touch it.

And when he does speak, his hands intertwine with yours, eyes holding yours like gravity. "You're beautiful."

Your lips parted, caught off-guard.

A muscle of his cheek clenches. “I meant—your face is all red. It’s distracting.”

You smiled, watery and gentle, and he swore if he if he had even a silver of the talent his brother carried in the cradle of his hands, he would’ve painted you too.

With your face flushed from crying and the faint glimmer of laughter still clinging to your lashes. With your fingers looped between his like you didn’t even realize you were holding on.

He would’ve painted you in soft oils and pale light, your presence the only subject, the only truth. And maybe he’d leave a smear of color just beneath your eye where your tears had dried, like a signature only he could understand. Not even someone who could’ve looked at it years from now would have understood.

But Jungkook couldn’t paint.

Couldn’t even draw a straight line without it wobbling under pressure. He had no brushstroke to offer you, no canvas that could carry the weight of this feeling blooming in his chest like it had always belonged there.

So he squeezed your hand instead, pulled you into him and pressed a kiss to the crown of your head, repeating how you're so beautiful, how he wants to spend the rest of his life telling you so, how he will lay the world on your feet if you only just smile like that for him.

What he doesn't say is that he came back for this. He stayed for you. He'll always stay.

And how still, in the soft lull that followed, his mind—traitor that it was—pulled him somewhere else.

Back to the night he first listened to Minho’s voicemail.

He hadn’t planned to.

It had sat in his inbox for two weeks after Minho passed, unopened. Just a little notification bubble, small and silent, like it knew it wasn’t ready to be heard.

But that night, something in Jungkook had split.

Maybe it was the cold. Maybe it was the way the world kept turning like nothing had happened. Maybe it was just loneliness.

He’d climbed up to the roof of some rented building in Daegu, drunk off something cheap, the stars sharp above him, the world far below.

And he played it.

"Jungkook-ah." Minho’s voice cracked a little. Old, soft, raspy. Too gentle for someone whose lungs had been fighting him for years.Too familiar, too. The kind that had once read bedtime stories and yelled over bicycle crashes.

“I figured you’d be too pissed to pick up. Can’t blame you.” A soft chuckle, winded.

"I know it’s been a while. Years, actually." He waited, if considering whether it's worth a try or not before resuming. "Too long, huh?"

"I saw your name the other day. Don't even remember where. But it made me stop. Not that I got too much going on for me." Another shaky chuckle followed. "I don’t know what kind of life you’re living now. Maybe something busy. Maybe something brilliant. But if you’re hearing this… I want you to know I was proud. I am proud. Even when I was angry. Especially then, maybe. Even when I didn’t understand you. I watched you become your own person, and it scared the hell out of me. I didn’t wanted to see you turn into our father."

His voice wavered, raw and fraying.

"But you didn’t become him. You didn’t. And I wish I’d told you that sooner."

“Because you're my little brother. You always will be and I'm sorry I forgot that for a moment and I..I don’t know how much longer I’ve got so I had to tell you this." He paused, and Jungkook could almost hear the way Minho looked up at the ceiling when he was thinking. Like there was something celestial about regrets once they’d been said out loud.

"They don’t say it, but I can tell. I can see it in the beautiful brown of my wife's eyes."

Jungkook remembered pressing his palm against his chest like it could stop the ache. It couldn’t.

"Though it has dulled a shade ever since the coughing starting hurting worse. I suppose, I should be sorry for that too, but I don't want to die drowning in sorrys. I don't want to die regretting. Even if it kills me that I'll never hear your name in the news again, that I will never see her in morning light and think that heaven’s not far off."

He cleared his throat, like it hurt to speak. Maybe it did.

"I want to be content with all that I've had. With all that I've become. I want to be hopeful that the world will be kinder to her. To you. That you'd not spend your whole life outrunning ghosts."

Minho’s voice lowered, like it was just the two of them now. Like it had always been.

"I hope it’s not too late." I hope I'm not too late. "I hope—when the dust settles—you’ve still got something to hold onto. Someone. And I really hope she forgives you."

Silence stretched, one last time for minho, perhaps. For his little brother, it was the sound of his own breaking. He tried to hold his breath. Tried to stay still. But the pain didn't stay quiet. It raked up his throat, rude and coarse, until the first sob slipped out, ruptured and helpless. His hand, the one holding the phone, trembled violently. The other curled into a fist against his thigh, knuckles white, nails digging into his palm like that might stop the shaking.

It didn’t.

“I’ll be somewhere soft. Don’t rush. Just… be good. Remember your hyung. I love you, Jungkook-ah."

Static.

He pressed the phone harder to his ear, like if he clung to it tightly enough, Minho might speak again. That maybe—somehow—he could rewind, could stop it, could change everything.

Only static.

"The centre of every poem is this: I have loved you. I have had to deal with that." — Salma Deera, Letters from Medea (2015).

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evolution of a lover’s heart | 06

the rules are simple: first one to take the virginity wins.

pairing: fuckboy!jk x f reader

genre: fluff, angst, smut, college au, fuckboy au, bet au

word count: 24.5k

warnings: male masturbation, a lot of flashbacks that include: oral (f receiveing), fingering, penetrative sex. also contains non-descriptive domestic abuse.

rating: NC-17 – Adults Only

masterlist

part 6/7

<previous | next>

© evolution of a lover’s heart is copyright jeonstudios 2021/2022. this fic can not be modified, re-posted, or translated without my permission.

author’s note: yes you read that right, this is part 6 out of 7, and im still in my circus tent. hope you like <3 and im very interested in what yall think of jk after this lol

It surprises you, how Jeongguk’s hurried steps already carry him towards his car. And although you’ll never keep him from leaving, you can’t just watch him go. Not like that.

”Hey, I’m gonna have to call you back, sorry,” you interrupt the voice in your ear, confused feet already moving forward.

She doesn’t seem to really understand, or she just didn’t hear you, so you excuse yourself, ”Yeah, yeah, listen, I’ll call you tomorrow,” and you do something you’ve never done before. You hang up while someone’s still talking.

”Gguk, wait!” You call, but he doesn’t stop. He’s almost reached the black vehicle, and you don’t run after him, knowing that if he wants to leave, you won’t be able to stop him anyway. In that case, you’ll just have to knock on the door to his apartment in the coming days.

Keep reading

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so close to perfect | jjk

jeon jungkook x reader

angst with a happy ending, idol!au, established relationship ; wc : 1480 words

rating: pg13

warnings: swearing, mentions of insecurities, jungkook is a bit of a dick here i'm sorry lol

note: this fic was inspired by this song! it's been collecting dust in my drafts for so long and then i realized that i haven't posted anything in months so....... hope you guys enjoy!

jeongguk has always been your constant, and even with what seems to be the whole world against the two of you, you can't bring yourself to let him go.

Sighing, you take a sip from your tea. “You’re a fucking idiot.”

Jeongguk blinks. “What?”

“I said,” you repeat slowly, “you’re a fucking idiot. I know what I got into. You don’t get to make decisions for me.”

“I’m not making decisions for you, (Y/N).” He scoffs, leaning back on his chair. “I’m telling you that this isn’t working out between us. We need to break up.”

For a few moments, you say nothing. The sounds of the cafe downstairs fill the silence between the two of you and you idly wonder if he’ll gain some sense the longer that you stare at him. You raise an eyebrow.

“You literally told me that you wanted to start a family with me yesterday,” you deadpan. “People don’t change that quickly, especially not you.”

“Then you obviously don’t know me well enough!” He fires back, leaning forward as he grips the edge of your table. His jaw clenches, and in another time, maybe you would have found it attractive. Now, however, it only fuels your irritation further.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you consider actually slapping some sense into that stupid, big head of his. “Jeongguk, I’ve known you for ten years,” you remind him calmly. “I know you better than I know myself, which is why I know that you’re an awful liar and that every sentence you’ve uttered in the past ten minutes has been pulled straight out of your ass.”

You can practically see the gears turning in his head. It was clear that this strategy wasn’t working out, and it didn’t take a genius to figure out that it was time for him to switch tactics.

When his gaze grows harder, colder, you already know that the next thing that comes out of his mouth will tear your heart to shreds. Still, you tilt your chin upwards, meeting his gaze head-on.

“(Y/F/N),” he says quietly, voice so dangerously low. You brace yourself for the impact. “How do I make you understand that the past three years have been nothing but a waste of my time?”

Bull’s-fucking-eye.

He takes your frozen state as a sign to continue. “The past three years have just been one big trainwreck. You’ve done nothing but hold me back in every aspect of my life. You have been nothing but selfish and it shows even now,” he scoffs. “You refuse to listen to me when I tell you something. It’s always your way or the highway, isn’t it?”

You’re stunned into silence. So this was the path he was going to take, huh? Somewhere, underneath the wave of hurt that washes over you is a thought: textbook. This is a textbook manifestation of your worst fears, your deepest insecurities. He knows you better than you know yourself; knowing exactly which buttons to press to hurt you the most. He’s cutting into your very soul with surgeon-like precision. The wounded, angry part of you wants to take the bait, to rip him apart but you don’t have it in you to tear into him just as he had done with you.

So you say nothing, merely tilting your head to the side. Slowly, you bring your cup to your lips, sipping quietly before setting it down once more. His eyes are still dark, filled with barely repressed rage.

“You’re always fucking clinging to me too!” He spits out. “You act like you’re so high and mighty but then you act like a fucking child whenever you don’t get what you want. Grow the fuck up,” he laughs humorlessly. “Loving you is the biggest mistake of my life. I wish I never fucking met you.”

At that statement, you can’t even hold back a wince. If you weren’t watching him so closely, you would not have noticed the way his eyes widen infinitesimally, fingers twitching as if he wanted to reach out for you. He bites his lip and for a second he looks like the Jeongguk that you know and love. That’s all it takes for you to strengthen your resolve once more, to force your tears back, and to face this head-on as if he hadn’t hit you where it hurt the most.

“Is that all you’ve got?” You say coolly as if your heart didn’t ache at his words. “Let it all out, love; I’ve got all day.”

His facade begins to crumble. “Why aren’t you mad at me?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Do you want me to be mad at you?”

He visibly deflates in front of you. Shaking his head, he looks at the coffee table, fingers tracing the scratches on the surface.

“Just break up with me,” he whispers pitifully. “It’s the best thing you can do.”

You hum softly. “Do you want to break up with me because of the reasons that you listed earlier? Or…”

“Or?”

“Does this have something to do with the conversation you had with your manager this morning?”

His head shoots up, eyes widening comically. “How do you know that?”

“I have my ways,” you shrug. “That, and the fact that Yoongi overheard the two of you and gave me a heads up.”

“How did he even overhear us?”

You only shrug once more. Yoongi was, well, Yoongi. He was a man of many (slightly concerning) talents.

“If you’re worried about me receiving hate,” you start, pulling his hand into your grasp, “then you have nothing to worry about. I’m a big girl. I can handle it.”

He scoffs quietly but there’s no real malice behind it. “People are cruel when they want to be. I’ve been on the receiving end of that, (Y/N). I never want you to know what that feels like.”

“So you were just going to take the easy way out?”

He blanches. “No, I… I just wanted to protect you…”

A sad grin creeps up your face. “And look where that got us.”

Letting go of his hand, you take another sip of your tea, almost spitting it out when you look at Jeongguk and realize he has actual tears in his eyes. “Guk?” You say worriedly, hand reaching out to cup his cheek. He leans into your touch and closes his eyes, eyebrows still adorably scrunched in that way it always did whenever he was close to tears.

When he opens his eyes again, you smile.

“I didn’t mean what I said,” he says hoarsely. “I don’t think you’re selfish or immature or clingy. Loving you, meeting you has been the best thing to happen to my life and⁠, and I⁠—” He swallows thickly, a single tear rolling down his cheek. You’re quick to wipe it off even as you feel your own eyes well up with tears.

“I love you,” he admits. “I look at you and my heart feels so full and you make me so happy and I just, I love you so much⁠—” he sobs, dragging his seat closer to you so he could hold you close. You stiffen when he buries his face in the crook of your neck, only relaxing when you’re sure that no one else is on this floor of the cafe. Your arms wrap around his hunched form, letting him cry freely.

“I’m so sorry about what I said. I didn’t mean any of it I swear,” he blubbers, nose all red and runny. It’s almost adorable how he looks at you so earnestly with tears in his eyes. “You’re my everything, (Y/N), I mean it.”

He pulls away from you with a sudden urgency, hands cupping your face gently as he looks into your eyes deeply. “You don’t hold me back. You make me a better person every single day. I’m an idiot who should have talked to you about this first before forcing you to break up with me.”

“You are an idiot,” you agree. He snorts at how quickly you agree, but all you can think of at the moment is how easily he puts your heart at ease despite being the very person to have ripped it apart moments earlier.

“Don’t get me wrong, we’re going to talk about this in detail but this isn’t a discussion we should be having in a public place.” You rise from your seat, patting his cheek gently. “Let’s go home?”

He nods happily, giving you that smile⁠—that soft smile of his that makes you forget about everything else, the one that tells you he loves you more than anything in the world. “Let’s go home.”

The two of you still had so many things to talk about, so many things to unpack from today’s events. It almost seems daunting now that you think about it as the two of you walk home with your hand in his, but as long as you had him… then maybe it wouldn’t be so bad after all.