Jungkook Exes To Lovers - Blog Posts

Vestiges | jjk (m)

He built a life without you — success, power, everything you once dreamed of. You spent six years pretending you didn't destroy him. One night is all it takes to tear the silence open again.

 jungkook x reader | exes to lovers 

warnings: second chance romance, heavy angst, explicit language and sexual content, emotional manipulation, slight depiction of addiction struggles, toxic relationships, trauma themes, mature emotional content.

wc: 15k

author’s note: I didn’t mean for this story to hurt as much as it does. But heartbreak feels a lot like mourning — and sometimes, writing is just another way to grieve what you lost. Feedback is always welcomed. 

It takes you longer than it should to get dressed, longer than it should to run a comb through your hair, longer than it should to fasten the thin, trembling clasp of the necklace around your throat — because everything inside you feels reluctant, slow, half-stuck in a memory you wish you could forget but know you never will, no matter how many years or cities or mistakes you stack between yourself and that boy who once promised you the world with his trembling hands and reckless heart.

The mirror doesn’t help; it only shows you a stranger, one with hollows under her eyes and a dress that doesn’t quite fit the way it used to, an almost-pretty woman wearing borrowed pearls and borrowed courage, trying to pretend that she hadn’t spent the last hour sitting on the edge of her bed staring at nothing, wondering if the version of you he remembers — if he remembers at all — would even recognize what’s left.

The room smells faintly of turpentine and old paint, the corner where your canvases lean still cluttered with yesterday’s half-finished dreams, and when you reach for your phone, the screen lights up with a message from Minho, simple and sweet and unbearably distant: Call me when you’re free. Love you.You don’t answer. You can’t. You wonder if that makes you cruel or simply too tired to pretend tonight.

Your fingers fumble with the cheap clasp at your wrist — a borrowed bracelet too — and in that one careless moment, memory slices through the present like a blade: Jungkook, twenty-one, grinning boyishly as he caught your hand outside the university library, threading a handmade beaded bracelet over your knuckles with such earnest pride that you had laughed, embarrassed, your cheeks warm, the world so soft around you it felt unreal.

"Now you have to marry me someday," he had teased, and you had rolled your eyes, but you hadn’t said no.

You blink hard, banishing him from the glass, watching the woman who stares back at you set her jaw a little harder, fix her earrings a little faster, breathe a little shallower — because you can’t afford to cry over ghosts, not tonight.

The group chat blinks awake: Sora: “Can’t wait to see everyone tonight 🖤 love you guys.”

The words should be comforting. Instead, they twist inside your chest like a dull knife, because you know her love is real, but you also know that weddings are for the blessed, and you — you are only here because Sora never chose sides when everyone else did.

You wonder if Taehyung will even look at you, wonder if the cold shoulder he gave you six years ago will stretch into tonight’s vows and toasts and forced smiles. You wonder if seeing him beside Sora will feel like a betrayal or just another quiet ache to add to the pile you stopped counting long ago.

But it’s not Taehyung who makes your palms sweat, your ribs tighten like a vise around your lungs. It’s him.

You haven’t seen him since the day everything broke, since the night your voice cracked on the phone and he didn’t pick up, since the day you stopped being someone’s future and became a cautionary tale instead.

Jungkook might have buried that reckless smile you once loved beneath all the sharp suits and colder women; or maybe success never touched the part of him that burned for you. Maybe hatred is all that’s left now, a slow, steady fire smoldering out of sight — or maybe you’re nothing more than a scar he learned to live around.

Either way, standing in front of him tonight will feel like pressing your hand against an old wound, desperate to prove it's healed when you already know it hasn't.

The taxi honks outside — a short, impatient sound that feels impossibly loud in the quiet dusk — and you stand because there’s nothing else to do, grabbing your small purse, slipping your trembling fingers into cheap heels, locking the door behind you with a finality that feels too heavy for such an ordinary sound.

The city beyond your window is a watercolor blur of neon and shadows. Each streetlight you pass feels like a countdown, leading you closer to the moment you'll have to face him again. Not the boy who promised you forever with handmade bracelets, but the man he's become – all sharp edges and success stories, probably with a model on his arm and victory in his smile.

The driver barely glances at you when you climb in, muttering the address with a voice that barely feels like your own, and as the car pulls into traffic, the low murmur of the radio fills the silence between your heartbeat and your fear, a love song from another decade humming like a ghost you can’t quite outrun.

Outside the window, the world blurs into a thousand small, careless lights — neon signs flickering above half-empty restaurants, the gold smudge of streetlamps bending against the slick black of the road — and you realize, distantly, that you don’t even remember when this city stopped feeling like home and started feeling like exile.

Your hands twist the strap of your purse tighter in your lap, knuckles aching from the pressure, and you wonder — not for the first time — if tonight will shatter you, or if you have already been living inside the ruins for so long that you won't even feel it when the final pieces fall.

The venue creeps into view before you’re ready, a soft, golden glow spilling out onto the cracked sidewalks like an invitation you should have never accepted, the kind of place built for promises and photographs and futures you don't belong to anymore.

The car stops with a jolt that rattles up your spine, and you pay the driver with fumbling fingers, stepping out into the cool night air that smells like jasmine and distant rain, clutching your purse to your chest like it might somehow shield you from what’s coming.

You hear the music first — faint, lilting strains of a string quartet filtering through the open doors — and then the laughter, bright and careless, the kind of laughter that used to be yours once, when the world was smaller, safer, sweeter.

Somewhere inside, Sora is probably floating down the aisle in a dress spun from dreams, her hands steady, her smile untouched by the kind of ghosts that still cling to your skin.

Taehyung must be standing there too, pride pressed into his spine, betrayal still thick in his chest like old smoke.

And Jungkook — though you can barely force yourself to think it — is breathing the same air as you for the first time in six years, close enough to touch and a thousand lifetimes away.

You press your hand harder against your ribs, feel the panic fluttering there like a trapped bird, and when you finally force your legs to move, to step toward the door, it feels like walking into the mouth of something hungry and merciless, something that has been waiting for you all this time.

"Please," you whisper to whatever god still listens to lost causes, "let me survive this night."

The lobby is bright and soft and aching with gold, and familiar faces blur past you — old friends you barely recognize, old friends who barely recognize you — and you keep your head down, keep moving, telling yourself it will be fine, it will be fine, it will be fine, until the lie thickens and clots somewhere at the back of your throat.

You are halfway to the main hall when you hear your name, soft and almost startled, and when you turn, Sora is there — radiant, trembling, beautiful in her wedding dress, her eyes shining with something between relief and apology.

She rushes toward you before you can move, gathering you into a hug that knocks the breath from your lungs, and for a moment you let yourself fall into it, let yourself believe in the warmth of her arms, the truth of her loyalty, the small, fragile spaces where you are still loved.

"You came," she breathes against your hair, pulling back to look at you with a smile that wobbles at the corners. "God, I was so scared you wouldn’t."

"I wouldn’t miss it," you manage, and your voice sounds almost real, almost steady.

Behind her, the world shifts — guests milling about, waiters balancing trays, the glittering haze of champagne — and then, through the blur of light and sound, you feel it, before you even see him.

A weight against your skin. A gravity pulling your gaze without mercy. You lift your eyes — and there he is.

Jungkook.

Standing across the room, half-turned toward you, a glass in his hand, a black suit cut sharp against the broad frame of his shoulders, his hair dark and slightly mussed like he'd run his hand through it one too many times.

He looks different now — older, harder around the edges, devastating in a way that feels less like beauty and more like a warning.

The noise around you dulls, falling away like heavy snow, until it’s just him and you and the space between your bodies that aches like a phantom limb.

His eyes — the ones you once memorized better than your own reflection — find you across the golden crowd, and for a breathless second, there’s nothing: no recognition, no anger, no tenderness, just a flicker of something vast and unreachable that knocks the air from your lungs.

Then, just as quickly, he looks away — leaving you suspended in the terrible silence where strangers live, where memories rot, where love once existed and now nothing remains.

The air inside the hall feels heavier now, thick with perfume and champagne and the kind of brittle laughter that stretches too wide over old wounds, and you realize as you stand there, clutching the small wrapped box to your chest, that your fingers have gone almost numb.

You try not to look for him again — you try, you swear you try — but your eyes betray you anyway, sliding across the glittering room until they find him near the bar, a dark figure half-turned away, laughing low at something someone says, and for a moment it stings more than it should, the way he looks — older, sharper, all clean lines and heavy shadows, the easy beauty of boyhood burned away into something colder, something harder, something you could cut yourself on if you dared get too close.

He doesn’t belong to you anymore — maybe he never really did — and yet some foolish, broken part of you aches anyway, aches in the marrow of your bones where even time cannot reach, where memory still reigns.

It hadn’t always been like this — hadn’t he once leaned against a chipped kitchen counter in the dead of night, grinning, offering you the last slice of cheap pizza like it was a crown, like you were something holy worth starving for? Hadn’t he once promised you — reckless, breathless — that he would fight every single battle for you, even the ones you didn’t see coming?

You had believed him. God, you had believed him so much it made you foolish.

Your throat tightens as you move forward, your heels silent on the polished floors, the soft music wrapping around you like a noose, and somewhere in the back of your mind the memories start to bleed — his parents’ disapproval, sharp and sterile in their polished dining room; the thin-lipped smiles, the cruel little glances they thought you wouldn’t notice; the way Jungkook had slammed down their checkbook one night and said he’d make it without them, because loving you mattered more than money, more than power, more than blood.

He meant every word — you never doubted that — but standing here six years later, wrapped in a borrowed dress and trembling under the weight of everything you lost, it’s hard not to wonder if they were right all along. You were the disaster they warned him about, the mistake they tried to tear from his hands, and maybe — if you’d loved him less selfishly — you would have let him go before you ruined everything he could have been.

You press the thought down, hard, like smothering a fire with bare hands, and you fix your eyes on the only safe thing left — Sora, radiant and teary-eyed in her wedding dress, laughing softly at something Taehyung mutters in her ear.

It should be enough to anchor you. It isn’t.

You force your feet to move, weaving carefully through the crowd, dodging the familiar faces, the flashes of recognition, the stares that linger a little too long.

You see him again — just for a second — Jungkook leaning casually against the far wall, speaking to someone in a low voice, his profile sharp under the warm golden lights. It hits you harder than it should, the way he holds himself now — heavier somehow, not in body but in gravity, in presence — the easy recklessness of boyhood hardened into something colder, something that doesn’t bow for anyone.

Sora had mentioned it once, in a hurried, breathless phone call you almost didn’t answer: how Jungkook had started a tech company straight out of university, how he had built it from nothing, refusing every offer of help from his family even when it would have made things easier, how now he stood at the helm of one of the fastest-rising startups in the country — a CEO at twenty-seven, sharp and brilliant and terrifyingly untouchable.

You never asked for the details — you didn’t need them. It was already clear enough: he had survived without you, built a life where you were nothing but a forgotten name.

The shame settles heavier against your ribs as you clutch the small wrapped gift tighter, pressing forward toward Sora and Taehyung where they stand near the main table, a little island of perfection in a sea of strangers. 

You reach them just as they turn toward you, and for a brief, foolish moment you let yourself hope — just for tonight, just for Sora — that you can pretend the past is not clawing up the back of your throat.

Sora’s face brightens when she sees you, her hands fluttering excitedly to her mouth as if she might cry, and you feel the first crack in your armor when she pulls you into a hug so fierce it knocks the air from your lungs.

"You made it," she whispers, voice thick with emotion, and you smile — a broken thing, but a smile nonetheless — as you hand her the small gift wrapped in trembling paper.

"For you," you manage, your voice smaller than you remember it being.

Sora presses the box to her chest like it's precious, like you are precious, and for a moment the noise of the party dulls into something almost kind.

But then Taehyung steps forward, his expression carved from something colder than marble, and the weight of him — of everything you once trusted — hits you square in the ribs.

You brace for it instinctively, the way a body remembers impact even after the bruises have faded. He smiles — wide, charming, empty — and leans in slightly, his voice low and sweet enough to rot your teeth.

"I’m surprised," he says, his words like silk over a blade. "That you had the nerve to come, knowing he'd be here."

The sentence slices you cleanly down the middle, and for a moment all you can do is blink at him, your hands limp at your sides, your breath sticking somewhere between your heart and your throat.

Sora’s eyes widen in horror, but she says nothing, and Taehyung only straightens his jacket with an easy grace, as if he hadn't just peeled the skin from your chest in front of half the wedding party.

You don’t even flinch — not really. Maybe you expected it, or maybe, somewhere deep down, you’ve always believed he earned the right to hate you.

Taehyung hadn’t just been Jungkook’s best friend. He had carried Jungkook’s heartbreak like it was his own, had stitched the bleeding pieces of him back together when you weren’t there to do it. Of course he would still bear the wound like a badge of honor, would still sharpen it against your skin whenever you dared step back into their world.

You swallow down the rising sting of tears, swallow down the shame that floods your gut like dirty water, and somehow — somehow — you manage to stay standing.

You wonder if he’s right — if you should have stayed away, if you’ve become nothing more than the ghost they all wish they could finally forget.

The air outside is cooler than you expected, crisp against your overheated skin, and for a moment you just stand there on the terrace, clutching the banister with both hands like it might anchor you to something solid, something real. Inside, the wedding hums on — champagne glasses clinking, laughter blooming like overripe fruit — but out here, under the weak glow of fairy lights strung across the courtyard, it feels like another world entirely.

You press your fingers against your temples, willing your heart to slow, willing your body to forget how it trembles from the inside out.

Footsteps sound behind you — soft, lazy, unhurried — and you already know, without looking, who they belong to.

The air always shifts differently when he’s near.

Still, when you finally turn, the breath catches sharp in your throat, as if your body wasn't prepared for the sight of him after all.

Jungkook stands a few paces away, his black suit rumpled just enough to look careless rather than messy, the knot of his tie loosened at his throat. One hand is shoved deep into his pocket, the other holding a half-empty glass that tilts dangerously in his loose grip, and for a moment you can't decide if he looks more like a fallen prince or a soldier long after the war has ended.

He lifts the glass slightly, a mock-toast, his mouth curling into something that might have once been a smile if it hadn’t turned bitter somewhere along the way.

"Well," he says, voice low and rough like gravel. "If it isn’t the ghost herself."

You flinch before you can stop yourself, the words scraping raw against old wounds, but you force your spine straight, force your lips into something that might pass for calm.

"Hi, Jungkook," you manage, the name strange and sacred on your tongue after so many years of silence.

For a beat, he just looks at you — and it cuts deeper than anything he could have said.

Because for a second — just a second — you see it flicker there, the ghost of another boy entirely, the one who used to trace your skin like it was a prayer, who used to kiss you like it hurt him to stop. Gentleness pools in his dark eyes, unguarded and aching, and it guts you with how badly you want to reach for it.

But just as quickly as it came, he shutters it away, his mouth hardening into a line you barely recognize.

"So," he says, voice lighter now, mocking almost. "How’s life?"

You swallow, wishing the earth would swallow you first.

"It’s..." you fumble, your mind blanking under the weight of his gaze. "It’s good. Busy. Art shows, part-time jobs... the usual."

He nods once, a jerk of his chin, his glass tipping slightly in his grip. You notice the way his fingers tremble faintly around the glass stem, how his pupils are blown too wide for the soft light — little things that tighten the pit of your stomach before you can reason why.

"And you?" you ask, your voice steadier than you feel. "You’re... doing well?"

He huffs out a laugh — not cruel, not kind either — and sets the glass down on the stone ledge beside him, missing it slightly before correcting the movement with a small curse under his breath.

"You know everything already," he mutters, and there's something brittle under the words, something breaking. "CEO. Big company. Fancy suits. Bullshit meetings."

You flinch again — not at the words, but at the hollowness behind them.

And because some masochistic part of you can’t help it, you whisper, "Are you... okay?"

For a moment, he goes very still. Then his mouth twists, slow and sharp, and he laughs — a low, broken sound that makes the fairy lights above you seem suddenly, unbearably cruel.

"Am I okay?" he repeats, tasting the words like they’re poison. "God, you really don’t get it, do you?"

You open your mouth, close it again.

"You should have done me a mercy back then," he says, voice dropping lower, softer, deadlier. "You should have just confessed. You should have just told me you didn’t love me anymore."

"I—" You don’t even know what you’re trying to say. The guilt surges so thick it almost drowns you.

He chuckles again — the sound rougher, edged with something manic, and when he speaks next his voice is shaking slightly, like the words cost him more than he can afford to give.

"I thought," he says, looking past you into the night, "that I thought if I became enough — if I built something so big it touched the sky — you’d love me again or regret betraying me."

The weight of it hits you harder than any accusation.

"Jungkook," you whisper, stepping toward him without even realizing it, "please... don't."

But he moves faster. His hand closes around your arm — not painfully, but firm, desperate — and the touch burns through the thin fabric of your sleeve like wildfire.

"Don’t what?" he demands, voice rough. "Don’t say it? Don’t feel it?"

You stare up at him, heart beating so hard you think it might break through your ribs, and for a moment neither of you breathes.

Something in him falters; the fight drains from his body, and his grip loosens. You tear yourself free, stumbling backward as if the air itself turned against you. Without thinking, without looking back, you turn and flee — pushing the door open, slipping back into the too-bright, too-loud reception, the noise crashing over you in waves.

You don’t stop until you find the bathroom, collapsing against the cool tile, gasping for air that won’t come.

And when your shaking fingers brush against the marble counter — smooth and cold and smelling faintly of expensive soap — a memory surges up so violently it knocks the breath from your lungs:

Six years ago.

The walls of Jungkook’s tiny off-campus apartment seemed to shrink around you, the air too thick with the leftover taste of the night you couldn’t forget, no matter how tightly you crossed your arms or how fiercely you jutted out your chin to hide the hurt leaking through your bones.

You were pacing, barefoot on the worn carpet, your dress wrinkled from hours of sitting stiffly at a dinner table where every glance, every polite smile, every icy comment had felt like a slap delivered with a silver fork.

"You didn’t hear the way your mother said it," you muttered, arms wrapping tighter around yourself, your voice wobbling even as you tried to sound defiant, bratty, anything but the small, shaking thing you felt like inside. "The way she asked if I needed help... pronouncing the wine list."

Jungkook sighed heavily behind you, the sound rough, frustrated, loving all at once, and when you dared glance back at him, he was scrubbing a hand through his messy hair, his white dress shirt rumpled, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, the very picture of someone who wanted to punch something but was too busy loving you to bother.

"I told them to back off," he said, stepping closer, voice low, tight. "I told them you’re it for me. What else do you want me to do, baby?"

The word burned into you — baby — the way it always did, softening your anger just enough to make room for the real thing: the sadness.

"It’s not just about you standing up for me," you said, your voice small now, your throat raw from holding too much back for too long. "It’s your family, Jungkook. They’re supposed to... I don’t know... accept me. If they don’t — if they think I’m just some poor girl you’ll grow out of — maybe I don’t belong there at all."

Your hands twisted together in front of you, trying to tie yourself into a knot too small for pain to find, and you hated how broken you sounded, how much you still cared even after everything.

For a heartbeat, Jungkook just stared at you — something fierce and wounded flashing through his eyes — and then he crossed the room in three strides, his hands gripping your arms, pulling you against his chest with a force that knocked the air from your lungs.

"If they can’t love you," he said, his voice a growl against your hair, "then they’re not my family anymore."

You froze — heart thudding painfully — but he only hugged you tighter, burying his face in the curve of your neck, like he could physically shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.

"I already have a family," he whispered, voice cracking slightly. "It’s you. It’s always been you."

And something inside you — some fragile, terrified thing — cracked wide open and poured itself into his arms, because even though the world outside these walls was sharp and cruel, even though you could feel the future trying to tear you apart already, in that moment, he was enough. He was everything.

You barely had time to catch your breath before his lips brushed your neck — a featherlight touch that sent shivers chasing down your spine — and then he was kissing lower, onto your shoulder, the strap of your dress slipping down your arm under the insistence of his mouth.

Your body betrayed you instantly, leaning back into him, your pulse pounding wild and helpless beneath your skin.

"You’re mine," he murmured, each word punctuated with a kiss that burned hotter, lower, softer."No one else matters.I love you so much it scares me sometimes."

His hands slid down your sides — warm, steady, reverent — and when you arched instinctively into him, you felt it: the hard, urgent line of his arousal pressing into the small of your back, undeniable, desperate.

"I love you too," you breathed, tilting your head to the side to give him more skin, more access, more of everything he wanted.

He groaned softly at your words, the sound vibrating against your neck, and his hands moved faster now, not rough, but hungrier, slipping under the hem of your dress, mapping the familiar landscape of your body like a man tracing the borders of a country he already owns but never tires of conquering.

"You’re so beautiful," he whispered, voice thick, broken, worshipful. "You’re everything."

And standing there — half undressed, half unraveled, completely loved — you believed him.

You believed that love could be enough.

Jungkook’s hands are everywhere — frantic, reverent — as he lifts you easily into his arms, carrying you to the bed like you weigh nothing, like you’re something sacred he’s afraid he’ll break if he isn’t careful, and when he lays you down, the mattress dipping under your back, his gaze devours you with a hunger so raw it leaves you trembling before he’s even touched you properly.

He leans over you, bracing himself on one arm, the other already tugging at the hem of your dress with impatient fingers, and you raise your arms without thinking, letting him peel it off you inch by inch, baring you to the soft glow of the city lights filtering through the window.His shirt follows quickly — buttons popping loose under his fumbling hands, sleeves yanked off — and then he’s kneeling above you, bare-chested, flushed, beautiful, the muscles of his arms flexing as he tosses his shirt aside and drops back over you, capturing your mouth in a kiss that steals every thought you ever had.

You moan against his lips as he grinds down into you, the hard line of his cock pressing hot and heavy through the thin barrier of your underwear, his jeans rough against your bare thighs.The friction is maddening — too much and not enough — and you arch against him instinctively, your hands clutching at his back, dragging your nails down the ridges of muscle as he rolls his hips again, harder this time, swallowing the broken gasp you let out into his mouth.

"Fuck," he growls against your lips, grinding into you again, the air between you electric, desperate, filthy. "You’re gonna make me come like this if you keep moving like that, princess."

You giggle breathlessly, dizzy with the heat coiling low in your belly, and nip at his bottom lip, making him groan again, deeper, rougher, before he pulls back just enough to trail his mouth down your jaw, your throat, the hollow between your collarbones.

He takes his time there, kissing, licking, sucking soft bruises into your skin, before moving lower, capturing one nipple between his lips and sucking hard enough to make you cry out, your back arching off the bed as his hand kneads the other breast greedily.

"You’re so fucking perfect," he murmurs against your skin, his voice wrecked with devotion and hunger, and you whimper, threading your fingers into his hair, tugging when he sucks harder, the sensation shooting straight between your legs.

"Tell me who you belong to," he says, lifting his head to look at you, his eyes dark, pupils blown wide with lust and something deeper, something almost frantic.

"You," you pant, grinding up into him shamelessly, needing more, needing everything. "Always you."

"Good girl," he rasps, the praise making you clench around nothing, making you whine.

And then he’s kissing down your stomach, dragging your panties down with his teeth, leaving them forgotten at the foot of the bed, and when he settles between your thighs, his hands spreading you open for him, you think you might die from how much you want him.

"So fucking pretty," he murmurs, almost to himself, before he licks a slow, devastating stripe up your center, making your hips jerk, your hands fly to his hair, anchoring yourself to him as he groans against you, like he’s the one losing control.

He works you with his mouth until you’re writhing, gasping, begging — filthy, broken sounds spilling from your lips as he sucks your clit between his lips, fingers slipping inside you, curling just right, making your vision white out at the edges.

"Jungkook— fuck — please," you sob, grinding helplessly against his mouth, chasing the high building so fast it terrifies you.

"What do you need, baby?" he murmurs, teasing you with his breath, his fingers still thrusting slow and deep inside you. "Tell me. Wanna hear you beg for it."

"You," you gasp, shameless, lost. "Need you inside me. Need you now."

He groans again, desperate, wrecked, and kisses your inner thigh before pulling away, climbing back over you, his jeans shoved down just far enough to free his cock, flushed and leaking at the tip.

"You drive me fucking insane," he mutters against your mouth, grinding into your soaked core, making you both moan.

You wrap your legs around his waist, heels digging into his back, trying to pull him closer, deeper, needing to feel him, needing to be filled.

"Beg for it," he demands again, teasing your entrance with the thick head of his cock, just barely pushing inside before pulling back, making you whimper.

"Please, Jungkook," you cry, breathless, broken, desperate. "Need you — need you to fuck me — please —"

That’s all it takes.

With a growl torn from his chest, he pushes into you in one slow, devastating stroke, stretching you, filling you, making you gasp, making him curse under his breath.

"Fuck, baby," he grits out, bracing himself on one elbow while the other hand lifts your leg higher, changing the angle, pushing deeper, hitting places inside you that make you sob. "So tight, so good — always so good for me."

You clutch at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin, and he starts to move, thrusting slow at first, deep and deliberate, like he’s trying to carve himself into you, like he wants to live there.

"You feel so fucking good," he groans, voice shaking. "Like you were made for me."

"Yours," you gasp, clenching around him, loving the way his eyes darken, loving the way he loses control when you say it. "Always yours."

He thrusts harder, deeper, the bed creaking beneath you, the sound of skin against skin obscene, beautiful, necessary.

But then — he flips you, rolling you easily until you’re straddling him, his cock still buried deep inside you, his hands gripping your hips, guiding you as you start to move.

"Fuck, yes," he groans, head falling back against the pillows, eyes locked on you like you’re something holy. "Ride me, baby. Let me see you."

You move — slowly at first, grinding down, rolling your hips — and his hands slide up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, making you whimper, making you move faster.

"You’re so beautiful," he says, voice wrecked, worshipful. "So fucking beautiful like this — my princess — my fucking queen."

You preen under the praise, loving the way he looks at you, loving the way his mouth falls open in a silent moan every time you clench around him just right, loving the way he can’t even think straight when you’re on top of him.

You ride him harder, faster, rolling your hips the way you know drives him crazy, loving the way his breath stutters in his chest every time you slam down onto him, loving the way his hands clutch your hips like he’s holding onto something sacred he doesn’t want to lose.

"Look at you," Jungkook groans, voice so low and rough it makes you clench around him without meaning to, "riding my cock like you were fucking made for it."

You whimper, heat flashing through your veins at his words, and grind down harder, faster, setting a brutal pace that makes the bed creak beneath you, the headboard thudding faintly against the wall with every desperate movement.

"You like this?" you gasp out, nails dragging down his chest, watching the way his abs tighten under your touch, watching the way his eyes darken impossibly. "You like me using you like this, Kook?"

"Fuck, baby," he curses, his hands sliding up to cup your breasts again, squeezing them greedily as he thrusts up into you, matching your rhythm. "I fucking love it — love watching you fuck yourself on my cock — love how messy you get for me — how wet you are, fuck, you're dripping all over me —"

You moan at his words, at the filth of them, at the way he says it like he worships you, and the pleasure inside you coils tighter, tighter, unbearable.

"You drive me insane," he pants, bucking up harder, dragging guttural sounds from deep inside your chest."You ride me so good, baby — fuck — gonna make me come just from watching you —"

"You’re so big," you whimper, losing yourself completely, grinding down harder, faster, chasing your own high with no shame now, loving the way he watches you like you’re something holy and obscene all at once. "Feel you so deep — filling me up — love it, Jungkook — love you —"

"Say it again," he begs, his voice wrecked, desperate, lost to you. "Say you love me."

"I love you," you gasp, nearly sobbing with it, pressing your palms flat against his heaving chest to steady yourself. "Love you, love your cock, love everything about you —"

"Fuck, that's it," he groans, hips pistoning up into you, chasing your pleasure with frantic, punishing thrusts. "Take it — take everything, baby — it’s all yours —"

You feel the orgasm building, spiraling out of control, and with a shaking hand you grab his wrist, dragging his fingers to your clit, needing more, needing him.

"Touch me," you gasp, voice breaking. "Please, Jungkook, need you — need you to make me come —"

He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t tease — just rubs tight, messy circles against your swollen clit with the rough pads of his fingers, fucking into you harder, faster, his mouth open on a gasp as he watches you fall apart above him.

"Come for me," he groans, wrecked, begging. "Show me how good I make you feel — want you to fall apart on my cock — fuck, baby, please —"

And you do — you shatter with a cry, back arching, nails raking down his chest as you come hard, clenching around him, waves of pleasure crashing through you so violently your vision goes white at the edges.

Before the last waves of your orgasm even finish crashing through you, Jungkook’s hands are gripping your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your back, knocking the breath from your lungs with the sheer force of him, the sheer need — and then he’s pushing into you again, deep and hard and desperate, a raw groan tearing from his throat as he buries himself to the hilt inside your trembling body.

He doesn’t give you time to recover, doesn’t give you a second to breathe — just fucks into you in long, dragging strokes, slow enough to make you feel every thick inch of him, deep enough to make you cry out again, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist, holding him there, locking him to you like you’ll never let him go.

"You’re mine," he gasps against your mouth, his forehead pressed to yours, his breath hot and ragged and tasting like desperation and devotion."Always fucking mine. No one else gets you — no one else ever fucking will —"

"Yours," you sob, clinging to his back, your nails raking down the slick muscles there, leaving red trails he’ll feel tomorrow, proof that you were here, that you belonged to him in every filthy, holy way.

"You feel so good," he pants, thrusting harder now, the rhythm messy and beautiful, skin slapping against skin, the room filled with the obscene, perfect sound of your bodies coming together. "So fucking good around me — fuck, baby, you were made for this — made to take me — made to be mine —"

You whimper, lost to him, to the brutal tenderness of it, the way he looks at you like you’re breaking him apart and putting him back together at the same time.

"Want you to come inside," you gasp, dragging your nails up his arms, feeling him shudder under your touch. "Want to feel you — want you to fill me up, Jungkook — please —"

He groans like the sound is being ripped from somewhere deep inside him, thrusting deeper, faster, his hips snapping against yours in wild, desperate movements that have you seeing stars.

"Gonna fill you up," he grits out, voice wrecked, forehead slipping to your shoulder, his mouth hot and desperate against your skin."Gonna fucking come so deep you’ll feel me for days — fuck, baby, can’t hold it — can’t —"

You tighten your legs around him, dragging him impossibly closer, and he loses it — with a hoarse, broken cry of your name, he thrusts deep one final time and spills inside you, his whole body shuddering violently against yours, cock pulsing as he fills you up just like he promised.

He doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t move at all.

He collapses on top of you, his full weight pressing you into the mattress, his cock still buried deep inside your soaking, fluttering walls, his body trembling from the force of it, from the emotion choking both of you.

His breath comes in ragged, desperate bursts against your throat, each exhale brushing hot and trembling over your sweat-slicked skin, and you can feel the way he’s still fighting for control even though it’s already shattered, the way his whole body trembles against you, the way his heart hammers so violently inside his chest you can feel it pounding against your own.

When he finally lifts his head — slow, heavy, reluctant — his hair falls into his eyes, messy and damp from sweat, and you barely recognize the expression on his face, so raw and wrecked and open that it feels like a sin to look at him and a greater sin to look away.

His eyes are glassy, undone, burning with a kind of desperate devotion that punches the air straight out of your lungs, and you realize too late that he’s not just holding your body — he’s holding everything he has left.

You barely manage to blink back the sting of tears before he’s reaching for you again, finding your hands where they lay limp and boneless against the mattress, threading his fingers through yours with a fierce, almost frantic tenderness, squeezing tightly, like if he lets go even for a second, you’ll slip through his fingers like smoke.

He keeps your hands pinned above your head, locked against the pillow, and when he leans down to kiss you, it’s not the desperate, sloppy thing you expect — it’s slow, reverent, aching, his mouth moving against yours like a promise he’s too afraid to say aloud.

The kiss deepens slowly, messily, lazy and languid, tongues tangling, teeth scraping, lips dragging — a thousand whispered apologies and confessions bleeding between the spaces where your mouths meet and part and meet again.

Every tiny shift of his hips still buried inside you makes you whimper into the kiss — makes him groan low in his throat, the sound vibrating through his whole body — because even now, even after he’s given you everything, he’s still not satisfied, still not ready to be apart from you, still thrusting shallowly inside you, tiny desperate movements like he’s trying to fuse you together permanently.

His nose brushes yours, clumsy and sweet, and he lets out a choked, breathless laugh against your mouth, pure emotion bleeding out of him in every ragged exhale.

"Can't... can't let you go," he mumbles against your lips, voice shaking with the weight of it, with how much he means it."You're mine, baby. Always mine. Always, always —"

You squeeze his fingers tighter, pressing your forehead against his, your heart splitting wide open inside your chest, because you can feel it too — the way you still belong to each other, stitched together by something reckless and terrifying and beautiful that no amount of distance or time or heartbreak could ever fully tear apart.

And as he rocks into you again, slow and tender, just to stay connected, just to keep you in his arms a little longer, you kiss him back with everything you have, everything you are, everything you’ll never be able to say.

You don’t know when it happens — maybe in the soft press of his forehead against yours, maybe in the trembling way his hands refuse to let go of yours, maybe in the way your bodies are still joined so completely it feels like one breath between you — but something inside you shifts, something warm and bright and terrifyingly fragile blooming deep in your chest, and for a moment you think you might actually break from how much you love him.

You think about how unfair life has been in so many ways — how you weren’t born into a family with silver-lined houses and gilded bloodlines, how you’ve spent so much of your life feeling like you were always standing on the outside looking in — but none of it seems to matter anymore, not when fate, or luck, or some reckless, merciful god saw fit to gift you with the only treasure that ever really mattered.

Jungkook.

You think, with a fierceness that leaves you trembling, that maybe you weren’t born into riches, but you were still the luckiest person in the world, because somehow, against every odd, you were loved by someone like him — someone who fought the whole world just to keep holding your hand.

You think about the past three years — about finding your way to each other through crowded lecture halls and late-night coffee runs and countless small moments stitched together into something so much bigger than either of you could have imagined — and you realize you’ve never been as happy as you are right now, wrapped up in him, in his messy devotion, in the future you were stupid enough to believe was already written in your favor.

You had friends — good ones.Taehyung with his bright, mischievous smile; Sora with her endless, unconditional love; Sungwon and so many others who filled your days with laughter and reckless plans — but when it came down to it, when the world blurred at the edges, it was always only him.

You needed only Jungkook, and he needed only you.

Even when you fought — and God, you fought — you always knew it was temporary, just a storm passing between two people too stubborn and too desperate to ever really let go.It was never about the two of you. It was always about the others — about the judgment of his parents, about the sharp words whispered behind closed doors — and even then, Jungkook had made it clear where he stood.

He cut them off without hesitation — the gold, the promises, the blood-ties that once weighed him down like anchors.

He built a life with you instead, stubborn and scrappy and achingly beautiful, guided by nothing but your trembling hands and his reckless heart — and somehow, against everything, it had been enough.

You believed in it with a desperation that left no room for doubt: that love like this could survive the world outside your window, that he would catch you when you fell, fight for you when you bled, hold on even when everything else told him to let go.

You were the luckiest girl in the world — and lying there beneath him, your fingers locked together like a prayer you hadn't realized you'd been whispering for years, you truly believed that nothing could ever tear you apart.

Because back then, you still believed forever could be real. Back then, you still believed love like this was enough to save you both.

You believed that nights like this could hold back the tide of everything waiting to destroy you. And that Jungkook — your Jungkook — would be the one thing in this world that never broke.

The next morning, sunlight bleeds soft and golden through the thin curtains, spilling across tangled sheets and discarded clothes and the two of you, still wrapped together, still skin to skin, still smelling of sweat and sex and something sweeter, something that feels suspiciously like forever.

You wake first — blinking slowly, drowsily, your body aching in the most delicious ways — and for a long, perfect moment, you just lay there, staring at him, at the boy who somehow managed to crawl inside your chest and build a home there without you ever realizing it was happening.

Jungkook is sprawled on his back, one arm flung carelessly over his head, his other hand still loosely tangled in the sheet that barely covers either of you, and your heart squeezes painfully at the sight of him — messy hair, flushed cheeks, kiss-bruised lips parted in sleep, a faint crease between his brows like he’s still dreaming about you even now.

You can’t help yourself.

Your fingers move without permission, tracing the hard lines of his chest, the muscles shifting slightly under your touch, warm and firm and familiar, and you take your time — outlining the ridges of his abs, the curve of his waist, the faint dusting of hair that disappears below the sheet — memorizing him, hoarding him, because some part of you already knows you’ll never love anyone like this again.

He stirs under your touch, a low, sleepy groan rumbling deep in his chest, and before you can even think about pulling away, his hand is shooting out, grabbing your wrist and dragging you down for a kiss — lazy, messy, desperate in the way only mornings can make kisses desperate.

You giggle against his mouth, breaking the kiss just enough to tease, "Morning, sleepyhead."

"Morning, trouble," he mumbles, voice still thick with sleep, eyes barely open but his mouth already chasing yours again, already greedy for more.

You shift slightly — intending only to reposition yourself — but when you move, you can feel it: the hard, heavy press of his morning erection against your thigh, hot and insistent and utterly unignorable.

You smirk against his lips, pulling back just enough to glance down, and then back up at him with a teasing sparkle in your eyes.

"Someone’s awake," you whisper, sliding your hand slowly, wickedly, down his chest, your nails grazing lightly over his abs, watching with smug satisfaction as his whole body tenses under your touch.

"You’re evil," Jungkook groans, head tipping back against the pillow, the muscles in his neck flexing beautifully as he tries and fails to control himself."Pure fucking evil."

You laugh, delighted, and throw one leg over his hips, straddling him easily, feeling the thick, twitching heat of him pressing against your bare core through the thin layer of the sheet.

"Am I?" you ask, feigning innocence as you grind down ever so slightly, making him curse under his breath, making his hands fly to your hips like he can’t help it. "I thought you liked me like this."

"Like you?" he rasps, his voice cracking deliciously. "Baby, I fucking worship you."

The words burn through you, leaving you flushed and reckless, and you lean down, bracing your hands on his chest, trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses across his skin — above his heart, across the slope of his pecs, down the tight ridges of his stomach — while he fists the sheets, his muscles trembling under your tongue.

"You’re killing me," he groans, head thrashing slightly against the pillow as you kiss lower, lower, lower still.

"Good," you whisper against his hipbone, laughing softly when he growls in frustration.

And then — slow, deliberate, teasing — you trace your lips along the length of him, the heavy weight of his cock throbbing against your mouth, so big and thick and perfect you almost moan at the taste of him, the sheer heat of him.

"Fuck," Jungkook hisses, his hands flying to your hair, not to force you down but to anchor himself, to keep from losing his mind completely.

You lick him lazily, dragging your tongue from base to tip, savoring the way he twitches against your mouth, savoring the broken sounds falling from his lips, savoring the way his thighs tremble under your palms.

"You’re so big, baby," you murmur against him, your voice sweet and filthy all at once. "So hard for me. You want me that bad?"

"Always," he gasps, his hands tightening in your hair. "Fuck, baby, you’re so good — driving me fucking insane —"

You giggle breathlessly and press teasing kisses all over his length along the thick vein pulsing along the underside, nipping playfully at the swollen head, loving the way his hips jerk up off the bed like he can’t help it, like he needs you too much to stay still.

"Please," he groans, utterly wrecked now, his voice shaking, desperate. "Please, baby, please suck me — need your mouth so bad — fuck, need to feel you —"

You finally take pity on him — finally wrap your lips around the flushed, leaking tip — and the sound he makes is nothing short of obscene, a strangled moan that punches straight into your core.

You suck slowly at first, teasing, swirling your tongue around the sensitive head, hollowing your cheeks to create a suction that has him cursing, babbling, begging.

"God, you’re so fucking good," he pants, hips thrusting shallowly up into your mouth."Look at you — look so pretty with my cock in your mouth — fuck, baby, you’re made for this — made to suck me off —"

You moan around him, the vibrations making him curse even louder, and then you take him deeper, swallowing inch by inch until he hits the back of your throat, until he’s gasping your name like a prayer, until his hands are trembling in your hair.

You bob your head faster, working him with your mouth and your hand, feeling him grow even harder, even heavier against your tongue, until you know he’s close — until you feel his thighs tensing, his breath catching, his hands fisting desperately in your hair.

"Baby — fuck — gonna come —" he warns, his voice raw, frantic.

You suck harder, faster, moaning around him, and with a broken, hoarse cry, Jungkook falls apart, spilling hot and salty down your throat, his body jerking helplessly, his mouth falling open in a silent, beautiful scream.

You swallow everything, licking him clean, savoring the taste of him, savoring the way he collapses back against the bed like he’s been hollowed out, like you’ve stolen every thought he ever had except for you.

And when you finally lift your head, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand, he’s staring at you like he’s never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life.

Like you hung the fucking stars just for him.

You crawl back up his body slowly, languidly, savoring every inch of warm, trembling skin under your palms, and when you finally reach him, when you finally meet his mouth again, he kisses you like he’s starving, like he’ll never get enough, like he’s still drunk on everything you just gave him and desperate for more.

It’s a messy, perfect kiss — mouths open, teeth clashing, tongues tangling, gasps and laughter bleeding into each other until neither of you knows where you end and he begins — and when you finally break apart, panting against each other’s lips, Jungkook rests his forehead against yours, his eyes still closed like he’s trying to savor the weight of you pressed so completely against him.

For a moment, neither of you speaks — just breathing each other in, suspended there, floating somewhere that isn’t entirely the world and isn’t entirely a dream either — and when he does finally find his voice, it’s rough, low, laced with something too big for either of you to name.

"I know," he murmurs, brushing his nose against yours, "that we live in a bubble."

You blink, lazy and drowsy and sated, but he just smiles — that soft, crooked smile he only ever gives you when it’s late and the world feels far away.

"I know," he says again, threading his fingers into your hair, cradling the back of your head like something precious. "That out there—" He jerks his chin vaguely toward the window, toward the city waking up beyond the glass. "—the world is still waiting for us. Still expecting things from us. Still trying to pull us apart."

You frown at that, nuzzling into his hand like a kitten, pouting without meaning to, your voice soft and bratty and unbearably adorable when you mumble, "I don't want the world."

He chuckles, the sound low and full of something aching and infinite, and pulls you tighter against him, like he can shield you from everything with the sheer force of his body alone.

"You," he whispers, pressing a kiss to your forehead, your nose, your mouth, each one softer than the last, "are my whole world."

And when he kisses you again — slow, deep, endless — you realize it’s true.

In this little bubble made of tangled sheets and whispered promises and reckless hope, there is no city, no parents, no expectations, no fear.

present time

The fluorescent lights above the bathroom mirror buzz faintly, a cruel, ugly sound in the soft, gilded hush of the wedding venue, and for a long, dizzying moment, you just stand there — your palms flat against the cold marble counter, your chest heaving like you’ve run a marathon you didn’t realize you’d started until it was too late.

Your reflection stares back at you, wild-eyed and red-rimmed, mascara smudged in soft gray shadows beneath lashes that flutter helplessly against the tears you can’t seem to stop.

You try. God, you try. You dab at your eyes with trembling fingers, blotting the damage, smoothing your hair, painting a brittle, empty smile onto your mouth — the kind of smile that fools no one and saves nothing, but maybe buys you just enough time to get the hell out of here before the weight of the past buries you alive.

Your heart still races from the memory, from the aftershocks of his hands on your skin, his mouth on your mouth, his voice breathing love into the hollow places you hadn’t even realized existed until he filled them.

You stand there, willing yourself to move, whispering that the past can’t touch you anymore, that you’ve outgrown this kind of pain — that you have to be stronger than you feel.

But grief — true grief — has no sense of time, no mercy for logic or willpower; it doesn't politely fade into the background like an old scar — it waits, it sleeps under your skin, and then one careless thought, one familiar smell, one remembered kiss, and it awakens ravenous, dragging you back under as easily as if you had never crawled out at all.

You draw a shuddering breath, taste salt and bitterness on your tongue, and turn away from the mirror before you can shatter completely.

The wedding hall is a kaleidoscope of color and noise as you step back into it — laughter and music and champagne glasses clinking together like tiny, mocking bells — and for a moment the world tilts under your feet, the sheer vibrancy of it so at odds with the funeral you feel unfolding in your own chest.

Someone calls your name — a polite, curious lilt — and you manage a weak smile, nodding vaguely at a group of guests you barely recognize.

"Leaving so soon?" a woman asks, genuine surprise softening her features.

You mutter something about a headache, about early work tomorrow, about anything that isn’t I’m drowning and if I stay here another second I will die where I stand.

You make it halfway across the floor before you feel it — that unmistakable pull, that gravity that never stopped tying you to him even after everything tore apart.

You look up, helpless against the instinct, and there he is — Jungkook, across the room, frozen mid-conversation, his dark eyes locked onto yours like he can feel you slipping through his fingers all over again.

For just a moment, it’s there — the worry, the confusion, the stunned, aching tenderness he still hasn’t managed to bury.

But beneath it, something harsher stirs — raw and unrecognizable, dark enough to steal the breath from your lungs.

It flickers at the edge of him — in the slight tremble of his hand as he sets his drink down too fast, in the faint glassiness in his gaze that has nothing to do with champagne and everything to do with exhaustion, with habits he can’t seem to outrun.

He looks... thinner, somehow. Sharper around the edges. Like the success sewn into the cut of his expensive suit is holding together a body that's burning itself out from the inside.

It twists inside you, sharp and familiar, because you recognize that look — the hollow stretch of someone slipping out of their own skin, the weight of a world too heavy to carry sober, the slow erosion of time when surviving becomes the only thing left. Even after everything — after the betrayal, after the years — your heart still aches for him without permission, as natural and inevitable as breathing.

The years sharpened him: the expensive suit, the calculated ease — but none of it masks the way he carries his grief like a splinter buried too deep to remove. And somehow, with a clarity that feels like a blade to your ribs, you understand: no matter how high he climbed, no matter how much he built, some part of him never moved forward either.

Something inside him still folded back to you. He takes a step forward, almost involuntary, like he doesn't realize he's doing it — but it’s enough. It’s too much. You break the gaze like it burns, shove your way through the crowd, nearly tripping in your haste to reach the door.

The evening air slaps your face, cool and sharp, as you stumble outside, waving frantically for the first taxi that slows down, ignoring the concerned calls of a few lingering guests.

You hear the heavy thud of footsteps behind you — faster now, urgent — and you don't have to turn around to know it's him.

You keep your eyes down, refusing to look and to hope. You dive into the taxi, slam the door, choke out your address to the driver with a voice you barely recognize as your own.

The car pulls away, and you catch a final, fleeting glimpse of him through the window — Jungkook standing alone on the curb, hands clenching uselessly at his sides, his face carved into an expression that looks far too much like grief to belong to someone who supposedly moved on.

A vicious thought flickers through you — wondering if he feels the same hollow ache, if the hatred ever faded, or if somewhere deep down he never stopped loving you.

The city blurs past — streetlights smearing into liquid gold, shop windows flashing by like tiny, glittering ghosts — and you press your forehead against the cool glass, your breath fogging a small circle into the world you can no longer reach.

The thing about loss is that everyone tells you it gets easier. That time smooths out the jagged edges, that grief dulls like an old knife, that someday you’ll wake up and it won’t hurt to remember. But the truth — the ugly, merciless truth — is that time doesn’t move forward at all.

It folds, bends you back into the shape of your own broken heart, trapping you inside memories you thought you had outlived, making you relive every kiss, every fight, every promise you failed to keep as if it’s happening right now, as if it will always be happening, as if you will never truly escape the moment you realized forever wasn't a promise after all — it was just another kind of lie.

The taxi carries you deeper into the night, but part of you never moves at all — still trapped six years ago, clinging to the boy who held you through every storm, still bleeding in the ruins of everything you couldn’t save — and maybe, you realize, some pieces of you always will be.

***

The apartment smells like burnt coffee and wet paint when you stumble through the door, still half-frozen from the chill outside, your thin jacket doing little to protect you from the colder, heavier things clinging to your skin.

Minho is slouched on the battered couch, a sketchpad balanced on his knees, his pencil tapping absently against the paper in a restless rhythm, and he looks up at you with surprise when he hears the door click shut.

"Back so soon?" he asks, blinking like he’s not sure if you’re real or just a ghost wandering in from the street.

You shrug, forcing a small smile that feels brittle and wrong on your face. "It was boring without you," you lie, peeling off your shoes, your jacket, your skin, your heart.

He smiles — small, touched — and you hate yourself a little for the way you can’t feel anything when you look at him.

Because it isn’t the wedding you fled from.

It wasn’t the guests or the champagne or the polite conversations that drove you out like a storm looking for somewhere to crash.

Jungkook, standing across the room like a living wound you couldn't stop bleeding from, his eyes carving you open in places you thought had long since scarred over.

How predictably stupid it was to think that six years of silence — six years of precision avoidance, of carefully stepping around mutual friends and blocked numbers and old memories — could survive a single collision without splintering into a thousand sharp-edged regrets.

You told yourself — foolishly, naively — that you could be normal tonight, that you could smile and toast and laugh at old jokes without shattering, that you could pretend you hadn’t once built a whole life inside his arms only to lose it all in a breath.

You laugh under your breath — a dry, humorless thing — as you drift toward the bathroom, mumbling something about needing a shower before he can ask any more questions.

The hot water scalds your skin, but it does nothing to burn him out of you. You press your forehead to the cool tile, water pouring down your back like tears you refuse to shed where anyone might hear, and you find yourself whispering silent, stupid prayers to a world that stopped listening to you a long time ago.

You beg the water, the walls, the hollow silence — anything — to take it away, to stop the endless aching, to grant you even a moment’s relief. But grief doesn’t listen.

It isn’t a wound that scabs over, or a fever that breaks; it is a parasite, patient and merciless, sinking its teeth into your ribs, your spine, your lungs, gnawing through every part of you until you forget there was ever a time you were whole.

When you finally step out, you feel no cleaner than before, just wetter, colder, heavier.

You towel your hair half-heartedly, throw on a worn sweater and sweatpants, and emerge from the bathroom with the blank, practiced face of someone who knows how to act normal when the world expects it.

Minho doesn’t seem to notice the cracks you’re bleeding from. He tosses his pencil onto the coffee table and sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair.

"Club canceled the gig again," he mutters, frustration curling under his words like smoke. "Said they’re cutting back on live performances."

You offer him a tired, sympathetic noise — something noncommittal — as you collapse into the chair across from him, feeling the exhaustion settle deep into your bones like a second skeleton.

"I should probably find another part-time job," you say absently, staring at the water stain on the ceiling, feeling the weight of the future pressing down like a hand around your throat.

Minho hums, toeing off his sneakers with a grunt. "Maybe we’re just idiots," he says after a moment, not cruel, just tired. "Thinking we could survive as artists in a world like this."

A faint, broken smile tugs at your mouth — because isn’t that the cruelest joke of all? Not the falling apart, but the fact that, for one bright, reckless moment, you believed you could win.

"Maybe," you whisper, voice almost lost to the hum of the cheap refrigerator rattling in the kitchen.

He tilts his head, studying you with a quiet frown. "Since when did you stop believing?"

You only sit there, silent, because there’s nothing left inside you that knows how to answer. Because the truth is — you stopped believing the night Jungkook walked away.

Not because Minho isn’t good enough, not because you don’t love your art anymore — but because something inside you shattered that night, something vital, something sacred.

But because when Jungkook accused you, when he looked at you like you were something dirty, something cheap, something less — it broke more than your heart.

It shattered more than your heart — it stripped you of the faith you once had in yourself, the belief that you were someone capable of being loyal. 

And no matter how many paintings you hung on cold gallery walls, no matter how many late shifts you survived or coffees you poured or exhibitions you faked your way through, you never really found her again — the girl who believed she deserved to be loved without shame.

You glance at Minho, who has already gone back to sketching, his pencil moving in soft, furious strokes across the page, and you feel a pang of guilt so sharp it almost doubles you over.

He is good, and he is kind — steady in ways that should have made you feel safe, in ways that deserve something better than the hollowed-out version of you still clawing through the wreckage.

Minho deserves someone whole. Not this —  a girl still haunted by a boy she couldn't bury, still stitched together with threads too thin to hold under real weight.

You press your palms against your thighs, biting the inside of your cheek to keep the tears at bay, and the thought slips in, unwelcome but familiar — that maybe grief is not something you outlive, but something you learn to carry, heavier with every passing year.

If some loves do not die cleanly, if they rot instead — festering quietly inside you, hollowing out everything they once touched — then maybe that decay is the only thing you have left to claim as yours.

___________________________________________________________________________

Time doesn’t heal wounds so much as it teaches you how to live around them — teaches you how to carry them in the quiet spaces between conversations, how to fold them neatly into your chest where no one else can see, how to laugh and nod and keep moving even when the old pain still howls beneath your skin.

You learn that grief becomes a kind of muscle memory — a reflex, a twitch just beneath the surface — and eventually you stop noticing the way you flinch when the world presses too hard against the places you are still bleeding.

You learn to live with it, folding the weight into your bones until it feels almost natural. You master the art of pretending — smiling, nodding, breathing like you're whole — and you almost convince yourself it's enough, until something sharp and familiar tears the stitches open all over again.

It’s been a week since the wedding.

A week of avoiding every thought that bears his face, every memory that tastes like blood in the back of your throat. A week of moving through your days on autopilot, smiling when expected, speaking when required, dying quietly in the spaces between.

When Sora’s message pings onto your phone, you almost don’t answer.

Sora:"Hey love, can you meet me at Primrose Café today? Need help planning honeymoon stuff! 🤍"

You hesitate — thumb hovering over the screen — but guilt sinks its teeth into your ribs and drags you under.

You owe her — more than silence, more than your fear, more than the cowardice clawing up your throat. So you tell yourself it’s fine, that he won’t be there, that it’s just coffee, simple, harmless, easy — but the lie tastes bitter even before you swallow it.

The café bells chime softly as you push the door open, the warm smell of roasted beans and vanilla flooding your senses — and for a brief, stupid moment, you allow yourself to relax, to believe that maybe today will be easy.

And then you see him. Jungkook is already seated at a corner table, his hands folded stiffly around a coffee cup he isn’t drinking from, his eyes dark and unreadable under the soft light.

The world tilts. Your stomach drops through the floor.

You freeze, every muscle locking tight, every instinct screaming at you to turn around, to run — but then you see Sora, waving you over with that bright, frantic smile she only uses when she knows she’s asking for forgiveness before the crime has even been committed.

You move because standing still feels worse — because running has never really saved you, only delayed the inevitable.

You slide into the seat across from him, feeling like a lamb being led to slaughter, feeling the air thicken around you, feeling the familiar prickle of his gaze skating over your skin like a brand you can’t scrub off.

Sora clears her throat awkwardly, twisting a napkin between her fingers.

"I know this is... a lot," she says, voice too loud, too brittle. "But I just— I love you both. And with me and Tae... with everything changing... I just want us to be able to be around each other without... without it being like this."

You don’t look at him, keeping your eyes on Sora, on the way her hands shake slightly while she bites her lip like she’s scared you’ll hate her for this.

You could never. She’s the only reason you still have anyone at all.

"I’m not asking you to be friends," she rushes on, voice cracking slightly. "Just— just civil. For me. For family events. Holidays. Birthdays. I don’t want to have to choose between the two people who mattered most to me for so long."

The weight of it all presses down harder.

You nod because it’s the only thing you can do without breaking apart in public.

Sora’s face softens, relief flooding her features, and she reaches across the table to squeeze your hand briefly before rising to her feet.

"I’m gonna give you two a moment," she says, and before you can protest — before you can even breathe — she’s gone, leaving you alone in the heavy, aching silence of too many unsaid things.

You feel his gaze on you — steady, sharp, unbearable — and for a long moment, you can’t bring yourself to look up.

But eventually, inevitably, you do.

And the moment your eyes meet his, the past hits you like a tidal wave — dragging you back to the night everything shattered, the night you learned that some betrayals don't bleed out cleanly but rot inside you for years.

The night everything you believed in burned to ash in his hands — the same night you lost him, and somewhere along the way, yourself too.

Six years ago

The night air was thick and heavy, the kind of suffocating stillness that clings to your skin, and you had been sitting alone in your small apartment, half-listening to the hum of the old refrigerator, your sketchpad abandoned at your feet, your thoughts drifting somewhere soft and slow, like maybe — finally — you could start piecing yourself back together after the stupid little fight you had with him a week ago.

You weren’t expecting anything.

Which is why the furious, violent banging at your door made you jump so hard you nearly toppled off the couch, your heart slamming against your ribs as a thousand terrible possibilities flashed through your mind — none of them preparing you for the sight waiting on the other side.

Jungkook.

But not the Jungkook you knew — not the boy who used to kiss you until the world melted away, not the boy who used to call you his princess like it was a sacred word.

This Jungkook looked like something broken loose from a storm — wild eyes, chest heaving, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with his hands, with his rage, with his grief.

"Who is he?" he choked out the moment you opened the door, his voice raw, splintered at the edges."Tell me who the fuck he is, Y/N."

You blinked at him, confused, terrified, stepping back instinctively as he stormed past you into the apartment, his presence filling the small space with something frantic and electric and wrong.

"Jungkook, what are you talking about?" you asked, your voice shaking, your hands reaching out to him without thinking — but he jerked away like your touch burned him.

"Don't fucking lie to me!" he shouted, his voice cracking, his whole body trembling with the effort of holding himself together."I saw it! I fucking saw it — you and him — you telling him you loved him like I meant nothing!"

The words didn't make sense.

They slammed against your brain but refused to stick, refused to arrange themselves into anything real, anything you could understand.

"I— I don't—" you stammered, tears already welling up because the look on his face — God, the look — was worse than anger, worse than hatred.

It was betrayal, heartbreak — and somehow, impossibly, you had been the one to put it there, even if you didn’t understand how.

"You're protecting him," he spat, eyes glinting wet under the cheap ceiling light. "You love him that much, huh? You love him so much you'd throw everything away?"

"No!" you cried, stepping closer, desperate, frantic. "Jungkook, I swear to you — I don’t even know what you’re talking about!"

But whether he didn't listen or simply couldn't anymore, it made no difference — the part of him that once trusted you was already too broken to reach and had already shattered beyond repair.

He shook his head, laughing hollowly, wiping his mouth like he was trying to scrub the taste of you from his skin, and then he was gone — slamming the door so hard behind him that the walls shook, that your bones rattled inside you.

You stood there for a long time after, staring at the door, at the emptiness he left behind, feeling something inside you collapse so completely it left nothing but ashes in its wake.

You called, you texted, you sat up all night watching your phone flicker to life and die again, over and over, until even the light felt like a knife against your eyes — and still, he never answered.

And somewhere in the pit of your stomach, you understood that this wasn’t a fight you could fix with an apology or a kiss or a whispered promise under the covers.

This was something bigger and fatal. Days passed — long, gray, aching.

When he finally agreed to meet, it wasn’t at your apartment. It was somewhere neutral, somewhere cold — a small, empty parking lot behind a coffee shop you used to visit when you were too broke for anything but each other's company.

You spotted him leaning against his car, arms folded tight across his chest, jaw clenched so hard you could see the tension vibrating through him even from yards away. You approached cautiously, heart hammering against your ribs, clutching your jacket tighter around yourself like it could shield you from whatever was about to happen.

He didn’t speak at first — just unlocked his phone with shaking fingers and shoved it toward you, and you saw the images, the videos, spilling across the screen like a slow, relentless gutting.

You — in a too-short dress you didn’t remember wearing — laughing too loudly, leaning too close to a stranger, kissing someone whose face you couldn't place, slurring out words you didn't recognize as your own — "I don't care about anything. I love you. I love you."

You stared at the screen, horror blooming in your chest so fast and so hard you thought you might be sick.

"I—" you stammered, throat closing, hands trembling so badly you almost dropped the phone."I don't— I didn't—"

But you couldn't say it with certainty. You remembered going out that night after your fight, remembered the sharp, desperate need to forget how much it hurt when he raised his voice, when he walked away. You remembered drinking too much, laughing too hard.

But after that, your memory dissolves — slipping into darkness, into empty spaces where something should have been, leaving you grasping at shadows that will never take shape.

"Say something," Jungkook rasped, his voice barely more than a breath now."Fucking say something, Y/N."

You lifted your eyes to him, saw the devastation there, saw the way he was barely holding himself upright — and you realized, with bone-deep certainty, that you had destroyed him.

You had destroyed everything beautiful you had built together — every late-night secret, every whispered promise, every desperate, trembling hope — crushed under the weight of one stupid, reckless night you could barely even remember.

"It’s not real," you whispered, the words tasting like ash on your tongue."It can’t be real."

But doubt had already sunk its teeth into you, gnawing at every fragile truth you thought you knew, until even the ground beneath your feet felt like it was crumbling away.

"I need you," you whispered again, broken, desperate, hating yourself for even daring to ask when you were the reason he was bleeding out in front of you."I need you, Jungkook. Please. Now more than never."

For a heartbeat, something soft and familiar cracked through his face — something that looked almost like the boy who once loved you without fear — but it withered too fast, collapsing into bitterness, into fury, into a sadness so sharp it barely looked human.

"You needed someone to pay your bills," he snarled, stepping back like he couldn't stand the sight of you. "You needed someone to lift you out of your shit life, and I was dumb enough to think you actually loved me."

The words sliced clean through you, sharper than any knife.

"I never—" you tried to say, but your voice cracked, the tears spilling over now, unstoppable, humiliating.

He laughed — a hollow, broken sound — and wiped his mouth again like he could still taste your betrayal.

"You played me," he said. "You played me, and I fucking let you."

And then he was gone again — turning away, walking off into the night — leaving you standing there under the flickering streetlights, broken, abandoned, a ghost of the girl you used to be.

Present time

The silence between you stretches so taut it feels like it might snap and slice both of you open, and when you finally blink, the café shifts back into focus — cold coffee on the table, the faint scratch of chairs against wood, the distant hum of conversations you can't quite catch.

Jungkook is still sitting there, watching you with an expression that isn’t hatred, not exactly, but something worse — something exhausted, something hollowed-out, something like a man still bleeding from wounds that never truly closed.

You straighten in your seat, fingers tangling awkwardly in the hem of your sweater, your mouth dry, your heart thudding against your ribs like a battered bird desperate to escape.

He’s the one who breaks the silence first.

"You still painting?" he asks, voice low and rough, like it scrapes his throat just to speak to you.

You nod, barely, afraid if you use your voice it might crack apart.

"And still working those shitty jobs?" he adds, the corner of his mouth curling into something bitter, something that was never his real smile.

"Yeah," you whisper, and it sounds so small you almost hate yourself for it.

He doesn’t respond at first — just looks at you, and for a moment you think he might say something else, something sharp or cruel — but his gaze drops to his hands instead, to the way they tremble slightly as he grips the paper cup, knuckles whitening.

Your throat tightens.

You notice it then — the way the shadows cling too tightly under his eyes, the way his skin looks drawn and dry, the way his body seems almost too light in the chair like he's been losing something important slowly and no one cared enough to notice.

Without thinking, without weighing the danger, you lean in slightly, voice breaking through the shield you’ve built around yourself.

"Are you okay?"

The words are soft, tentative — a whisper stretched thin with guilt and fear — and for a second, just a second, something flickers behind his eyes, something startled and hurt and unbearably familiar.

But it’s gone as quickly as it came.

Jungkook huffs a short, bitter laugh, shaking his head as he leans back in his chair, eyes narrowing not with malice but with a tired kind of disbelief.

"You don’t get to ask me that anymore," he says, and the way he says it — low and tired and irrevocably sad — stings worse than any shout could have.

You drop your gaze, staring at the table between you, counting the little scratches and coffee stains like maybe if you focus hard enough they’ll tell you what to say, how to breathe, how to survive this.

For a moment, there’s nothing but the sound of both of you breathing, struggling under the weight of everything that’s never been said. And then — so low you almost don’t catch it — he murmurs:

"It’s funny, isn’t it?"

You look up, and there’s something broken and almost wistful in the curve of his mouth, something too raw to be a smile.

"So many years," he says, voice rough, thick with the kind of grief that doesn’t dull, "and it still fucking hurts."

You swallow hard, your throat burning, your hands curling into fists in your lap just to keep from reaching for him.

"Me too," you whisper, the truth of it carving fresh wounds into your lungs.

He turns his gaze on you then, sharp and cutting, and the tenderness in his features vanishes like smoke.

"Then why don’t you just confess it already?" he snaps, and for once it doesn’t sound cruel — just desperate, like he’s begging you to make sense of the senseless wreckage you both live inside.

Your chest caves inward.

"I didn’t cheat," you say, the words trembling between your lips, and you hate the way your voice shakes, hate the way the tears well up without permission, blurring the world around you.

His jaw tightens, his whole body going rigid.

"Don’t," he says, voice low and strict, the command so familiar it punches straight through your ribs. "Don't you dare cry. You don’t get to cry. You did this to me."

And maybe you would have obeyed and swallowed the tears like broken glass and let them shred you from the inside. But the truth rises before you can stop it, ugly and shaking and alive.

"I was pregnant."

The words tear themselves from your mouth, leaving you gasping, weightless in their aftermath, as the world around you collapses into a silence so complete it hums inside your skull — your heartbeat thundering in your ears, your eyes locking helplessly onto Jungkook as he goes rigid across from you, his body stiffening, his face freezing, until he looks less like a man and more like something carved from stone.

You stay frozen too, trapped in the wreckage of the moment, breathless, unmoored — suspended in that terrible space where time folds in on itself, where every grief you thought you had buried, every memory you thought you had survived, comes roaring back to life with a vengeance.

Across the table, Jungkook stares — not with anger, not even with disbelief, but with the hollow, shell-shocked emptiness of someone standing at the edge of their own undoing, with no ground left to stand on.

.

part 2

your feedback means the world to me. 🖤

---

✦ Encore | jjk (m) ✦

pairing: idol! jungkook x editor! reader

genre: smut, ex lovers, second chance au, angst with smut, toxic ex au

summary: You loved him before the lights, before the headlines, before he learned how to disappear.Now he’s back — older, hotter, famous — and this time, you’re the one calling the shots. But Jeon Jungkook doesn’t do endings. Only encores.

w.c: 10k

author's note: writing and creating stories takes a lot of time, and no matter how much i love doing this and jungkook, i would love your support and feedback 🖤

You’ve always known how to keep secrets. It’s a requirement—the requirement—of survival in an industry that trades on whispers, scandals, and carefully curated lies. Fashion is ruthless, a pretty monster wearing designer heels, and no one understands that better than you.

Two years of blood, sweat, and designer tears later, you've earned your throne at Vogue Korea. A glass-walled office overlooking Seoul's constellation of lights, your name etched in gold next to campaigns that make lesser editors weep with envy. You didn't just climb the ladder; you conquered it in six-inch heels.

They call you the Ice Queen of Editorial. Untouchable. Unshakeable. The woman who can stare down Korea's biggest idols without so much as a flutter of mascara-coated lashes. Your boundaries aren't just lines in the sand—they're walls of steel and glass, keeping your personal life locked away where it belongs.

You’ve been handed the crown jewel of assignments: the exclusive BTS cover story.

The kind of story that turns editors into legends. Or ruins them completely.

“You must be feeling the pressure,” Hyerin teases, nudging your elbow as you both stand by the studio coffee station. “If I had to face seven of the most beautiful men on Earth, I’d probably collapse.”

You smile lightly, perfectly controlled. “Luckily, fainting isn’t part of my job description.”

Hyerin laughs, tossing her silky hair back. “You’re seriously not nervous? Not even a little?”

Before you can respond, another voice cuts in—cool and sharp as glass.

“Y/N’s never nervous,” Kara says smoothly, sidling up with a carefully constructed smile. Her eyes skim over your perfectly ironed blouse, searching for any flaw she can exploit. “Even when she probably should be.”

You meet her stare evenly. “There’s nothing to be nervous about. It’s just another day at work.”

“Oh, sure,” Kara shrugs, delicately adjusting her blazer. “Just the biggest magazine cover of the year. With the biggest K-pop group in history. But you’re right—no pressure at all.”

You hold your tongue, refusing to give her the satisfaction of seeing you flustered. Kara’s smile widens, eyes glittering dangerously.

“Don’t worry,” she says softly. “We’re all rooting for you.”

As she walks away, Hyerin gives you a sympathetic glance. “Ignore her. She’s just mad they picked you.”

“She’ll get over it,” you say calmly, taking a sip of coffee. But privately, you wonder if she ever will. Kara’s eyes feel permanently locked on your back, waiting for you to slip—and she’d love nothing more than to watch you fall.

You breathe deeply, shaking off the brief flash of anxiety. Kara isn’t your problem today.

Your problem just walked through the studio doors.

You straighten your shoulders, lift your chin, and mask your pounding heart beneath layers of polished composure.

You feel Jungkook’s presence before you see him. Hear the chatter ripple across the set, feel the shift in the air. Turning slowly, you catch sight of him walking toward makeup, tTattooed fingers, midnight hair, confident smile charming everyone in his orbit.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, but your pulse already quickens. You haven’t been face-to-face since he vanished from your life years ago, choosing fame over what you once shared. Not even your closest colleagues know about your past—not Hyerin, certainly not Kara. To them, you’re the girl who can handle any celebrity without batting an eye.

But Jungkook isn’t just any celebrity. He’s your first heartbreak. Your only weakness.

And the moment his eyes find yours across the room, his casual smile fading into something raw and hungry, you realize secrets never stay hidden forever.

Not when every glance he sends your way feels like a promise—Encore. We’re not done yet.

Your breath catches painfully in your throat, stomach twisting into a knot so tight it leaves you dizzy. For all your polished composure, the sight of Jungkook still manages to unravel you like loose threads on a designer gown.

Seeing him again feels like reopening a wound you spent years pretending had healed. It floods you with memories you'd promised yourself to forget—quiet nights tangled in sheets, whispered promises that felt unbreakable, how he used to hold you as if you were the most precious thing he’d ever touched.

But then came the silence. Slow at first, then deafening. A text left unread, calls unanswered. You waited like a fool, convinced something must've happened, sure he’d reach out again and say everything was fine. But days turned into weeks, then months, and eventually you stopped counting—stopped waiting.

He'd left you in a silence louder than any goodbye could've been.

It still haunts you, that hollow uncertainty. All those unanswered questions, the ache of wondering why you hadn't been enough—why something that had been your entire world had apparently meant so little to him.

Even now, standing across a crowded room from him, you feel nineteen again, confused and heartbroken, questioning yourself: Was it you? Was it fame? Or was he just that good at faking forever?

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

Yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you realize you might not have a choice.

Your hands tremble slightly, and you quickly clasp them behind your back, steadying your breath, forcing your expression back into neutrality. You are not that girl anymore. You're not nineteen, naive and waiting.

You're the woman who clawed her way up the ladder, who built herself from the ground up, and who refuses to be unraveled by Jeon Jungkook ever again.

You grit your teeth, straightening your posture defiantly. No, you're not going to fall apart because he decided to show up now, years later. It doesn’t matter how familiar his gaze still feels, or how your stomach flips traitorously when his eyes linger a second too long. It’s just shock, you reason. The surprise of seeing someone from your past. He means nothing now. He can’t mean anything—not after he left you drowning in unanswered questions.

And yet, as his gaze locks onto yours and his expression shifts—something fragile breaking beneath the confident mask—you shove down the dangerous impulse fluttering inside you.

Because you won’t allow it. Not today. Not ever.

But Jungkook tilts his head slightly, eyes darkening with an intensity you know too well, and you feel your carefully constructed resolve begin to tremble at the edges.

It doesn’t matter, you remind yourself harshly. You’ll never make the same mistake twice. Not for Jungkook. Not for anyone.

Still, the moment he takes a step toward you, your heart skips—just once.

And you hate yourself for it.

And it’s terrifying how much your body still reacts, how tightly your stomach knots, how you feel yourself leaning backward without meaning to. You don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing.

But just before he can get closer—

“Jungkook! Manager wants you in the briefing room, now!”

The shout cuts across the set, snapping him back to reality.

He hesitates. A small shift of weight. A flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then he turns, walking toward the exit without another glance.

You make yourself go still, expression smooth, breath finally releasing.

He’s gone again.

And you hate how that emptiness still lingers in the space he almost crossed.

✦

The studio smelled like caffeine, expensive cologne, and urgency.

Light rigs hummed above, shifting shadows across white backdrops. Stylists darted like bees between racks of designer coats and racks of idols. The floor was a mosaic of garment bags, wires, coffee cups, and carefully controlled chaos.

And you were in the eye of the storm.

Clipboards. Checklists. The shoot brief folded neatly in your tote, annotated with sharp red edits. You’d been here since seven. Confirming the team, adjusting the timeline after a last-minute delivery delay, nodding politely through the photographer’s temper tantrum over lighting angles.

Professional. Polished. In control.

Just like always.

“I’ll need the group on set in twenty,” you told Hyerin as you skimmed the latest schedule, your voice calm despite the pressure gnawing at your ribs. “Can we get final approval on the beige Balenciaga set for the third look? The stylist’s still undecided.”

Hyerin nodded, phone already raised to send the message.

And then—

A ripple in the room. Nothing visible at first. Just a shift. The kind that presses into your skin before you understand what’s happening. Like the barometric pressure dropping before a storm.

You didn’t have to turn. You knew.

BTS had arrived. This time, fully.

Voices lifted across the space. Polite bows, excited murmurs, stylists practically vibrating. You focused on your clipboard, eyes locked on the line that read: Group cover, final set — standing profile + seated variation.

You could feel it before you saw him. Like a magnet realigning in your chest.

Jeon Jungkook.

He wasn’t supposed to matter. Not anymore. Not here.

You glanced up once—only for a second—and there he was.

Dark hair, slightly damp. A black oversized tee clinging to his frame like it had no choice. Tattoos curling down his arm like vines. He was talking to one of the stylists, something easy in his body, but then—

His eyes found yours. Again. 

And froze. As if the moment before seemed unbelievable to him, and now he got a confirmation that it was truly you who he saw before.

For one suspended moment, the studio blurred. Sound dulled. All you could hear was the low pulse in your ears, thudding like memory. His gaze didn’t flicker. Didn’t flinch.

It lingered.

You turned away first.

Professional, you reminded yourself. You could breathe later.

Behind you, a quiet voice laced with syrup and venom sliced through the air. “Well, don’t you look composed.”

Kara.

You didn’t bother turning. Her heels clicked as she approached, each step full of intention.

“I’d be shaking,” she continued, feigning casual amusement. “If he looked at me like that.”

Your clipboard didn’t move.

“I don’t mix work with fantasy,” you said coolly.

Kara laughed, bright and biting. “Right. Of course. You’re very composed.”

Before you could answer, the studio door opened wider, and the rest of the crew flooded in behind the members. Lights adjusted. Cables plugged. The moment passed.

But your stomach? Still twisted.

You didn’t have time for this. Not the memories. Not the questions. Not the way your breath still stumbled just because he was in the same room.

You walked across the set with quick, clean steps, addressing the camera assistant. You didn’t look at him again.

You didn’t need to.

Because suddenly, he was walking toward you.

You caught it in your peripheral—the blur of black, the low timbre of his voice as he murmured a polite greeting to the stylist he passed. He was smiling, charming, textbook idol.

But he was walking toward you.

And you didn’t move.

Behind him, Taehyung tilted his head, brows subtly furrowing.

“Where’s he going?” he murmured to Jimin, his voice low enough not to carry.

Jimin looked up from his water bottle, following the path of Jungkook’s steps.

“Who is that—” He paused. Squinted.

His expression shifted slowly.

“No way,” he muttered. “Is that… Y/N?”

Taehyung’s eyes narrowed as he got a better look.

“Damn,” he said under his breath. “She really changed.”

“She doesn’t look like a college student anymore,” Jimin added, then whistled low. “She looks like she’d step on your throat for blinking at the wrong moment.”

Taehyung snorted. “And Jungkook’s walking straight toward her like it’s nothing.”

Jimin’s smile faded a little. “It’s not nothing.”

They exchanged a glance.

One of quiet recognition.

One that said: This is going to get complicated.

Jungkook stopped just close enough for it to be plausible. Two colleagues. Two professionals. A friendly exchange in the middle of a crowded set.

But you felt the heat of him at your side. The static in the air between your bodies. The weight of five years in the space between his next breath and your silence.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.

His voice was lower now. Smooth, familiar. Dangerous.

You kept your eyes on the call sheet in your hands.

“Then maybe you should’ve read your shoot brief.”

He let out a quiet, amused exhale. “Guess I was distracted.”

You finally turned to face him, slow and deliberate.

He looked at you like you were a memory he wanted to taste again. And you hated how much you felt it in your knees.

“Still pretending I don’t exist?” he asked softly.

You smiled—polite, cold.

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He tilted his head, amused. “You used to say I was impossible to forget.”

You didn’t blink. “People change.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. The smile dimmed, only slightly.

And you hated that it made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “They do.”

You stepped back first. Not because you were retreating—but because if you stayed, you’d say something you’d regret.

“We’re about to start,” you said, voice crisp. “Please get into wardrobe.”

He didn’t argue. But his gaze lingered like the brush of fingers on skin—something remembered. Something unfinished.

You turned on your heel and walked away.

And behind you, Jungkook watched like he was seeing something he thought he'd lost forever.

You walk with your back straight, spine stiff, each click of your heels against the polished floor louder than the last. The studio spins in a blur around you—shutters firing, stylists buzzing, interns darting past—but your body moves like it’s on autopilot.

You don’t look back.

You don’t need to see him to feel the weight of his stare still pressing into your skin, hot and searching. Your lungs burn quietly, your heart hammering beneath the silk of your blouse in a rhythm that doesn’t belong to a woman in control.

You handled that well, you tell yourself. He didn’t rattle you. Not really. It was nothing—just a greeting. Just a ghost in designer boots. You didn’t flinch.

But your fingers still tremble as you slide the clipboard into your bag. And his scent—faint on the air, sandalwood and heat—lingers like a bruise.

That voice. That voice you used to fall asleep to.

He said so little, but it was too much. Too soft. Too knowing. Too close to the edge of the past you buried under ambition and late-night edits and deadlines that couldn’t be missed. A past that still knows exactly how to make your mouth dry and your pulse quicken.

You exhale through your nose, slow and tight, pressing your thumb into your palm until it stings.

This isn’t college. This isn’t your bedroom at 3 a.m. waiting for his text. You are not that girl anymore.

And he doesn’t get to reach into your life now just because he remembered how to say your name.

Across the studio, a pair of eyes followed your every step.

Kara leaned against a lighting rig, one arm crossed lazily over her chest, a paper cup of overpriced coffee in hand. She wasn’t watching the shoot, not really. Her gaze was fixed on you—your clenched jaw, your too-smooth posture, the slight tremble in your fingers as you adjusted your sleeve.

Her lips curled just barely at the edges.

She didn’t say anything. She didn’t have to.

She just sipped her coffee and tilted her head thoughtfully, like a girl already collecting dots to connect.

And when her eyes flicked over to Jungkook, now slipping into wardrobe, and then back to you—

Something in her expression sharpened.

She had nothing solid. Not yet.

But Kara had always known how to smell blood long before the wound appeared.

✦

The shoot was already in full swing by the time you were called in.

High-key lighting flared against the matte white backdrop as the photographer directed the rest of the group into place. Jungkook hadn’t shot his solos yet — he’d been saved for last, as if they all knew the best tension builds slowly.

You were reviewing proofs on a monitor when the stylist approached you, breathless and mid-hustle.

“Sorry, Y/N—can you approve the jewelry for Jungkook’s third look? We’ve got the options prepped, but he wants to wear the chain without layering.” She didn't wait for a full answer, already turning back. “He’s in the fitting room.”

You don’t hesitate. Don’t sigh. You just nod once and follow, clipboard in hand, pulse tucked neatly beneath your professionalism.

It’s just another detail. Another decision. You’ve approved a hundred accessories today already.

But you haven’t approved him.

The fitting area isn’t private. Just a curtained nook off the main set, half-lit by dressing bulbs and cluttered with half-dressed mannequins and hangers heavy with sponsored silk.

And he’s there when you slip inside. Shirtless.

Silver chain dangling from his fingers, tattoos curling down his arm like they belong to a different man than the boy you once knew.

He looks over his shoulder the moment he hears you enter. His lips curve slowly, like this is a scene he’s played in his head a thousand times already.

“Oh,” he says. “They sent you.”

You don’t react. You’re too tired for games and too exposed for softness.

“Only because the chain needs editorial sign-off,” you say coolly.

He turns to face you fully, unhurried. Like the air between you isn’t thick enough to choke on.

“Then by all means,” he murmurs, offering the necklace like a dare, “approve me.”

You step forward without flinching, though every part of you wants to be somewhere—anywhere—else. The chain is cool in your palm. His hand is warm. The heat of his body radiates as you move into his space, standing just close enough to clasp the piece around his bare neck.

His skin smells like cologne and memory. Like summer and sweat and one a.m. phone calls you’ll never get back.

You keep your eyes down. Your fingers are steady as you drape the chain across his collarbones, lock it into place behind his neck.

He watches you in the mirror. Doesn’t blink.

“Still pretending I don’t affect you?” he asks, low enough that no one outside this curtain will ever hear.

You don’t look at him. Don’t let him win.

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

He laughs, soft and sharp. It brushes the side of your cheek like smoke.

“Liar.”

You step back. One clean motion. No hesitation.

Your eyes scan the chain against his chest. Simple. Effective. Professional.

“It works,” you say.

He’s still looking at you. Not with smugness now, but something quieter. Studying the way your arms stay crossed. The way your voice never shakes, even when your throat does.

“You always liked this one,” he says, tapping the charm. “You said it made me look dangerous.”

“That was a long time ago.”

His smile shifts. “You still look at me like it’s not.”

You leave before you can answer. Let the curtain fall shut behind you like a closing door.

And you don’t breathe again until you’re halfway down the hallway.

The bathroom is cold and sterile and mercifully empty.

You close the door behind you, flip the lock, and let your clipboard fall to the counter with a dull clatter.

It’s only then—only then—that your shoulders drop.

Your hands brace against the sink, breath coming out in one sharp exhale like it’s been trapped under your ribs since you walked into that fitting room. Your reflection in the mirror is still composed, still precise… but your eyes are too bright, and your skin is too warm, and the chain you touched is still clinging to your fingertips like a memory you can’t scrub off.

You run cold water, splash your wrists, press your fingers to your temples.

Get a grip.

This is work. He is work.

You’ve survived far worse than being this close to someone who once knew how to love you. Who once made you believe it would last.

You’re not that girl anymore.

You fix your lipstick. Smooth your blouse.

By the time you unlock the door and step back into the hallway, your expression is perfect again.

As if nothing ever touched you.

The studio has thinned to a skeleton crew.

Light rigs now buzz on low. Laptops closed, garment bags zipped, coffee cups abandoned on carts. A few stylists linger in quiet conversations by the exit, voices hushed with the kind of fatigue that only comes after a perfect shot.

You’re alone in the hallway just outside the dressing area, waiting for the final export to transfer. The hum of the hard drive beside you is the only sound. The air smells like cold metal and the ghost of sweat.

It’s a clean ending. You did your job. No mistakes. No slips.

And yet.

You hear the footsteps before you see him—slow, deliberate, not echoing loud but close. You don’t need to turn. You already know.

“Didn’t think you’d still be here,” Jungkook says, voice low behind you.

You glance over your shoulder. He’s out of wardrobe now, in a simple hoodie and sweats, hair still slightly damp from styling. His tattoos are half-hidden under the sleeves, but his eyes are all sharp edge and unfinished business.

You straighten. “Waiting on a drive.”

He nods, steps closer. Not too close. Just enough.

“They left in a rush,” he says. “Didn’t even say goodbye.”

You know he’s not talking about the team.

You exhale slowly. “It was a long day.”

“Right.” A pause. “You always were good at making things efficient.”

You turn fully now, facing him with that expression you’ve perfected—the cool editor, the one no one questions.

“Did you need something, Jungkook?”

His tongue rests against the inside of his cheek. He doesn’t smile.

“Yeah,” he says. “I need to know why you’re acting like we didn’t matter.”

The words land heavy. No pretense. No smirk. Just a quiet ache, sharpened by guilt.

You blink once. Slowly.

“Because you acted like we didn’t,” you say.

The silence between you stretches. Presses.

You see it hit him—full in the chest. He doesn’t argue. Doesn’t flinch.

“I didn’t know how to end it,” he says finally. “Back then. I was selfish.”

“You were a coward.” Your voice stays even, but your throat burns. “You could’ve called. Texted. Anything. But you just disappeared.”

“I thought it would be easier if I let you hate me.”

You scoff, almost laugh. “Easier for who?”

He steps closer. This time it’s too close. Close enough to smell his skin again, to feel the heat rolling off him like static. The hallway is dim now. Only emergency lights glowing soft along the floorboards.

“I still remember everything,” he says.

Your heart stutters. You hate it.

“I remember your old apartment. That shitty mattress on the floor. How you used to cry when you couldn’t finish an article.” He pauses, voice softening. “The way you’d fall asleep against my chest like you belonged there.”

You stare at him. Frozen. Your breath is stuck somewhere just below your ribs.

He leans in—just a fraction. Not touching. But the air between your mouths is electric.

“Do you remember any of it?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You do.

Of course you do.

But you don’t give him that.

Instead, you tilt your head and say, evenly:

“You’re five years too late.”

You walk away before he can see the tremble in your hands.

And behind you, Jungkook doesn't call after you.

He just stands in the hallway, quiet and still, like he’s afraid of how much he still wants to follow.

✦

The suite smells like charcoal-grilled meat and takeout beer. The shoot’s over. The glamor is gone.

They’ve all crammed into Namjoon’s apartment for a late dinner, half-unwinding, half-rehashing the chaos of the day. Yoongi’s in the corner scrolling on his phone. Jin’s talking over everyone about how the lighting made him look “unfairly youthful.” But Jungkook hasn’t touched his food.

He’s nursing a beer. And he hasn’t said more than a few words all night.

Taehyung notices first.

“You good?” he asks, lazily tossing a cushion at him from across the couch.

Jungkook doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “You’ve been zoning out since we left the studio.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Jungkook exhales and runs a hand through his hair.

“She was really there.”

Jin, mid-chew, frowns. “Who?”

Jungkook glances at the ceiling, leans back, eyes unfocused.

“Y/N.”

The name still tastes strange in his mouth.

“She’s… she was our editorial lead. For the cover.”

Yoongi finally looks up. “Seriously?”

“She didn’t even flinch,” Jungkook mutters. “Like I never existed.”

Namjoon gives him a long look. “You expected a welcome hug?”

“No,” Jungkook says, quieter. “I don’t know what I expected. But not… that.”

He thinks of the way she stood—straight-backed, calm, like she’d stripped him from her system entirely. He thinks of her voice. How carefully detached it was. You’re five years too late.The line replays in his chest like a lyric.

“She looked good,” Jungkook says after a pause. “Better than before.”

“Better without you,” Yoongi says flatly.

Jungkook doesn’t reply.

Taehyung sighs, sitting up. “It’s insane that you’re surprised. You ghosted her while fucking your way through rookie girl groups.”

“I didn’t—” Jungkook winces. “I didn’t mean for it to happen like that.”

“But it did,” Namjoon says, voice firm. “You left her. And you never gave her a real goodbye. You just vanished.”

Jimin shifts, arms crossed. “You think she forgot? That she sat around waiting while you made headlines with girls you didn’t even text back?”

“I was overwhelmed,” Jungkook snaps, frustration leaking out. “We were finally being notice, I was twenty, the world was on fire—”

“And she was in the middle of it with you,” Taehyung cuts in. “Until you acted like she was a phase you could leave behind.”

That shuts him up.

Jungkook stares at the label on his bottle. His jaw ticks.

“She looked right through me today,” he says quietly. “Like I never touched her. Like she doesn’t still exist in my head every fucking day.”

Silence falls over the room.

Then Jin sighs and pats his shoulder. “Well. Maybe now you know how it felt.”

✦

You hold the final print like it owes you something.

Not just a paycheck. Not just another spread to fill your portfolio. But proof that you belong here.

Vogue Korea – October Issue. The one everyone wanted to work on. And you got it.

The paper stock is matte heavyweight — no gloss, no gimmick. The cover design minimal: just the group’s name in clean serif and the issue title in metallic foil, whispering luxury. Echoes of the Future.

You flip through the pages like you haven’t already memorized the entire layout. But it still hits. The gravity. The precision. The power of it.

Each editorial frame is stripped to its bones — no backdrops, no props, no distractions. Just symmetry, shadowplay, and seven of the most photographed men in the world, captured like you’ve never seen them before.

Jimin in sharp Céline tailoring, wet hair pushed off his forehead, lips parted like he’s about to ruin someone. Namjoon in a crisp Ferragamo overcoat and nothing underneath. Minimal styling. Maximum command. Taehyung draped in silk Givenchy, silver rings on every finger, a single brow arched like a dare. Yoongi — Gucci and attitude. Seated. Unbothered. A king tired of his throne. Jin in a Bottega turtleneck with sculptural shoulders, the kind of silhouette only he could make feel warm. Hoseok’s frame wrapped in a monochrome Rick Owens layered set, gaze tilted away from camera — like he knows you’re looking. And Jungkook. Front and center. Mugler suit. Bare chest. One silver chain. Wet strands falling over his brow, a half-smirk caught between innocence and provocation.

You chose that shot. Pushed for it. It’s not about sex. It’s about control. Power. Presence.

There’s no overstyling. No theatrics. Just tension. The kind that doesn’t need words.

When you close the issue and step into the elevator of the JW Marriott rooftop lounge, your reflection catches in the mirror: off-the-shoulder Alaïa column dress in black crepe, Louboutin heels, lips painted the exact shade of silent danger.

You look expensive. Untouchable. Editorial.

Exactly how you planned it.

The party has already started by the time you arrive — hosted in the private event wing, high above Seoul’s skyline. Dim, golden lighting. Smooth jazz threaded with ambient house. Crystal glasses passed by silent staff in Tom Ford uniforms. Everyone here is someone.

Vogue doesn’t just launch a cover — it celebrates it. Especially one this anticipated. Especially when the entire campaign broke engagement records before it hit print.

And when the subject is BTS? The fashion world watches. So tonight isn’t just a party. It’s an affirmation. For the magazine. For the editorial team. For you.

You float through it with your usual ease — nodding to the creative director from Boucheron, chatting with the head of marketing from Dior Beauty, accepting compliments on the issue from half the room without blinking.

Until someone mentions it.

“Did you hear BTS might actually show tonight?”

You don’t flinch. Not externally.

You just let the champagne touch your lips and smile like it doesn’t matter.

Like you didn’t already feel the air in the room shift.

Because when you turn your head — just a little, just enough — you see him.

Jeon Jungkook. Walking in through the side entrance, flanked by two staffers and dressed in black-on-black: a Saint Laurent suit jacket left open over a silk shirt, sheer enough to tease the curve of his chest. No tie. Just skin, chain, stare.

He looks different tonight. Not like the idol you edited into iconography. Not like the ghost who haunted your hallway last week.

He looks like a man who came here with a purpose.

And his eyes are already on you.

He looks like a man who came here with a purpose.

And his eyes are already on you.

The others didn’t come.

Namjoon had RSVP’d but sent a polite decline. You’d caught wind of Jimin flying out for a brand shoot in Tokyo. The rest were likely busy or deliberately laying low — as expected.

But he showed up.

Of all people.

You can’t tell if the audacity makes you laugh or bite the rim of your glass harder.

Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Not at first.

You feel his gaze like pressure behind your bare shoulder. But he moves slowly through the room — greets the Vogue team with a bow, gives the photographer a brief, easy hug. Accepts a drink from a server. Ends up near the bar with a woman you vaguely recognize from the Seoul fashion circuit — a model with collarbones sharp enough to cut glass, her dress barely skimming the line of decency.

She leans in when she speaks to him. Laughs too brightly. Touches his forearm once, casually.

He doesn't touch her back. Doesn’t even fully turn toward her. His eyes are somewhere else.

You.

You catch him watching you more than once. Not with hunger. Not yet. Just a quiet study.

The glances become a pattern. A beat you start to recognize.

And still, he doesn’t move.

But others do.

You’re halfway through your second glass when two men — suits, handsome, not strangers to the room — flank you near the edge of the terrace. One is from an ad agency you’ve worked with before. The other’s from an international menswear brand.

They talk shop. Compliment your dress. One of them offers you another drink before you can say no. The other leans in when he speaks, a little too close to your ear, and you catch the ghost of his cologne mixed with something slightly sour.

You smile. Politely. The way you always do.

But you're aware of how their eyes follow the dip of your neckline like they’ve been given permission. One of them lets his fingers rest too long against your elbow. The other jokes, "Are all editors this pretty or are you the exception?" and doesn’t seem to care that you don’t laugh.

You glance across the room without meaning to.

He’s still there.

Still watching.

Jungkook’s grip on his glass is tighter now. The model beside him keeps talking, oblivious. He’s not listening. You know that jaw too well. The tension behind it. The twitch when he’s about to break.

You take another sip. Feel the flush of alcohol under your skin. Your vision gets softer at the edges, but the awareness sharpens. You know how this ends. You feel it humming beneath your ribs, hot and inevitable.

And when the man beside you brushes your wrist again — subtle, casual, entitled — you don’t pull away fast enough.

But Jungkook moves.

Jungkook doesn’t make a scene.

That’s the most infuriating part.

He doesn’t shove. Doesn’t glare. Doesn’t even raise his voice. He just appears beside you with the kind of seamless, quiet ease that only someone deeply used to being watched can master.

One second the man beside you is leaning in, his breath too warm against your cheek— And the next, Jungkook is sliding in between you, a hand at the small of your back, the angle of his body just enough to cut.

“Didn’t realize I was late to this conversation,” he says smoothly.

You catch the flicker of recognition on the men’s faces. One of them steps back half a pace, suddenly less charming. The other adjusts his collar and offers a polite smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Jeon Jungkook,” the taller one says, offering a hand. “Didn’t know you were here.”

Jungkook shakes it. Calm. Collected. “Figured I’d say hello to the team who made the shoot happen.” His eyes flick toward you, then back. “Though it looks like I should’ve come earlier.”

It’s almost nothing. Just a hint. A slip beneath the surface. But you hear it. Feel it in the weight of his voice. The way his hand stays just a fraction too close to yours.

Possessive. And yet — perfectly palatable for a crowd.

No one would question this. Not the touch. Not the timing. Not the sudden chill of disappointment settling in the faces of the men who had clearly imagined something else for the end of the night.

They make excuses. One says something about needing to call his driver. The other claims someone from L’Officiel just texted.

Within a minute, they’re gone.

Jungkook watches them disappear into the crowd with that unreadable expression you remember from his early idol days. When he didn’t know how to speak with words yet — just stares.

“You didn’t have to do that,” you say, voice quiet, cutting.

“I know.”

“Then why?”

He shrugs. Still watching the crowd. “Didn’t like how they were touching you.”

You pause.

“That’s not your concern anymore.”

He turns to face you then. Full. Real. And the look in his eyes is darker than the mood lighting.

“It never stopped being my concern.”

That does something to your throat. Tightens it.

You want to roll your eyes. Push him away. Instead, you take a half-step back and fix your dress strap.

“You can go now,” you say, coolly.

But his jaw tightens. That’s when you know you’ve hit something.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

He says it so quietly. But it doesn’t feel soft. It feels like something pulled from the center of his chest.

You scan the room out of instinct. Too many eyes. Too much potential noise.

Jungkook notices. And he moves.

He doesn’t ask.

His hand brushes your wrist—light, guiding—and then he’s walking. Confident. Unbothered. Heading toward the side hallway just past the lounge bar, near the VIP exit where only staff and talent are allowed to pass.

You should stop him. You don’t.

You follow.

The hallway is quiet, dimmer than the rest of the event. A velvet rope keeps guests from entering, and a private elevator tucked at the end promises anonymity to anyone important enough to use it. You’ve seen it before. Watched stylists hustle idols through that door like ghosts, like secrets.

Jungkook stops just out of view.

The corner of the hall is shadowed, walls covered in gold-veined marble and muted hotel art. The muffled bass from the party barely reaches here. His back is to you.

He turns when you stop. And then he steps in.

Close.

Too close.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t raise his voice.

But he towers.

The heat from his body sears into yours. His jaw clenches once before relaxing, like he’s trying to hold back a thousand versions of the same mistake.

“You know what they wanted from you,” he says, voice low. “And you were going to let them?”

“I wasn’t going to let them do anything.”

“You let them touch you.”

“You fucked half the industry,” you snap, too fast. Too exposed. “Don’t start pretending I’m the one who crossed lines.”

That lands. Sharp. But he doesn’t retreat.

“I haven’t loved anyone except for you.”

You blink.

Your breath stumbles.

Your throat goes dry.

You want to argue. You want to scream liar.But he’s looking at you like it’s gospel. Like the weight of that confession has been killing him slowly every night since.

And god, he’s close.

You feel your body respond before your brain can stop it. The heat between your legs. The flush rising beneath your skin. The sharp, brutal ache that coils low in your stomach just from the way he’s standing there — like he’d throw himself between you and the world all over again.

You glance down — mistake. The open collar of his shirt frames his chest like it was designed for your hands. The chain you once clasped glints against his skin, half-damp from heat. You remember how he tastes. Wonder if he still does.

Your thighs press together. Reflex.

His eyes drop. He notices.

And you hate him for it.

“You have no right to be jealous,” you say, voice barely a whisper.

“I know.”

“You left me.”

“I know.”

Your heart is pounding. Your mouth is dry.

And when he leans in just a little closer — breath brushing your ear, his voice raw and unfiltered — it takes every ounce of strength not to melt against the wall.

“You can hate me all you want,” he says. “But I still know how to make you come apart.”

Jungkook’s stare is heavy. Focused. Unflinching.

He says nothing for a long, charged second, and you hate how your body reacts to that silence — like it remembers something your brain is still trying to forget.

“You don’t get to act like this,” you say, and it comes out sharp, acidic. “You don’t get to touch me now and pretend it means anything.”

His jaw tenses, but his voice stays level. Quiet. Deadly calm.

“I’m not pretending.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes, shifting your weight — and that’s when he does it.

His hand slides down. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

And then—

He squeezes your ass.

Firm. Full. Like it still belongs to him.

Your breath halts. You don’t flinch. But your skin lights up like a flare, thighs clenching, stomach twisting.

You don’t show it.

“You’re disgusting,” you mutter through your teeth.

But he leans in, his mouth brushing the shell of your ear.

“You didn’t stop me.”

You shove at his chest, but there’s no real strength in it. Not when your knees feel like static and your pulse is hammering between your legs. Not when your own body is already betraying you, flooding with heat from the base of your spine to the ache you’ve been pretending doesn’t exist.

“You’re the one who fucked other people the second you got famous,” you snap. “Don’t come near me like we have unfinished business.”

“You think I don’t remember how you taste?” he breathes, low and lethal. “How your thighs shake when I—”

“Shut up.” You cut him off, voice breaking around the edge. “You’re pathetic.”

But his hand is still on you. Still burning through the fabric of your dress.

And now he's walking.

You're not sure when his hand left yours. You're not sure when your legs decided to follow. But you're moving. Toward the private elevator at the end of the hallway. It dings as it opens — discreet, slow, waiting for no one else.

“Don’t,” you say, half-hearted, hovering just outside the doors.

He steps inside. Looks over his shoulder. Waits.

“Unless you're scared,” he murmurs.

You could slap him. You should.

Instead, you walk in like your heels aren’t shaking.

The doors close.

Silence. Thick. Electric.

He’s behind you now. You feel it — his presence coiled tight, simmering. You keep your chin high. Your eyes fixed on the seam of the elevator door.

But your brain is spinning.

You don’t know where he’s taking you. You don’t care.

You tell yourself it’s just physical. You’re tired. Your bones are tired. You've been carrying ambition like armor for too long and you want — god, you want — to feel something. Something that doesn’t require you to smile, or pose, or win.

You want to stop being the editor. The image. The perfection.

Just for one night.

And if it has to be Jungkook — the only man who ever saw you wrecked — so be it.

Because if he’s going to ruin you again, he’s not doing it alone.

The car ride is silent.

Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just… heavy.

A stretch of velvet air between you, thick with all the things neither of you are brave or stupid enough to say.

Jungkook’s limo is absurd. Sleek black leather, blue LED trim humming at your feet. A built-in bar you ignore. Curtains drawn. City lights blur past the tinted glass as if the world outside has nothing to do with what’s about to happen inside.

You sit rigid, legs crossed. The dress has ridden up just slightly — the soft part of your thigh kissing cool air — and he notices.

Of course he notices.

His hand moves. Quietly. Confident. Like he’s done this before — with you.

Fingertips rest on your knee at first. Just that. Stillness.

But then they begin to slide.

Up.

Slow. Torturous. Not grabbing — stroking. His thumb draws lazy circles against your skin, tracing the edge where silk meets flesh.

You don’t look at him. You play with your hair instead, twisting it around your fingers like a lifeline.

But your thighs tighten. Clamp together as he nears dangerous ground.

He smirks beside you.

“I forgot how stubborn you are.”

You glare. “You forgot a lot of things.”

His fingers don’t retreat. He slides them just a breath higher, pulling the hem of your dress with them.

“You can say stop,” he murmurs, voice dropping low. “You know I’ll listen.”

You hate that it’s true.

You hate that you don’t want to say it.

Your jaw clenches. Your thighs stay locked, heat building between them like friction might burn the memory away before it begins.

He doesn’t push further. Just stays there. Waiting. Letting you sit with the fact that your body is already betraying you — pulse between your legs fluttering like it remembers the path he’s about to take.

You stare out the window, trying to breathe through the ache.

This is happening. You know it. You knew it the moment you followed him out of that party.

Tonight, you’re not Vogue Korea’s untouchable ice queen. You’re just a woman. Lonely. Starving. So fucking tired of pretending she doesn’t want to be ruined.

✦

The car stops in front of La Premiere, one of Seoul’s most exclusive residential towers — all glass, obsidian stone, gold accents that shimmer even at midnight. You’re not surprised. This is the kind of place you only enter if your name is a brand.

The lobby is silent, marble floors echoing beneath your heels. The elevator requires a thumbprint. The doorman greets him by name.

You stay silent.

But your heart is screaming.

The apartment is on the 38th floor. The penthouse.

Of course it is.

High ceilings. Soft lighting. Concrete walls and floor-to-ceiling windows that open into an unobstructed view of Seoul’s skyline. You barely have time to look.

Because the moment the door clicks shut behind you—

He’s on you.

Your back hits the wall. Hard. His mouth finds yours like he’s starving. Like he’s been dreaming of this moment and can’t wait another second.

It’s not a kiss. It’s a collision. Wet, messy, teeth and tongue and heat. His hands are on your hips, your ribs, your ass — greedy, possessive, hungry.

You moan into his mouth, furious at yourself.

He grins.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?”

You shove at his chest, breathless.

“Still pretending you don’t want to be fucked?”

His laugh is dark. “You want to feel me inside you, don’t you?”

You don’t answer.

He takes it as a yes.

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, carrying you down the hallway. You catch glimpses of modern art, black marble floors, absurdly expensive furniture you could write articles about.

But then—

His bedroom.

Of course it’s massive. King-sized bed draped in jet-black sheets, one wall entirely glass, Seoul glittering behind it like a crown.

He lays you down. Stares at you for a second.

Then bends. Presses a kiss to your shin. Your knee. Your inner thigh.

You arch.

“You’re not going to tease me,” you spit, breath shaky.

“Oh no?” His voice is warm silk wrapped around something feral. “I think you’ve been begging to be teased.”

And then he’s peeling your dress up, up, over your hips, dragging it slowly, deliberately, like he’s unwrapping a sin he’s already claimed.

His hands never stop moving.

He spreads your legs with ease, dress bunched high at your waist now, the cold kiss of air meeting warm skin. You feel obscenely exposed and utterly alive — laid out against his sheets in nothing but a paper-thin pair of black lace underwear that does nothing to hide the heat soaking through.

And when his eyes land there, dark and molten, his breath catches.

“Fuck,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You’ve always been unreal.”

You watch his throat move, swallowing thickly. His fingers trail from your calf to the inside of your thigh, slow and reverent.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good,” he murmurs, eyes locked on your heat like he’s watching a meal he’s about to ruin. “You’ll forget how to hate me.”

You don’t have time to snarl back before his mouth is on you again — dragging up your body, lips trailing over your stomach, your ribs, your bra. He finds your breast with one hand, slipping beneath the delicate cup, warm palm cupping it, squeezing just enough to make you gasp. Then his tongue is there, licking over your nipple through the lace, wetting it until the fabric turns transparent and your back lifts off the bed.

You whimper. Loud.

And you hate that it sounds like relief.

His other hand finds your ass, gripping it with the kind of pressure that says mine, pulling you closer to the edge of the bed as he grinds down against you, clothed cock heavy and hot against your inner thigh.

He nips at your breast, tongue flicking, eyes on your face.

“Still pretending you don’t remember what this feels like?”

You pant, fingers buried in his hair. “Just fuck me already.”

But he’s not done teasing. He slides lower again, mouth kissing a path down your torso, tongue tasting your skin like it’s his.

When he reaches your panties, he pauses. Licks his lips.

“These need to come off.”

You lift your hips. He slides them down your legs, slow and smooth, like he’s savoring every inch of skin revealed.

And then he groans.

“Fuck, baby…” His thumb brushes over your slit. “You’re soaked.”

You glare. “You’re not special.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

Then he kisses you again, deep and dirty, hand slipping between your thighs, two fingers sliding through your folds with ease, coating themselves in everything your pride is trying to hide.

He presses in — just one finger, shallow and slow — and you gasp into his mouth.

“You’re so fucking tight,” he breathes against your lips. “You really haven’t let anyone else stretch you like this?”

You don’t answer.

But your moan says enough.

He adds another finger. Curling them. Moving them just right.

“This is me preparing you,” he murmurs, voice all silk and sin. “I’m gonna make it good. Gonna make you cum on my fingers before I even fuck you.”

Your eyes flutter shut. “God, Jungkook—”

“I love when you beg,” he growls, “but not yet.”

You reach for him then, desperate, fingers tugging at his open shirt — sheer and slippery beneath your grip. You want to see him. Need to.

He feels it.

“Patience,” he smirks, but he lets you undress him anyway.

Jacket drops first. Then that ridiculous silk shirt that slides off his arms like water. You make a sound low in your throat when you see him again, bare and sculpted and dangerous. Then he pushes his pants down, black slacks pooling on the floor, and all that’s left is his boxers — stretched tight over his cock, which is very obviously hard.

And huge.

Your mouth parts.

He sees it. Smirks again.

“Don’t act surprised,” he murmurs, leaning in. “You’ve had it before.”

His body covers yours, the warmth of his skin burning against you, his cock pressing hot and heavy between your thighs. He grinds once, slow, and you gasp — the length of him perfectly aligned against your soaked slit, dragging between your folds like he’s memorizing the shape of your desperation.

He doesn't push in yet.

Just teases. Rubs the head against your clit. Circles it. Slips down, catches your entrance, then pulls back again.

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

“Jungkook,” you pant, voice breaking.

He kisses your jaw, your neck, his voice low and smug and maddening.

“You’re gonna say please.”

You don’t say please.

Not with your mouth.

But when you look down and see him reach for the nightstand drawer, tear open the foil packet with steady fingers, and roll the condom down his thick, veined length— Your mouth parts on instinct.

God.

You forgot what he looked like like this. Not just big — devastating. Long, hard, flushed dark at the tip, heavy in his own hand. Your core clenches around nothing, heat flooding your stomach.

You don’t mean to moan. But you do.

His smirk falters for a split second.

“You’re still so easy to ruin,” he murmurs, fisting his cock, stroking once, lining himself up between your thighs. “I barely touched you.”

“You’ve been talking too much,” you whisper, chest heaving. “Shut up and—”

But the words die the second he starts to push in.

You gasp — your whole body tensing — and your hands fly to his shoulders, nails digging in hard.

He groans above you. “Shit—you’re tight.”

You feel the stretch like it’s the first time. A slow, thick pressure as he sinks in inch by inch. Every muscle in your body coils, thighs trembling, breath catching.

His mouth finds yours again — wet, open, filthy — kissing you through it, licking into your whimper like he’s feeding off your pleasure.

“Just breathe,” he whispers, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other gripping your waist. “I’ve got you.”

You do.

You let him in.

And god, you hate how good it feels — to have him deep inside, to feel the way your body opens around him like it remembers exactly where he belongs.

When he bottoms out, hips flush to yours, he groans into your throat.

You’re both panting. Stunned.

Then you move.

Your legs wrap around his waist. Tight. Holding him there.

His back arches into it, and he nearly chokes on his breath.

“F-fuck,” he stutters, voice cracking. “You’re gonna make me cum just like that.”

You grin, delirious. “Control yourself.”

“Impossible,” he groans, but he stays still, grinding his hips in slow, rolling circles, letting you feel all of him, the friction igniting fire where your nerves used to be.

Your hands slide down his back — hot, damp with sweat — and you whisper between shaky breaths:

“You feel so good, Jungkook… so fucking good—”

That does it.

He starts to move.

Slow at first. Deep. Letting you feel every inch drag through you, the way your walls flutter around him. He groans again — long and low — kisses you like he’s starving.

Then he leans back just enough to slip a hand between your bodies, tugging at your bra strap.

“Off,” he pants. “I want to feel all of you.”

You arch for him, and he peels the lace away, throws it somewhere behind him without a second glance. His mouth latches onto your breast immediately, tongue circling your nipple while he thrusts deeper now, rhythm gaining speed.

Your moan rips from your throat — helpless.

The room is filled with slick, obscene sounds. Wet kisses. The slap of skin against skin. His name. Your name. Every broken breath in between.

He fucks you like he never stopped wanting you. Like every other girl was just a placeholder. Like this is what he’s been chasing for years.

You meet him thrust for thrust, body to body, every part of you singing from the friction and the fullness.

“Jungkook—” you gasp, legs shaking around him.

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight.

“I’m close—fuck—I’m gonna—”

Your nails dig into his back. Your mouth finds his. Hot. Messy. Breathless.

And you both fall.

You cum around him with a strangled cry, legs locking, mouth open, his name your only word. He follows seconds later — hips jerking, body shaking, groaning into your mouth as he spills into the condom, both of you swallowed in heat and noise and everything you said you’d never feel again.

The room goes still.

Except your breathing.

And the heartbeat pounding between your ribs like a warning.

Your body is still shaking when he collapses beside you, skin damp and breath ragged, his palm pressed flat against your stomach like he needs to anchor himself to something that’s real.

Neither of you speak. Your lungs are too full of what just happened — of the heat still lingering between your thighs, of his scent on your skin, of the kiss still wet on your mouth.

And then—

He moves again.

You feel it before you see it — the subtle shift of his body behind yours, the press of his chest against your back, the way his hand slides down your stomach, lower, lower, fingers brushing over your still-sensitive slit with the softest, filthiest reverence.

Your legs twitch.

“Jungkook…” your voice is nothing more than a broken breath.

But he’s already hard again.

His cock slides against your ass, hot and ready, nestling in the curve of your body like it belongs there. Like it never stopped belonging there.

“I can’t stop,” he whispers, voice husky and wrecked. “Not yet. I need more.”

You don’t argue.

Because the truth is, so do you.

You feel the crinkle of another condom. The soft hiss of him rolling it on. And then—

He pushes in from behind.

This angle — lying on your side, body curled into his, his arm wrapped tight around your waist — it’s too much. Too deep. Too intimate.

You cry out softly as he fills you again, slower this time, his hips moving in lazy, grinding rolls that feel like velvet dragging through your core.

He groans low into your neck.

“Still so fucking tight. So warm,” he pants. “You’re made for me.”

Your hands scramble behind you, reaching for anything to hold. You find his hair, his neck, your fingers threading through damp strands and pulling him closer. His mouth finds yours again — messy, hot, upside down, your teeth clashing a little before they part.

The kiss is deeper than it should be. Slower. Desperate in a different way.

Like neither of you are trying to cum anymore.

Like you’re just trying to stay here.

He fucks you like he’s drunk on you — like your body is a drug he’s been forced to quit and now can’t get enough of. His hand slides over your breasts, then down again, gripping your thigh to tilt your hips back, opening you wider.

You whimper into the pillow, moaning his name over and over, helpless.

“Feel so good, baby,” he murmurs, forehead pressed to your shoulder. “I can’t—fuck—I can’t stop.”

You don’t want him to.

You’re shaking. Sweat-slick. Eyes wet.

You twist your neck just enough to kiss him again — messy, slow, tongues tangling mid-thrust, like your mouths can’t stay apart even now.

His pace stutters.

You feel him start to lose it, his rhythm breaking as you clench around him, your walls pulling him deeper with every snap of his hips.

And when you cum again — this time quieter, slower, your body trembling as you squeeze your eyes shut — he goes with you.

He groans your name into your skin as he spills into you again, the rhythm fading into soft, tired rolls of his hips, your bodies still locked together under the sheets.

For a long while, neither of you move.

You just lay there. Breathing. Tangled. Spent.

He kisses your shoulder once. Light. Almost careful.

And then sleep pulls you both under — not out of comfort, but out of collapse. Because neither of you came here looking for peace.

You just needed an escape.

And you found it in each other’s ruin.

✦

Your eyes snap open before your alarm ever has the chance.

The room is quiet. Dim gray light filters through blackout curtains. The sheets smell like sex and sweat and a mistake you swore you'd never make again.

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then it all rushes back.

The kisses. The way he moaned your name. His hands, his mouth, the sound of skin slapping skin. The taste of him on your lips. The way he said you’re mine without ever needing the words.

“Fuck,” you breathe, pressing your hand over your eyes.

You sit up slowly.

Your body aches in all the right ways and all the wrong ones — thighs sore, lips bruised, a pulsing between your legs that still flutters when you shift.

Next to you, Jungkook sleeps facedown. Bare, sprawled, shamelessly beautiful. The sheets only just cover his waist, one arm bent beneath the pillow, the muscles in his back stretching in long, carved lines.

You stare. Just for a second.

He looks so peaceful.

So unaware.

So dangerous.

You bite your lip. Hard.

Your fingers twitch with the urge to trace the curve of his spine, but you stop yourself. Because you don’t have time for softness. You have work.

You always have work.

Dragging yourself out of the bed, you start collecting your clothes — your dress crumpled in the corner, your heels under the chaise, your bra on the floor beside the door like a monument to your downfall.

When you catch your reflection in the bathroom mirror, you wince.

Mascara smudged. Lips bitten raw. Hair wrecked.

You look like a woman who had a night.

And in less than an hour, you need to look like a woman in charge of the most powerful editorial campaign of the year.

You move fast.

Cold water. Concealer. Lip balm. Breath mints. You finger-comb your hair and twist it into something sleek. But the problem isn’t the face — it’s the clothes.

Your dress is a dead giveaway. Wrinkled, short, undeniably last night.

You move to Jungkook’s closet.

Rows of Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Alexander McQueen. Racks of custom suits and silky button-downs. Not a single item designed for discretion.

But then — a structured black blazer. Boxy, masculine, clean-cut enough to pass.

You slide it on. It swallows your frame. The hem falls past your thighs, hiding your dress completely. You roll the sleeves once. Twice. Pair it with quiet confidence and a pair of sunglasses from the entryway table.

You almost look like a Vogue editor.

Almost.

You don’t let yourself look at him again.

You just close the door behind you, call a taxi, and vanish into morning traffic with nothing but your pride duct-taped together inside that blazer.

The office is already buzzing by the time you walk in.

People look up. Smiling. Bright. Warm.

“Y/N! Congrats again on the October issue—” “That cover is insane, seriously, you killed it—” “You must be exhausted after last night’s party!”

You smile. Say thank you. Pretend your skin doesn’t still smell like sex and Jungkook’s cologne.

One of the interns offers you coffee. You accept, gratefully.

You’re almost safe.

Until Kara appears.

“Wow,” she says, voice honeyed and loud. “You look… rough.”

The conversation halts like a car crash.

A beat of awkward silence. Someone clears their throat.

You look up slowly.

Kara smiles. All teeth.

“Late night?” she adds, mock-innocent. “Or should I say… early morning?”

You don’t answer. Just raise your coffee and keep walking.

But she follows.

Right into the main office hallway, right up to the boss’s glass-walled door — just as it opens.

Your editor-in-chief steps out. Sharp-heeled. Impeccably dressed. Eyes cutting.

Kara laughs softly and says, “She probably didn’t even go home. Just look — same dress as last night’s party. Slept over somewhere fancy, though. That’s not hers.”

You freeze.

Your boss turns to you. Stares. The expression is unreadable — but not soft.

“Y/N,” she says. “My office. Now.”

Your stomach drops.

You walk. Slowly. Kara watches you go, biting the edge of her thumb with a smile like she already knows she’s won.

Your phone buzzes in your palm.

Unknown Number: That blazer suits you. But you’ll have to pay me back eventually. Preferably not in cash.

Your pulse stutters.

You don’t have to guess who it is.

You just slide the phone into your pocket — and knock on your boss’s door.

part 2

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