Shatter With Me | Please, Let Me

Lines of fate: 01 | jjk

➵ pairing: tattooist!jungkook x f. reader

➵ genre: apocalypse au, exes to lovers (?) dad!jungkook, survival, angst, smut

➵ summary: the last thing Jungkook ever imagined was an outbreak that turned the dead into the living. But even more unexpected is seeing you—an ex he’s known nothing about in the past four years—with a small child who bears a striking resemblance to himself. As Jungkook grapples with the shock and the city spirals into chaos, the two of you are thrust back together, forced to confront unresolved feelings, long-buried truths, and the horrors of the deadly virus taking over.

➵ word count: 10.8k

➵ warnings: swearing (jk says fuck way too much), graphic depictions of violence and death, blood and gore, seizures, virus and zombies ofc, brief mentions of alcohol consumption.

➵ series masterlist

➵ a/n: it’s finally here!! <3 sorry this was postponed way longer than expected, all I can say is: life :,) anyway!! posting my writing again after years on hiatus definitely feels nerve wracking lol. this idea has been in my wips for literally years so I’m so excited to finally be sharing it with you all!! I would greatly appreciate your feedback and thoughts as it is something quite different from anything I usually write (it’s definitely been a kick in the ass to write) it’ll also really help me stay motivated to continue writing it. thank you for all the hype and excitement you showed for this fic before it was even released cause like hello?? that’s crazy to me😭 thanks for always showing my stories love and support🫶🏻 I’ve taken inspiration from all the zombie movies and videogames I’ve ever seen and played over the years (thanks dad). I should also mention, I had a very thorough plot for this planned out and it kinda went to shit in the process of writing so we’re kind of going off vibes only and 20% of the plot I had originally planned so yeah, bare with me🤪 I also want to say, updates on this will most likely be slow, but I will try my best to get them out as fast I can for you🙏 now that that’s over, I hope you enjoy this series as much as I am enjoying writing it!! this chapter is just the very beginning <33

The autumn sun filters through the large window with an amber glow as you take a slow sip of your coffee, the warm bitterness spreading in your chest as you attempt to chase some kind of comfort. But the loud hum of the city just outside and the muffled chatter of the bustling cafe are very much a grounding reminder of where you are — and where you really wish you weren't.

Your gaze travels down to your daughter sitting on the booth beside you, her little legs swinging off the seat contentedly as she picks away at her blueberry muffin. Completely oblivious to your ongoing little inner torment. Her big eyes flicker up to meet yours, brimming with glee. Brushing a crumb off her cheek, you force a little smile for her. 

Like a dull sting under your skin, you feel how little teeth of guilt gnaw away at you, not only because it’s been almost impossible to offer her a genuine smile in the past two days since you stepped foot in this dammed place, but because you simply wish you could share the same excitement as she does, and perhaps…feel more positive about this whole situation. For her.

But all you’ve been able to feel is guilt.

An incessant amount of it. Guilt and fear. Slowly brewing up inside you like some sort of poison that has had you feeling a little sick to your stomach.

”You’re spiraling again.” Hoseok pulls you out of your absentminded state, studying you over the rim of his half finished iced americano.

You blink. You often tend to forget how well he’s capable of reading you. Though you suppose that’s a skill acquired with nearly twenty years of friendship, an unavoidable consequence of growing up constantly together, practically like siblings. 

Hoseok has been the only constant in your life for as long as you can remember, like a brother to you — conjoined at the hip as his mother always used to joke. It all began when you moved next door. With your parents always working late and often times far away from home, Hoseok's home slowly became your second one — the place you spent most of your childhood and adolescence and formed some of your fondest memories. A place where you were never alone.

You do suppose it’s no surprise the years and the unbreakable bond you’ve formed have given you exceptional abilities to know when something is off with just a simple glance. But it's never less surprising.

The corners of your mouth tug upwards into a tiny smile at his words, brows pinched in a pathetic attempt to hide your truth. “I am not.”

“You are. You’re thinking too much,” he stirs the ice in his drink with the straw, eyes flicking up to meet yours again. “Which if I may remind you, is one of your fatal flaws.”

You scoff, only slightly offended as you watch him take a slow sip. Pushing your sunglasses further up your head as you lean back. “Thinking too much is not my fatal flaw.” 

He’s may very likely be right about that, but of course, you’d never actually admit it.

Hoseok snorts, clearly unconvinced. His voice just above a whisper when he murmurs, “Right. Sorry. It’s definitely lying.”

Before you can argue, he leans forward to accept some crumbs of muffin Jieun is so eagerly offering him. The sight tugs at something deep in your chest, watching his expression soften to mush as he thanks her with that brightest, tender smile he only ever uses for her before he brings his attention back to you. 

“If it weren’t your fatal flaw, you’d actually be enjoying that overpriced coffee and oh-, maybe being reunited with your best friend again. I haven’t even seen you in like three months.” He shakes his head in utter disappointment, sitting back with a dramatic sigh.

“Hobi, I am so thrilled to be reunited with you, truly.” You roll your eyes ever so slightly and place a hand on your heart rather sarcastically as you say it, but deep down you hope he knows you’re only half joking. No one has done for you more than what hoseok has in the time you’ve known him.

You suppose all the change has got you in a rather sentimental state. But you bury it away. Hoseok deserves a nice time out with a friend for once too. He’s seen enough of your tears.

“Yeah?” he leans in, studying you with mock concern. Though not falling for it even a bit. "That's your thrilled face? You sure about that?” And you almost laugh, but then, he shifts, looking more serious. “You know,” he pauses, crossing his arms over his chest. “For someone who finally landed a nice new job and has everything working out, you don’t look all that thrilled to me, actually. That’s all.”

You press your lips together and glance down at your coffee, suddenly the truth a little too hard to face. You should be happy. He’s right. Because things are really starting to look up for you again, everything you’ve spent the last few months wishing for has finally become a reality. And yet, you can’t shake the fact that there’s a deep buried sense of dread that seems to be getting in the way of that, a familiar fear that's been present for years, but only intensified since you stepped foot in Seoul again. 

Hoseok follows your gaze, watching you carefully, then nudges your foot under the table gently. “Come on.” He murmurs softly, eyebrows raised gently. “What is it?”

You suppose your real fatal flaw is your emotions showing up as flashy neon subtitles over your head apparently, or the fact you are simply terrible at hiding them, because Hoseok doesn't budge. He sees right through your little facade — always has. And as much as you know he is a great listener and that he genuinely cares to hear it all, always ready to give you a helping hand in any way he possibly can, you just don’t want to sound ungrateful. Not when anyone else in your situation would be feeling over the moon right now.

Besides, you’ve never liked burdening him, or anyone for that matter. Never wanted to add more weight to the heavy things he already carries himself. He deals with so much of that at work already. So many problems significantly worse than your own worries. So you simply shake your head, putting on a small smile once again in hopes to appease him.

“I’m alright, Hobi. It's just…strange. Being back here. Overwhelming, I guess,” you admit, though only to half of the truth. “It’s so calm on the island. I suppose I got used to it. Everything here is just so intense. But that's all.” You cross your arms on the table as you gaze out at the busy streets. Hoping you don't sound as pathetic as you feel. Though in truth, this whole things isn't just strange. It’s all actually fucking terrifying.

In many ways it seemed like nothing here had changed since the day you left four years ago. The cityscape is as bustling as you remember – a stark contrast to the quietude and stillness of Jeju, where you had been building your new life up until now. People in suits rush back and forth and push into each other with no care, everything is always shadowed by a maze of buildings that don't seem to have an end. Cars weave through traffic like they want to crash into each other, and neon signs and billboards still flicker blindingly even in the daytime. 

The fact that everything remains the same, terrifies you. The rush, the stress, the chaos. That constant hustle and bustle that seems suffocating. It wasn't the reason why you left. but it was certainly a factor that made your life here something you wanted to escape from. It feels like stepping back into the life you thought you’d left behind for good. Like stepping onto a moving treadmill, when you no longer know how to run. Not sure if you’ll ever find your place here again.

Hobi hums in understanding, and the warmth in the familiarity of his smile helps lessen the knot that's been forming in your stomach all morning. And though you've only let out a tiny portion of what's on your mind, you already feel like you can breathe with more ease.

Sometimes, it’s not so bad that he can see right through you. Because you also tend to forget he’s the only one that truly gets you, understands you when even you struggle to understand yourself, and has never once been one to judge you, no matter how small or ridiculous it may be.

“Yeah, I get it. It can be overwhelming.” He nods slowly, letting the words settle. “But if I were you, I’d be damn proud of myself.” His expression is calm and his words full of sincerity as he speaks. “You did what you had to do, and now you’re doing it again. Making more big changes. Really tough decisions, and I know that’s not easy.” He pauses. “But you've always made it after all. This time won't be different. Besides, think about this, we’re close to each other now. I’ll be here for anything you guys need, you know that.”

Your heart softens at his comforting words, and the reassurance feels like it melts some of the tension off your shoulders. And for just a split second you feel that roar of confidence, thinking about everything you've accomplished, but it's not lasting, and deflates with the weight of your heavier thoughts.

You want to believe what he says — you really do. For your daughter's sake. Because this is finally your chance to start over and build something better. To give Jieun the life she deserves, something stable, a chance to thrive in a place full of new opportunities. 

A fresh start. 

After all, isn't that all you've ever been chasing?

You don’t want to allow your fears and the past to come in the way of that. But it's never so simple. At least, definitely not here — definitely not for you.

Because the truth is, being in Seoul again feels like roaming a haunted city. Tainted and plagued by shadows from the past, by who you used to be, and everything and everyone you left behind all those years ago when you ran and didn’t dare to look back. Being here now, you can’t shake the feeling — the apprehension and fear that everything you once left behind is lurking around the corner, ready to jump out and haunt you, making everything you've finally built up crumble to pieces once again. This place just gives you an indescribable feeling of…dread. Eeriness even. Enough for it to linger gut deep with a painful sense of discomfort that hasn’t eased since the day you arrived. As if you can never truly let your guard down.

But after all, it was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up, even if it meant returning to the city you swore you’d never step foot in again. The offer came at just the right moment, a lifeline after months of uncertainty and dead-ends. After losing your job, and endless nights crying yourself to sleep with the heavy burden of becoming a failure of a mother and not knowing how to make ends meet. You practically cried with joy the morning you finally got the call, and ignored the pit that formed in your stomach when you heard where it required you to move to. It had felt like you were about to reach the peak of a mountain, only to drop all the way back down to the bottom. But it was a steady paycheck, and a chance to finally give Jieun some stability. It wasn’t glamorous or grand — a position in a small marketing firm. But it was enough to rebuild. The breakthrough you so badly needed to start over and secure a future for your little girl. 

How could you possibly turn it down?

That was your biggest and only goal in life.

There was nothing you wouldn’t do for her. So you knew in that very instant you had to take it. Even if it meant returning to the place that broke you beyond repair. So you packed up your life and now, here you are. Back where you never thought you’d be. So far from the tranquility of the home you had made for yourself in a secluded tiny seaside town four years ago. Where you were happy. Where you didn't live in constant fear.

“I know this is what I need right now,” you speak softly, more to yourself than anything. You reach out, gently brushing your fingers through Jieun's baby soft hair, watching as she focuses intently on her muffin, completely unaware of the heaviness of the conversation. “I just don’t want to mess anything up…the job, you know, our new life here. I want to get this right. I don’t want anything, getting in the way of that.” You swallow thickly, fingers tightening around the mug of coffee in front of you, and Hoseok knows exactly what you mean by that. You hesitate, letting out a quiet breath before speaking again. “I know there's so many opportunities for us here but…I was happy in Jeju. Jieun was happy.”

Hoseok nods, slow and understanding. “I know you were. A city like this takes some adapting to, you know that.” He reaches out and gives your arm a gentle squeeze, “but give it time. You’ll settle right back in.” He says warmly, reassuring. You return a tiny smile, more genuine this time.

“Seriously though. Change is good. New home, new job, meeting new people…maybe even someone special…” he adds.

You scoff, eyes widening, only half incredulous at how fast he swerved the topic there. So typical of him. 

“Yeah no, thanks. You can stop it right there.” You shake your head.

“What?” Hobi leans back in his chair, crossing his arms as he waggles his eyebrows, a tiny smirk pulling at the corner of his lips, completely unbothered despite your clear opposition. “I'm just saying,” he adds in, raising his hands in mock innocence, though he feels like your glare could actually kill him. “You’re young. You’re no longer in that tiny ass town full of old drunk married cheating men. Everyone deserves a little fun. It wouldn't kill you to-”

“Hobi,” you sigh, cringing internally at the memories of disastrous dates you told him all about over the phone. You throw a pointed look in his direction, but Hoseok just chuckles. “I’m done with all that. Seriously.”

“Come on,” he presses.

“No. No way. I told you.” You interject, tone firm, not even allowing space for the idea. “I’m a single mother, Hobi. That’s been off the cards for years. I have different priorities now.” You straighten in your seat, making a point to scoop Jieun's hair back and out of her drink. These are your priorities now.

Hoseok raises a brow, watching you carefully, but there's no judgment in his expression now — just silent understanding. He leans back in his chair again, smile dying down, tapping his fingers absently against his iced americano before his gaze drifts over to your little girl. His expression softens, fondness flowing in his eyes.

“I know,” he says after a moment, his tone a tad more gentle. “But I’m just saying…you’re allowed to let yourself be happy again, you know. You deserve that.”

Something uncomfortable twists in your insides. Happy. What a simple word, but what a complex thing. 

You lift your eyes to meet his, the sincerity in his gaze cutting right through. You could argue, explain that you don't agree, that romance is a door locked for good. Not only out of fear, but out of necessity. It’s no longer just about you. You don’t have the luxury of reckless choices or fleeting little flings like you did before.

There's simply to much buried history to let anyone new into your life.

And deep down, you don't believe you deserve it. But you don’t voice any of that. There's no need to explain. Hoseok knows your history better than anyone, the pain etched deep into you, the one you carry like a scar beneath your skin. He knows Jieun's father plays a big role in that, even though you don’t dare to mention him and haven’t in years. He knows his existence and every memory he’s involved in is something you merely refuse to acknowledge. And though Hoseok wants nothing more than for you to thrive, he knows better than to press on the matter. 

Still, he hesitates before speaking quietly. “I’ve been here four years, and I’ve never seen him again.”

He says it gently, in hopes the information is comforting to you, to maybe put you at ease, but instead it feels like a small jab between your ribs. You stiffen, for just a second. You feel your heart begin to race a tiny bit faster. And you wonder when the mention of him will stop having this goddamn effect on you.

Hoseok notices, and regret quickly flickers across his face. He realizes he might have overstepped, treading on thin ice that he fears may slowly be cracking beneath him.

But it doesn't. You take a deep breath, and you simply nod. It’s okay. You know you can’t avoid it forever. Besides, who’s to say he even still lives here? The thought should be reassuring, bring you some sort of peace, be relieving. But it isn’t. Because the thought of ever seeing him again makes your palms sweat, and your chest a little tight.

“Yeah.” You say quietly. “You’re right. Who knows.”

You don't mention how many late nights you've stayed up, haunted with thoughts like if ever did make it out of here. If he ever made to the states and accomplished all those things he wanted. If he's perhaps settled down and started a family or if he's stuck right where he used to be, how he used to be. You don't mention how sometimes, you mind even attacks you with the thought of if he’s even still alive.

You don't dare mention any of it.

Hoseok exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m sorry. I just-” He pauses, voice lowering as he checks Jieun to make sure she's not listening, not that she would know or understand, but you appreciate that he does. “I know we’re not meant to talk about him–“

You push past it, giving a small dismissive shake of the head. Instead, you plaster on a small practiced smile, turning to glance down at the little girl beside you as well. It isn't something easy to avoid. But for the past four years, somehow, you’ve managed it. 

“Anyway. I am happy,” you say, voice softer now, steering the conversation elsewhere. “I get all the love I need from my little lovebug right here, don’t I?”

The little lovebug in question remains completely unaware of the heaviness of the conversation. Instead, her wide eyes are fixated on something outside, her eyes big and small fingers suddenly clutching your sleeve.

“Mommy, look!” She gasps, tugging desperately for your attention, she calls you again, tearing you away from your conversation. “The birdy!”

You follow her gaze, a small black bird just on the other side of the glass, and the simplicity of her joy softens you, eases the heaviness for a second. It really doesn't take much to amuse a child, and you’re glad to see at least someone enjoying her time here so far. “I see, baby.”

You smile with her, that is until, just a moment later, you notice… the small bird is no longer pecking at crumbs on the pavement. It’s… acting rather strangely. Its head twitches sharply to the side, body jerking with twitchy erratic movements as it flaps it’s wings like crazy, then suddenly, it freezes, before twitchting again.

Your brows furrow, unable to take your eyes off it. What the hell? Something about it sends a strange chill through you, suddenly understanding what had Jieun so surprised.

“Oh, I think that poor bird might have gone a little coo coo.” Hoseok turns his head to take a look himself, and you both exchange a puzzled glance, to which Hobi just shrugs with a mildly disgusted expression.

“What, you know I hate birds.” he whispers, shrugging like someone just walked over his grave, and you swat his arm and shush him, suppressing a laugh. You wouldn't want your sweet animal loving daughter hearing that. 

“Isn't that so weird. I’ve never seen one do that before.” You say, and hoseok tilts his head, staring at it with a mildly grossed out frown. “Probably has some kind of parasite or something. Not sure.”

“It’s gonna die?” she looks up at hobi, her little face full of worry. You wrap your arms around her, pulling her in closer.

“Not necessarily, bub. I’m sure it’ll be okay,” Hobi answers, trying to be tactful, however, Jieun doesn’t look convinced, but she nods sadly and resumes eating spoonfuls of her hot chocolate that's long gone cold. 

“Yeah, it’ll be fine baby.” You kiss the top of her head, as you glance out the window once again, only to see it’s no longer there. 

“So odd.” You shake your head, taking another sip of your coffee, and Hoseok nods and lets out a low hum, taking another sip himself.

“So, what’s the plan for the rest of the day? Are you actually gonna start unpacking, or are you going to let those suitcases rot in your living room for another week?” He taunts.

You chuckle. “I’ll unpack eventually. This little girl and I have a long list of errands left today.”

“Uh-huh.” He gives you an unconvinced look, the looks at Jieun with a dramatic pout, cooing. “My poor little monkey. Prisoner to moms to do list. I remember that feeling.”

She giggles, and you speak up. “Shhh, she loves errands with mommy, don't you-”

Suddenly, a loud crash sound from the back of the café, startling you all.

The sharp clatter of metal rings out and you hear a young worker gasp, emerging hastily from behind the counter as the previous muffle of conversation begins to die down. Heads immediately start turning towards the scene unfolding before them. 

“What the hell?” you murmur as you hastily turn around yourself, pulse spiked from the jump.

Near the back of the cafe, a chair is knocked to the ground, a mans body hunched over on the floor, shaking and convulsing with an unnatural force that seems to take over him completely. The man sitting beside him instantly scrambles to the floor next to him, shaking his shoulders in a failed attempt to break him out of whatever is happening as he calls out for help in a trembling voice, panicked.

“Oh my god, Hobi-” You gasp and your stomach twists as you take in what is occurring, grip instinctively tightening around your daughter's hand, turning her away from the scene. One of the members of staff pulls out her phone, announcing that she will call an ambulance right away, the man on the floor now surrounded by two other workers that instantly made their way over to him.

Hoseok takes just a few seconds to register what’s going on. “Shit.” He mutters, “A seizure.”

Instantly, he’s up on his feet, leaving you and Jieun behind and rushes over to help, but before he can reach the man on the floor, a young worker steps in front of him, his hands raised. 

“An ambulance is on the way!” he blurts out, eyes darting between the unconscious man and the crowd gathering around him, Hoseok noticing his eyes full of panic. “Please, just give him space.”

“It's alright. I’m a nurse,” Hoseok urges, trying to step around him. “Please, let me-”

This time, there’s no resistance — only relief in the young man's panicked eyes as he steps aside, allowing Hoseok through to where the man is convulsing on the floor.

Jesus christ. On his one day off. He thinks internally.

Without hesitation, Hoseok drops to one knee. “Don’t hold him down,” he instructs the mans friend beside him as he proceeds to unbutton the first few buttons of the man's shirt to facilitate his breathing. He presses his fingers to his wrist as best as he can, taking a pulse. He attempts to roll him on his side, but he seizes with too much force, limbs jerking far too erratically for him to do so. 

“Has he ever had seizures before? Is he epileptic?” Hoseok asks without tearing his eyes away from the man.

The man's friend just shakes his head. “No…no- he was fine right before.”

“Ambulance is just two minutes away,” the barista yells, phone still pressed to her ear. Hoseok nods but keeps his focus on the young man. Face contorted in concertation as he's checking his pulse once again before tilting his head to ensure he’s breathing properly.

You sit speechless few tables away, watching the scene unfold, your heart erratic in your chest. But feeling so much relief Hoseok was here. Jieun's small hand holds yours tightly, grip strong. She shifts in her seat, trying to peek over the booth to the commotion, but you gently pull her in beside you. Pulling her close, you brush a soothing hand over her hair.

“It’s okay, baby,” your whisper. “That man wasn’t feeling very well. But uncle hobi is helping him. Isn’t that so good? He’s really good at helping people remember. It's okay.”

Jien nods slowly, though her brows are still drawn together in concern. She doesn’t fully understand, but she doesn’t doubt your word, or her uncle's abilities.

Across the large space, Hoseok presses his lips into a thin line, his eyes watching carefully as the man's convulsions finally begin to slow, the violent jerking finally seeming to ease up. But just as the worst seems to have passed…Hoseok stiffens. 

There’s a concerning, deep purplish hue creeping up the man’s neckline, peeking through the gap of his unbuttoned white shirt. Dark veins snaking against his pale skin, spreading like ink through thin cracks. Hoseok swallows hard, alarm bells ringing at the back of his mind. 

That…that doesn’t look right. His medical knowledge kicks in, a thousand possibilities racing through his mind, digging for the most fitting answer. Is it cyanosis? an undiagnosed vascular disease? Possibly an infected wound? blunt trauma?

His mind dashing for answers in an instant, but before he can take a better look and unbutton his shirt completely, after what feels like a lifetime, the piercing wail of sirens cuts right through his thoughts, and just moments after, paramedics burst into the café, pushing past the gathered crowd near the Hoseok and the patient on the floor. Hoseok quickly regains focus, stepping back to allow them to take over. 

“He had a seizure. Approximately a minute long. His breathing is stable but—“ He hesitates for a second, then presses on, giving them a brief diagnosis and rundown. “I think he may have another underlying condition. Possible hypoxia.”

The paramedic beside him nods, wasting no time as they swiftly load him onto a stretcher. He stands back, his jaw tight, fingertips tingling with the urge to do more, watching as they wheel him out through the entrance. The murmurs of the coffee shop begin to start up again, confused and concerned looks turning left and right, but Hoseok can’t shake all the questions in his mind. 

He just hopes the guy turns out to be okay. The same way it goes with every patient he sees. You have to do your part and let go. That's how it works. but this time, he's left with a weird feeling bubbling inside.

After a few minutes, Hoseok turns back to your table. The moment his eyes meet yours, you’re already standing and asking, “God, is everything okay? He’s okay, right?”

“It’s alright,” Hoseok reassures you, though his tone is softer than usual. “They've got it under control.”

His gaze flickers toward Jieun, who’s still clinging to you, her small face twisted in worry as she glances between the two of you. She tugs your sleeve, her voice barely above a whisper. “Mommy…what happened to the man?”

“The ambulance people will take care of him and take him to the hospital so they can help him.” You say gently. She blinks up at you, then glances toward Hoseok, as if waiting for confirmation.

Hoseok lips form a small smile, crouching slightly to be at her eye level. “Your mom is right,” he says carefully, patting her head. “Sometimes when people don’t feel well they need a little help. That’s what doctors and nurses are for Jieun. It’s okay.”

Jieun watches him for a moment, and gives him a slow understanding nod. He then straightens and exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Let’s get out of here,” he murmurs, his gaze flicking back toward the road in front of the entrance where the ambulance is now setting off.

You nod, now feeling a weight of unease in the crowded space. It would probably be best to give them space to handle the situation, and to get some fresh air after that. So you retrieve Jieun's little pink puffer vest from off hobis chair and gently help her arms into, zipping it up snuggly to keep her warm from the afternoon chill, before taking her hand in yours.

As the three of you finally step outside, you're grateful for the crisp autumn air that lifts some of the heaviness off you. God, that was stressful. The distant sounds of the city hum around you, and life moves as if nothing happened.

“God, I hope that guy is okay.” You say quietly only for Hoseok to hear, taking your daughter's hand as you let out a slow breath. “First that weird bird and then that poor guy.”

Hoseok hums in agreement and gives a small reassuring nod, pushing his concerns aside. But you know how hard it is for him to switch off. How even when the emergency is over, his mind replays it again and again, analysing— wondering if he could have done more, if he could’ve done better. Even when he deals with stuff like this everyday, it’s never been easy.

“Jesus Christ. What's that saying, bad things always come in two’s? Three’s? ” He chuckles, letting out a huff. “I told you, there’s never an uneventful day out here.” Hobi shakes his head, forcing a smile to lift the mood. But his body still buzzes with tension. Then, in one swift movement, he scoops Jieun up, swinging her into his arms. “Now, time for ice cream?”

Jieun giggles loudly, kicking her feet excitedly at his words, all her earlier worries forgotten. “Yes!”

“Hobi, she just had a hot chocolate. Do you even have space for ice cream, Jieun?” You say, trying to sound stern, but the sight of them giggling together pulls a real smile out of you. And something inside already tells you you’re going to give in.

“She’s with uncle hobi now, there’s no rules.” He sing songs, walking ahead of you with your daughter in arms, all smiles as she squeals at his gentle tickling. The spitting image of joy if you ever saw it.

And for just a moment, you try to push away the nagging feeling that’s been pressing at the back of your mind. 

Because maybe, just maybe, this time, everything will be just fine after all.

Jungkook steadies his hand, a quiet hiss of pain getting lost in the low thrumming of the tattoo gun that fills the quiet studio, lulling him into that comforting sense of calm he knows so well. It’s a fairly big piece, he’s been here hunched over for hours now, that familiar dull ache creeping up his back, but he barely registers it. Because all that matters is the art taking form beneath his touch. 

Here, in these moments, it's when the feels most himself. Distracted, at peace, In control. Something he’s never found that easy outside of these four walls.

Every stroke, every line falls exactly where he intends it to. In a way, the rest of the world seems to fade away — no worries, just ink and skin, art coming to life. And it grants him a satisfaction nothing else can quite offer. And if there’s one thing Jungkook prides himself on, it’s his work and dedication. He built this place with steady hands and relentless effort, and he knows damn well he’s good at what he does. Confidence hasn't always been second nature to him, but time and experience have definitely sharpened him.

He leans back slightly to take in the work before him, his disheveled strands of dark hair falling over his eyes as he uses a paper towel to wipe up some excess ink from the client's forearm before glancing up. “How are we holding up?”

The young guy shifts in the chair, letting out a breathy chuckle. “Let’s just say I felt that last bit there.”

Jungkook nods, noting the slight sheen of sweat on the guy's forehead. He’s just glad he’s not a squirmer. That shit makes his job so much harder than it needs to be. 

His own body is the canvas of plenty tattoos. All colours, shapes and sizes. He's more than numb to the pain now. But he gets it.

“You’re doing really well. I won’t torture you much longer. We’re almost done with the worst part.” Pressing the pedal again, he feels the familiar vibration travel up his arm, he tongues with his lip piercing, a habit that signals his concentration. His hair is dusting over his eyes as he continues with the last bits of shading and does the final touch ups of all the smaller details. Another forty five minutes pass, broken by lighthearted conversation here and there. Though Jungkook never used to be one for making conversation before, he has long mastered the art of letting his mouth wander while his hands and precision remain steady and focused.

“Alright, and we’re done,” he wipes down the fresh ink one last time before setting the tattoo gun aside, letting out a silent exhale as he wheels back, peeling off his black gloves to grab the aftercare instruction sheet, ready to spew his usual little lecture he knows most people don’t even pay much attention to.

“Sit up slowly.” Jungkook instructs.

When the guy finally stands, he marvels at his tattoo in the mirror. Jungkook feels a flicker of pride swell in his chest. No matter how many times he does this, seeing the completed, polished work and his client's expressions of amazement never gets old. “Looks sick man. Better than I imagined.” He beams, twisting his arm under the light, his smile spreading all across his face.

“Good choice with the design.” Jungkook replies with a faint smile tugging at his lips. He then places the protective film, gives him a quick rundown of the aftercare and hands him the sheet. “Take care of it. Follow the aftercare instructions and it’ll heal nicely. And you know, any issues just come by or give me a call and I’ll check it out.”

“Will do. Thanks man, it’s perfect.”

As the last client of the day slips out with a final wave and he hears the bell over at the entrance ding, Jungkook finally feels the exhaustion set in — the kind that only comes after hours of steady concentrated work. Fuck, he really does need to work on his posture. He stretches his back, then cracks his knuckles, stretching his toned, inked arms over his head. But despite the tiredness, he feels no rush no rush to get back to his empty apartment.

He never does.

Instead, he takes his time wiping down his station, tidying all his clutter and ink in the methodical and organized way only he understands — something Yoongi always grumbles about when borrowing his space. But this is his sanctuary. He makes the rules. And yoongi may complain, but he accepts it.

When he's done cleaning up, Jungkook emerges into the entrance area of the studio, rubbing the back of his neck and ruffling his hair at the nape.

Yoongi stretches in his chair behind the front counter, arms lifting above his head as he lets out as wide yawn, smacking his lips as his eyes land on the younger. “Christ, I thought you were dead in there,” he says deadpan, watching as Jungkook attempts to roll out the tension coiled in his shoulders, stifling a yawn himself. “Or are you? I genuinely can't tell.”

“Very funny.” Jungkook mutters, slumping onto the leather couch with an over dramatic sigh, throwing the back of his arm over his eyes as he lets his body sink into the plush cushion. It’s moments like this he’s really fucking glad they invested in a good sofa. He wants it to swallow him.

“Sure you can survive the schedule tomorrow? We’re fucking packed.” He says.

Jungkook’s brows knit together as his eyes dart over to Yoongi, eyeing the printed schedule in front of him as he rubs his jaw. “What? You think I can't handle it?”

Yoongi shakes his head, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. He coughs into his fist, a rough dry sound that echoes through the quietness of the now empty studio. “I know you think you’re some kind of machine,” he gives the younger a pointed look, “but let me just remind you that you are, in fact, very much not.”

Jungkook's lips quirk. “Woah, woah. I’ll be fine. Unlike someone who sounds like they've caught the plague.” Lifting his arms from his eyes just enough to peer at Yoongi, he swings his arm as if to push him away. “Stay away from me with that. I can’t afford a day off anytime soon.”

Yoongi scoffs, waving a dismissive hand as he coughs into his fist again. “Relax, it's just the dust. Or if you’re lucky enough I've caught that shit going around. Won't be on your case anymore for at least two weeks. That's if I survive.”

The sound is muffled by his arm as Jungkook lets out a tired chuckle, but his eyes remain closed. “Now you’re just trying to get out of work tomorrow, hyung. I know your little tricks.”

“If anyone should be trying to get our work, it should be you. Admit your running on fumes.” Yoongi drops the piece of paper to the desk and crosses his arms, looking right across to Jungkook, his eyes squinting lightly.

Jungkook feels his heavy gaze, but he's not in the mood to face one of Yoongis lectures right now. He can’t exactly argue that. Because he knows Yoongi is not entirely wrong. 

He's working six days a week, morning till night, barely stopping to take a breath. Hell, it would've been the entire seven days of the week if Yoongi hadn’t raised hell the day he suggested it. Jungkook had tried to reason with him, insisting that Yoongi would still get his days off as usual, that he’d open up the studio alone on weekends and get everything sorted for the week ahead. But it was never about that, and he knew it.

Jungkook has always had a knack for picking up self-destructive tendencies. A slow brewing kind of self destruction, pushing himself way past his limits, working himself down to the bone until he can barely function. And Yoongi simply wasn't going to stand back and watch it happen all over again right in front of his eyes.

Most days, he only eats because it’s Yoongi who shoves food his way, whether he wants it or not.  Prepping meals and stashing them away in their mini fridge in the back room where Jungkook can find them, labeled with a little note in his unmistakable messy handwriting that reads “eat.”

Because behind his serious facade, Yoongi had always tried his best to care for him. 

From countless nights of dragging his black out drunk body home back in college, and many times after college as well. To picking him up from the streets at 4 am after he got into a nasty fight, bruised and bleeding and sobbing his heart out alone on an empty sidewalk. Yoongi didn’t question it back then, didn't hesitate. He never does. He just helped quietly with no second thought, allowing him to sit with his silent sobs on the car ride home. He had always been there, offering him a home when he had nowhere else to go, offering everything he had if it helped Jungkook from drowning.

It was Yoongi that had seen the potential in him and had patiently guided him to finally see it for himself, helping him build this studio from nothing — helping him build every piece of furniture, putting up every shelf, painting every wall, making sure Jungkook finally had something to call his. 

And now, despite all the hardships, he’s come further than they both could have imagined.

Yet deep down, Yoongi knows no amount of help can stop Jungkook from being who he is, not when he has it so deeply rooted in himself to self sabotage in every way he possibly can. It's simply how he’s wired. Yoongi has long accepted that some things are simply beyond his reach, and that Jungkook won’t ever fully change. And he may never admit it out loud, but somewhere in his heart, as the eldest, he’s always felt an unspoken weight of responsibility for Jungkook. That's why he tries relentlessly to guide him towards better choices.

Even though Jungkook has matured and come a long way from his troubled past and the reckless kid he used to be, he’s far from eradicating his bad habits entirely. He knows he’s working himself down to the bone. He knows it's not healthy. Unrealistic for him to sustain in the long run. But he doesn’t like himself when he’s unoccupied. 

He doesn't like the quiet.

Because when there’s silence, there’s space for his mind to make noise.

So that’s what he does. He works, works until he can exhaust himself to the point of passing out, too drained to even feel. It means no thoughts can haunt him when his head hits the pillow. And he’s okay with that.

Besides, he loves his job. That's a fact. The only thing he’s passionate about. All he’s ever found himself to be good at. He doesn’t need anything or anyone else. 

Or at least, that’s what he tells himself.

“Fumes are still fuel,” Jungkook shoots back. He reaches behind his head to grab an old vintage manga off the small side table, flipping through the pages without really reading.

Yoongi studies him for a moment, his sharp gaze softening just a fraction. He shifts in his seat, resting his elbows on the counter, zeroing in on him as if he were ready to throw out a serious scolding, like he did back when he was a kid. But his next words are nothing but gentle. “You know, if you wanna keep up with that schedule, you’re gonna need sleep. I can close up if you wanna head out first.”

Jungkooks expression falters — just a flicker. But he covers it with an exaggerated groan. It does get on his nerves ever so slightly, just slightly. What is it with everyone always underestimating him? Treating him like he's not capable of making his own decisions. But his tongue toys with his lip ring as he continues flicking through the pages, feigning nonchalance. “I’m good. I wanna sketch out a few new designs first. Got some ideas ratting around.”

Yoongi squints at him, clearly unconvinced. “You do know that old couch isn't a substitute for a bed, right? and you could just…do that at home.”

Jungkook tosses the comic aside as he shrugs, already bored of the conversation, his inked fingers drumming relentlessly against the worn red leather. “I focus better here.” Is his simple answer, but before Yoongi can speak, a loud siren cuts through their conversation, blaring jarringly as it flashes by across the street. Almost instantly another follows, and then another.

Instinctively, both of their heads turn towards the window, though it only gives view to a small glimpse of the larger front street, most of their view blocked by the building across from them, all they can see is the bright lights flashing as they rush past.

“The hell’s that about,” Yoongi mutters, straightening in his chair.

Jungkook furrows his brows, pushing himself up on his elbows to get a better look outside. From what he can see, everything seems normal enough — cars passing by, people going about their night and a few students heading home. The studio is located on a fairly quiet side street, on the outskirts of the city, just a little further from the booming heart of Seoul. It’s never as busy or chaotic here, much quieter.

“Accident, maybe?” Jungkook guesses, a tired breath slipping past his lips. It’s still Seoul after all. When is it ever completely quiet? 

Yoongi hums in agreement, but as if on cue, another set of sirens blares through the streets, overlapping with others as the noise grows, this time it’s police cars too, wailing violently and urgently before fading into the distance as they speed away. Jungkook glances at Yoongi, who meets his gaze with an equally puzzled expression. ‘Must be pretty bad.’ Jungkook says. Yoongi pulls out his phone to check the time and sighs. “Well, whatever it is, I'm not sticking around to find out.” He pushes himself to his feet, patting his back pocket to pull out his pack of cigarettes before reaching for his jacket draped over the back of the chair.

A slight sense of uneasiness crawls up Jungkook's spine. That was about four ambulances and three police cars if not more. That’s…that's a lot. But he soon brushes it off. “I’ll check the news later.” Jungkook mumbles, letting his heavy body drop back against the cushion.

Yoongi tugs his jacket on, tossing him a small glance. “Well, if you’re gonna stay here, at least don’t fall asleep on that damn couch again. You drool, and it’s gross.”

Jungkook chuckles, though it's half hearted. “I won’t ruin your sacred couch, hyung. Don't you worry.”

“Good.” Yoongi deadpans, heading toward the door. He flips the neon sign to closed before turning back to Jungkook, his tired features softening just a touch. “Don't stay too late. Tomorrow is fucking packed and you’ll regret it when youre half dead in the morning. And don’t forget that girl you booked in at 9.”

The girl needed some touch ups to her tattoo but had a busy schedule and no time to visit any other day or at ay other time. So Jungkook did the favour, and offered to book her in before opening time. But fuck. He really does need to stop bending his schedule for people.

He knows he will regret it. Jungkook just waves a dismissive hand, already getting comfy on the couch. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll leave soon.”

Yoongi doesn't believe him, but he doesn't argue, just pulls out a cigarette from the pack and raises his hands in surrender and heads for the door. “Alright. See you tomorrow.”

Jungkook hums in acknowledgement. “Rest up, Hyung.”

The studio fades to dead silence once the door closes. Though sirens still echo faintly in the background.

Stretched out on the couch, Jungkook stares at the ceiling a little longer than necessary. His limbs feel heavy, exhaustion pressing down on him heavily. He wants to work on those sketches, he wants to push his limits a little further. But his body seems to know what's best for him. And within minutes, he’s passed out.

When Jungkook’s eyes crack open, it’s to the gentle sound of rain pattering against the windows. But it’s not rain the noise that woke him. Distant voices shout over one another, and the erratic wailing of car alarms and sirens blast in a near distance, sounding like he’s still stuck between consciousness and a dream. Jungkook blinks, then suddenly, screeching tires follow into a loud crash, something heavy and metal hitting the pavement. His heart spikes, and his body jerks up instantly before his mind can register what the hell is going on. The sudden movement makes him lightheaded, blinking as he tries to shake the disorientation fogging his mind.

Shit. How long had he been out?

He curses under his breath, his head throbbing. Did someone just fucking crash their car outside? In his dazed state his fingers fumble for his phone in the front pocket of his jeans. He squints, the bright screen glaring back at him painfully in the darkness of the studio.

11:48 PM.

The first thought that comes to mind is drunk people causing a ruckus. It certainly wouldn't be unusual for Friday night. But then… he stops to listen. Are they breaking in? then his mind steers more towards the possibility of some petty street fight, or some idiots causing trouble. It’s the only conclusion his sleepy can come to.

But then, he hears it. 

Raw, panicked, screams erupting from the streets outside. It sounds close. Really close.

What the fuck? 

Jungkook feels a sickening pit form in his stomach.

Because that's definitely not the drunken shouts of a fight, not the sound of some petty fight or a car accident. It’s the kind of scream that crawls under your skin. And Jungkook knows the sounds of panic when he hears it. He feels his heart beating in his chest now, fast and strong. Something isn’t right. Before his mind can think  further, he pushes off the couch and yanks his leather jacket from the armrest, pulling it on in a swift motion, feeling a little dizzy as the room slowly begins to spin from getting up so fast. 

Behind the front counter he crouches, reaching for his motorcycle helmet. But his grip isn't steady, his palms suddenly feel a bit sweaty. The air in the room slightly suffocating.

His mind scrambles as he finally strides for the door, all he knows something is telling him he needs to get out. He’s ready to leave and check on what's happening outside, but just as his fingers brush the cold metal door handle—

A loud bang crashes into the large front window of the studio.

The impact rattles the entire front window, the glass shuddering violently as something smacks right into it with bone crushing force, causing large cracks to expand from the center like a spiderweb, blooming outwards across the glass. The helmet drops to the ground with a loud thud and Jungkook stumbles back in the darknesses, almost crashing back into the front counter as his breath gets stuck in his throat.

Jungkook freezes. His entire body completely paralyzed as he watches a thick, dark gush of red begin to trail down the ruins of the window. His eyes slowly follow it upwards and then…then he sees it.

A face, wedged between the shards of glass.

Jungkook sees the face of a man...except, it can't be. The skin is unnaturally pale, sickly white, dark veins bulging beneath the surface, tiny pieces of glass wedged everywhere into its flesh. Blood coats its entire mouth, dripping to the floor beneath — but it's the eyes… They send a shot of terror right down Jungkook's spine. 

They’re clouded and gray, almost white and eerily vacant, yet somehow, they’re locked right onto him.

Jungkook feels like he can’t take a breath, his chest tight as his eyes grow with complete shock and confusion.

Then, it moves.

Its head twitches in a slow agonized form before it seems to fully register Jungkook's figure standing right across. It cocks his head towards him completely with a grotesque sound of craking and lunges forward, slamming its hands against the glass with inhuman strength. Giving it all his power to break inside. It lets out another groan, a guttural broken sound as it reveals a row of blood stained teeth, the deep red liquid dripping from its mouth.

Jungkook swallows hard. If he moves will it move too? Will it...chase him? He feels like no oxygen is reaching his lungs, or his brain, his mind struggling to even process what he is seeing. That…that can't be real. It can’t be human. All he can do is watch as his heartbeat pounds like a hammer in his chest, louder than the sirens and screams growing outside, louder than the animalistic banging against the window.

That…thing is trying to kill him. It’s going to kill him.

It doesn’t stop. It claws at the glass, smearing the blood, desperate, mindless — growing more violent as it seems to realise its stuck. But the glass creaks more with each hit, trembling under the pressure of each movement, and Jungkook realizes it might not hold up much longer. He has no time.

Move.

He has to move.

Like a spring snapping, his body finally kicks into action. He stumbles backwards, feeling glass beneath his shoes as he tries to hold in a breath, his eyes fixed on the creature as he tries to back away with steady steps. After a beat, he sprints towards the back of the studio, running as his body pushes through the beaded curtain into the back room. 

His hands fumble frantically in his pocket — keys, keys, keys — but his hands are trembling too much to grip them. Fuck.

Jungkooks mind races with a thousand questions colliding all at once. But none of them make sense. None of them are even remotely rational.

That thing. It wasn’t human. Then what the hell was it?

Another jarring bang echoes in the studio, followed by a loud screech. But Jungkook doesn’t look up. He doesn’t have time. His only thought is to get out of here. Fast. He needs to get away from whatever the fuck that is. He needs to get to his motorcycle. He needs to get the police.

His fingers finally curl around cold metal. The keys. With a sharp inhale, he yanks opens the heavy back door leading into the tiny side alley and slams it shut behind him as he rushes out.

It’s dim, lit only by a flickering street lamp near the end, casting eerie shadows across the brick walls. The air is cool and damp, the smell of rain fresh on the damp asphalt and the sound of sirens and shouting voices in the distance become even clearer than before. But Jungkook can't see the one thing he’s looking for. His gaze darts around frantically and he feels a dreadful realization claw at his throat. 

His motorcycle is gone. The spot where it’s always parked is empty. 

Jungkook panics, his hands coming to his hair. Fuck, fuck, fuck. As he looks around helplessly, his breath only grows more erratic. He finds no other option but to run, so he runs to the end of the alleyway, running right towards the screams and tumult, and when he reaches the end, the scene unfolding before him almost kicks him to his feet.

The once quiet street had turned into a horrifying scene. People mindlessly running away from something. But what his eyes land on almost immediately is on a young woman in the middle of street, clutching her neck with both hands, her body swaying as she chokes out for help before she drops to her knees, her body shaking. Jungkook watches in horror as someone else runs right past her, coming from the same direction, white button up shirt soaked in something dark as his features display a kind of terror he’d never witnessed before. Across the street, an older man is pulling down the storefront gates as he locks himself inside, letting two kids in high school uniforms scream and kick as they beg to be let in, screaming and crying.

“What the fuck...” the words escape involuntarily in a quiet mumble to himself, his hands coming to his head.

Jungkook blinks repeatedly, completely aghast. But he doesn’t think— just moves, bolting down the street. His thick leather boots slam against the wet pavements as he runs, his dark hair blows in the air, his skin covered in a layer of sweat as he weaves past a fallen trash can and then a body, his breath ragged as he tries not to slip on the broken glass. The rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins too strong to even feel his body protesting.

Rounding a corner, he nearly collides into another person, but his hands instinctively come up to push them away, almost knocking them to the ground. He doesn’t have a space in his mind to think about it or time to dwell on it. His body acting on autopilot. The more he runs, the more people seem to be running in the opposite direction. Away from something. His legs burn as he sprints faster, but coming off onto the main street of Jongno, he comes to a halt as he takes in the state of the streets, pupils blown as something terrible dawns on his expression.

The city is in shambles.

Everything.

Chaos.

Cars sit abandoned in the middle of the road, their doors flung open, some have crashed into street lamps and traffic signs, into each other at intersections, even buildings, the smoke clouding up into the dark sky. Blending with the red and blue of wailing sirens. People are everywhere. Hundreds of people are running in all different directions — some screaming, some covered in blood, some sobbing and some seemingly unmoving on the ground. Pushing and tripping against each other, running, but most don’t even know what they’re running from, simply following the crowd. 

How many more of those rabid people were there? How far had this spread? 

He wants so badly to be wrong, but something deep inside him tells him this is something big.

He stills for an instant, trying to orientate himself. He scans the street hurriedly for the best route to avoid getting stuck in a crush, to avoid more of those things…but all he sees is the panicked chaos spreading by the second. 

Jungkook feels like he’s outside of his body, like this is a dream, a nightmare he’ll wake up from any second now. He closed his eyes for a second and inwardly prays for it to be just a bad dream. But the air is thick with the acrid scent of smoke and blood, and the pounding in his chest is too real. The world around him still screams, set aflame.

This can’t be real.

This…this can’t be happening.

Just a few meters away from him two figures wrestle on the ground — except one of them isn’t fighting back anymore, and the other is hunched over them, their head buried in the victim’s throat. Jungkook staggers back, his stomach lurching at the gut wrenching sounds of someone being mauled alive, bile burning the back of his throat when he watches infected pulls back, large chunks of flesh dangling from its bloody mouth, dripping crimson.

The truth slams into him, but his mind is till fighting to accept it.

People are killing people. Eating people. Except…they're not people. They’re monsters.

Jungkook scans the crowd for an escape route, desperate. After a moment, he catches sight of the least crowded street, it's right on the way to his place. He takes a sharp breath and runs, runs non stop down a dozen blocks. But as he navigates the frantic roads, he spots something as he runs past a small street. Stopping him in his tracks. He notices a tiny figure huddled up alone at the beginning of an alleyway, wearing bright pink, shoulders trembling and hands pressed over her ears as she sobs violently. 

A child, no older than three or four if Jungkook had to guess. He halts, heart pounding as he registers her small frightened face, streaked with tears. 

He should keep running, he knows he should. His body is urging him to just keep moving, his insides shaking with adrenaline. That’s not his responsibility. He hasn’t stopped for anyone. But the burning images of what he’s just witnessed flash fresh in his mind. And something deeper roots him in place. Something inside him twists, snaps almost, an unfamiliar instinct that overrides his own confusion and fear.

Ah, fuck it. 

Before his mind can catch up with what he’s doing, he rushes into the alley, approaching the child cautiously with slow steps as he gets closer. He crouches down to her level, looking over his shoulder nervously. “Hey, hey, hey, it’s okay,” his voice is gentle but hurried as he searches her face. “Where are your parents? Are you lost?”

The small girl just looks up at him with large, wet eyes and a trembling pout, her hands balled into tiny fists. She doesn’t answer, just stares, whimpering and hiccuping softly, like she’s been warned to not talk to strangers — especially not ones clothed head to toe in black, covered in tattoos and piercings like himself. He glances around, hoping to see someone rushing towards them, any sign of this child's parents so he can just hand her over and run, but there’s nothing, just the crowd at the end of the alley pushing past in frantic waves and yelling, no one stopping to even look in their direction. 

He has to do something.

“Do you…where did you see your parents last-” a loud metal bang echoes in the distance, making Jungkook and the child flinch, a heavy breath escaping him. Fuck, his mind races as he realizes she’s truly alone. The girl just sobs more and he curses under his breath, eyes pressed shut as his mind scrambles for what to do.

He can’t just leave her alone in whatever the hell this is. But what the hell is he supposed to do?

“Uh, alright,” he coughs, throat dry, and speaks softly but hurriedly, trying to mask his unease as he reaches out his hand. “Come with me. It’s not safe here. I’ll… I'll help you find your parents.”

He’ll take her home, get her out of danger and call the police. That’s what he should do. 

It’s the right thing to do.

Okay. 

He hopes she knows he’s only trying to help. God, his pulse races every second he’s standing here still. They need to move. Now. She just stares at him, uncertain, then slowly reaches out with her tiny fingers, clasping his much larger hand with a surprising grip. She must see past his intimidating exterior, or be so terrified that she’ll take up any offer of being reunited with her parents, either way, her innocence makes Jungkook's heart sting a little. He can't just leave a child out here, he has to help her before something terrible happens to her or she falls into the wrong hands. He doesn't know what the hell to do, all he knows is they have to run, run right now and get away from this, and-

Suddenly, a piercing, desperate voice breaks through the havoc of noise, loud enough to catch Jungkook's attention.

“Jieun!” 

The sound makes his entire body lock up, his heart jumping in his chest as he turns toward the voice. 

Running towards him, just feet away, eyes filled with worry and tears, he sees you.

Jungkook feels the blood drain from his face. 

For a split moment, the world seems to fall silent. The noise, the screams and chaos, the sirens — all of it blurs into a distant hum in the back of his mind. He feels like the air is knocked straight from his lungs as he slowly takes in your face, a slightly more matured version of a face he once knew every inch of, a face he’d buried away along with every memory he’d tried so hard everyday to annihilate ever since you disappeared from his life. A face he could never forget, not even after four painful years.

It can’t be.

No, no, no-

But it’s real, because there you are. Lunging forward and arms out reaching for the little girl beside him with thick tears of relief flooding from your eyes. The child lets go of Jungkook's hand instantly and her tiny feet pat across the concrete as she launches herself into your embrace, leaving him behind to watch, frozen and stone cold like a statue. 

“Mommy!” She cries.

Jungkook feels his stomach drop. He thinks he's going to throw up.

He must’ve heard that incorrectly.

Mommy? That child is…

He feels like he can’t move, blood cold as he watches you crumble to your knees, gathering the little girl into your arms with a grip that looks suffocating, as if she might disappear into thin air again. Your whole frame trembles as you hold her close, relief pouring from you in loud, choked sobs, your fingers getting tangled in her wet hair as you comb though it desperately.

That’s.. your child?

“Jieun, oh my god, baby. You’re here, you’re okay,” your voice cracks with all the pain your body just underwent, whispering against her temple. “Are you hurt? You’re not hurt are you, baby?”

The last thing you remember is being in the convenience store when the chaos began. When you walked out you had no choice but to run into the crowd. How Jieun was holding your hand and in the blink of an eye, her hand slipped from yours. You turned back, screaming her name, but she was gone, just another small figure lost in the stampede of a city falling apart.

By the time you fought your way out of the crowd, Jieun was nowhere in sight. Your heart is still hammering loudly between your ribs, mind stuck on the past horrifying minutes since she disappeared from your side.

But as you finally look up… all your relief shifts, eyes darkening with shocking realisation that mirrors the expression in the man standing just feet away when you. Heart hammering in your chest as if it recognized him before your eyes do.

You blink once, twice to make sure your eyes aren’t deceiving you. Completely distraught.

If Jungkook thought he was stuck in a bad dream before, he’s certain now this is all a cruel, sick and twisted nightmare. He feels his stomach churn. The weight of clashing emotions and utter disbelief thrown over him. So many questions he can’t yet voice crashing into him like a bucket of ice cold water, making his blood run cold.

This has to be some kind of sick joke. 

All of it. 

“Jungkook?” Your voice trembles, barely a whisper, as if the sound of his name out loud might shatter you to pieces.

He’s standing in front of you, drenched from the rain, his wet dark hair hanging messily in his face — so much longer than it used to be. He has new piercings on his face, and his features have definitely matured. He looks…different, yet somehow exactly how you remember him. His big dark eyes lock onto yours, and for a moment, you feel your world stop. 

“Y/n?” His voice cracks slightly, like he’s just been punched in the gut. “Wh…what are you doing here?” but there’s no anger in his voice, just confusion, and perhaps, a hint of something painful. His words hang heavy between you, getting lost in the sounds of the burning city beyond this tiny street, and you feel a paralysing weight on your chest. Your mind reeling beyond comprehension.

You open your mouth to speak, ready to say something, anything. But you feel like you’ve forgotten how to form words. So you close it again, no words come out. His eyes flicker from your face to the little girl clutching your side, and you feel a pit sinking in your stomach. God, please no.

This can’t be happening — not here, not now. 

Not like this.

You want to bolt, to run and not look back like you always do. You wish the earth would just swallow you entirely. But all you can do is stand there, your heart pounding faster in your chest, mouth dry.

You try to step around him, desperate to move forward, to escape this horror. But before you know it, his hand catches your arm. He grips you gently, but with a force that indicates he won’t let you slip away again. His touch almost makes you fall to your knees.

“Come with me.” 

Your body stiffens at his words, and you swat your arm loose of his grip. You lift Jieun into your arms instinctively, fingers curling around her small body as if the mere act of holding her can shield you from everything. From him, from all the pain, from all of this living nightmare.

“No,” you say, the word coming out broken, like your breath is caught. “I can’t go with you. I need- I need to get hob-” 

“My apartment isn’t far,” he cuts in, not giving you space to say more. “We need to get off the streets.’’

You hesitate, watching his gaze scurry between you both again. Everything in you is telling you to just run, to put as much distance as you can between yourself and Jungkook. Willing this conversation to die before it can even begin. Before he can start asking questions you’re not ready to answer. Before you have to face things you’ve already buried deep. Before it’s too late. You need to leave. But Jieun is shaking, clutching onto you for dear life as she whimpers against your chest, and the sounds of screams still ringing in your ears. And there’s infected everywhere. You’re stuck in the middle of a warzone, and you have no idea what to do, no idea where to go.

All you know is you need to get Jieun out of this. Away from danger.

“Have you not seen what the fuck is going on? People have gone fucking insane!” His tone grows harsher now, trying to knock some sense into you. “We need to move.”

A gut wrenching scream echoes from somewhere beyond the alley, closer than before this time. Too close. 

Jungkook swears under his breath, running a hand through his hair, torn between a storm of brewing emotions and the immediate danger closing in. His jaw tightens as he looks behind him then back to you. “Y/n, we need to go. Now.”

You shake your head violently, and you can feel hushed tears burning behind your eyes. You can’t breathe, can’t think clearly. All you can feel is Jieun trembling in your arms.

“Please-” his voice drops, raw and desperate. Almost a plea.

And don’t know when or why it happens, but the next thing you know, your feet are moving. You’re running with everything you have left in you.

Somehow, the world is ending, and you’re allowing yourself to be guided by Jungkook down streets devoured by chaos, heading to the only safe place around you. 

His home.

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I’M YOURS.

the one where you’re arranged to marry jeongguk, and for the most part, you don’t like him… until one day, you do.

[ prince!jeongguk x reader ] 1k words. | pg-15 | romance, e2l au, royalty au, arranged marriage au | warning/s: um, just two people in the same tub being naked together sksks | prompt idea suggested by @fan-ati–c​

“care to give some space for me, princess?”

you peek an eye open to see jeongguk perched on the side of the bathtub, still wearing his navy blue coat that was adorned with diamond buttons, just having come back from the high school graduation he went to as a guest speaker.

“no,” you close your eyes again, “might find myself being drowned by you if i do.”

he chuckles at the retort and rolls his eyes, standing up before he starts taking off each article of clothing he has on.

Keep reading

2 + 27 w jk??💞

+ #12 with kookie please 👉👈

☇ prompt: 2. things you said through your teeth + 12. things you said when you thought i was asleep + 27. things you said through a closed door

➣  pairing: jungkook x reader

➣ genre: fakedating!au + postbreakup!au 

➣ synopsis: jungkook asks you to be his date for his sister’s wedding because his family doesn’t know that you guys broke up 

“You’re late,” Jungkook whispers as you sat next to him, preparing for the dinner rehearsal set.

“Well excuse me if I was working,” your narrow your eyes at him, fixing your posture as you took a sip of the glass of water from the table, drained out by your job at the hospital.

“I had to order you the salmon and potatoes.”

You look at him as you set down the water back onto the coaster, scrunching your eyebrows at him. “I’m allergic to salmon.”

Keep reading

to build a home | chapter two

pairing: Jungkook x reader. ceo!jk + dilf!jk x nanny!oc

genre: strangers to lovers. angst. loads of plot. eventual smut

word count: 8.8k (y’all still need context but introduction to oc! and her super cool best friend I’m growing emotionally attached to)

warnings: angst. more angst. swearing. more crying baby </3. and more crying jungoo </3. also, jungkook’s an asshole (im sorry ok my mans is going thru it can u blame him). but! jungkook best dad. mentions of alcohol. mentions of abandonment. that’s pretty much it. last one was too heavy.

Author’s note: hi <3 first of all, i wasn’t really expecting my little (sad) story to get half of the attention it’s getting so i want to make sure i come in here and say thank u from the bottom of my heart if u took your time to read it and/or leave nice comments. you’re the best. now, getting to the juicy stuff – hi. this was a handful and im sorry but also im not??? this chapter introduces new characters that were so much fun to write and also our sexy nanny oc queen!! i almost almost blue balled u and left their first meeting / thoughts on one another for the next chapter but i honestly got so excited about it i couldn’t do that to yall. jk has no idea tho. his heart still hurts its been two minutes be patient w him. but the very last paragraph… yeah. thats all im saying. anyways ENJOY <3 xxxxx

This is a work of fiction. Please respect the members and their privacy. x

Texts in bold + italic resemble a recollection of past events.

Chapter Two

You love Saturdays, not afraid to fall into the cliché that coincides with pretty much 99% of the population that looks forward to the weekend. But Saturdays feel different. And here, let me throw in another cliché – they only get better the warmer the weather gets. A Saturday and summer type of person? Predictable. But you’re not one to shy away from clichés. You’d be out of a passion and perhaps have grown to hate your degree, making your four years of higher education exceptionally tedious. You’re diverting, though. Point is, you’re not afraid of being a little predictable in the name of a good cliché.

You woke up this morning and the smell of freshly baked goods had you jolting out of bed. The mornings are still chilly and you keep making the mistake of heading straight to the kitchen barefoot. Excitement usually has you making it in four to six strides and that’s all it takes to be embraced by warmth again. Your kitchen is tiny and the oven does wonders at keeping it in a steady cozy degrees Celsius.

“Good morning, lover.” Lucy’s sweet voice adds to the warmth.

Roommate, best friend and future pastry school graduate – the pet name you two share fits her like a glove. A human being so sweet people stick to her like flies often do to sticky, yummy forgotten treats. Her graduation is coming up in a couple of weeks so she spends her weekends diligently perfecting recipes. You are able to bask in the benefits as her personal guinea pig. And it’s never bad so you gladly comply.

“It is indeed, lover.” You return. She laughs, placing a scone in your hand. It’s plain but nothing about it feels so when you take a bite. “What do you even put in these? Crack?”

“Ding, ding, ding!” She exclaims, pointer finger in the air for dramatic effect. “Here, coffee – freshly brewed so you better not-” but before she can continue, you’re already burdening her existence, a handful of ice cubes falling into the drink she’d poured in your favorite jar.

“Sometimes it’s better to apologize than to ask for permission?” You look at her sweetly, feigning innocence.

“You are stripping my perfect scones of flavour by numbing your tongue with all that ice, ___!” She whines, making you laugh.

“Wait ‘til you see how I lather it with cheap, synthetic strawberry jam.”

“I give up on you.”

“No, you don’t.” You say, big smile plastered on your face. She smiles back.

You sit opposite her, propped up on a stool before your little kitchen counter and watch her work as you reap the benefits.

“You know… I have a good feeling about today. Today’s the day. I just know it.” She tells you.

“You think I’m breaking into the corporate world on a Saturday?” You ask, incredulous but humour lacing your tone.

“Shut up. You don’t even want in the corporate world,” she begins, eyes still glued to her scones, “just… keep your eyes open. You never know.”

“Will do.”

~

With eyes wide open, you make sure they’re glued to the half a dozen of children spread around the kid’s section of your local library. Saturdays are good because of scones and the undivided (although at times a bit disperse) attention of your very enthusiastic book club of keen readers aging from 4 to 6. Best age to start if you do say so yourself.

Today’s pick is Julián Is a Mermaid and it seems to be sparking a fairly good discussion within your avid readers.

“I want to be a mermaid.”

“Well, you can’t. it’s a book. Miss ___ say’s its fiction.”

“Miss ___ says we can be whoever we want as long as we’re kind.”

“Yeah, but mermaids don’t exist!”

“Okay, okay! Eyes up here. Let’s discuss calmly.” You break the discourse, even though you were secretly enjoying it. “Although it is true that this is a work of fiction like Seojun says, we can be whoever we want, like Kisoo says. In this case, Julián being a mermaid is simply a fun way to let us know that. We prefer fun stories, don’t we?”

They all break into a cheer, affirming that yes, indeed, we prefer fun stories. You give yourself a mental pat in the back. Good saves are a talent you’ve learned to master with little kids who oftentimes lack a filter. You wish you could be like that at times. Bold but soft and (most often than not) kind.

The clock on the wall nears 12 o’clock and you close the book in your lap, turning once again to the kids.

“Okay, kiddos! Did we have fun?” Your question is received by yet again another burst of cheers. You giggle. “Are we looking forward to having even more fun next week with Duck Rabbit?” Another cheer, this time louder. You feel like a Rockstar. “That’s what I like to hear. Okay. You guys can play, draw or have some free reading time until pick up.”

They disperse, gathering in little groups or finding various interests around the colourful play section surrounded by high shelves heavy with more books than you can count.

You engage into brief conversations with the parents as they reunite with their overly hyper children, swarming them with detailed recounts of their participations for the day, their favorite parts of the story and loads of bold ‘I want to be a mermaid!’ statements. That’s usually your queue – you’re not one to break a heart with the harsh truths of the world.

There are only two kids left, quietly sat in one of the small tables, fully invested in their drawings.

Your eyes divert to the window and you see Dae’s mom. A pretty brunette that, if you didn’t know better, would be convinced she’s the ripe age of twenty-three, just like yourself. You’ve actually found yourself looking forward to your small talk with her during pick up – time and time again making sense of Dae’s sweet and light-hearted personality through his mom.

You walk over to the little boy, kneeling in front of him. “Hey, Dae…,” you say softly, not wanting to disrupt his focus.

“Whaff?” He replies, turning to you slowly, one eye still glued to his drawing. You melt at the slight lisp he gets sometimes when he’s a bit distracted.

“Look who’s here.” You say, and right that moment his mom makes her way through the doors.

“Mama!” He all but screams, voice so sweet it sounds gooey, making you melt.

“Ahhhhh, hi baby! Did you have fun? We missed you so, so much. Daddy’s next door getting you donuts.” Mai says, knees coming to hit the ground as she wraps the little boy in her arms, a mischievous smile at the mention of sweet treats.

“Donuts?” It’s the only thing Dae can grasp from her sentence.

She laughs. “Yes, but only after lunch, okay? We’re going to grandma’s today, remember?” he nods, excitement written all over his face. Only now do you notice just how much it resembles his mother.

Mai gets up from the ground, sending Dae off for his backpack before she turns to you, smiling.

“___, you make his Saturdays so magical. My husband is considering never taking him to Disneyland again.” She says, earning a laugh from you.

“Please, don’t let me be responsible for that.” You tell her, light chuckles still leaving your lips. “They make my Saturdays magical, too.”

Dae makes his way back, coming to stand in between the two of you. He looks up at you, soft curls coming to rest in front of his eyes before he brushes them off.

“Thank you for having me today, Miss ___. I had fun.” He sounds shy when he says it but never once breaks eye contact.

“I had fun, too, Dae. Thank you for coming. Can’t wait to see you next week!” You tell him and he beams at your welcoming words. He softly nods and turns to his mom who’s looking at him proudly, as if he’d nailed the previously rehearsed sentence.

You wave at the two of them and see them out, promptly repeating the same actions as you did with Dae, this time with the last kid and parent encounter of the day. Another sweet goodbye before you’re turning around, ready to tidy up after today’s session.

You’ve only just had enough time to put away the box of crayons littering the floor before the sound of approaching footsteps makes you turn around. You see Mai walking towards you, Dae nowhere to be seen this time.

“Hey, is everything alright? Did Dae forget something?” You ask.

“Hi again. Yes, yes. Everything’s alright. I wanted to talk to you actually.” She says, finally coming to a stop in front of you.

“Oh… sure. What’s up?”

“What are you doing after this?” She asks and immediately realizes how nosy she must sound at the way you wince slightly at the question. “Oh God, I’m sorry. Let me rephrase that… what do you do? I mean, do you work, study…?”

You notice her tense up, nerves brewing at her sudden intrusion and you reassure her with a soft smile. You don’t blame her – you’d want to know, too, if your child was spending time with someone who could very well be considered a stranger.

“I, um… I graduated three months ago. Literature. That was my major. I worked the night shift at a bar through most of university. I recently left, though. The atmosphere was getting heavy, I guess,” you say, sparing her the details, “I do work freelance for some publications at the moment, but you could say I’m just… floating for the time being. Looking.” Your admission makes you shy, gaze falling down.

“Oh… I thought you’d be pursuing a career in education.” Mai says, though she doesn’t sound surprised.

“No, no. I volunteer at the book club because it sort of gives me a sense of purpose. It’s easy to lose that when you’ve recently graduated. I didn’t want to feel like my life was in a complete pause. Plus, I like the kids. They keep me hopeful.”

Mai tries her best to keep her facial expression as stoic as ever – offering gentle nods and smiles as she takes in your words. But inside, she’s plotting. You’re too good to be true. Granted, she’s known this for a while – Saturday book club excitement begins as early as Thursday for Dae. Your entire essence feels trustworthy, sweet and patient.

So, Mai plots.

“I have a friend…,” she starts, taking you aback, eyebrows raising up in surprise. “I think he might need your help.”

~

“So? What did you say? Did you agree to it? I told you I had a good feeling about today!” Lucy’s frantic, bits of flour dust her cheeks lightly. She hasn’t left the kitchen since you left this morning and now the scones are accompanied by batches of croissants, madeleines, eclairs – you name it. Her own personal Café de Fleur.

You have to admit, her excitement is contagious.

“I mean, I agreed to have her give him a call. To put in a reference for me. But I don’t know, Lu.” This earns you a scowl from her

“What do you mean you don’t know? This could be amazing, ___. Enlightening, even!”

“Enlightening is a stretch.” You say, hand coming to rest at your hip.

“Now, don’t be ungrateful. What else do you need? She all but gloated about her more than financially willing single dad friend that’s in desperate need of a hot nanny-” now you’re the one scowling. “Sorry, a nanny. Kids come naturally to you!”

“She’s nine months old! She’s a baby, not a kid. I can’t bribe her with lollipops and picture books.” You protest.

“Even better! Babies are less demanding of attention and bribes. You just have to make sure she stays fed and out of poopy diapers and voila! Happy kid- baby. Happy baby!” she says. At what sounds like a defeated sigh coming from you, she presses, “besides… you could have time to work on your writing, in-between naps or whatever. What other job gives you the benefits nap time does?”

She has a point. It shouldn’t take too much to convince you – you do need the job. The savings you’ve been amounting to since university will not last you forever and you couldn’t solely rely on the hopes of getting your big break as a writer overnight.

“Yeah, I guess you have a point.”

“Plus… being a single parent must not be easy.” You smile at your friend’s inability to remove her feelings from the vaguest of situations. “You could actually help out a family more than you’d realize, ___.”

Her words make your heart sink a little, even though you can’t quite put your finger on why. As much as you make fun of Lucy for shining subjectivity into every context, you can’t help but admit you’re the same. You don’t know anything about this family; let alone anything that would spark the uneasiness that tugs at your heart at her words. Yet you can’t control the flutters in your chest at Lucy’s suggestion, insisting you could be of help.

In that moment, you find yourself hoping you can be.

~

It’s Monday.

Jungkook hates how much of a Monday it feels like. He was never one to fixate on the days of the week as such – usually having his secretary keeping track of his days, making sure to fit personal time and Soori’s doctor’s appointments in the middle of his crazy work schedule. He’s never attached days to feelings.

But today is a Monday and it feels like Jungkook’s own personal idea of hell. The weekend was hell, too. He decided to bring Soori along on his business trip, her recent clinginess to her father breaking Jungkook’s heart during every parting. Mai tries to soften the reality around the edges a bit, reassuring him she only cries for a little longer once he leaves her in the mornings before heading to the office.

Suelgi had tagged along for the trip and would babysit during the day as Jin and Jungkook oversaw the advancements in the project. He felt proud. This was the first of his hotels that he has overseen from the very beginning. An idea that’s now materialized into a twenty stories high beach front resort. Soori was not in the mood to necessarily celebrate, though, amounting to a two-day, one (sleepless) night hellish weekend trip.

The back and forth has really been taking a toll on her schedule as well, leaving them with odd feeding hours and a regression in her sleep training that has Jungkook fearing for his ability to function on sole motor skills.

He’s in the middle of changing her diaper as she fidgets in his grasp, mindlessly playing with a bunched-up sock. He squints. His bunched-up sock. Where did she even get that? He checks his watch – 7:20 AM. Not bad. Mental pat in the back, because he basically lives off his own reassurance nowadays. The pleasure of the accomplishment of not running late for once is short-lived as his phone starts ringing loudly. His eyes search for it and although he can hear its proximity, it’s nowhere to be seen.

“Fuck.” He mutters. Soori coos at him and he covers her ears quickly, “you didn’t hear that.”

The ringing stops and he continues his task of getting her clean and changed for the day. Another short-lived moment of bliss as the ringing fills the walls of the nursery again. Now he worries – it could be a work emergency. Or Suelgi reaching out to let him know something came up and she won’t be able to look after Soori today. He takes another glance around the room and sees the buzzing device camouflaged by a family of plushies on top of one of Soori’s toy baskets. It doesn’t stop ringing.

“Don’t move, okay?” He says to Soori, who’s laying on top of her changing table. The second the words leave his lips he realizes the calibre of stupidity the request holds. He closes his eyes, shaking his head in disbelief. “Intermission,” he says, taking a very butt-naked Soori in his arms and heading to retrieve his phone. How did that even get there? He recites a mental prayer in hopes his daughter doesn’t have an accident – one all over his tightly pressed white button up.

Mai’s name flashes on the screen of his phone.

“Hello?”

“Gguk. I have the best news.” She says, way too cheerful for 7 am.

“Enlighten me.” He responds, immediately regretting the sarcastic ring to his voice.

Mai doesn’t seem to mind, he can hear the smile on her face when she says, “I found you a nanny!”

“Send her CV my way. I’ll check it out as soon as I get to the office.” He returns.

“I’m her CV! And her letter of recommendation.”

“No.”

“Gguk-”

“I’m not going to leave my daughter in the care of someone that doesn’t have the right qualifications and/or enough years of experience to lack a proper CV.” Jungkook’s voice is stern and he knows Mai is rolling her eyes on the other side of the line.

“Oh, Ggukie. You’re funny. If employment worked that way you’d be out of a job.” Her voice doesn’t hold an ounce of menace but she knows she has to be stern, too.

“Hotels can fail. My daughter’s wellbeing, cannot.” He argues, voice sounding defeated.

“Okay. Hear me out. She’s Dae’s teacher. From Saturday book club – you know how he’s always telling you about it?” Mai explains.

“Oh, she’s a teacher?” He admits that grants him a glimmer of hope.

“Well, no,” and before Jungkook can object again she continues, “but! Gguk, she is sweet, and patient and I’ve seen her with the kids, she can easily reason with them. They love her. And respect her. Come on, just one interview. Get to know her. Let Soori get to know her, too. She can’t be worse than all these nannies you’ve been interviewing that look straight out of that one scene in Mary Poppins. Please?”

Jungkook is about to object again, having made up his mind at ‘well, no’ but before he can begin to form a sentence, he feels a wet patch growing at the center of his stomach, quickly spreading down in a steady stream. He looks down at Soori who looks back at him innocently, unaware of her accident, slightly relieved at having an empty bladder. She smiles at him, a soft giggle falling past her lips.

Now they’re running late.

“Okay.”

“Gguk just- what?” Mai says, astounded.

“Give me her number, I’ll have my assistant arrange the interview.” He sounds defeated, but Mai doesn’t miss the sudden determination in his voice.

“You won’t regret it, Gguk. Trust me.”

And in that moment, he finds himself hoping he doesn’t.

~

“So, it’s a coffee date?”

Lucy’s voice nears as she enters your room, pushing the clothes that you’ve aggressively scattered all over your bed to the side. She takes a seat, hands wrapped around a scolding hot cup of tea. You can see the steam dance out of the mug in little twirls.

“No. it’s not a coffee date. His assistant just asked me how I liked my coffee. Must be a rich people thing, you know?” You argue.

“Politeness?” She asks, raising a brow.

“No. Planning ahead of time.”

“And what did you tell her?” She presses, bringing the mug to her lips as she takes a sip.

“Huh?”

“About how you like your coffee.”

“Iced americano.” You tell her, a wicked smile tugging at your lips.

She rolls her eyes. “Please, it’s like you want to butcher this!”

“Not actively attempting to, no. But if I can’t find anything remotely appropriate to wear then that might just be the case.” You say, exasperated. You’d spent the good first half of your morning rummaging around your tiny closet for anything that would resemble even an ounce of professionality. Needless to say, your pastels and florals, mostly making up an absurd amount of sun dresses, were not quite cutting it.

“Please, ___, you dress like a grandma that picks up gardening as soon as the weather goes any higher than 20 degrees. Or, even better, -” she continues but you turn around, narrowing your eyes at her. “The cutest grandma, though. Sexy, too.” She winks at you and you can’t help but smile.

“It’s just not… professional enough.”

“Since when do nannies have to look cookie cutter corporate? I’d be content enough with someone that didn’t pose any immediate threat. Like say, you walk in there with a spike collar on – that might be dangerous. But then again, you can’t really judge a book by its cover.” She concludes, assertive nod to the head before she takes another sip.

You laugh, shooting finger guns at her, giving her the point.

She’s right. Your choice of fashion was never a matter of inconvenience during Saturday book club in the library. And you do sort of sport the grandma-chic. You should be fine.

Yet you can’t shake the slight intimidation you feel. You know it’s only normal to dwell on nerves or pre work interview jitters. As much cookie cutter corporate this isn’t you still want to do well. You still want his approval.

The intimidation dates back to two days ago. Mai had called you, having asked for your number to give you further details, and she gave you the good news! As she’d exclaimed.

“His assistant will call you to arrange an interview. It’ll probably be sometime this week.” Mai’s voice still held the same enthusiasm as it did a couple of minutes prior during her call with Jungkook.

“That sounds perfect,” you say, although you have to force the words out of you. You weren’t expecting everything to unfold so quickly.

“You’ll do good. Soori will love you.”

“Thank you for this opportunity, Mai. It- the timing was just right.” You don’t feel like putting any pressure on her by admitting just how desperately you need this. This is just an interview after all.

“Trust me, likewise.” She says this and it leaves you wondering for a minute. Her voice sounds serious, but you don’t press.

You’re about to say your goodbyes but her words stop you.

“Jungkook.” She says, seemingly out of nowhere.

“Huh?” You frown, a bit lost by the prior.

“Jeon Jungkook. That’s his name. Just realized I never told you.”

Jeon Jungkook. It’s in the name. That’s where your intimidation stems from. He sounds like he belongs in the list of professors you avoided in university. The ones that led the elective subjects you took to build up credit. Like accounting and introduction to physics 01. You shudder at the thought.

Another look-over your messy clothes sprawled all across your bed earns you another shudder, followed by a loud groan.

Lucy scams through it, giving it one last glance before she grabs a handful of yellow fabric. She doesn’t gravitate towards it for any reason in particular – simply with the intention to ease your torment and put an end to this discussion.

“Here. Wear the yellow dress.” She says, sure of herself, even though she has no idea what the yellow dress actually looks like. It could be one of your grandma chic but make it ass cheek length for all she knows.

But the angels are on Lucy’s side today and when you reach for the dress, holding it against your body as you stare at the mirror, it’s not half bad. It cuts in a straight line over your chest, fabric rouching slightly at the top before it falls seamlessly right above your knees. Discreet enough. Cute bows at the strings that hold it over your shoulders, too. You are keen on the gardening look, aren’t you?

“It needs a cardigan.” You say, reaffirming your previous realization.

“How Victorian of you. Please refrain from showing any ankle – the man might have a heart attack. I heard nine months old are judgy, too.” Lucy remarks.

“I was planning on wearing my converse – is that too casual?” You ask, completely ignoring her witty remarks. She rolls her eyes at you and watches you pace around your room, trying to tidy up the mess you’d make.

You’re looking through your cardigans when she breaks the silence.

“What do you think happened?”

“What do you mean?” You ask, turning around, eyes meeting her serious ones.

“I mean, single dad… desperately in need for a nanny… rich, assuming from his side of town. Do you think something happened? Where’s the baby mama?” Your eyes widen at her last question.

“Well, I don’t know. But I’m sure it isn’t any of the crazy scenarios flashing through your mind right now. Probably a messy divorce or something.” You declare.

“Guess we’ll find out soon enough.”

~

“Soo, look here, baby. Open wide!” Jungkook’s words feign cheerfulness but they’re bordering on a plead. As he brings the spoon closer to Soori’s mouth she lets out a high-pitched shriek. By far the loudest since this whole ordeal unfolded twenty minutes ago.

Her eyes are swollen, wet with tears that fall down her face that’s now red from all the crying and screaming lunch time has provoked. The first few days she refused solid food had Jungkook giving in – cradling her in his arms as he bottle fed her until she calmed down. But it’s been three days of this and he needs to be a parent.

So that’s where his Thursday lunch break finds him – standing in front of a very angry baby, completely clueless, a colourful assortment of pureed baby food adorning his kitchen island. Soori’s cries come to a surprising stop and he knows she’s not only tired but also hungry. He tries again, lowering the spoon to her, holding in his breath as she just stares at it. She kicks, body jumping so abruptly inside the confinity of her high chair it startles Jungkook, hands coming to hold her still as he shushes her gently.

Amidst the sea of broken feelings that slowly tear him apart this is perhaps the most painful. He didn’t think Soori would be so receptive to her mother’s departure. Jungkook doesn’t know if her change of demeanour is a reaction of his sulking and suffering, or if she feels Ira’s absence more than he can give her credit for. She’s just so little. Bliss still carries her through most mornings and nights – they were Jungkook’s to begin with, as he took every chance he possibly could at home to spend with her. He likes to believe that her mother’s missing presence isn’t something she doesn’t quite grasp by notion. But he can’t deny that she feels it by instinct. His heart breaks all over again at her innocence. He wonders if she’s confused, tries to decipher her feelings as he stares at her. Her mouth opens and closes in breathy whimpers. His eyes sting with the promise of a new set of tears at the feeling.

“Mr. Jungkook?” Mrs. Chae’s dulcet voice startles him. She looks apologetic when he jumps at the sight of her. “I’m sorry to disturb you. Your assistant has just called to remind you about your interview, sir. I thought I’d let you know.”

Fuck. The interview. In the middle of lunchtime chaos, he’d managed to forget about it.

“Uh- yes. Yes. Thank you, Mrs. Chae,” he takes a glimpse at his daughter, whom he still hasn’t manage to feed. He feels like a failure.

“If you want, I can try?” she says, referring to the get the baby to actually eat ordeal he was engaged in a minute ago.

“I’d appreciate that, yes.” She’s an old lady, and although sweet, lacks the patience to deal with the babysitting duties she’d had to take on ever since Ira left. But Jungkook needs all the help he can get, so he accepts hers. “If she keeps fussing just give her a bottle. She needs to eat.” She simply nods. He feels slightly judged – he keeps breaking. Stuck between a wall and a dead-end street. A bottle or starving his nine-month-old. A really easy one, yeah.

He leans down, kissing Soori’s forehead, whispering, “be good, baby.”

He makes his way from the kitchen to the living room, his pace picking up as he walks straight to the guest bathroom before he locks it.

He doesn’t bother turning on the lights as his back leans against the door, body sliding against it until he hits the floor. He breaks. It’s not the loud sobs he let out the first couple of days – he’s pretty sure he’s ran out of those. It’s the silent tide of tears that build in the corners of his eyes as his lost gaze penetrates an empty spot. He stares so hard until his line of vision goes blurry and he blinks. And only then do the tears fall. He doesn’t know why he suppresses them anymore. He’s just so fucking tired. He doesn’t know where the pain starts nor does he know where it ends. It’s just there. Silent, cold, sharp. An all-consuming overwhelm that shares his days and nights – backstabbing him just when he thinks it’s getting better.

He starts to get angry – what he’s come to identify as step two of his emotional vortex. But before he can fully register it, the doorbell rings, saving him from himself.

~

Your fingers hover over the doorbell. The touch screen doorbell. You try not to but your mind races with, quite frankly, unproductive thoughts.

Who even needs this much technology? You direct your gaze up, taking in the sight in front of you. People that live in such humble abodes like this one, you think. The house resembles something out of those Architectural Digest magazines you skim through in the library to kill time. It reminds you of a cut out you pasted in your vision board – idea courtesy of none other than Lucy after reading one chapter from The Secret.

it’s big, that’s to put it lightly. The shape almost boxy – wide and long, walls a contrast between white and dark mahogany wood. Two palm trees adorn the entrance, one taller than the other, side by side. Palm trees? You’re gawking now, you know you are. Three cars take up the vast parking space – two that seem to be identical, only in different colours. Black and white. That’s cliché, even for you. A Range Rover comes to view at the far end, almost towering the two coupes – it’s black. You have to admit it’s a satisfying colour palette. But who needs three cars? You shake your head, catching yourself before you free-fall into the incessant prying.

You make a mental note to stop staring as you fixate your gaze back to the door. Your eyes come back to the doorbell.

Does it ever run out of battery?

You’re about to reason with your brain on why that is a stupid question when the front door swings open from the inside. You tense up slightly, running your hands down the front of your dress nervously as your eyes come up to take in the sight before you.

Now, as afore mentioned, you’re not one to shy away from a good cliché; but the one before you finds you perplexed, to say the least.

He’s tall – so much so you have to shift your gaze upwards to meet his face. And when you do, you’re met with something you can’t quite put into words. But he doesn’t need words. His beauty speaks sonnets you’ll never be able to utter with ordinary words – so ethereal you quickly come to an spoken understanding. His hair is dark and thick, falling softly on top of his forehead, parting at the middle. His eyes look red and even though they’re a bit fallen they look impossibly big – if you look long enough, they become starry. You think your own eyes are deceiving you but when he blinks slowly and opens them again, you’re met with galaxies.

He’s managed to make formal attire look effortlessly casual. You take him in – black slacks, perfectly fitted against his toned legs. His white dress shirt exposes more skin than your sanity can bear, the three top buttons undone and his sleeves rolled up. Tattoos that seem to be never ending adorn his right arm that maintains a tight grip on the door as he holds it open for you.

“Mr. Jeon?” Your voice mirrors the confusion that inhabits your head. The title feels off – this man looks like he could’ve been part of your graduating class. But who makes it this big after three months post grad?

The left side of your brain, also known as rationality, hopes this is not Jeon Jungkook, the man about to interview you. For a potential job. To babysit his daughter.

But the right side of your brain hopes it is.

“Just Jungkook is fine.”

Damn it.

“Uh- come in, please.” He says, making way in the entrance for you to step in.

It’s bright – the house illuminated by the light coming from the endless windows that take up the space, floor to ceiling, east to west. The minimal décor perfectly complemented by a perfect view of the boundless shade of green that make up the backyard; the blue of the pool reflecting against the glass.

“Here, my office’s this way. Follow me.” His voice breaks you out of your trance and you nod, following right behind him.

His strides are determined yet effortless, mimicking his essence alone. But you can’t stop thinking about his eyes – bruised with what seems like lack of sleep and red veins so prominent around his irises you wonder if it’s the prior or if he’s been crying.

Stop prying.

He comes to a stop in front of a door that he holds opens for you, letting you go in first. You smile at the action. He doesn’t return it.

“Please,” he gestures to one of the chairs and you sit down, opposite to where you assume he’ll be sitting; a wide table, that matches the overall décor of the house, separating the two of you.

He looks at the tray Mrs. Chae has left for the two of you, seeing his usual coffee order has doubled. He quirks a brow, taking one look at you, but you seem to be lost as you take in your surroundings. He grabs both glasses, placing one in front of you.

“Thank you.” You say, voice soft.

He rounds the desk and comes to sit in front of you, settling into the chair before he takes a sip from his coffee. He clears his throat and this makes you straighten up in your seat. Here we go, you tell yourself.

“Do you have any questions for me before we start?” His gaze finally meets yours, undivided for the first time since you walked inside his home.

But his question takes you aback. He looks like the type to shove you abruptly into the enquiry portion of the interview.

“Um…,” you’re already stuttering and Jungkook tries not to but he looks exasperated. “The dynamic,” you attempt to answer with secureness, “what does it look like?”

His left eyebrow quirks rapidly at your question, almost instinctively. “She’s nine months old. She naps two to three times a day. Solid food three times a day,” his voice shakes at this, “formula four times a day. Quick bath throughout the day if she gets messy, a long one before bed time. Goes through diapers like she’s keeping Pampers afloat. Enjoys anything loud with buttons during her free time.” The last two remarks are more sarcastic than they are funny. Condescending even.

“And yours?” He doesn’t miss the slight irritation in your voice, although you look impassive.

“My…?”

“Dynamic. What does it look like?”

Your question aggravates him slightly. If he were to answer it with outmost sincerity, you’d probably label him as a bad father – a weak one even. He thinks about Soori right now, probably propped up against her favorite pillow in the couch as she suckles on her bottle. The word discipline swarms his thoughts. He frowns. She’s nine months old for God’s sake.

He composes himself before replying, “I work at the office, though I’ve been working from home more often lately. Mornings and nights she spends with me. Lunch time, too, when I’m home. I tend to have seasons where work requires more travel than others, but that time hasn’t come so I’m yet to figure it out. I don’t work on weekends unless strictly necessary.” The brief but packed run down comes to an end but all you can do is remain silent in your seat; eyes still glued to his. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” your murmur.

“Your work experience is… not ideal for this sort of job. Are you aware?” Now you know why he’s loaded. He’s a fucking shark.

“I am aware.” You badly want to say something, anything, to save your ass but your mind is at a complete blank at his unashamed boldness.

“What do you really want to do?”

“Pardon?”

He exhales loudly. “What career path do you want to pursue? Did you go to school? – Mai told me you volunteer at the library – is that something you want to do long term?”

Damn, he’s ruthless.

“I’m sorry I should’ve brought a CV of some sort-”

“Yes, you should’ve. But you didn’t. So, we’re just going to have to work with what we have.” He says, interrupting you.

You look up at him, your sincere eyes meet his. They look as tired as they did when he first greeted you. You try to steady your breathing, easing your mind as you pose a brave front.

“I majored in Literature – out of sole passion. I didn’t really think about where it would land me when I started, I just did it because I loved it. I graduated three months ago and no, I don’t love it any less. Even if my degree hasn’t landed me nowhere you’d consider successful.” He visibly winces at your words. “I quit my job at a bar because the atmosphere was making me feel uncomfortable. The library felt comforting enough so I stuck to that. It makes me happy. Volunteering, I mean. Not in the selfless way you’d probably think but in a it brings me more peace of mind than it does them way, I guess. They’re kids, nothing holds their amusement for long enough. I’d hope the books and my words do, but I can’t know that for sure. I’m just a tiny slice of their week. But that’s fine by me.”

Jungkook gapes at you. He takes your words in and has to admit your sincerity takes him by surprise. You’ve uttered more words in the last two minutes than you have since you arrived. His head is pounding. He doesn’t believe you’re any more qualified just because you had a burst of honesty spill out of you. But he’d be a fool not to regard you with admiration for it.

At his silence, you continue, “I don’t know what career path I want to pursue. Or maybe I do, but it somewhat scares me. I like to write, but it’s a tough industry to break into. I’m not worried or desperate to know, though. I don’t know how long it took you to amount to all your success – you look fairly young to me. But I believe even the most successful of people felt at least a little lost at twenty-three,” you catch yourself slipping into a cliché so you mask it with a, “or whatever.”

He nods, but it doesn’t necessarily convey approval. It’s more so as if he’s digesting everything you’ve unloaded onto him. You don’t care at this point; having come to terms you didn’t stand a chance in Jeon Jungkook’s nanny boot camp to begin with.

“I agree,” he says and his words find you wide eyed. “I don’t even believe most people should decide on something they’ll take on for the rest of their lives that young. I wouldn’t necessarily say you’re lost, though. Finding your way seems to be a more fitting term.”

His words are comforting and the warm feeling pooling at the pit of your stomach travels all the way up until it settles in your chest. They feel almost welcoming, even as his gaze remains stern.

“You didn’t ask and at this point you probably don’t care but… I’m a fast learner and there are a couple of things in life that come naturally to me and I’ve been told that kids are one of them.”

He nods, giving you a tight-lipped smile before he’s pushing his chair back and coming to a stand. You follow his movements, walking alongside him in silence as you exit his office.

You don’t expect the loud shriek that echoes through the walls when you walk down the corridor, back to his living room. Concern laces his features and he walks a little faster, but when you make it to the living room and past the front door you don’t know if you should keep following him.

You do anyways.

Upon entering the kitchen you’re met with one hell of a sight. Sat in a high chair is whom you presume to be Soori. A very unhappy version of her, anyways. She’s kicking and screaming so loud you fear she might break free from her constraints, the baby harness holding her back every time. You know she’s upset when her cries are also met with tears – real tears. Not crocodile ones babies often times shed when they can’t express discomfort so they just cry. In front of her, Mrs. Chae is holding a bottle and a pink plastic bowl, eyes going from one to the other and then to Soori, in complete desperation.

“What’s wrong?” Jungkook says, coming to stand next to them.

“She- she won’t take her bottle. I tried the puree again but she doesn’t want that either. I’m sorry Mr. Jungkook.” Mrs. Chae says.

“Has she been crying this whole time?” He asks. Mrs. Chae simply nods.

The both of them keep going back and forth, with Jungkook asking how many ounces she had, if the bottle was perhaps cold. Or too hot.

You look at Soori, who’s crying hasn’t come to a cease, if anything getting louder at her dad’s arrival. You can see the grabby hands she makes at him and it tugs at your heart a little. You walk over to her. She’s probably the cutest baby you’ve ever seen – even when her chubby cheeks are flushed from all the crying and her eyes are swollen. A silky, single strand of black hair is held up by a pink bow – hair coming up in a little sprout. Adorable.

She looks just like her dad – button nose and big doe eyes. Not to mention the puffy cheeks.

Your next move is bold but you know this works. Well, you don’t know for sure but you can try. Her exasperation is getting to you too at this point. You reach for one of the bowls in the kitchen counter – a mush of what smells like peas. You plop a dollop of the puree in the table of her high chair. She looks confused at first, taking in the stranger in front of her and then the green glob that adorns the once impeccably white surface. You notice just how clean she is, as well. You’ve never seen a child this clean during lunch time.

After a couple of seconds her cries come to a stop. She looks at you one last time before she redirects her gaze to her food – hands curiously coming to smack at the mushy peas. Jungkook turns around at the sudden quietness. His eyes look like they’re about to burst out of his skull when he sees his daughter stare at her messy fist, hand covered in baby food. She observes it tentatively before bringing it to her mouth, her whole hand coming past her lips as she nibbles on its content. She looks nonchalant to say the least but when her hand repeats the movement, shoving another handful into her mouth, he feels like he could cry of relief.

“How-” he starts, flabbergasted.

“Um… she’s not going to feel fully comfortable with the sight and texture of the food if she doesn’t get a chance to explore it with her hands first.” You answer.

Soori hums in sweet satisfaction as she feeds herself. Jungkook turns to her, big toothy smile at his baby’s new found sound. It’s the first time you’ve seen his face take on that expression.

“Is it good, baby?” he coos and she smiles back at him, nose scrunching up imitating her father’s, mushy peas up to her hairline.

You smile. God, they’re cute.

But you know this is your queue. You adjust your bag strap over your shoulder, clearing your throat as you prepare to say goodbye and turn around. You can see yourself out.

“Thank you for-”

His next words nearly give you whiplash and it takes you a while to process them.

“When can you start?”

~

“And then what did you say?” Lucy listens to your detailed recollection of the recent events. She nods and winces and shakes her head at the brutal recount.

“Well, I was about to say goodbye. Yes, that chubby cheeked baby was calling my name but I couldn’t get out of there faster. But then,” you pause, remembering the exact moment, a little too vividly as his voice echoes in your memory.

“What! What?” Lucy’s eyes are attentive, never once leaving your face. But her hands follow another agenda, filling a shot glass to the brim, the clear liquid spilling a bit as she waits for your bomb to kaboom! In her face. This one’s looking exceptionally ghastly. She figures tequila could ease the impact.

“He asked me when I could start.” You finish.

“Wait, what? Come again?” She all but slams the bottle as she sets it back down on the kitchen counter.

“Yeah. I think it even took him by surprise. He went on to tell me that we could take a week of testing the waters before I signed the contract.” You tell her.

“The contract? Who are you babysitting? The next heir to the British throne?”

You laugh at this, “no. She’s cuter than any of those royal babies.” She smiles, downing the shot of tequila that she’d originally destined for you. You don’t need it. Neither does she but, oh well.

“And, Lucy… his assistant emailed me the contract, just in case I had something I wanted to negotiate,” you say, voice coming to a whisper.

“And?” She asks, confused.

“Think sleazy bar pay check,” she winces, “now double that.”

“Oh.”

“Now add one of those good months that I would get my work published and we could buy the fancy marmalade,” she nods in excitement, “now double that.”

“We’re RICH!” She screams, hands coming to hold yours as you both jump up and down to the beat of her movements.

“There’s only one problem,” you say, stilling.

“What?”

“His face…”

“What about it?”

“Picture an angel,” your gaze softens, she rolls her eyes.

“Yeah…”

“Picture the perfection,”

“I am, I am.” Lucy returns, eyes dreamy.

“Now double that.”

~

Jungkook enters his bathroom, mind busy with the weight of the day. Bed time went smoothly but he knows Soori will be up in two hours or so. He mentally prepares himself for another night of rocky sleep.

He reaches for his toothbrush, lathering a generous amount of toothpaste on top before letting the water run over it. He hates mundane tasks like these – his mind having to come to a halt, to fixate on the domestic. He thinks about Ira. He can’t help it. He pictures the routine they’d adapted for the past three years – imagines what she looked like brushing her teeth next to him. They’d stand next to each other in comfortable silence, aggressive silence and on really good days, mumbles between mouthfuls of toothpaste, talking about their days, his arm around her waist as he pinned her to the marble counter.

He can’t help but wonder where she is. If she’s well. If she cries at night when she turns off the lights the way he’s grown accustomed to since she left. He wonders if she misses Soori – her baby smell, the squish of her cheeks, the round of her eyes taking her in. She thinks about the fact she missed one of her milestones today – that satisfied hum when she enjoyed her mushy peas.

He wonders if she misses him, too.

He remembers the mess Soori had made during lunch, having to wash baby food off her hair afterwards. Ira would’ve rolled her eyes at the sight. She never liked it when she made a mess.

He wonders what she would think of you, of his decision to have you look after their baby.

He stops his train of thought.

His baby.

The realization exhausts him further and he heads to bed. He wonders when it’ll get easier. When it will stop hitting him in the face every time he lets his mind wonder in meaningless back and forth. He knows the answer to all of his previous questions – none of them are what he wants to hear.

He tugs his hoodie off with one hand, throwing it to the side before he gets under his covers. He sighs, a groan leaving his mouth at the feeling of the pillow against his head. His eyes close instinctively.

And then he thinks about you.

He’s spent a good portion of his day thinking about you, to be fair. The wellbeing of his daughter at the frontline of his thoughts, whether he made the right decision. He’d made up his mind pretty early into the interview and all it took was a happy baby enjoying mushy peas for him to break. He’s regretted his decision at least a dozen times today. But then during dinner time he mimicked your actions, an assortment of foods cut into small bites spread in front of Soori for her to explore. She was eating so fast he had to stop her twice and he got to hear her sweet little mmm a handful of times. That was enough for him to break again.

But as he nuzzles into his pillows his thoughts are not laced with parenting. He thinks about you. He doesn’t exactly follow the direction of his train of thought but he’s too tired to stop it.

He thinks of the words you so openly shared with him. He thinks of the way vulnerability took over your face in a way he’d never seen it shown so visibly in anyone before. He thinks about your yellow dress that all but startled him when he opened his front door, so bright you almost looked out of place. He tries to remember what you smelled like. He can’t put his finger on it. In fact, he doesn’t think he even focused on it long enough to remember. Honey, camelias, lavender, roses, wood- he stops himself. It’s a thought with a dead-end street. He finds no point in dwelling.

You were wearing high top converses.

Something about that makes way to his brain and he can’t quite explain it. Perhaps it’s an innocence he doesn’t interact with anymore. He thinks about twenty-three-year-old him – just as lost as you. He smiles but it’s unconscious as he slowly begins to succumb to a much-needed sleep. He thinks you look like a feeling buried down deep in his memory. He’s too tired to put a name to it but as his brain begins to shut down, his vulnerability comes afloat, cradling him. The feeling doesn’t have a name but it comes in a memory he’s not so sure it entirely belonged to him. Perhaps it’s a deep longing he stored inside his heart many years ago.

Salt water. The smell of Taehyung’s parents beach house. Sixteen. Slow days. A fight between innocence and desire. Infatuation masked by love. Promises of forever. Names that danced with his. Lemonade. His first sip of beer. Mrs. Kim’s lemon pie. An old beat-up jeep. Wind. Sand. Days so long they never truly eased into night. Sunrise escapades. The stars in the sky. And yellow. So much yellow.

~

If u made it this far can we talk about cute, soft, in-between-awake-and-asleep jk being all dreamy and reminiscing!!!! that was so hot of him. i truly hope you enjoyed – this story has been so fun to write so far and my mind is already working like rents due to whip out chapter three as fast as i can!! i, too, can’t wait for the sexy stuff, don’t worry. jk needs healing but its on its way!! hold on tight. also i will make it my purpose to get my girl lucy a match made in heaven for this fic bc she deserves the world. Thank u for reading and feel free to let me know what you thought of the chapter – i love talking to u guys. sending loads of love always!! xxxxx

STREAM PERMISSION TO DANCE IF U WANT DADDY JUNGKOOK TO FEEL BETTER OK he told me to tell u xx

to build a home | chapter five

pairing: Jungkook x reader. ceo!jk + dilf!jk x nanny!oc

genre: strangers to lovers. angst. loads of plot. eventual smut.

word count: 9.2k

warnings: angst. swearing. alcohol. jealousy. no one is black-out drunk in this, oc’s just a lightweight! more heavy petting? idk anymore. mentions of sex and virginity.

author’s note: hii! this was quite healing to write, tbh. it’s very angsty at times but the ending makes it all worth it! i feel like we need a little bit of love after last night’s interlude so i made sure to sprinkle some of that on this one. thank u for all ur love and feedback, i appreciate it more than you’ll ever know! i'm sending a million kisses your way <3 xxx

p.s. yes. this settles the jucy/yoocy debate. place your bets.

This is a work of fiction. Please respect the members and their privacy. x

Chapter Five

Your eyes are fixed to the perfectly cut orange wedge that floats on top of your Aperol Spritz. You circle your straw around it, the clink of the ice hitting the glass throwing you right back into time and space.

The music is muffled by the loud chatter of the people scattered around the bar. Some in tables, some standing in corners, aimlessly engaging in conversations that lead nowhere, everywhere – some just passing the time until its, quote on quote, morally correct to end up in each other’s beds.

You look up from your glass, abruptly thrown into your own aimless conversation.

“And then he proceeds to pay for my matcha latte with coins!” You turn to Lucy, who widens her eyes at Sky’s words in mock surprise. “And- ___, get this,” she says, snapping her fingers when she notices you’ve drifted for the majority of her recount, “he walked me home. Only he was riding that skateboard of his the whole way there! Ugh.”

“What’s so wrong about coins, though?” Lucy says, a little dumbfounded by this. You snort.

“Well,” Sky contemplates for a while. “I don’t know! The vibe was just off. And the waiter had to stand there for like ten thousand centuries as he counted them. One. By. One.”

Sky is not your friend.

Well, that is a loose statement. Let’s try again. Sky is someone that has fallen into the space between an acquaintance and those people you end up in the company of whenever you want to do just this – have aimless conversations in a bar. You can’t quite explain it but the mundanity of her problems is comforting at times. Like they bring some sort of universal balance that sets everything back into place.

If you let her, she’ll sit through five negronis and tell you about any recent atrocity that she stumbled upon. Today is the poor skateboarder that had to pay for her overpriced green tea with coins. You take a moment of silence for his spirit and hope he recovers well.

“Hold in there, Sky. You know what they say, a million thorns to get to the rose.” Lucy comforts as Sky sulks, sipping on her drink.

Nobody has ever said that. But Sky nods, sniffing a little, and you smile. Lucy is, without a doubt, walking straight into the gates of heaven.

“Ladies, on the house.” Jiwoo, former literary student and classmate, says as he places three shot glasses filled with a suspicious looking clear liquid.

He also bartends, hence your uncomfortable seating arrangement at the bar besides one another. The three of you are his personal cheerleaders as you keep him entertained through his shift and he keeps you, well, buzzed.

“I just think-” Sky starts, “I think I’m ready for my rose. Now.”

The three of you just nod in acknowledgement at her words. A sheepish smile adorns Jiwoo’s face, who successfully recovered after Sky crushed his spirit freshman year. He did not pay with coins but she did tell him his head was ‘a little too in the clouds’ after he confessed his undying love for a good Shakespearean drama.

You reach for the glass, eyeing it for a second before you decide, fuck it. As you bring the shot closer to your mouth you glance at Lucy whose eyes look frantic, wide in shock. You simply assume it’s a delayed reaction to Sky’s very own Shakespearean drama. As soon as the rim touches your lips, your neck draws back, closing your eyes as you down the Tequila in one swing.

“Wow. I didn’t know you had it in you, ___!”

The awfully-familiar-but-not-quite-there voice startles you, opening your eyes and glancing at the direction of where it’s coming from. Your eyes widen in pure, utter terror, face wincing as the burn from the straight liqueur hits your throat, too consumed in the sight before you to bother reaching for a chaser. You let out a throaty cough.

The awfully familiar voice belongs to Taehyung, who, to no surprise, stands in a circle next to your seat at the bar with a set of familiar faces. One of them being Jungkook’s.

Your mind chants a string of highly explicit curse words that, for obvious reasons, you can’t voice.

“Hey, ___! Nice to see you again!” Jimin’s chirpy voice breaks you out of your ghostly trance.

“Uh- yeah. You too. It’s nice to…,” your voice drifts as your eyes meet Jungkook’s stern ones.

Fucking hell.

“Ah, don’t let him get to you. He’s done worse.” Yoongi muses, amusement evident in his voice. He’s even smiling. This moment is so awkward it even broke Yoongi.

Great.

Taehyung chuckles before he says, “I’m gonna go see if I can find us a table. This place is packed tonight, huh?”

“I’ll come with.” Yoongi says, voice back to his relaxed tone.

Jimin browses through the menu as Jungkook comes to stand next to you.

“Hey,” he says, giving you a tight-lipped smile.

You nod, returning it with the same amount of awkwardness. “Hey.”

“Hi!” Sky chirps, making you both turn to her, “I’m Sky. Nice to meet you.” She extends her hand over you, offering it to Jungkook.

He shakes it, returning her introduction with a simple, “Jungkook.”

“How do you two know each other?” She rests her elbows on the bar, back turned to Lucy completely, as she cocks her head that rests between her hands. A dazzling, Colgate smile gracing her features.

“He’s my boss,” you say the last word with a certain edge to it, hoping it helps her tone her peacock wings down. But it is to no avail.

You look up at the ceiling, looking for your angels that seem to have clocked out for the day.

“Oh! You’re the owner of that cute baby she keeps yapping on about?”

Lucy’s fingers press at her temples, mentally cursing her own angels for this exceptional turn of events.

Jungkook all but gawks at her for a second too long before he says, “Yup. That’d be me. Owner of the cute baby.”

“Oh my god, cute! I love babies. Well, more like, babies love me.” She giggles, overly enthusiastic for the dullness of the exchange.

Jungkook smiles nervously at her. Jimin senses his discomfort and the overall awkwardness of the situation and steps in, coming to stand between Sky and Lucy.

“Hey, what are you drinking? It looks nice and refreshing.” He asks her.

“Oh, this? It’s a negroni. Super strong, but kind of picked up the habit during my semester abroad in Rome.” She takes a sip of her drink as she responds.

“Ah, that sounds nice.” He entertains that for about a second, giving her a genuine smile before he turns to Lucy. “Hi. I’m Jimin, and you?”

She glances at him, eyes long lost somewhere else as to brace herself from the situation. “Oh- um. Mint julep.” She says.

He chuckles softly, meeting her eyes before he shakes his head lightly. “No. I mean, what’s your name?”

She gasps a little in shock, an apologetic giggle leaving her lips. “I’m Lucy.”

“Lucy…” he contemplates, eyes fixated on the endless bottles on the other side of the bar. A small smile on his lips. He turns to her. “It’s nice to meet you, Lucy.”

~

1. That one time you stole a single cherry flavoured Chupa Chup from your local convenience store after your cousin, the juvenile delinquent, called you a wuss.

2. Breaking Micky, member of your grandma’s beloved porcelain kitten collection and denying it over and over again, resulting in her taking the belief her house was haunted to her death bed.

3. Cheating on that one math exam in fourth grade because the basic concept of geometry just wouldn’t get through you.

4. Letting your geeky science group partner feel you up in your bed whilst your parents were next door, at total peace with their daughter engaging in the thrilling wonders of the anatomical body – the other kind.

You’re going through a mental list of every single thing you could’ve possibly done to be stuck in this situation. But even for you, who’s had to live with the guilt of said doings for many years, it feels a little bit drastic to be punished like this.

Taehyung’s quest for a table was unsuccessful, resulting in them having to occupy the seats right next to yours at the bar.

And so here you were, right next to Jungkook, both of your backs turned against each other’s, as you both tried to enjoy a little night out on the town. Another quest that kept finding itself unsuccessful.

The space is quite loud around you and you can’t really listen to their conversation – only Taehyung’s loud laugh now and then.

So, you think, this is good. This could be worse. You can’t even see him! And like Jungkook says: out of sight, out of mind. Yes. This is perfect.

This was not perfect.

“Guys,” Sky whispers, waving her hands inwards, motioning for you and Lucy to get closer. You do and she says, “I must’ve spoken too loud because… it’s here!” She shrieks and Lucy frowns in confusion at her words. Sky rolls her eyes. “My rose, silly.”

“Elaborate?” Lucy urges.

“Duh. ___’s hot boss! Jungkook,” she whispers his name but you still turn around abruptly, making sure he didn’t catch it. “___, you must play cupid. Pretty please?” Her palms flush together, signalling a prayer and you’re not religious but the act feels blasphemous to you.

“Sky, did you spike your negronis again? He’s my boss. I’m his nanny. There is so much wrong with the simple image of me trying to hook him up with my twenty-two-year-old friend.” You argue, trying to sound objective, so as to look away from the specks of jealousy that are threatening to explode inside your chest.

Sky pouts and Lucy nods before she adds, “Yeah, Sky. I think this rose is thorny.”

“I think it’s the beginning of a very romantic story.” She stands her ground, and quite frankly, you don’t blame her.

“Sky, if actual cupid is somewhere around here on nightly rounds, then he might be able to help you. I can’t, though.”

She jumps in her chair excitedly, clapping her hands once before saying, “You are so right! It has to be fate. Plus, he won’t be able to resist me.” She bats at her hair as she says this, sipping on her negroni, cheeky smile on her face.

And for all you know, she might be right. Sky is the textbook definition of attractive. She has sharp features that make her look almost cat-like, but a soft, warm smile that, yeah, most times she fakes but hey – it’s warm alright. She dresses like she knows she has an all-rounder proportionate body and overall, she oozes confidence. If you consider Jungkook’s track record, as in, the woman he had a child with then yes – he wouldn’t be able to resist someone like Sky.

It shouldn’t, but the realization makes you feel uncomfortable. And the more you think about it the discomfort turns into something worse – sadness.

Sky goes on and on about the principles she sticks to, all gathered from her, and you quote, Bible; Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus. You’ve never read said literary masterpiece but the title alone sounds sexist. Both Lucy and you let her talk, though, falling back into the dynamic of the aimless conversation – just like you were before Jungkook and his troop waltzed inside your little Saturday Sanctuary, now cursed forever.

You sigh, shoulders falling to the beat of your gaze as you go back to aimlessly stirring your drink, a significant mental strain on trying to brush aside the feeling of jealousy that takes over you. It’s a jealousy that doesn’t even belong to you, you realize. A feeling that came from an idea so far-fetched inside your brain, mustered from a shock-end reaction after Soori ended up in the hospital over a week ago.

Neither of you had acknowledged it – proving your case further. And it was better that way – you didn’t need the added tension on top of Jungkook’s day-to-day indifference. So, in that moment, you welcomed it.

Right now, it makes your heart feel heavy, though.

Jiwoo senses your despair, walking over to you and placing his hands gently on top of yours, shaking them a little to get your attention. Your gaze snaps up, looking at him as you return his sweet smile.

“Are you alright?” He asks.

“Just fine,” you tell him but he raises his brow, picking up on your white lie.

“Hm,” he ponders, “I’ll believe you. Have some of this, though. Just in case.” He winks before he places another shot glass in front of you, swiftly sliding it your way.

You catch it. Another poorly judged, ‘fuck it’ before you’re repeating the same motion that put you right into said misery you’re trying to drown.

~

At first, Jungkook only feels it – your change in demeanour. Then, he notices the change in your tone of voice, really cancelling out his friend’s conversations and listening in on yours. You laugh, clap, shriek, gasp – dramatizing every reaction to whatever it is your friends are saying. He’s not really listening in on your conversation, no. He’s listening to you.

Curiosity finally gets the best of him and he shifts around in his seat, coming to face the bar fully. You’re slightly turned around but he can see you from the corner of his eyes. Your cheeks are flushed, arms swinging around in the air as you tell some story about a road trip from hell where you and Lucy both caught food poisoning and your car broke down halfway through the trip. He chuckles softly to himself. You truly are a storyteller. Even funnier as your words begin to slur slightly as the alcohol swims through your body all the way to your head.

“Hey,” Jiwoo barely whispers, but Jungkook can hear him perfectly from his place next to you.

“Yeah?” Your voice is soft, and he can hear the smile on your face.

“What are you doing after this?”

“I don’t know… what am I doing after this?” You mock seriousness.

“Wanna get some ramen on the way and go over to yours? Watch a movie?”

Jungkook visibly tenses, but you don’t pay him much mind when you jump from your seat. “Beetlejuice!” You exclaim.

Jiwoo laughs, a short-nod of affirmation as he says, “Beetlejuice.”

“Bathroom break,” you announce, to seemingly nobody.

You stumble down from your stool, holding onto the edges when your step falters a bit as your head spins once, then twice as you regain your balance. Once you’re seeing straight again, you make your way to the bathroom – laughing to yourself as you feel the buzz all through you, easing your nerves, making you feel good.

Jungkook bounces his left leg repeatedly in a frenzy. Jimin picks up on it, turning to him.

“Hey, you okay?”

He nods. “Yeah. I’ll be right back.”

He doesn’t process his train of thought as he gets up from his stool, turning around and promptly making his way to where he knows the bathrooms are. He shoves past groups of people dancing, kissing and groping. Some doing all at once.

He makes it through the narrow hallway that leads to the bathrooms and stands there, waiting. He realizes just how poorly thought out his action was and how he has no fucking idea of what he’s going to say to you when you walk out of the toilet. He’s about to turn around, or hide inside the men’s bathroom – whichever one he can muster first. But the Universe has other plans because right as he begins to stir out of his awkward standing position, you come out of the bathroom. You’re looking down, measuring your steps, hands at your side fixing your skirt.

You look up and you’re met with the sight of him.

“Oop,” you yelp, hands coming to your mouth in embarrassment as you lose balance slightly.

He grabs your shoulders gently, holding you in place. “You okay?”

“Yeah-,” you stare at him, blinking slowly as you take him in. “Yeah. Yes. I’m fine. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what,” he asks.

“Um… my- me. Uh. I’m drunk. This is embarrassing.”

Jungkook chuckles lightly, letting go of your shoulders. “Don’t be. You should be doing just this on a Saturday night.”

“I don’t- usually. You know?” You tell him and he frowns in confusion, smiling a little at your rambling. “I usually spend my Saturday nights reading The Little Prince and listening to Elton John until Lucy loses it.”

“The Little Prince?” He asks, amused.

“It’s my comfort book.” You defend, a pout forming at your lips. You frown, “where’s Soori?”

“She’s spending the night at my parents’,” you wince slightly at this, eyebrows raising. “Don’t worry, my nanny’s there- I mean. She- took care of me when I was growing up.”

You give him a lazy smile. “So, you had a me?”

“Eh- yeah. Kind of.”

“Was she qualified?” You tease.

He laughs, rolling his eyes. “Funny.”

“I’m,” hiccup, “sorry.”

Jungkook scolds himself mentally over how endeared he is by your teasing and hazy minded playfulness. If he thinks about this situation in a professional light, the same one he carries as CEO, he already breeched protocol. But then again, he’s pretty sure that happened the moment he pulled you to him and you straddled his lap. But we don’t talk about that.

“You’re alright.” He gives you a kind smile, throwing you aback. “Do you- I can take you home, if you want. My driver’s out front.”

You ponder on this for a second too long, sending Jungkook’s brain into a frenzy. The protocol is non-existent at this point. “Are you sure? I- there’s a bus! I usually take the bus. From the ramen place. Best ramen in town. You should try it- anyways. The bus stop is right in front-”

He interrupts your ramble, voice going back to that stern edge. “I wouldn’t want you taking the bus this late at night.” He can see you contemplating, lips in that signature pout. “We can stop by the ramen place- if that’s why you’re so hesitant.”

You smile at him. A big, toothy smile that makes your whole face light up.

“Done deal.”

~

The scene that unfolds before you as you get back to your designated places in front of the bar is astonishing, to say the least.

The both of you come to a halt as you take in the little social circle both your group of friends have formed as they mingle, down shots and sip on their drinks casually.

When two worlds collide is an ironic way to put it but it couldn’t hold more accuracy.

Yoongi and Taehyung are invested in some recount about Sky’s strolls through Venezia – hard Z. Jiwoo fills in on that conversation here and there as he mixes drinks behind the bar. Their mouths are agape, taking in her wild stories as she over-dramatizes them for the purpose of having their full attention on her.

Opposite that, in their own little bubble, another mingle that borders on bonding forms as Jimin and Lucy sit awfully close to one another. It’s all giggles and coy smiles, little whispers in between stories as they grow visibly smitten with each other.

Jungkook’s voice takes them all out of said bubbles.

“I’m taking ___ home.” The moment the words leave his mouth he regrets them – an assortment of bemused faces gawking back at him. “To- I mean- I’m giving her a ride home.” He clarifies.

“Yeah, I’m feeling a bit tired,” you turn to Jiwoo, an apologetic smile on your face. “Let’s do Beetlejuice some time next week?” He only nods, returning your smile.

“Alright, Gguk. Get home safely – the two of you. Give Soori a forehead kiss from me.” Taehyung says.

“And me,” adds Yoongi.

Jungkook smiles at them, nodding before turning around. But he’s caught halfway through his action before a high-pitched voice calls out his name.

Sky walks over to him, offering a flirty gaze before she says, “Jungkook! It was so nice meeting you. I hope our paths cross again. I’m sure they will.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Until then,” Jungkook tells her, bowing slightly, shooting a quick smile her way before he walks away.

You are not one to thrive off of other people’s miseries but yes, a wicked grin adorns your face at the sight of hers. Taehyung catches this, raising a brow your way. Your smile drops, quickly facing away from him. Out of sight, out of mind.

You walk over to Lucy instead, smiling at her before you say, “Hey, Lu. You coming with?”

She looks at you, a sheepish smile forming at her lips. “Uh… I think I’ll stay. Text me when you get home, though!”

“Sure. Will do. Let me know when you’re heading back as well.”

She nods and gives you a hug, which you return – letting yourself melt into her.

You can quite literally feel the happiness she radiates.

Jimin looks at you, smiling sweetly.

He’s to blame. You smile back at him.

His little moment of bliss doesn’t last long as he feels Jungkook come to a stand right next to him.

“Minie,” he wraps his hand around his friend, sweetly bringing him closer as he laughs. But Jimin knows his alter motives. “Don’t fuck my nanny’s best friend.”

“Ggukie,” Jimin laughs, over-dramatizing the action, a saccharine ring to his voice when he says, “don’t fuck your nanny.”

~

You are sitting in the backseat of Jungkook’s Range Rover. He’s by your side, mindlessly scrolling through his phone. He bounces his left leg over and over again and as you fixate on it you begin to feel dizzy, head spinning a little.

You have no idea how you get the two of you to the ramen place with the half-assed directions you give his driver but once you’re pulling up, you’re telling him your orders and Jungkook is handing him his credit card over before he exits the car and heads to your personal idea of adult Disneyland – the ramen place.

You think about how this poor man is about to hand the cashier a black, sleek card to pay for greasy under-priced, in your humble opinion, ramen. The thought is so funny to you in your drunken state, you start chuckling.

Jungkook’s eyes snap from his phone to you, frowning in confusion as to what it is you find so amusing. His bewildered expression just makes the whole situation funnier and you’re full on laughing now – head thrown back in your seat, one hand over your mouth and the other over your chest as you try to control it. But your attempts are in vain because your laughter only gets louder, filling the space around you at an alarming rate.

Jungkook stares at you. He’s stuck in a very 50/50 state of mind. 50% dumbfounded and 50% praying to all the gods and angels above your laughter never comes to a stop. And with that, it becomes contagious. He tries to fight it but there’s no use as he feels it bubbling inside his chest and then – he’s laughing with you. Lightly at first but then his cackles reach the same pitch as yours.

The moment holds its little infinity for a while and then your laughter begins to die down – shoulders still shaking slightly as you come down.

You melt into the seat, head turning slightly as you glance at him, his eyes glassy as he begins to come down, too. He does the same, head dropping a little to the side until his eyes meet yours. This side of him makes you feel light – your chest fluttery, on a steady ascend and you never want to come down.

He stills. That soft blink, warm smile making your head spin – now drunk on how ethereal he looks. Not only him, but his whole essence. So pliant, so soft. A soul that finds laughter contagious. You can physically feel your heart contract at this. It hurts, tugging at your every string in the sweetest way possible.

“What was so funny?” He murmurs, that smile never faltering – only getting impossibly softer.

“I don’t remember,” you say, even though you do. You just can’t bring your brain to process any other thought that isn’t him. Him and his big, doe eyes and the way the night reflects on them. Him and his light.

He hums, absentmindedly. The silence that fills the car is dense but you welcome it. You both do as your fingers begin tracing irregular patterns on the leather seats, right between the two of you. They move mindlessly and your eyes close, wishing with all your heart it was his skin under your touch. You can hear the steady rise and fall of his breathing and you just wish he’d come closer – close enough to get lost in yours.

Your mouth voices out your wishes, encompassing them in an ever-so-soft,

“Please.”

And Jungkook can’t think straight.

He hasn’t been able to think straight since your laughter filled the closed space of his car, crawling inside his chest and settling in places he didn’t even know still carried themselves in screaming colour.

His mind had lost all composure the moment you looked into his eyes as if they carried the whole galaxy in them. Since that moment, his heart had taken on the lead.

He moves closer to you, sliding against the leather seats. He does this so swiftly you only notice when your eyes slowly flutter open, butterflies swarming your tummy as your wish grants itself before your eyes.

You give him a dopey smile, pulling yourself closer to him until you’re both a breath away from touching. You wish for that breath, too.

Your fingers dance from the now tight-knit space between you to his legs, slowly moving up his thigh, the tips of your index and middle finger beginning a stroll with no apparent direction. Jungkook can barely feel your touch against the thick fabric of his jeans but the thought alone sends shivers down his spine, shutting his eyes closed for a moment as he tries to gather all the sensations he’s feeling. As he tries to reason with his rational mind and his heart.

All his thoughts come back to you.

His hand hovers over your thigh for a second and, before he can attest to his actions, they close around it – feeling the smooth of your skin, promptly joined by a million goosebumps as your body gives into his touch. He squeezes slightly, unable to control himself. Unable to control the ardent need to have you impossibly closer, to imprint his touch on you until you can feel it for days.

Your hand flies to his cheek, cupping it gently as you let yourself stare into his eyes – hoping they can speak your desire with words that shy away from you the more real the moment becomes. He keens into your touch, face nuzzling into your hand, lips grazing at the soft skin of your palm. He closes his eyes as you run your nails gently down the smooth of his cheek, the sensation making him squeeze your thigh harder, making your whole body shudder as a whimper leaves your mouth. The faint sound has him opening his eyes and they begin a slow dance between your gaze and your lips, back and forth until the feeling at the pit of your stomach grows unbearable. You move an inch closer, pulling his face to yours with the hand that stills on his cheek.

“___,” his voice is but a whisper, “you’re- drunk. We shouldn’t.”

He exhales loudly and as much as you want to give him a detailed recount on how his touch activated all of your senses to the point of sobering you up, you don’t.

“Okay, just… stay here? Please?” you say.

He leans his head forward until your foreheads are touching, nodding slowly as he closes his eyes and lets himself go – falling into your touch and enjoying the way you feel as you melt into his.

Your hands snake all the way to his hair, tangling in his locks – realizing just how much you missed how receptive he is when you touch him there. Your nails scrape down his scalp, softly – an idle touch that does more to Jungkook than he can begin to grasp. His hand comes up to rest at the small of your waist, snaking his arm around it, pushing you closer. You feel restless – a need that doubles as greed at this point invading your senses, begging for him. You pull at his hair slightly and he hisses – so close to your mouth you can feel the vibrations of the sound graze your lips.

“Fuck, ___-,”

The sound of the front door frightens the both of you – jumping abruptly at the sound. It takes Jungkook three seconds too long to register what’s happening but when he does, he removes his hand from around your waist and, in a collected manner, goes back to his seat.

He thanks the driver as he passes him the food, and places it on the floor between the two of you.

You sit there, motionless – trying to absorb the previous moment before it completely drifts from your mind. Like a needle to a soapy bubble. Gone in a second.

You can’t figure out if your heart is restored or bent all over again.

You feel Jungkook shuffle closer to you until he’s flushed to your side. Before you can utter a word, his arm comes up, reaching across your body for the seatbelt before he pulls it down, safely strapping you into the seat. You think he’s about to pull away again but his forehead comes to rest against your temple, your breath hitches in your throat at the mere contact.

“I’m sorry,” he exhales into the soft of your cheek, nose nuzzling against it for a second before his warmth leaves your skin.

You can feel your heartbeat pounce against your every pulse point, erratically threatening to leave its safe space. But despite its restless temper the answer comes to you clearly.

It’s restored.

~

Your head pounds against your skull as your eyes begin to flutter open – the god-awful hangover you can already feel kicking at your nerves as you adapt to the light that shines through your window. You have a bad habit of not closing your blinds before going to bed and today, it’s a problem.

You lay there, staring at the ceiling as you try to steady the beat of your heart at the recollection of last night’s events. At the mere thought of it – of his face, so painfully close to yours, his eyes taking you in, his touch on your skin – the butterflies settle back into what seems to be their favourite place lately.

It’s hard to put a feeling so ethereal into words. You wonder how it’s possible for something so delicate to hold such complexity yet at the same time for it to feel like the easiest thing in the world.

Jungkook is, without a doubt, an enigma. All the blind spots in a puzzle that feels impossible to bind together yet when it fits, the way your bodies found each other’s yesterday, it falls into the big picture seamlessly.

You’re mad at your brain for not letting you fully enjoy the light, soaring feeling of your heart – the way you feel warm all over when you think of his face. The same face your gaze held impossibly close yesterday. Every single mole on his honey skin, the way your mind fell in a trance, an endless game of connect the dots as you held a particular focus for every single one. It’s the closest you’ve felt to adoration and as you pulled him closer, you decided you wanted to do just that to him.

Adore him.

You groan, hands coming to cover your face as you try to collect yourself, falling back into the sensical scheme of things. The reality – your reality.

You need coffee and fresh air – a much needed walk in the park with a, presumably, loved-up roommate and best friend. Who, most likely probably, has one hell of a story to tell.

You get up from your bed, making your way to the closet as you retrieve a pair of biker shorts and a beat-up vintage Rolling Stones shirt you found in a garage sale for a fiver. It is your comfort shirt and immediately, its superstitious effect soothes you.

You make a pit stop in the kitchen, brewing some coffee and fixing it just the way Lucy likes it – warm and sweet, a little drizzle of cinnamon at the top. You smile, remembering the way hers shone last night. You throw a handful of ice on your own cup before you grab them both and head to her bedroom.

“Good morning, lover.” You say.

She’s wide awake, resting on her side, cheek flushed to her hand as she smiles at her phone screen that she holds awfully close to her face.

“Hi,” her answer is brief but her tone of voice is laced with a sweetness you don’t miss.

“One to ten?”

“Ten,” she ponders for a minute, “thousand.”

You gasp, a shriek leaving your lips as her giggles join your excitement.

“What? Oh my- wait. What are you doing in your own bed? Is he- is he somewhere in here?” You begin scanning the room frantically.

She rolls her eyes playfully. “Where exactly would I hide a full Jimin in here, ___?”

You visibly melt at the softness her voice takes at the mention of his name.

“I need to know. Everything.” You place the coffees in her nightstand before you’re jumping inside her covers as she makes room for you – both your arms resting in her soft pillows, head cocked in the palm of your hands.

“Wait- you’re not mad?” She wonders, voice a tone nervous.

“Why would I be mad, Lu?”

“Because, you know… he’s Jungkook’s best friend.”

You shake your head softly, smiling at her before you reassure her, “No. I’m not mad. How could I ever be? You look so happy.”

“After the bar, we went to that diner – the one close to the library. We walked all the way there, too. He held my hand and…,” her eyes glisten and your heart flutters a bit. “It felt… right. We sat in a booth and talked. For hours on end. I could hear his voice forever.”

“Oh, Lu…” you lay flat on your back, staring at the ceiling. “Tell me more.”

“He kissed me.” She mimics your previous move. “I’ve never been kissed like that. I’ve never felt so… wanted. He broke down walls I didn’t even know I had, ___.”

Your hand reaches for hers, intertwining your fingers together.

“All this time I thought I had an idea of… love that was so unrealistic. I didn’t think it could happen, let alone to me. But he’s the closest thing to it. He’s so real.”

You think about your years of friendship with Lucy. The way you’ve witnessed as she’s changed, matured, grown out of beliefs and ideas that once kept her innocent – young. Yet the one thing she didn’t ever let go of is the idea that she was deserving of a love so strong, so striking from the very beginning.

If it’s not a hell yes then it’s a hell no, she would say, after countless disappointments that left her picking up shattered little pieces of heart as she gave them all so transparently, with a vulnerability you admired.

“He’s your hell yes.” You tell her.

She smiles, nodding her head. “I didn’t… tell him that, you know, I’ve never been with someone… like that. But I wanted to. I wanted him. Yet when the moment transitioned and it could’ve gone further than a kiss, he told me he didn’t want it to be like that. He said there was no rush. That we could take our time. That if I let him, he could literally lay me in a bed of roses.” She giggles, a bit shy at voicing out the memory.

You turn to her. “Lucy, I’m not going to have to resort to re-reading Norwegian Wood for a fix of romance. I have my very own starstruck one right next door!”

Your loud laughs fill the room and it settles down the air of uncertainty around you.

“He feels like every romance novel I’ve ever read. And more.”

~

A shiver runs down your spine, making you shudder. You don’t quite know if the cause is the abnormal chill that breezes through the summer morning or the nerves that brew at the pit of your stomach, traveling all the way up your throat, making you feel a bit sick.

You stand in front of Jungkook’s front door, waiting for the door to open – Mrs. Chae’s soft features offering you a smile, the smell of dark coffee, the glossy morning dew that adorns the green grass. Anything to make this routine you’ve adapted for the past two months feel familiar – normal. To give you the comfort of what becomes the ordinary once you settle into its steady rhythm.

The comfort, however, does not come.

When Mrs. Chae opens the door, her soft features are slightly fallen, as if she was immensely drawn into a restless train of thought. Soori is in her arms, abnormally quiet for her usual cheerful morning state.

You frown, taking her in your arms as her little body leans forward, grabby arms reaching for you.

“Hey, princess. What are you doing here, huh?” You coo, placing a soft peck on top of her forehead.

“Good morning, ___.” Mrs. Chae says, that warm smile back in its place.

“Good morning, Mrs. Chae. Did she have breakfast already?” You ask her, bouncing Soori in your hold a little, emitting a giggle from her. There she is.

“Not yet, no. Mr. Jungkook has asked me to tell you to meet him in his office.”

“Oh. Sure, let me just-”

“Now.” She senses your discomfort as you wince slightly at her words and she softens, “as in, as soon as you got here.”

“Okay. I’ll… just go then.” You say, placing Soori back in her arms before you turn around, heading the way that leads to the long hallway.

You glance back as you hear Soori’s faint whines behind you, fidgeting in Mrs. Chae’s hold as her tiny fists open and close in your direction.

You’re scared.

You don’t know exactly what to expect – a plethora of intrusive thoughts had been overwhelming you all weekend, trying to make out just how Jungkook would navigate about the whole situation.

Before he dropped you off, you had turned to him, waiting for him to say something – anything, to settle the nerves that were already starting to blossom as you became aware of just how far the line between wonder and temptation had been crossed this time.

The look in his eyes had been gentle, understanding even. Letting you know that he, too, was trying to make sense of it. It made you feel hopeful, to think that maybe, just maybe, he’d be willing to hold onto your moment for longer, to let you in as you both figured it out. Together. But your heart sank as his gaze dropped, voice back to that frivolous nature you’d reluctantly accustomed to.

‘See you Monday,’ is all he said.

Monday found you in front of the door to his office, hands shaky as you mustered the strength to finally knock on it.

You do – a couple of seconds of hesitation before you decide that it’s inevitable. Whatever happens, it’s all inevitable.

“Come in,” you hear his voice from the inside, a little muffled but already, the sound of it makes your shoulders drop, bracing yourself for the worst.

“Morning,” you say, closing the door before you lean against it, hands still behind you gripping onto the doorknob.

“Good morning.” His eyes remain glued to the stack of paperwork that sits in front of him for what feels like an eternity. He looks up at you, his head leaning to the side a bit – something you’ve noticed he does out of habit when he’s lost in thought.

“Are you going to fire me,” you run your words, an agitated ring to them.

He just stares at you but nothing in his dark irises give way to what exactly he’s about to say next and this makes you all the more nervous. He senses it, the way your chest heaves rapidly, shoulders tensed.

“No.” You look up at him, a mix of shock and relief taking on your expression. “Sit down, please.”

Your steps are somewhat lethargic, the initial nerve not having fully died down and now simply merging into another type of worry. Once you finally settle into your seat, your eyes lock with his.

“Jungkook,” you begin.

“We’ve crossed… a lot of boundaries. I want to apologize for that.”

His words feel like a stab, right at your heart. Sharp, cold, shooting pain through all your nerve endings. It hurts – thinking he sees what you did as something worth apologizing for. A mistake. It hurts and breaks and there’s nothing more than you want to do than ask him to take it back.

“There is nothing to apologize for, I- wanted it. I want-”

“I think we got carried away. We misinterpreted a lot of things. It’s not real, ___. It was all just a side effect of… curiosity.”

You.

He continues, looking away from your eyes. He fears that if he lets himself get lost in them for yet another minute he might break. He might finally lace all the words they hold together and he might just have to coincide with them.

He rather his own not tell you their truth, either.

You remain silent.

“I don’t want Soori to lose you, ___. We- can’t afford to lose you. You’re good for her and that is the most important thing to me. So… this can’t happen again. I hope I’ve made it clear.” He adds, eyes cold as they meet yours once again. You look away, fearing you might give into the impending tears.

“You won’t. Lose me, I mean." It takes you a minute but your eyes land back on his – hurt evident in them but something else Jungkook had yet to become familiar with. A void that unsettles him. “And yes. You’ve made it very clear.”

His eyes on you break you further – second by second. He just stares and it makes you angry. His carelessness makes you angry. His very little courage to try.

But your heart doesn’t let that feeling linger – it doesn’t let you put him in such light. You think of his own heartbreak, the same one that landed you in his door. You truly are a side effect, but not of curiosity, no. You are a side effect of the most painful thing to ever happen to him.

The realization settles upon you – shattering your heart, its fragility taking you aback as all the sense you make of the situation doubles as broken glass, breaking at your skin as you grasp at them.

It isn’t real. It never was. You have been the consequence of a loss of control. His heart walked away and you walked in. It never was real because he’d never see you as more than that.

“Can I go now,” you ask and he simply nods.

You don’t look back when you walk away and you might all of your courage in order to collect yourself.

For Soori.

And even if with half a heart, for him.

~

Her light is contagious and you’re grateful for it.

As the hours drag along you let yourself be softened by Soori’s laughter, her ever-green wonder, her loud baby babble that makes you wonder what exactly goes on in that head of hers.

She’s so loved. She’s so needed.

She’s the heart-mender and she doesn’t even know.

You rock her to sleep, chuckling a little as you look down at her, only to find her eyes wide open looking up at you – no hint of sleepiness in them.

“Hey, you. Go to sleep, missy. When you wake up, we’re going to eat and read and play.” She smiles at you, two tiny front teeth peeking. “We can have some of those dino nuggets your daddy’s afraid of because they’re non-gm-something.” She giggles at your words, nuzzling closer to your chest, lulling herself to sleep with the faint beat of your heart.

You bring her closer and when she falls, body growing heavier in your arms, you let yourself hold her for a little longer.

You can smell him on her.

Love is fragile but not futile, as opposed to feelings.

You break, letting yourself quietly cry as you sway her from side to side.

~

The pressure building in his knuckles as they land on the punching-bag is painful but Jungkook can’t risk gloved hands with a speedy Soori on the loose.

He looks down at her, sat in her play mat that is spread on the grass, a diverse selection of all of her favourite toys laid down in front of her. She doesn’t seem to be too interested, though. Tugging the fabric of her shirt up as she pokes her belly button in total awe.

Jungkook smiles at the sight, giggling softly to himself as to not break her out of her most recent discovery.

He’s proud of himself – of the way he’s managed to make their weekends worthwhile. It might sound ridiculous but he puts an exuberant amount of pressure on himself to keep his eleven-month-old entertained. He still hasn’t figured out if it’s hard or a belly-button-poking type of easy. So, he tries many things – some fancy some simple. She seems to enjoy the simpler things in life, though – her favourite being the water and this one pink rubber ducky that’s seen better days.

They’ve done it all this Saturday. Having woken up bright and early, made a mess out of the kitchen in a highly successful attempt at making French toast – another new favourite for Soori – and swimming in the pool, rubber ducky included.

He enjoys her company and he likes to believe she enjoys his.

Jungkook finds comfort in how hands-on he has to be with her new found mobility. She’s quick and sneaky and requires his full attention so she’d been doing an excellent job at keeping Jungkook distracted from the calamity of his own thoughts.

It’d been two weeks since your talk.

He’d done it all. Everything in his book to run away from his feelings. Even more – everything he could think of to ignore how restless he felt.

To the blind eye – nothing seemed to have changed. Morning kitchen meetings, doorway goodbyes, Soori falling into his arms in the same place he’d left her in and then you were gone until it was time to do it all over again the next day.

But, to Jungkook, nothing held your warmth – the light he’d grown used to. The one he didn’t quite realized he looked forward to every morning until it stopped keeping him warm.

You both did a stellar job at hiding it, though. Keeping on civil smiles and brief greetings – only letting yourselves linger on the eye contact for long enough so as to not dissipate the distance that you’d put within yourselves.

He throws a hard punch, not quite realizing the harshness of the action. It startles Soori, eyes coming to look at her dad in total confusion, chin quivering in the wake of a cry.

“No, no, baby. I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” he picks her up, bringing her close to him. “No more of that, okay? It’s done. It’s bye-bye.” He presses his lips to her temple as she calms down.

He feels stuck in a grey spot. Unknown. It makes him feel uneasy, just so fucking restless. His curiosity never died down and it’s then that it dawns upon him – he never let you in enough to know what the pain of losing you would actually be like. To know enough about you as to miss you – need you.

If the void in his chest is big enough to fit his longing now, he can’t imagine what it’d be like to know you enough to love you.

He reaches for his pocket, retrieving his phone. He unlocks it – pulse racing as he dials.

“Hey, Ggukie. Talk to me.” Taehyung’s voice rings against the speakers.

“I need your help.”

~

You’re being swarmed by little arms, tucking you in their embrace as they tickle you.

You pretend to squirm and attempt to release yourself from their hold, gasping in surprise as their loud giggles fill the room.

“Okay, okay. Free Miss ___.” You say but it is a lost cause as a troop of very determined kids try to seek revenge for the tickle attack they’d ensued from you a couple of minutes prior.

Dae is the first one to break free – his voice loud and excited as he says, “Uncle Jungoo!”

You freeze. Looking to your side to directly meet his eyes. He wears Soori in a baby carrier, a pretty yin and yang design adorning the front. He gives you a small smile. You don’t quite return it but you don’t divert your gaze from his. You smile at Soori, though, who’s jumping in his hold at the sight of you.

You walk closer to them, smiling at Taehyung as Dae jumps into his arms, showing him the drawing he’d painted during his free time.

“This is amazing, bud. You’re such an artiste. Mommy and daddy are going to have to start displaying your work in the gallery, huh?” He says, earning himself a big, crooked grin from Dae who nods enthusiastically. “Hey, ___.”

“Hey, he did so well today.” You say, smiling at Dae.

Soori shrieks, in need of your attention. You turn to her, smiling wide before you come to play with her little hands that stick from either side of the carrier.

“Hey, baby girl. What a nice surprise,” you coo, coming to plant soft kisses on her plump cheeks.

“Hey…” Jungkook says, voice low.

“Hey.”

“Can we- um… can I talk to you?”

“Sure.”

Taehyung grabs Soori from the carrier and helps Jungkook strap himself free, shooting you a warm smile before you’re both turning around, heading for a quieter space in the library, walking through the high shelves stacked with books.

“How are you,” he starts. He sounds nervous and it unsettles you.

“I’m fine. What’s wrong? Why are you here?”

“I’m sorry.” He says, your cold stare has his mind running around in circles. All the courage he’d mustered to come here fading away.

“For what exactly? I think you’ve apologized for your so-called mistakes already. No need to do that again.”

“I don’t think we got nearly close to making a mistake.”

You scoff. “Did we not? it seemed that’s all you saw it as back then, though.”

“Because it might be, ___.” He defends, voice growing exasperated.

“What do you know?” You whisper, tone harsh.

“I know enough. About mistakes and where they land you. How they feel like once you’re left cleaning up the mess they make.”

“Well, it’s good we didn’t fully commit to said mistake now, isn’t it?” Your words are venomous and they take you by surprise – but above all, they’re laced with pain. So much pain.

“Maybe it’s good. Maybe it’s bad.”

“I can’t with the back and forth anymore, Jungkook. What did you come here to tell me?”

“I can’t live with not knowing.” He starts, “I want to know. The mistake has been made. It was made the moment I let myself look at you, really see you. And it was made the moment I let you see me.”

You tried to suppress them but a fresh set of tears pool in your eyes – making your eyes shiny. It tugs at Jungkook’s heart and he wants nothing more than to hold you.

You surrender, letting yourself weaken before him. “Please – stop calling it a mistake. That’s so unfair, Jungkook.”

“You’re not understanding me, ___. Mistakes – fuck. They rule this world. It’s the one constant in this life. You’re bound to make them. What I’m saying is that… they can turn out to be the best- the best thing to ever happen to you.”

He thinks of Soori.

Of the day he met Ira.

He thinks of how big of a mistake he thought he was making when he hired you.

“Why are you so afraid of making them, then?”

He huffs, shaking his head. “That can’t be further from the truth.”

“So, it’s just me then. I’m the one mistake you’re not willing to make.”

“You’re the mistake that terrifies me the most. The very one that tests all of my rationality.”

You look at him. Holding his gaze, eyes not faltering once. His chest flutters – the way it hadn’t done in a while because you haven’t looked at him like this since that night in the backseat of his car.

It takes you a moment but you break your silence, a soft whisper – one last attempt.

“Then let go. Free the rationality from your actions and… treat me the way you would if you only listened to your heart.”

Your gaze falls to the floor, fearing having to look at him as your heart breaks all over again.

You don’t see him take a step towards you. You only feel his index finger, coming to rest under your chin before he tilts it upwards – slowly. Letting himself look for your gaze. When he finds it you’re met with starry eyes. The galaxies, his light.

You think he’s about to pull away when his hand travels to the back of your neck, pulling you closer in one swift, determined movement. Your mouth barely lets out the gasp that forms in your throat before he’s crashing his lips into yours. Arms snaking around your waist, flushing his chest to yours – two heartbeats finally blending together. Mending together.

You fall into him, knees weakened, a light feel to your bones as your arms entangle around his neck, leaning your head to the side as you melt into his lips, parting your mouth to welcome his tongue, falling into the dance of his kiss.

It’s your hands on the soft, warm skin in the back of his neck.

And the feel of his pink bottom lip tucked in between yours.

It’s his body leaning forwards as yours falls backwards, his big hands enclosing around your waist, holding you to him.

Every feeling intensifies and shoots straight to your heart – settling in your chest, your heartbeat thundering against it until you can feel it in your throat, merging with all the words that you’ve reserved just for him and this moment since the minute your soul subconsciously leaped onto his – sealing a pact unbeknownst to you at the time.

It’s your heart, on his lips.

That’s what the world tastes like.

~

YEP. i literally went “now kiss.” AND I AM SO HAPPY ABOUT IT! i feel like all the words i’ve put into this story have amounted to this moment right here and i cant wait to keep navigating their relationship. it's real guys. it's happening. i hope you are happy too! also, team JUCY y’all won. honestly from the beginning of chapter two i was like YOONGI. YOONGI’S HER BOY. but tbh i like to make y’all happy and ALSO jiminie got me with his dumb jokes on the last one too lol. two hopeless romantics. i want what they have. i really hope u enjoyed this one and that your hearts are well. i can’t explain how much i appreciate the love and i am sending it right back. do let me know what u thought – love talking to u guys. xxxxxx

~

★taglist★

@roro-in-utopia @yiyi4657 @littlrmills14-blog @namjooningelsewhere @drownforryou @iwanttohitmyself @finelinememories @yukiehyukie @shatzkrinslinzki @bts-fic-recs-mess @kokoandkookie @subtlepjiminie @girl-meetsevil @kookiesbreaky @di0rgguk @bloopkook @babyrosieareroses @kookiecrumb @casspirit0705 @eclectictacozinewobbler @tickledpink55 @rjsmochii @dimcorner @miniiimee @vintageroses10 @amyniu @tessxblxckthorn @emotionaltrashcansblog @fangirl125reader

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).

he’s a whole heartthrob

Caught 01

Pairings: roommate!jk x reader

Genre: fluff, awkward, slice of life, slow burn

Summary: you're continuously caught in awkward situations with your much too attractive roommate

Wc: 1K

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July 3rd

You like rain. When it’s trickling down the bus window, racing against gravity to reach the sill and collect in a delightful, reflective pool at the bottom of the glass. Or when it’s creating a numbing, gentle patter on your apartment’s roof in the middle of a snuggly night, lulling you into a gentle sleep.

You don’t like rain when the weather app said clear skies and now it’s soaking through your favorite white sundress and sandals as you trip down the sidewalk. Your purse does little to protect your hair, but you hold it hovering above you anyway, sprinting towards your building and frantically pushing in the code to open the ground floor door.

“Wait!” you shout, rushing toward the elevator just as the door inches to a close.

A large hand catches it from the inside and holds it open until you manage to slip inside.

The owner of said hand is a young man, 20’s, tall, dark hair, big eyes, thin lips, and macchiato skin. He scans your dripping wet appearance once before quickly averting his eyes.

“Thank you,” you say after catching your breath.

He simply nods and leans forward to press the button for floor 13 again. He seems to be in a bit of a rush. Just another reason you’re thankful he held the door for you, seeing as you’re about to be late yourself.

The man adjusts his grey hoodie, the umbrella hung on his wrist flopping against his ripped, dark wash jeans. You notice his eyes bouncing all over the elevator, obviously avoiding your general direction. While you don’t want to be presumptuous, it almost feels as if your presence makes him flustered.

Guys aren’t typically flustered around you. If anything, it’s the other way around. Your cheeks flush because there’s no denying this man is attractive.

Your chin drops shyly and that’s when you discover the real reason this guy also has cheeks the color of tomatoes.

Your soaked sundress has clung to your figure, every curve of your chest, waist, and hips on full, high definition display. The pretty, white, lace-detailed fabric has become almost completely transparent, the skin toned bralette and panties you strategically chose that morning proving to be an unhelpful decision.

With the grace of a giraffe on figure skates, you fumble to cover yourself with your purse, tangled, wet hair slapping your face and sticking to your heated cheeks.

He doesn’t say anything but he doesn’t have to.

With floor 13 steadily approaching, your brain finally registers that this guy is heading to the same floor as you. What a crazy, embarrassing coincidence.

You don’t recognize him though. Which is actually crazy because, while you’re not formally acquainted with all your neighbors, you know all their faces and the faces of people who come in and out on a regular basis.

But you don’t know his.

“A-Are you new? To the building, I mean,” you quickly add.

He glances to your side of the elevator at the sound of your voice, but his eyes are quick to find the rising number at the top of the door again.

“Potentially. I have an interview with a possible roommate today.”

“That’s so weird, I’m interviewing a possible roommate today too. She’s supposed to be here any minute but I’m obviously very unprepared.”

An awkward, shared chuckle somehow makes the air feel lighter. He still won’t look at you, but you’re also grateful for his gentlemanly character.

“I’m ___,” you introduce yourself kindly. If there’s a possibility this guy will be living in your building, on your floor no less, you’d like to be as neighborly as possible. One of your new year resolutions was to not be so shy meeting new people. So far, it’s working. Sort of.

He nods in your direction. “Jungkook.”

The elevator reaches floor 11.

“Nice to meet you, Jungkook. Umm, good luck on your interview.”

Floor 12.

“I-I’m in 1321 if you ever need anything. Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“Wait, did you say 1321?”

“Yeah, why?”

“That’s the room I’m interviewing with.”

Floor 13. The doors open with a soft ding.

Jungkook doesn’t hesitate to look directly at you now, brows raised and eyes expectant.

Both of you stand in silence, your mouth open and stale while your brain works overtime to come up with a response.

“But I’m interviewing a girl.” You didn’t mean for your statement to be harsh, but the expression on Jungkook’s face tells you he’s just as caught off guard.

He clears his throat and gestures for the two of you to exit the elevator before continuing. You do, but not until he goes first. The back of you is still very much exposed and Jungkook must remember this as he takes the lead.

“I understand if you’re uncomfortable rooming with a guy. There was obviously some misunderstanding somewhere, so please don’t feel like you have to, you know. I won’t be offended.”

Jungkook makes sure to watch your eyes the whole time he speaks and nothing else. Despite you being basically naked in front of this guy, you feel a shred of your dignity may have been salvaged.

“No, it’s okay,” you say. “I can, I mean, as long as we respect each other’s space–boundaries obviously–I don’t see why it should be a problem.”

If you’re completely honest, you’re a little bit desperate at this point. Prepared to accept just about anything, your interview turning out to be a guy is actually a lot better than you were hoping for.

You’re considering revealing a little more about your situation when Jungkook confesses first.

“I’m glad to hear that because truthfully things haven’t been the easiest. I promise to follow whatever boundaries and rules there are. Thank you for having an open mind despite the circumstances.” He drops into a polite bow, a small smile spilling into the corners of his lips. It’s not creepy or forced. It’s a relieved grin.

Once again, Jungkook takes the lead with you just two steps behind, your purse still blocking your chest and tummy. Two faint shades of red have yet to leave either of your cheeks, but Jungkook seems to be having an easier time composing himself. Your heart beats like crazy as you approach your apartment.

Fumbling with your key, you open the door and welcome your potential roommate inside.

He stands there, seemingly broader and taller now that he’s in your tiny entryway, waiting for your instructions.

“Umm,” you begin, kicking off your sandals and offering Jungkook a pair of slippers, “make yourself comfortable. I’m going to take a 5 minutes shower a-and then we'll…yeah?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook immediately agrees, feigning interest in your drab colored walls. “Take your time. You must be,” he catches your gaze, “cold.”

“Right.”

“Right.”

Your bare, wet feet splatter across the hardwood, tracking water droplets all the way down the hall and into the bathroom. With a deep sigh, you lean against the door and drop your purse to the floor.

Taking a second to process what you’ve just done, you hop in the shower and try to mentally prepare yourself for what you’re about to do.

twenty-four.

Pairing: Jeon Jeongguk / Reader.

Genre: Parents AU with too much fluff.

Count: 1,059 words.

The morning invades the bedroom through the window pane, basking all that lays within in a shade of gold that melts the furniture to be indecipherable from the floorboards, limbs becoming one with the crisp white bed sheets. Everything moulds into a sole conglomeration of yellow in the blur of your lethargic vision, still waking, opening to another new day, a twenty-four hours of the kind of repetition that you adore. Live for. You rub the heels of your palms into your eyes, ridding of the sleep that still remains tucked and cosy within the corners, the haze eventually clearing to find your own corneas staring back at you in a face of four.

The tiny bird wriggles, speaks. “Morning, Mama.”

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Dynasty

➜ Words: 17.4k

➜ Genres: 50% Angst, 35% Smut, 15% Fluff, Historical!AU

➜ Summary: It’s no secret that the Emperor is infertile. But even so, a girl is selected every three months and brought to become his concubine in hopes of conceiving the next heir. This time, it’s you. And in order to prevent execution, Jeon Jungkook might just aid you in conception.

➜ Notes: Inspired by the movie the Treacherous (2015)

➜ Warnings: Brief depictions of reluctant sexual intercourse, dubious consent, emphasis on impregnation, sloppy seconds, creampies, pregnancy. Reader discretion is advised.

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