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Second Chance Romance - Blog Posts
✦ 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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