~Ohnivy Opal~

Your second anniversary is just around the corner, and for the first time in weeks, you have something to look forward to. Something that, surely, he wouldn’t forget.

You let out a slow breath, staring at the untouched dinner on the table. It’s the third time this week you’ve set two plates, only to eat alone. The food has long gone cold, but you still can’t bring yourself to clear it away. Some foolish, desperate part of you still hopes Jungkook will walk through the door, pulling you into his arms, murmuring apologies against your skin.

But the door stays closed. Your phone stays silent.

You check the time—almost midnight.

He used to call. Even when he was busy, he always found a way to let you know he was thinking about you. A quick text. A voice note. Something. Now, hours pass without a word, and you’re left wondering when exactly you started feeling like a ghost in your own marriage.

You clench your fists, blinking back the sting in your eyes. This isn’t you. You don’t doubt him. You don’t overthink things. But these days, love feels a lot like waiting, and waiting feels a lot like breaking.

And you’re so damn tired of breaking.

You close your eyes, trying to remember the Jungkook from before, before work took over, before the distance set in. The man who, despite his quiet nature, always found a way to make you feel cherished. He wasn’t one for grand speeches, but his words had always carried weight. Small, simple confessions once meant everything. Now, silence is all you get.

It wasn’t always easy with Jungkook. Back in college, he was cold, reserved, a storm you could never quite predict. But little by little, he let you in. His love had been careful, deliberate, whispered promises in the dark, stolen glances across crowded rooms, fingertips brushing against yours like a secret only the two of you understood.

And now, it feels like you’re losing him.

The thought sends a sharp ache through your chest. You tell yourself it’s just work, that the weight of being CEO is heavier than either of you expected. That he still loves you, even if he doesn’t say it as often.

But love isn’t supposed to feel like this.

The clock hits midnight.

You don’t know what you were expecting. A text? A call? Maybe the sound of the front door unlocking, Jungkook stepping in, exhausted but still managing to hold you close?

But there’s nothing.

Your throat tightens as you stare at the small cake sitting on the dining table, the frosting slightly uneven, the decorations a little clumsy. You were never a good cook. Jungkook knew that better than anyone. But in the early days of your marriage, you had tried. Because back then, cooking together had been something special. Flour-dusted fingertips, shared laughter over burnt pancakes, stolen kisses between stirring batter.

So tonight, with him too busy and too stressed, you thought a quiet, cozy celebration would be enough. Something small, something just for the two of you.

But now, looking at the untouched dinner, the unlit candle, and the cake that no longer seems worth eating, you realize how foolish that hope was.

You glance at your phone—no messages, no missed calls.

You put away the plates. You put the cake in the fridge, even though you know it’ll probably stay there, forgotten.

And then you crawl into bed alone, wrapping your arms around yourself because if Jungkook won’t hold you, who else will?

----

You stir, feeling the warmth of an arm lazily draped around your stomach. The weight is familiar, and for a moment it feels like everything is okay.

Jungkook is still asleep. Shirtless, his toned chest rises and falls in steady breaths, his face soft in the morning light. His lips parted just slightly, making him look so much younger, so much more at peace.

You take your time looking at him, memorizing the exhaustion on his face, the faint crease between his brows even in sleep. He must’ve come home late—so late that you hadn’t even heard him.

Still, he’s here. Beside you. And that alone is enough to make something flicker in your chest.

Maybe he’s planned to stay home today.

Of course he remembers.

You can’t help but lean in, pressing a soft, loving kiss against his cheek. His skin is warm beneath your lips, and for a fleeting moment, everything feels like it used to.

Jungkook mumbles something incoherent, his brows knitting slightly before relaxing again. A small, sleepy noise escapes him, and the sound makes you giggle softly.

He stirs, his grip on your waist tightening just a little before his lashes flutter open. His dark eyes, still hazy with sleep, land on you, and for a second, there’s nothing but quiet warmth in them.

"You're up early," he murmurs, his voice thick with drowsiness. His thumb absentmindedly brushes over your waist, a touch so familiar yet so foreign all at once.

You smile, brushing a few strands of hair from his forehead. "Couldn't sleep much," you admit softly.

Jungkook hums in response, his eyes falling shut again for a moment. He nuzzles into the pillow, his grip on you still firm like he has no intention of letting you go. And for a brief, fragile second, the weight of last night, of the distance, of everything, seems to disappear.

Maybe he really did plan to stay home today. Maybe this morning means something.

Your heart clenches with the smallest trace of hope.

Jungkook lets out a long breath and shifts onto his back, stretching his arms above his head before blindly reaching for his phone on the nightstand. His warmth leaves your side, the air turning cold almost instantly.

You watch as his expression shifts, sleep slipping away as his screen lights up. His brows furrow, jaw tightening ever so slightly.

He mutters without a glance in your direction. "Shit, I need to get to the office."

The hope you held onto so desperately.. is gone.

Your mind scrambles to catch up.

Maybe he's kidding. This is definitely just one of his teasing games where he acts all nonchalant just to catch you off guard later. That’s how it used to be. Him pretending to forget something important, only to turn around and surprise you in a way that left you breathless.

You wait.

You wait for the smirk to tug at his lips, for him to toss his phone aside and pull you into his arms. You wait for him to kiss you insane, to murmur a husky "Happy anniversary, baby," against your skin.

You wait for him to prove you wrong.

But he doesn't.

Jungkook swings his legs over the bed, rubbing a hand down his face before standing up—grabs a fresh shirt from the dresser, checks his notifications again, already half-immersed in whatever work emergency is pulling him away.

The realization settles in too suffocating for you. He’s not playing or pretending. He really forgot.

And with that, the last flicker of hope inside you dies.

----

The sound of the bathroom door clicking shut barely registers in your mind. The faint rush of water follows soon after, but you’re still frozen in place, staring at the empty space where Jungkook was just moments ago.

Your fingers grip the sheets as you try to process it, try to make sense of the ache settling deep in your chest.

He forgot.

The thought circles endlessly, refusing to fade. It should be simple, just a mistake, something easily fixed with an apology. But it doesn’t feel simple. It feels like another crack in something that’s already been fragile for weeks.

Your gaze drifts to your phone, the screen lighting up with messages from friends and family. Warm wishes, sweet texts. All reminders of the day that Jungkook should have been the first to acknowledge. And of course, they must have messaged him too.

But you know the answer before you even have to question it. Jungkook has two phones—one for work, one for personal use. And these days, his personal phone sits untouched, collecting dust somewhere in the house while his work phone never leaves his side.

Your throat tightens.

Even if someone did remind him, would he have even seen it? Would it have even mattered?

You swallow hard, blinking against the sudden sting in your eyes.

Maybe you should say something. maybe try reminding him.

But a part of you, one that you don’t want to acknowledge—wonders if it even matters anymore.

You push yourself up from the bed, the weight in your chest making it harder than it should be. You don’t want to sit here, waiting for him to remember, waiting for an apology that might never come.

Just as you step toward the bathroom, the shower turns off. The door opens a moment later, as Jungkook steps out, towel slung low around his waist, droplets of water trailing down his toned chest.

For a brief second, your eyes meet. He looks at you, blinking away the last remnants of sleep, his expression unreadable. There’s no sign of realization, no flicker of guilt or hesitation. Just the same tired, distracted gaze you’ve been seeing for weeks.

You say nothing. Instead, you walk past him, entering the washroom to go about your usual routine. brushing your teeth, washing your face, anything to avoid the tightness in your throat.

The sound of the sink running is the only thing filling the silence between you.

By the time you step out of the washroom, Jungkook is already dressed for work. His tie is slightly loosened, one hand adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves while the other holds his ever-present work phone. He looks like he’s in a hurry, but that isn’t surprising. He’s been having breakfast at the office for weeks now—always rushing out, always too busy.

Still, you can’t grasp that he’s actually forgotten.

Some part of you still expects him to pause, to turn around and say something. But he doesn’t. He’s focused on his screen, scanning through emails like today is just another ordinary morning.

Your chest tightens. You need to look away before the emotions creeping up inside you spill over.

You settle at the table, opening your laptop like it’s just another workday. Since you’ve been working from home for the past couple of months, this isn’t unusual—but today, it’s not about work. It’s about avoiding him. About keeping your head down so he doesn’t see the way your hands tremble slightly.

If you act normal, maybe it’ll hurt less.

Maybe you won’t break in front of him.

And maybe, just maybe, if you pretend hard enough, you can fool yourself into believing it doesn’t hurt at all.

“Baby, can you help me with the tie?”

His voice is smooth- like every other morning before this one. Like today isn’t supposed to mean more.

You hesitate for half a second before standing up, walking towards him. Your fingers move automatically, looping the fabric, tightening the knot, straightening it against his crisp shirt. You should pull away the moment you’re done, return to your seat, to your laptop, to pretending like everything is fine.

But just as you step back, Jungkook’s hand catches your wrist.

Before you can react, he tugs you closer, his warmth enveloping you as his large hand cups the side of your face, fingers splayed against your skin. His touch is tender, his thumb tracing slow circles against your cheek, his dark eyes holding yours for a beat too long.

His mouth find yours.

Warm & lingering. He kisses you like he actually means it.

“Need it for good luck,” he mumbles lovingly against your lips.

You blink up at him.

Jungkook pulls back slightly, offering a small smile. “Big deal with the Kims today.”

And just like that, reality crashes back in.

Your mind struggles to process, to understand how he can be like this. How can he kiss you like this and still not remember.

His mind is somewhere else. His thoughts, his focus—none of it is here. None of it is with you.

You force a smile, nodding wordlessly. Because what else is there to say?

----

You stay where you are, settled on the couch with your laptop open, pretending that your heart isn’t sitting heavy in your chest, while Jungkook moves around gathering his wallet and keys.

Just as he’s about to leave, he steps toward you, bending down to press a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Love you,” he murmurs.

He’s already halfway through the living room before you even get a word out.

A bitter chuckle escapes your lips before you can stop it.

You remember a time when things were different. When he used to whine, pout, and nudge you relentlessly if you didn’t say it back right away, just to tease him.

Flashback

The movie playing in the background had long been forgotten, the dialogue drowned out by the soft moans slipping from your lips. The purple neon glow cast dreamy hues across the living room, painting Jungkook’s skin in shades of violet as he moved above you.

His fingers laced tightly with yours, grip tightening slightly as his thrusts grew more desperate.

“J-Jungkook…” you moaned softly, nails digging into his hand.

He groaned against your neck, his breath hot, voice wrecked. “Fuck, baby…”

Your body arched beneath him, pleasure building to something uncontrollable. “I—I’m gonna—”

“Come for me, baby,” he urged, sending you tumbling over the edge.

You both unraveled together, gasping, shaking, holding onto each other like the world outside didn’t exist.

Jungkook pressed lazy, loving kisses all over your face, his lips brushing over your cheeks, your eyelids, the tip of your nose. “You alright?” he whispered.

You nodded, a sleepy, satisfied smile tugging at your lips. But then he just stared at you. A little too long.

"I love you.” The words came out barely above a whisper.

Your eyes widened slightly, a playful grin tugging at the corner of your lips as you bit down on them, trying to contain your smile. He’d been saying it more often lately, slowly getting used to voicing what he felt.

But when you took a second too long to respond, he groaned dramatically, dropping his head into the crook of your neck like a kicked puppy.

“Say it back,” he grumbled.

“What?” you teased, laughing.

Jungkook huffed, then playfully bit down on your shoulder, just enough to make you squeal.

“Say it,” he demanded, his voice muffled against your skin.

Still giggling, you cupped his face and pressed a soft kiss to his nose. “I love you, you big baby.”

His grin was instant, arms wrapping around you as he pulled you even closer, like he could never get enough.

End of Flashback

Now, he just says it in passing. quick, thoughtless, already moving on.

The front door clicks shut, and just like that, Jungkook is gone.

You sit there, fingers motionless on your laptop’s keyboard as the weight of what just happened settles deep in your chest. He forgot. He kissed you, held you, told you he loved you, but none of it was because he remembered.

Is this what your relationship has become?

Work, work, work. Always work.

It’s not that you expect Jungkook to run behind you all the time, to ditch his responsibilities just to shower you with affection. Hell, you supported him through everything- through college, through late nights chasing his dreams, through every stressful moment leading up to him becoming CEO. You believed in him.

But what about your love? Your marriage? Communication?

You’ve been patient. Too patient. more understanding than any normal wife would be. And you know Jungkook. You know he loves you, would bring you the whole damn world if you asked. But then why—why are you beginning to question it all?

Jungkook stepped into the CEO position a few months ago. At first, things were fine. He handled it well, still made time for you. But then… everything became about work. Slowly, then all at once.

You can’t even remember the last time you had truly loving sex. Not that Jungkook doesn’t love you but it doesn’t feel the same anymore. There’s tension in his touch, frustration in the way he moves against you. It’s not the warmth, the desperation to be close to you like it used to be.

Is this how life is going to be from now on?

Sure, you could talk to Jungkook about your feelings. Tell him that the distance is starting to feel unbearable.

But when?

When he’s always checking his phone? When he barely even looks at you in the mornings? When you feel like you’re living with the CEO rather than your husband?

Well, happy anniversary to you.

----

Your gaze drops to your hand, to the delicate band wrapped around your finger.

Your wedding ring.

For the first time in a long time, you really look at it- tracing the intricate details, the subtle shimmer in the morning light. And suddenly, it feels… heavier. Like you’re only noticing the weight of it now, as if it’s trying to remind you of everything it once meant.

Before you even realize what you’re doing, your fingers slip beneath the band, sliding it off. It’s only when the cool air brushes against your bare skin that it hits you.

Your breath catches, eyes widening at the sight of the ring resting in your palm. You hadn’t even thought about it—you just did it. And now, staring at the small, beautiful piece of jewelry, something inside you cracks. Tears gather before you can stop them.

Jungkook had spent weeks searching for this ring. Dragged you to countless jewelry stores, analyzing every cut, every design, obsessed with finding the perfect one. And no matter how many times you had told him that anything would make you happy, he had refused to settle for less.

"It has to be special," he had murmured against your temple the day he finally found it, slipping it onto your finger with the softest smile. "Because you’re special."

A broken sob escapes your throat as you clutch the ring tightly in your palm.

How did you end up here?

----

Jungkook leans back in his chair, exhaling slowly as he watches the final contract details appear on his screen. The deal with the Kims had gone smoothly, better than expected, actually. It should’ve been a moment of satisfaction, of relief.

Instead, he just drowns himself in more work.

The hours blur together, his coffee going cold beside him as he moves from one task to another. Another meeting. Another report. Another email. The same routine, the same cycle.

It’s later than evening when a familiar voice interrupts his space.

“So you’re really here.”

Jungkook glances up, his fingers still typing as Taehyung steps into his cabin, arms crossed and a deep frown on his face.

“Hey, hyung,” Jungkook greets, barely looking away from his screen.

Taehyung scoffs, shaking his head playfully. “I really didn’t believe it when Yuna said you were still in your cabin.”

“Why?”

Taehyung gives him a look like he’s the biggest idiot in the world. “Y/N must really love you to let you work even today. My wife—dude, she would’ve killed me.”

Jungkook hums absentmindedly. “Mmm.”

Taehyung clicks his tongue, watching him for a second before letting out a chuckle. “Anyways, you’re still an asshole for working on your anniversary.”

Jungkook’s fingers freeze over the keyboard. The realization crashes into him all at once, like ice spreading through his veins.

Fuck.

Jungkook’s fingers hover motionless over the keyboard.

His mind races to catch up with Taehyung’s words, but they don’t make sense. Not right away.

Anniversary?

No, that can’t be right. His brows furrow slightly as he glances at the date on his laptop screen.

November 22.

His wedding anniversary.

For a second, he just stares, as if the numbers might shift into something else, something that doesn’t prove what an absolute idiot he’s been. His heartbeat picks up, but his body doesn’t move. It’s like his brain refuses to register it fully, like if he doesn’t react, it won’t be real.

He’d forgotten.

Completely.

Just an entire day of emails, meetings, and a deal he had been so damn focused on that he hadn’t even spared a single thought for you.

His wife.

But—no, that can’t be right. He would’ve remembered. He should’ve remembered.

His jaw tightens, his mind scrambling for some excuse, some reason. anything to justify how this happened. But no matter how many ways he tries to twist it, the truth doesn’t change.

You had expected something. Of course you had. And Jungkook had given you nothing.

Taehyung’s voice barely registers now, his casual teasing just background noise to the way Jungkook’s pulse is starting to hammer against his ribs.

His wife. His love. His anniversary.

And he had let it pass him by like it was just another day.

How the fuck is he supposed to fix this?

Taehyung squints at Jungkook, waiting for some kind of reaction. When Jungkook stays quiet, his fingers frozen over the keyboard, Taehyung lets out a sharp laugh.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.” He leans forward, palms flat on Jungkook’s desk. “You just realized, didn’t you?”

Jungkook inhales deeply through his nose, his jaw tightening. “Hyung, not now.”

“Oh, no. Especially now,” Taehyung shoots back, shaking his head. “Damn, man. Y/N must really love you to put up with this shit.”

Jungkook doesn’t reply, his mind already spiraling. He checks the time—late. The entire day is gone. He’s spent hours sitting here, drowning himself in work while you—

Fuck.

He pushes his chair back abruptly, grabbing his phone and shoving it into his pocket. His coat is next, yanked from the back of his chair as he moves on instinct.

“Whoa, whoa.” Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “So now you care?”

Jungkook levels him with a glare. “Hyung.”

Taehyung lifts his hands in surrender, though his smirk lingers. “Go. Try not to get divorced on your second anniversary.”

Jungkook doesn’t wait for another word. He’s already out the door, moving faster than he has all day.

And for the first time today, work is the last thing on his mind.

----

Jungkook’s mind races as he grips the steering wheel, his fingers tightening with every passing second. The city lights blur past, but all he can focus on is the suffocating weight in his chest.

How the fuck did he forget?

His phone vibrates in the passenger seat- probably another work email but for the first time in months, he ignores it. Instead, he swipes through his contacts, pressing the first name that comes to mind.

“Pick up, pick up,” he mutters, jaw clenched as the dial tone rings.

“Yes, Mr.Jeon?”

“Yuna.” His voice is rushed, urgent. “I need you to get me something. Flowers. A gift. Something big—just—fuck, anything.”

A pause. “Sir?”

“Now,” he snaps.

There’s a shuffle on the other end before his assistant hesitantly speaks again. “I…Mr.Jeon, it’s almost 10 p.m. Most places are closed.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair. Of course they are. Because he’s too fucking late.

His grip tightens around the wheel. “Just—check. Call whoever. I’ll pay whatever.”

“Understood,” Yuna replies before hanging up.

What the fuck is he even doing?

No expensive gift, no overpriced bouquet, no last-minute grand gesture can erase the fact that he forgot. That he spent an entire day drowning in work while you—his wife, his love, the woman who has stood by him through everything—sat at home, waiting for him to remember.

His hands clench the wheel.

How much had he missed? How much had he ignored?

And the worst part—the part that makes his pulse spike, that has panic clawing at his ribs is the question he doesn’t have an answer to.

What if you’re done waiting?

Jungkook slams his foot down on the gas.

He’s not losing you. He won’t.

----

Jungkook steps into the house, and immediately, something feels off. The air is still. The silence stretches, suffocating, pressing against his chest. Almost all the lights are off, the space eerily empty, like no one has been here for hours.

His throat dries. “Baby?”

No answer.

He frowns, dropping his keys onto the counter with a sharp clink. His feet move quickly, checking the kitchen, the living room, even the hallway leading to the bedroom. nothing.

A weird feeling starts creeping up his spine. His heart beats faster as he strides toward the bedroom door, only to find the bed untouched, the sheets exactly the way he had left them this morning.

You’re not here.

His pulse spikes, a cold sweat forming at the base of his neck. His hands tremble as he yanks his phone out, immediately dialing your number.

One ring.

Two rings.

Three.

Straight to voicemail.

His stomach drops. A shaky breath escapes him as he stares at his screen, the call log mocking him with the lack of response. His fingers tighten around the device, his mind spiraling.

Where are you? At this time of night, alone- where could you have gone?

The walls feel like they’re closing in on him. His lungs strain for air.

Then, another thought claws its way in, violent and unwelcome.

Did you leave?

No. No. His chest tightens, his breath coming faster now. That’s not—that’s not possible. You wouldn’t just leave him. You wouldn’t—

He swallows hard, shaking his head. Don’t go there, Jungkook. Don’t even fucking go there.

But the panic is already curling around his ribs, suffocating, unrelenting.

You’re not here. And right now, that is the worst fucking thing in the world.

Jungkook’s fingers tremble as he redials your number.

Voicemail. Again.

“Fuck.” His breath comes out uneven, panic clawing at his throat. His hands are clammy, his chest tightening with every passing second. Where are you?

His mind is spiraling now, every worst-case scenario flashing through his head. His jaw clenches as he swipes to his contact list calling your friends.

Each time, the same response.

No, I haven’t seen her.

Did you check with—

Wait, what’s going on?

Jungkook grits his teeth, his hand tightening into a fist. His breathing is shallow, his pulse out of control. You weren’t with your friends. You weren’t picking up. You weren’t home.

And he still had no idea where you were.

Jungkook grabs his car keys with shaky hands, his mind racing. He doesn’t know where to go, doesn’t have a plan. All he knows is that he has to find you.

His feet move on instinct, carrying him toward the door. But just as he reaches for the handle, something catches his eye.

A small glint.

His breath stills. His gaze shifts toward the couch, and that’s when he sees it.

Your wedding ring.

Sitting there. Abandoned.

For a moment, everything stops. The pounding in his chest, the rush of his movements. Everything.

The air in the room feels so heavy he might collapse. His fingers twitch at his sides as he stares at the delicate band, his stomach twisting into something painful.

You never took it off. Never.

Jungkook swallows, his throat suddenly dry. He steps forward almost cautiously, like touching it will somehow make this nightmare real.

His hand trembles as he picks it up, the cool metal pressing into his palm..

Jungkook stares at the ring in his palm, his vision blurring as a lump lodges itself in his throat. Tears burn at the corners of his eyes, his chest tightening painfully.

You wouldn’t just leave him like that… would you?

The thought alone knocks the air from his lungs. His grip on the ring tightens as his mind spirals, drowning in questions that only make the ache worse.

Were you thinking about this before today?

How long have you been feeling like this, so alone, so unloved that taking off your ring even crossed your mind?

A sharp breath escapes him, shaky and uneven. His knees buckle, and before he can stop himself, he’s sinking onto the floor, the weight of everything crashing down at once.

The ring feels heavier than it should, pressing into his palm like a cruel reminder of everything he’s neglected, everything he’s taken for granted. He squeezes his eyes shut, exhaling a slow, trembling breath.

He needs to find you. He needs to fix this.

Before it’s too late.

Jungkook exhales shakily, forcing himself to move. His legs feel unsteady, but he pushes through, gripping the wedding ring so tightly it bites into his skin.

Somehow, he manages to stand, his entire body tense with desperation. He stumbles toward the door, his heart pounding, his mind racing with every possibility of where you could be.

But just as his fingers reach for the handle—

The door swings open.

And there you are.

Jungkook freezes, his breath catching in his throat. His entire world narrows to the sight of you standing in front of him.

He crashes into you, arms wrapping around you so tightly it nearly knocks the air from your lungs. His grip is desperate, his hands fisting into your clothes, his entire body pressing against yours like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.

You stand there, stunned, your own arms hovering slightly, unsure of what just happened.

"…Jungkook?” your voice comes out confused.

But he just clings to you, burying his face into your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin.

You don’t know what’s going on.

But Jungkook?

He feels like he just got his heart beating again. You feel the way his body trembles against yours, his grip impossibly tight, like he’s holding onto you for dear life.

Then, the sound reaches you. A broken, uneven breath, followed by the unmistakable hitch of a sob.

Your heart clenches. “Kook…” Your voice is soft, laced with worry as you try to pull back, just enough to see his face. But he doesn’t let you. His arms only tighten, his body curling into yours, as if letting go would physically hurt him.

Panic bubbles in your chest, your hands instinctively reaching up to cradle his face, your fingers threading into his hair. “Hey… what happened?” Your voice wavers slightly. “Are you okay? You’re scaring me.”

But Jungkook just shakes his head against your shoulder, another shaky breath leaving him.

You don’t understand.

But whatever this is, whatever’s breaking him like this—your own heart aches just watching him fall apart. Your concern deepens with every shaky breath that leaves Jungkook. He’s still clinging to you, his body trembling slightly, his face buried against your shoulder like he’s afraid to let go.

You don’t know what’s wrong, but seeing him like this—Jungkook, your Jungkook—completely unraveling, is enough to make panic rise in your chest.

Gently, you pull back, your hands cupping his face. His skin is warm, slightly damp from his tears, and when his glassy eyes finally meet yours, your stomach twists painfully.

“Come inside,” you whisper, your voice softer now, coaxing. “Please.”

He swallows thickly, nodding ever so slightly, but his grip on you doesn’t fully loosen. You guide him inside anyway, one hand wrapped around his wrist as you lead him toward the couch.

He sits down heavily, elbows resting on his knees, fingers threading through his hair as he exhales shakily. His shoulders are still tense, his whole body radiating something raw and unspoken.

You kneel in front of him, reaching for his hands, but he doesn’t lift his head.

Your worry deepens. “Jungkook… please tell me what’s wrong.” suffocating silence stretches between you. His fingers twitch against his temples, his breath uneven.

“I—” His speaks as his voice cracks slightly. He swallows hard, gripping his knees. “I thought you left me.”

It takes you a moment to fully process the words he let out.

He thought you left him?

Your brows furrow slightly as you shake your head. “Jungkook, I was babysitting Hanuel.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, searching.

“Hana and Seokjin had a date night,” you explain gently. “They asked me to watch him for a few hours.”

Hanuel, your neighbour's son. Jungkook stares at you as his mind hasn’t caught up yet. You watch as his lips part slightly, his gaze flickering between you and the ring still clutched in his hand.

His fingers tighten around it, his knuckles paling. A beat of silence passes before he swallows thickly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“…then why was this on the couch?”

The question hangs heavy in the air, fragile and uncertain, as if he’s afraid of the answer. And for the first time tonight, you don’t know what to say.

“I..” The word barely escapes your lips before you stand up, turning away from him. You can’t meet his eyes, not when your emotions are still raw, not when the weight of everything is pressing so heavily on your chest.

Jungkook notices immediately. Panic flickers across his face, and in an instant, he’s scrambling up after you. “Wait—baby, please.” His voice is desperate now, thick with emotion, his hands reaching out like he’s afraid you’ll slip through his fingers.

“I’m sorry,” he breathes, stepping closer, his tone cracking under the weight of his own guilt. “I—fuck, I forgot—I don’t know how, I don’t even have an excuse, but—” He exhales sharply, shaking his head, his eyes glassy as they plead with yours.

“I never meant to make you feel like this,” he whispers. “I swear, I didn’t.” But you still don’t look at him. And that alone is enough to make his heart sink.

You swallow hard, your arms wrapping around yourself as you stare at the floor. His words, his desperation, his guilt—they all swirl around you, but they don’t erase the ache in your chest.

“Do you even realize how much this hurt?” Your voice is quiet, but the weight of it makes Jungkook flinch. “I spent the entire day thinking—hoping—that maybe you had something planned. That maybe you were just pretending to forget.”

Jungkook’s throat bobs as he steps closer, hesitating before reaching for your hand. You don’t pull away, but you don’t hold onto him either.

“I know,” he whispers. “I know I fucked up, baby. I—I was so caught up in work, I just…” He trails off, running a frustrated hand through his hair. “That’s not an excuse. Nothing is. I should’ve remembered. I should’ve been there.”

You let out a hollow laugh, finally lifting your gaze to meet his. “Jungkook… this isn’t just about today.”

His brows furrow, but he doesn’t interrupt.

You take a shaky breath. “It’s been weeks..maybe even longer—since I felt like your wife instead of just… someone waiting for you to come home.” Your voice wavers, but you push through. “And it’s not that I don’t understand. I do. I’ve always understood. But at what point do I stop being understanding and start being invisible to you?”

Jungkook’s breath catches, his grip on your hand tightening like he’s afraid to let go. “You’re not invisible,” he says, voice thick with emotion. “You never could be.”

“Then why do I feel like I am?”

Silence.

Jungkook shakes his head, his jaw clenching as he exhales unsteadily. “I never wanted to make you feel this way,” he murmurs. “You are everything to me, baby. Everything. I don’t even know who I am without you.”

Your eyes sting, but you force yourself to hold his gaze. “Then show me, Jungkook. Because I can’t keep being the only one fighting for us.” The vulnerability in your voice nearly breaks him.

He’s been losing you, piece by piece, for a while now. And he hadn’t even noticed.

Jungkook feels his stomach drop, the weight of your words hitting harder than any argument, any fight you could have thrown at him. His grip on your hand tightens, but you don’t squeeze back.

He’s losing you.

And it’s not because of one forgotten anniversary—it’s because he hasn’t been here.

He swallows hard. “Baby…” His voice cracks, his free hand reaching up to cup your cheek, but you step back before he can touch you.

The distance, however small, is enough to make his chest ache.

“Tell me, Jungkook,” you whisper, your voice barely holding together. “When was the last time we sat down and had breakfast together? When was the last time you really looked at me—not just kissed me on the forehead before rushing out of the door?” You shake your head, a bitter chuckle escaping. “When was the last time we made love without it feeling like you were trying to release your stress instead of loving me?”

Jungkook’s breath hitches.

You let out a slow exhale, your voice calmer now but even heavier with hurt. “I don’t need grand gestures. I don’t need fancy gifts or a picture-perfect romance. I just… needed you to see me.”

His entire body feels cold. Because the truth is—he doesn’t have an answer.

He’s been so caught up in his responsibilities, his work, his stress, that he’s let the one person who has always been there for him slip through his fingers.

“Fuck.” His voice is raw, his hands running through his hair as he looks at you, really looks at you. At the exhaustion in your eyes, the way your lips tremble slightly like you’re holding back everything.

His heart clenches painfully. “I fucked up, didn’t I?”

You hold his gaze for a long moment before whispering, “I don’t know, Jungkook. Did you?”

Jungkook's heart hammers too quickly as he stares at you, at the distance between you, the weight of your words suffocating him.

His hands reach out- cupping your face, his touch desperate, almost shaky. His forehead presses against yours as he exhales a trembling breath, like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I see you,” he whispers, his voice raw, strained. “I swear to god, I see you, baby. I just..I lost myself somewhere along the way, and I didn’t even realize I was dragging us down with me.”

His thumbs brush over your cheekbones, a silent plea laced in his touch. “I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.”

Your heart clenches, but you don’t push him away. You should- you should make him sit with this, make him feel what it’s been like for you all this time. But then his grip tightens, his voice breaking.

“Please, baby.” His lips hover just above yours, not quite touching, his breath warm against your skin. “Tell me it’s not too late.”

His vulnerability shakes you to your core.

You close your eyes, inhaling deeply, trying to steady yourself. “I don’t want to lose us either, Jungkook,” you whisper. “But I can’t keep being the only one holding on.”

Jungkook shakes his head instantly. “You’re not. You won’t be.” His lips ghost over your forehead before he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “Let me prove it to you. Please.”

His desperation is tangible, seeping into every word, every touch. And for the first time tonight, you wonder if maybe, just maybe—he really does see you now.

Jungkook watches you, searching for something—anything in your eyes that tells him he hasn’t completely lost you.

Before doubt can settle in, he takes your hand, pressing it over his chest, right where his heart is hammering wildly. “Feel that?” he whispers. “That’s what you do to me, baby. Always.”

Your fingers twitch against his shirt, but you don’t pull away. You don’t move at all, just staring up at him, your expression unreadable.

He swallows hard. “I know I don’t say it enough. I know I don’t show it enough, but fuck, Y/n—” His hands tighten around yours, his voice barely above a breath. “There is nothing in this world that matters more to me than you.”

You let out a slow exhale, your gaze flickering, like you want to believe him. like a part of you does, but the hurt is still too fresh. So he gives you more.

“I’ll fix this,” he promises, his thumb brushing soft circles over your wrist. “Not with some last-minute bullshit—but with me. With us.”

His voice drops lower, thick with emotion. “Just tell me it’s not too late.” Your lips part slightly, but you don’t speak. Instead, you finally—finally press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the way his heart beats erratically beneath your touch.

It’s enough to break something inside Jungkook. His grip tightens as he leans in, his lips brushing against your temple, hesitantly then to your cheek—as if he’s still afraid you’ll slip away.

And when you don’t, when you let him, he exhales a shaky breath, his forehead resting against yours once more.

“I love you,” he whispers. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Like if he says it enough, he can make up for all the times he didn’t. And maybe, just maybe—you’ll believe him again.

Jungkook’s breath is warm against your skin, his forehead still pressed against yours, his grip on you unwavering. His words linger in the air between you. raw, desperate, filled with a love that had always been there, even when he’d failed to show it.

You swallow hard, blinking against the tears clouding your vision. He’s waiting—watching you so intently, so hopelessly, as if your next words will either put him back together or completely shatter him.

You take a shaky breath. “Jungkook…” Your voice wavers, and his grip tightens instinctively. “I love you too.”

A sharp exhale leaves him, his entire body sinking slightly in relief. But before he can say anything, you continue. “But this hurt,” you whisper. “More than you realize.”

Jungkook stiffens, nodding quickly, his hands cupping your face again, his thumbs brushing away the tears that slip down your cheeks. “I know, baby. I know. And I hate myself for it.” His voice cracks, his jaw clenching before he presses a lingering kiss to your forehead.

You let your eyes flutter shut for a second, exhaling slowly. “I don’t want promises, Jungkook,” you murmur. “I just… I need to feel like I matter to you again.”

His hands tremble slightly as they slide down, wrapping around yours. He lifts them to his lips, pressing gentle, reverent kisses to each of your knuckles, his dark eyes never leaving yours.

“You do,” he whispers. “More than anything. And I’m going to spend every damn day proving that to you.” His voice comes out steady with a determined love.

and this time you don’t just hear him but believe him too. even if a little.

Jungkook presses another loving kiss against your knuckles. But before he can lose himself completely, you gently murmur, “Have you eaten?”

The thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. He shakes his head, gaze still searching yours. “No… I—"

“Go freshen up,” you say softly, stepping back just a little. “We’ll eat together.”

His fingers twitch against yours, hesitating to let go, but eventually, he nods. With one last glance—like he’s making sure you’re really here, he pulls away and heads toward the shower.

While he’s gone, you move to the kitchen, setting out dinner in quiet contemplation. The ache in your chest hasn’t completely faded, but there’s something else now-

a warmth that wasn’t there before.

----

By the time Jungkook emerges, hair damp, dressed in a fresh t-shirt and sweatpants, you’ve already placed the food on the table.

He hesitates for only a second before joining you, sliding into his chair. “Thank you,” he murmurs, voice softer now.

You nod, offering a small smile as you take a seat. The conversation is light, effortless. Jungkook fills the silence, stealing glances at you like he’s still memorizing you all over again. And through it all, his hand never leaves yours, his thumb rubbing slow, soothing circles against your skin.

After dinner, he helps with the dishes, working beside you in quiet understanding. The air between you feels lighter, yet still fragile, like something delicate being pieced back together.

Jungkook sets the last dish onto the drying rack, wiping his hands on the towel before turning to you. There’s a soft, almost hopeful look in his eyes, like he’s clinging to this moment.

You step away, hesitating for just a second before opening the refrigerator. Jungkook watches in silence as you carefully pull out the cake, placing on the counter, your fingers grazing the edges of the plate, before finally speaking.

“I…I’d made this.”

The words are quiet, but they hit harder than any raised voice ever could. Jungkook’s entire body stiffening as guilt crashes into him all over again. His eyes flicker to the cake- to the careful details, the effort, the thought you had put into it, for him. And suddenly, it feels like the walls are caving in.

His throat tightens. His fingers curl at his sides. He can’t look at you. He doesn’t deserve to. Tears gather in his eyes, blurring his vision, his heart breaking all over again, not just because he forgot today, but because he had broken you in so many ways without even realizing it.

And that? That’s something he doesn’t know how to forgive himself for.

“Jungkook..”, your voice barely above a whisper, but it cuts through the heavy silence like a knife.

He wants to look at you, wants to say something—anything, but he can’t. His head remains bowed, his hands gripping the edge of the counter, as if holding himself together takes everything in him.

You take a small step forward, the space between you feeling larger than it actually is. His silence is deafening.

“Jungkook,” you say again, a little firmer this time.

His lips part, a shaky breath slipping through, but no words come out. He wants to speak, to apologize again, to tell you how much he loves you, to somehow fix this- but his throat feels tight, his chest heavy.

He doesn’t know if words are enough.

“I… I’m so fucking sorry, baby,” Jungkook chokes out, his voice trembling as he finally speaks. His hands shake at his sides, his eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I’ve been an asshole—a terrible husband. I don’t even know how to make this right.” His breath stutters, his words spilling out faster now, raw and desperate.

“I wouldn’t even be surprised if you left me,” he continues, shaking his head. “You should’ve. You deserve better. I—I can’t believe I—”

“Jungkook.”

You don’t let him finish.

Instead, you reach up, cupping his face with both hands, your thumbs brushing away the tears that have already begun to fall. His rambling is cut off as you rise onto your toes.

A gentle kiss on his lips.

Soft. Loving.

Tear-streaked and real.

Jungkook exhales shakily against your lips, his whole body melting into yours. His hands find your waist, holding onto you like you’re the only thing keeping him upright.

The kiss is slow, there's no urgency. Just you and him, emotions bare. Tears continue to slip down your cheeks, mixing with his, salty and warm, but neither of you pull away. Because in this moment, there’s no need for words.

When you finally pull away, your forehead rests against his, both of you breathing heavily, your tears still wet against each other’s skin. Jungkook’s grip on your waist is firm as if afraid to let go. His lips part to speak, but before he can, you whisper,

“You’re not a terrible husband, Jungkook.”

Jungkook’s eyes glisten with more unshed tears, his lips pressing into a thin line, unable to speak. You wipe his tears away with your thumbs, offering him the smallest smile. “Just… love me better, okay?”

His throat bobs as he swallows hard, nodding again, more determined this time. “I will.” His voice is barely above a whisper, but you believe him.

You press one last gentle kiss to his cheek before stepping back, glancing at the cake still sitting on the counter. “Come on,” you say, nudging him lightly. “Let’s cut this before it melts.”

Jungkook lets out a breathy chuckle, wiping at his face as he nods. He steps beside you, his hand instinctively finding yours again as you both move toward the small cake. The two of you cut into it together, Jungkook’s fingers lacing through yours around the knife handle. He doesn’t let go, even as you both take small bites in comfortable silence.

Once the plates are cleared, you tug at his wrist, nodding toward the bedroom. “Come to bed?”

Jungkook exhales, relief washing over his features as he nods. “Yeah.”

A few minutes later, you’re both under the covers, warmth surrounding you as Jungkook pulls you against his chest. His arms wrap tightly around you, his breath fanning against the top of your head as he whispers,

“I love you.”

This time, you don’t hesitate to say it back.

“I love you too, Jungkook.”

And for the first time in weeks, you fall asleep in his arms, where you’ve always belonged.

Jungkook’s fingers still tremble against your skin. Even as he holds you, his grip is laced with hesitance, a silent fear lingering beneath the warmth of his touch. It’s in the way his hands press into your back yet remain careful, as if he’s afraid of holding on too tightly.

You can feel the erratic thud of his heart beneath your palm, his breaths uneven, his chest rising and falling as if he’s struggling to keep himself steady.

And something about that, about him—makes your own heart ache.

Slowly, you lift your head from his chest, your eyes locking onto his in the dim glow of the room. His lips part slightly, his gaze unreadable, but the moment you lean in, his breath catches.

You kiss him.

It starts soft, so gentle, full of longing. Filled with everything you can’t put into words.

Jungkook melts into it instantly, his grip on you tightening, pulling you impossibly closer. The warmth of his lips, the slight hitch in his breath when you press harder. It sends a familiar heat curling through you.

The kiss deepens, your fingers gripping his t-shirt with urgency, needing to feel more. It’s desperate, heady, the space between you charged with something deeper than just want—something raw, something that had been missing for too long.

Jungkook pulls back gently. His forehead stays pressed against yours, both of you panting softly, but his hands shake slightly as they hold you in place.

His lips part, his breath uneven. “I… we shouldn’t…” He swallows hard, voice thick with hesitation. “I mean… I don’t want you to think I’m gonna fix this with sex.”

His words cut through the haze of warmth between you, pulling you both back in reality. You understand. Because even now—even now, he’s afraid. Afraid that this isn’t enough, that he isn’t enough.

Your eyes soften as you take in his hesitance, the uncertainty in his gaze, the way his breath trembles against your skin.

You reach up, your fingers threading gently through his hair. “I’m never gonna think like that, Kook,” you murmur, your voice quiet but sure.

His lips part slightly, his brows still knitted in concern, but before he can say anything, you lean in again. This time, the kiss is softer, filled with nothing but love.

You linger for a moment, your lips brushing against his as you whisper, “I just… I need you.” Another soft kiss. “Please.”

Jungkook exhales sharply, his entire body shuddering under the weight of your words.

And just like that, whatever hesitation he had left—it’s gone.

Your breaths grow uneven as your lips move against his, the heat between you intensifying with every passing second.

Jungkook shifts, his body hovering over yours, his weight pressing down just enough to make you feel him. His hands slip beneath the oversized t-shirt you’re wearing, his touch still hesitant, fingertips ghosting over your waist like you're nothing less than fragile.

You tug at his shirt, a silent plea, and Jungkook obeys without question, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside. Before he can think, you pull him back in, capturing his lips in another deep, hungry kiss.

A quiet groan escapes him, his hands finally exploring freely, pressing against your skin, feeling the warmth beneath his palms. His lips leave yours only to trail down your neck, his breath warm as he presses soft, lingering kisses there.

You shiver when he reaches the collar of your shirt, your own hands moving to help him remove it. Dark, love-filled eyes roam over every inch of your skin, his lips parting slightly, as if he’s trying to find the words but nothing he could say would ever be enough. Still, he tries.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, voice thick with awe. “So fucking perfect.”

Your breath catches when he lowers himself again, his lips planting soft, reverent kisses along your collarbone, trailing lower over your shoulder, your chest. Your husband's mouth mapping you like you’re something sacred.

His lips slowly wrap around one breast, his tongue flicking teasingly before sucking softly. A moan escapes you, your fingers tangling into his hair, tugging lightly as he hums against your skin. His other hand moves to your neglected breast, his thumb brushing over the sensitive peak as he keeps mouthing sweet nothings against you.

“You’re everything,” he whispers between kisses, his voice muffled against your skin. “I love you so much, baby.”

And as the heat between you builds, his touch grows bolder. A desperate whimper escapes your lips as your fingers tangle deeper into Jungkook’s hair, your body arching toward him, silently pleading for more.

He groans against your skin, the sound low and warm, vibrating through you. “Patience, baby,” he murmurs, pressing another lingering kiss to your chest before trailing lower, his lips tracing the curves of your body. “Let me take my time… let me make love to you.”

The way he says it, love—makes your stomach tighten, your heart aching as much as your body craves him. His hands glide down your waist, slow and purposeful, before slipping between your legs. His fingers find the damp fabric of your panties, pressing just lightly enough to make you gasp. Your hips lift instinctively, chasing his touch, and Jungkook groans at the feeling.

His dark eyes meet yours, silently asking for permission. You nod, unable to form words, and that’s all he needs.

Hooking his fingers into the waistband, he tugs your panties down, dragging them slowly along your legs before discarding them somewhere behind him. His gaze never leaves you as he lowers himself further, trailing kisses down your stomach, over the sensitive skin of your hips.

He settles between your legs. You feel completely bare under his intense gaze, the way his lips part slightly, his eyes darkening as he drinks you in.

“So fucking beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice filled with something reverent, something devoted. His hands spread your thighs wider, his thumbs brushing along your skin in slow, soothing circles.

“My wife.”

The words send a shiver down your spine, making your core clench in anticipation.

Finally, he closes his mouth around you. One long, slow stroke of his tongue, and you fall apart instantly, a breathless moan slipping from your lips as your head tilts back against the pillows.

Jungkook hums against you, pleased, his hands gripping your thighs as he licks another slow, teasing stripe through your folds. “So fucking sweet,” he groans, the heat of his breath against your slick skin making your body tremble. “Gonna make you feel so good, baby.”

He isn't just making love, he's devouring you.

Jungkook hums against you, the vibration sending a shockwave of pleasure up your spine. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open as his tongue moves with slow, deliberate strokes. learning you all over again, savoring every little gasp and shudder that escapes you.

“Jungkook—” Your voice is breathless, almost pleading, your fingers tightening in his hair, tugging him closer.

He groans at that, the sound reverberating through your core as he laps at you with more purpose. His tongue flicks over your clit, teasing, testing, before he sucks gently, making your back arch off the bed.

“Fuck—” You whimper, your thighs threatening to close around his head, but his strong hands keep you spread wide, completely at his mercy.

His lips brushing your sensitive skin as he pulls back just enough to look up at you. His lips are slick, his dark eyes burning with desire.

Your cheeks burn, he dives back in, this time with more urgency. His tongue moves in tight circles, alternating between slow, teasing strokes and deeper, firmer licks that have your breath hitching.

One hand slides up your stomach, fingers splaying across your skin before reaching your breast, rolling a nipple between his fingers. The combined sensation makes your thighs tremble, a moan tearing from your lips as your hips buck against his mouth.

Jungkook groans, clearly enjoying how responsive you are, his grip on you tightening as he eats you out like it’s his last meal. He flicks his tongue over your clit again, then sucks, harder this time, sending sparks shooting through your body.

“-fuck, Jungkook—” Your head tilts back, eyes squeezing shut as the pleasure builds, coiling tight in your stomach.

He pulls back just enough to murmur against you, “You gonna cum for me, baby?”

The heat inside you is unbearable now, hot and consuming. You nod desperately, your moans spilling freely as you grip his hair, your body teetering on the edge. Jungkook doesn’t stop. He pushes you closer, his mouth working you over with expert precision, his hands holding you steady as your body starts to tremble.

“Come for me, baby,” he whispers against your heat. “Let me taste you.”

And with one final flick of his tongue, you shatter. Pleasure crashes over you, your back arching, thighs trembling as you moan his name like a prayer. Jungkook groans, drinking in everything you give him, his hands stroking your body as he helps you ride it out.

Only when your body goes slack does he finally pull away, pressing soft kisses against your inner thighs, his voice thick with pride and adoration. “You’re so perfect,” he breathes between kisses, his voice thick with adoration. “My love. My wife.”

Jungkook moves up, trailing kisses along your body, over your stomach, your ribs, your collarbone. When he reaches your lips, he captures them in a deep, languid kiss, his hands cradling your face like you’re something fragile, something cherished.

Your fingers roam over his chest, tracing the lines of his muscles before moving lower, brushing over his abdomen until you reach the hardness straining against his sweats.

A groan rumbles from his chest at your touch, his hips twitching into your palm as you cup him, feeling just how ready he is.

“Baby…” he breathes against your lips, voice thick with want. You tug at the waistband of his pants, wordlessly asking for more. Jungkook obliges, sitting back just enough to push them down, kicking them off entirely.

He’s fully hard, the sight of him making your stomach tighten, heat pooling between your legs again. But before you can even reach for him Jungkook takes your hand, intertwining his fingers with yours. The intimacy of it overwhelming.

His other hand moves between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance, his eyes locked on yours, searching, making sure-

With a final nod from you, he pushes in, slow and careful, stretching you inch by inch.

A soft moan escapes your lips, but Jungkook kisses you instantly, swallowing the sound, his own groan muffled against your mouth as he sinks deeper. The moment he’s fully inside, he stills, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing you in. And as he holds you close, as your bodies mold together so seamlessly, you realize- this isn't just sex.

This is home.

Jungkook moves slowly, each roll of his hips deep and deliberate, as if he’s trying to make up for every moment he let slip away. His body is pressed flush against yours, warmth seeping into every inch of your skin, his breath shaky against your lips as he kisses you between each movement.

Your fingers dig softly into his back, nails pressing just enough to ground yourself in the overwhelming sensation of him. One hand moves to his hair, your fingers threading through the strands, tugging gently as his lips travel from your mouth to your jaw, down your neck, planting soft, lingering kisses that make your heart ache.

It’s slow, it’s deep, it’s love.

A feel a faint tremble against your body.

Something warm and wet against your neck where Jungkook has buried his face.

Your breath catches as realization dawns- he’s crying. Tears gather in your own eyes without warning, the sheer weight of the moment crashing over you all at once.

You tighten your hold on him, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as you press a soft kiss into his hair. “Kook…” you whisper, your voice barely holding steady.

He shudders at your touch, at the way you hold him, like you’re not just letting him fall apart but falling apart with him.

“I—” His voice cracks as he exhales shakily, his thrusts faltering for a moment. “I’m so sorry, baby.” His lips find your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin as he presses kisses there—apology after apology, praise after praise.

“You’re everything to me,” he murmurs between kisses, his words thick with emotion. “You always have been.” A tear slips down your cheek as you cup his face, guiding him up until his forehead rests against yours.

“I know,” you whisper, voice trembling. “I know, Jungkook.”

His lips crash against yours again, the kiss slow and deep, his movements resuming, gentle but full of something raw, something unspoken. His hands grip your waist tighter, his body moving in perfect sync with yours, as if this moment is rewriting everything.

“I’ve got you,” you whisper, voice laced with love. “I’ll always have you.”

Jungkook shudders, gripping you tighter, his lips pressing against your shoulder, his movements slowing but never stopping. You can feel the love in every touch, every kiss, every whispered breath against your skin.

And when the pleasure builds to its peak, you come undone together, your bodies melting into one as waves of warmth crash over you. His name spills from your lips, his deep groan following right after, his arms holding you so tight you swear he never plans on letting go.

Silence lingers, only the sound of heavy breathing filling the space. Then, Jungkook shifts, lifting his head just enough to press the softest kiss to your lips.

“I love you,” he murmurs, voice hoarse but full of devotion. “I don’t deserve you… but I swear, I’ll spend my life proving that I do.”

You cup his face, your thumb brushing away the remnants of dried tears. “Just love me like this, Jungkook,” you whisper, voice steady. “That’s all I need.”

His hands tightening around you as his forehead presses against yours. “I’ll love you more,” he vows, his voice breaking slightly. “More than this, more than anything. Always.” His words settle deep in your chest, warm and real, and when he pulls you impossibly closer, tucking you into his arms, you believe him.

His heartbeat is steady now, no longer frantic with fear. Just warm, solid, home.

As sleep begins to pull you under, you hear him whisper one last thing against your hair.

“Happy anniversary, baby.”

he was young, not that much older than you and heart achingly handsome. when his eyes met yours, a strange warmth coursed through your veins.

matters of the heart were foreign territory for you. yes, you had heard about your roommate’s various talking stages and hookups, but you never thought this would be anything like this. your heartbeat picked up. you couldn’t take your eyes off of him and he hadn’t even said a word.

he nearly dropped his laptop bag on the podium, fumbled with the hdmi cable to his slideshow, making the screen flash blue. he muttered an apology.

professor jeon cleared his throat, “um—hello. good morning. i’m professor jeon. jungkook. i mean—or dr. jeon. either is fine. not jungkook. not just—anyway.”

he laughed nervously.

silence.

you stared.

he ran his fingers through his jet black hair. “this is my first semester teaching. so, um. be gentle.”

the class laughed lightly.

you didn’t. you felt something shift in your chest. not authority, not intimidation.

but tenderness.

you were hooked. 

art history became your favorite class. it met on tuesdays and thursdays from 5pm to 7pm. you heard your classmates complaining about how they were bored by the material, how the class was too long, but you just never understood why. 

you could listen to professor jeon talk for an eternity. the way his eyes lit up when he saw a certain brush stroke. how he talked with his hands when he was excited. how he fumbled with his hdmi cord, always having problems with the connection before every class. you’d always get up to help him.

“you had the magic touch,” he said to you one day, “you always fix it.”

you replayed that moment in your head for days.

a week into the course, he announced a new resource for you all: homework videos. he filmed them weekly to explain core concepts. 

“they’re probably unnecessary,” he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, “but i know the content can get…intense.”

you were the first one to watch the video the night it was uploaded. 

he was in his office, books stacked behind him. he stumbled over terminology, corrected himself mid sentence, and laughed awkwardly.

“okay,” he said in the video, “that made no sense. let me start over.”

you rewinded that part three times. you didn’t need the help. you have a 100%. 

but you watched every video. every week. the moment they drop. sometimes twice. sometimes to hear his voice.

you wondered if professor jeon had a wife. he was young, yes, but someone like him couldn’t be single. you imagined him with a woman, looking at her with the same brightness in his eyes he has when he talks about his favorite art pieces.

it made you sick. 

you wanted to be that woman.

when he sent an email to your class about office hours, you knew you had to be there. 

you didn’t have any questions. you just wanted to “clarify something.” he looked surprised to see you, like he expected no one to come. 

“oh! hi. it’s you—um. front row? hdmi?” he ran his fingers through his hair.

“yes, professor.” you smiled.

he gestured to a chair, “everything okay with the reading?”

you nodded. “i just wanted to ask about the emotional framing of the baroque martyrdom.”

he blinked, just staring at you for a moment.

you swallowed.

“that’s… actually a really great question.”

you talked for thirty minutes.

you noticed him relaxing with you. he smelled like fresh laundry up close, which somehow felt more intoxicating than any cologne would. 

by week three, you were there every monday. he started to expect you.

・・・・・

jungkook squinted as he reread your paper for the third time. 

the subject does not desire possession. only closeness. only the warmth of standing near something luminous and being allowed to witness it. 

he had that part circled since the first time he read it. something about it stuck with him in ways he couldn’t describe.

he knew educators weren’t supposed to have favorites, but if he was honest, he did and it was you. teaching at this university was a very impersonal experience and you were one of the only students he’s gotten to bond with. you were brilliant, your papers a delight to read. when you answered questions in class, he felt immense relief.

when he got excited to see you at office hours, he told himself it was because you were academically engaged. 

not because you sat too close.

not because you smelled vanilla and paper. 

not because of how your lip gloss caught the light.

and definitely not because he let his eyes wander to how your perfect legs would cross under your desk. 

you were beautiful. that was a simple, undeniable fact. 

office hours with you became the highlight of his week. 

you really listened to him. chin resting on your palm, eyes steady on his mouth as he explained to you, brows knitting together ever so slightly.

“so, in caravaggio’s work, the light is meant to…” 

you bit your lip in concentration. his brain short circuited.

he trailed off into silence, taking you in for a moment. heat crawled up his neck.

“dr. jeon?” you asked softly.

hearing his name come from your lips made his heart skip a beat. he ran his hands through his hair. 

“yes, i’m sorry. i lost my train of thought. what was i saying?”

you blinked up at him so innocently, adjusting yourself in your seat. you somehow ended up closer to him, “the light reveals what the subject can’t say.”

“that’s right.”

he stared at you for half a second too long. you made him feel smart. seen. important when he was so afraid of being seen as incompetent.

one day, he checked your name on the gradebook out of pure curiosity. you had the highest average by far. you didn’t need office hours. yet you never missed them. 

that night, he replayed his conversations with you. 

the way you looked at him. 

it’s not normal student interest. it’s softer. lingering. he swallowed.

you’re just enthusiastic, he told himself. but he knew what a crush looks like. he’s had them.

he disregarded that thought.

it was pathetic to think that someone like you wanted him. you were brilliant, beautiful, and had a bright future ahead of you. and most importantly you were his student. 

he was awkward, and you probably thought he was incompetent but were too nice to show it. he was projecting.

but a part of him wished he wasn’t.

at office hours that week, you showed him a draft of an upcoming paper. he stood behind you, scanning it over your shoulder.

he leaned down slightly, his hand gingerly rested on your shoulder. 

he could smell your coconut shampoo. he swallowed. his voice lowered subconsciously.

“this line stood out to me,” jungkook said. “the way you describe longing… it’s intense.”

you just nodded.

jungkook reread it.

the tragedy is not that he is distant. the tragedy is that he believes himself unworthy of being wanted.

something about that felt too personal. 

he pushed it down.

you followed the prompt, right?

it’s art analysis.

you couldn’t be writing about him.

that night, he couldn’t get the sweet scent of your shampoo out of his mind. 

when he finally got your paper in his hands on a late night in his apartment, he was very impressed. you were his star student, of course.

just his star student.

not the girl he counted down the days till he saw.

not the girl who made mondays his favorite day of the week.

not the girl who bit her lip when she was concentrating.

not the girl who made his body feel things he definitely shouldn’t.

just his student.

he loved reading your papers. your syntax was perfect and your analysis was refreshing. the prompt was about longing and devotion in the assigned piece. he wanted to see what you had to say.

but something was strange.

the cruelest irony is that he fears crossing a line that has already blurred.

his brows furrowed. 

what did that mean?

it was a stretch to say it was relevant to the piece.

jungkook leaned back in his chair, the paper still in his hands.

he read the line again.

the cruelest irony is that he fears crossing a line that has already blurred.

his stomach dropped.

that wasn’t about a painting.

that wasn’t about some baroque martyr suspended in dramatic lighting.

that sounded like—

no.

he shook his head and scrubbed a hand down his face.

you were just good at this. you wrote with emotional precision. that’s all. you were perceptive. intense. maybe a little dramatic.

he kept reading.

the viewer aches not because he is unattainable, but because he cannot see what she sees when she looks at him.

his throat went dry.

she.

not the viewer. not the audience.

she.

jungkook’s fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the page.

it was probably stylistic. plenty of critics used gendered language. it didn’t mean anything.

he forced himself to keep going.

he stands illuminated before a room full of people and still insists he is ordinary. that is the greatest misunderstanding in the composition.

his chest felt tight.

illuminated before a room full of people.

standing in front of a room.

insisting he was ordinary.

he thought about the way he apologized during his first lecture. the way he said be gentle. the way you had looked at him like he wasn’t something fragile but something worth protecting.

his pulse started to thrum in his ears.

this is ridiculous, he told himself.

he is projecting.

he is lonely.

he is reading into things because he wants to.

she didn’t mean it like that. 

but then—

he flipped back a page.

devotion often attaches itself not to grandeur, but to sincerity. to the quiet way he fumbles with cords before speaking. to the nervous laugh he cannot seem to outgrow.

his breath stuttered.

that wasn’t—

that couldn’t—

he actually dropped the paper this time, the soft rustle loud in his silent apartment.

fumbles with cords.

nervous laugh.

those were details.

not abstract traits.

details.

jungkook stood abruptly, pacing once across his small living room before running both hands through his hair.

no.

you wouldn’t.

you couldn’t.

you were brilliant. careful. disciplined. you followed prompts. you didn’t blur lines.

he was the one blurring them.

he was the one noticing how close you sat.

the one replaying your voice saying dr. jeon late at night.

the one counting down to mondays.

this had to be him reading what he wanted to read.

but when he picked the paper back up, his hands weren’t steady anymore.

the tragedy is not that he is distant. the tragedy is that he believes himself unworthy of being wanted.

his jaw clenched.

unworthy.

he had said that word before. not to you. never to you. but to himself. in the mirror. in quiet moments when imposter syndrome clawed at his ribs.

how could you possibly know that?

unless—

unless you were paying attention the same way he was.

unless when he thought you were just listening, you were seeing.

really seeing.

a slow heat crept up his neck, down his spine.

shock first.

then disbelief.

then something far more dangerous.

hope.

he sank back into his chair, staring at your name typed neatly at the top of the page.

you.

you with the highest average in his gradebook.

you who didn’t need office hours.

you who sat too close.

you who bit your lip when concentrating.

you who looked at him like he mattered.

how could someone like you—

want someone like him?

the thought made his head spin.

it was impossible.

and yet the evidence was sitting in his hands in twelve-point times new roman.

he pressed his thumb lightly over the line again.

fears crossing a line that has already blurred.

a line.

between what?

student and professor.

he inhaled sharply.

this was wrong.

this was dangerous.

he should shut it down immediately. draw a boundary. grade the paper objectively. pretend he never read between the lines.

but instead, he found himself wondering—

when you wrote he, were you picturing him?

when you wrote she, were you picturing yourself?

his heart hammered harder at the possibility.

that wasn’t academic curiosity.

that was desire.

he stood again, restless, pacing a second time.

this is inappropriate.

he is your professor.

you deserve better than his loneliness.

but the image of you at that desk, looking up at him with those wide, steady eyes, wouldn’t leave him.

what if he wasn’t imagining it?

what if you really—

he stopped that thought before it could fully form.

he dropped back into his chair and grabbed a red pen.

his hand hovered over the top of the page.

for a long moment, he didn’t write a grade.

instead, almost without thinking, he wrote:

see me after class.

he stared at the words.

his pulse thundered.

he had no idea what he was going to say to you.

he just knew he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t see it anymore.

and he couldn’t keep pretending he didn’t want it to be true.

he dreamt about you that night. 

・・・・・

see me after class.

your heart dropped. as you reread the line on top your paper.

no grade. just that written in red pen.

what could he mean? professor jeon loved to read your papers. he told you that it was a delight to grade them.

you had tailored your writing style to fit his tastes. to get the praise and approval from him that you grew to crave. the thought of him suddenly disapproving was heartbreaking.

you knew you couldn’t have him, but at least you had his professional admiration.

did you just lose that too?

that class was the first to feel slow.

professor jeon avoided eye contact with you, directing his attention away from the front row for the whole two hours. he called on other students, and pretended as if you weren’t there. 

you were addicted to his attention, and you could feel the withdrawals. 

when class finally ended, you stayed in your seat, looking over your notes as everyone else filed out of the lecture hall. 

he closed the door behind the last student and locked it.

you swallowed.

“professor, i—“

“one moment please,” his tone was colder than normal as he tidied up his podium and approached you.

you were silent, your heart pounding in your chest.

“i wanted to talk about your essay,” he went to sit in the chair next to you.

you looked down, fiddling with the hem of your skirt, “is it… inappropriate?” you were quieter than you wanted to be.

“no,” he said. you felts his eyes boring into you but you refused to look up. “just… very honest.”

the silence stretched.

“you write longing like you understand it intimately.”

that was when you looked up, meeting his searching eyes. your breath trembled.

“maybe i do.”

you had no idea why you said that. he slid closer. “is there… someone you’re writing about?” his eyes softened.

you couldn’t lie to him. “yes.”

his head tilted, “does he know?”

you studied his face. his skin was perfect, free from blemishes that you’d normally see from someone this close. his thin rimmed glasses slightly slipped down his face and framed his beautiful brown eyes.

you still couldn’t lie to him.

“i think he does now.”

the silence was suffocating. 

your heart is slamming against your chest. heat crawled up your neck. he could probably see the slight blush on your cheeks. 

professor jeon nervously laughed the way he does when he mixed up his words or lost his train of thought. 

you could hear the disbelief in his voice, “you’re… you’re brilliant.” he ran a hand through his hair, “you could have anyone.”

you leaned in, “i don’t want anyone.”

he slid closer.

“why me?”

his voice was raw, honest. his professor persona was gone, replaced with something softer.

“you look at me like i matter.”

that was his undoing.

he had never been the object of someone’s longing.

he was always replaceable. invisible. occasionally admired for his usefulness. 

and here you were—beautiful, bright, the top of his class, looking at him like he was sacred.

something snapped.

“this is a terrible idea,” he whispered. 

“tell me to leave.”

he couldn’t.

his hand moved, almost involuntarily cupping your cheek.

it was soft against your cheek. you melted into the touch. 

he inhaled sharply.

you kissed him first.

soft, uncertain. he froze for a moment, shocked. 

he caved.

he kissed you back, hands hovering over your waist. it was clumsy. breathless. desperate. you pulled away, stunned. he stared at you like he just jumped off of a cliff.

“w-we can’t do this,” he muttered. 

you grabbed his hands, guiding them onto his hips.

“then stop.”

he doesn’t.

you climbed on top of him, hips bracketing his. 

he kissed you this time. deeper, slower, memorizing. it was overwhelming for the both of you. you had never been wanted like this. 

then reality slammed back in. 

you were on campus. the door was unlocked. the building was probably empty, this was a night class, but it wasn’t empty enough. if anyone saw you, he would be fired and your scholarship would be in jeopardy.

the risk seemed to process in his head as well. you climbed off of him, expecting him to push you away. 

instead, he said, “we have to get out of here.”

we.

・・・・・

this was idiotic and jungkook knew it. 

you walked out of the lecture hall first, and he set a five minute timer to leave after you.

you met him in the empty faculty parking lot. the air was cool, the sky was dim. he unlocked his car with shaking hands. 

this was insane. 

you got in the car anyways. 

the moment the door shut behind you, he looked at you.

then it all started over. you gave him a kiss before buckling your seatbelt. it was urgent. his hands framed your face like he couldn’t believe you were real. he pulled back, starting his car. 

he was grateful his apartment was clean when you walked in. you stepped inside like it was sacred ground. he closed the door, locked it, and shut the blinds.

he just stared at you, nervously standing in his living room. 

“you deserve someone better,” he blurted, breaking the silence.

it wasn’t modesty. it was insecurity. 

“i don’t want better. i want you.” you said matter of factly.

he sat on the couch. you climbed on top of him again, gingerly positioning your clothed heat on top of his crotch. his hands hovered over your hips. 

“can i?”

you nodded. his hands rested on your hips, rubbing light circles that made you melt further into him. he kissed your again, his tongue curling with yours as your hips began to subconsciously rock into his. he didn’t stop it.

jungkook hadn’t done anything like this since he was in grad school, your touch making him realize how starved he’s been. he shuddered as your hips found a rhythm grinding against him. 

he tilted your chin up, trying to to deepen the kiss. you did your best to keep up, and he pulled back.

he pulled back, cupping your face. “relax,” he whispered, “let me.”

and when he kissed you again, you obeyed, melting under him as you let him take control of the kiss. he smiled into it.

you were always such a good listener. 

your hips began to rut into him faster and faster, clearly chasing something you didn’t fully understand. he noticed your movements were clumsy, uncoordinated, a coil tightening in your stomach that needed release.

his hands tensed on your hips, stilling you.

“easy,” he murmured, “let me help you.”

his fingers slid down, slowly inching underneath your skirt. “can i?”

you nodded, breathless. his knuckles brushed against your panties. you gasped, leaning into the touch.

“so responsive,” he made eye contact with you. “has anyone touched you here before?”

you shook your head, unable to form words. a possessive rush ran down his spine.

he slipped his hand into your panties, finding you soaked and swollen. you cried into the touch, hips bucking against his hand.

“shhh,” he soothed, his other hand  coming to cup the back of your neck, “i’ve got you, just feel.”

his fingers explored you slowly, deliberately. he watched every expression that crossed your face, cataloging your responses like he studied art. when his thumb softly massaged your clit, you whimpered and tried to grind against his hand again.

“p-professor…”

he slowed down, cupping your cheek. “look at me,” he coaxed.

you obeyed immediately.

“can you call me by my first name here?” he asked, thumb rubbing circles into your cheek. 

it felt wrong to you to call your professor by his first name. he was someone of greater knowledge. someone older. someone to respect.

someone with his hand in your panties as you sat in his lap. 

the way he studied you melted your heart. he stared at you with a reverence that you never thought you would receive.

you couldn’t say no to him.

“j-jungkook,” you whispered.

he felt himself twitch in his pants. something about the way it rolled off your tongue had him dizzy.

he cursed under his breath. “again, please baby.” he asked with pleading eyes.

that nickname made you shudder. you obeyed, “jungkook.”

jungkook gave you a quick kiss, “good girl. just my name. only my name.”

the praise was addictive.

he circled your clit with his thumb while sliding one finger inside you. you clenched around him instinctively, your body reacting to the foreign intrusion. the sensation made you whimper.

“baby…” he rested his forehead against yours, “you’re so perfect for me.”

you whined.

something in him snapped. he added another finger, pumping them in and out and stretching you while he rubbed circles on your clit. his doe eyes stared down at you.

his bottom lip trembled. “i can’t believe i let you sit in my office hours for weeks and didn’t know you wanted this. i-i tried my best to not look at you,” he rambled between open mouthed kisses to your cheek and her jaw, “you’ve always been so good to me… so sweet. i could’ve had you so much sooner.”

you gasped as he found the sweet spot on your neck. he took a moment to suck and nibble on it. “if i tried to touch you like this right in that lecture hall, you probably would’ve let me… just spread your legs and let me take what i wanted, right? because you want this as bad as i do, right?” 

you bit back a moan and nodded as the pace of his fingers picked up. the combination of the fingers and the pressure on your clit was overwhelming. your breath came out in short pants.

you came with cry, your body shaking as waves of pleasure washed over you. jungkook held you through it, his movements slowing as you rode out your orgasm.

when you finally gathered yourself, you were slumped against him, your face buried in his neck. you could feel his hardness pressing against you through his slacks. he removed his fingers, the loss making you whine.

you had never experienced anything like that before.

“did you like it?” he asked, his voice rough.

you were still staring at your lap, overwhelmed. he tilted your chin up with his finger.

“eyes up,” he corrected softly.

you looked up at him with wide, yielding eyes. he wanted to devour you. he wanted to rip all of your clothes off, bend you over on the couch, and take you over, and over, and over until you couldn’t walk. until the only thing you could say was his name. you were so eager to please that you probably would’ve let him.

but you didn’t deserve that. you deserved something sweet and slow.

he smiled at you, “we’re not done yet.”

he lifted you effortlessly, body going limp in his arms as you clung to his shoulders. you were in a daze and he could tell. 

jungkook didn’t waste any time. he opened his bedroom door, kicking it shut behind him with his heel.

the first thing you noticed about the room was that it smelled like him—sandalwood and old books. 

he laid you out on the bed like you were something precious, his soft mattress dipping under your weight. you stared up at the ceiling, your heart still hammering against your ribs, your skin tingling all over. your skirt rode up to your waist.

“look at you,” he murmured, “so pretty.”

he crawled onto the bed. your thighs spread instinctively. he noticed, grinning.

he positioned his head between your thighs, looking up at you as his fingers brushed your waistband.

“what are you doing?” you whispered.

he looked up at you, “can i taste you?”

your breath hitched, “…yes.”

he pulled off your skirt, unbuttoning your shirt and taking off your bra for good measure, leaving you only in your panties. he pulled back for a moment to take you in. you blushed.

he pulled your panties down slowly and tenderly, letting out a soft gasp as he saw the remnants of your orgasm slipped out of your panties and dripped down your thighs. 

“oh baby,” he said, “you made a mess, didn’t you?”

you whimpered. it was music to his ears.

“it’s okay,” he coaxed, taking off his fogged up glasses and setting them on the nightstand. “i’ll clean you up.”

that was when he bent down and licked a stripe against your sensitive flesh. your thighs instinctively closed against the sides of his head. he moved his hands to rest on your knees.

“keep your legs open,” he commanded softly.

the second swipe made you cry out, back arching off the bed. he groaned, the sound going straight through your core, feeling that coil tighten all over again in your tummy. 

“jungkook…” you whined, hands tangling in his hair.

“just relax,” he mumbled against you, vibrations sending shockwaves through your body. “let me take care of you.”

your back arched again, and he held your hips down. the restraint made you dizzy. 

he was a starving man, and you were the feast. he ate you out with desperate, enthusiastic hunger, his nose nudging against your clit as he lapped at you. he didn't just want to please you—he wanted to consume you.

you were melting into the mattress, completely overwhelmed. you wanted to grind against his face, to chase the friction, but his hold forced you to stay still. you were his to use, his to taste. you let him do all the heavy lifting, letting his tongue and his hands do the work while you just surrendered to the sensation.

you whimpered. high, helpless, embarrassingly sweet. the praise, the quiet command, it unraveled you faster than you thought possible.

he could tell.

your breathing turned ragged and your stomach started fluttering again, he sealed his lips around your clit and sucked. it was soft at first, then with steady, pulsing pressure. your whole body locked up. a broken little sob tore out of your throat as the second orgasm crashed through you, sharper and deeper than the first.

he didn’t stop.

he licked you through every aftershock, slower now, almost tender, until your whimpers turned into soft, overwhelmed sniffles. only then did he finally pull back, lips glossy, cheeks flushed, pupils blown so wide the brown was nearly gone.

he crawled up your body carefully, caging you without crushing you. his forearms bracketed your head. you could smell yourself on his mouth, on his chin, and the realization made fresh heat bloom low in your belly.

jungkook looked… ruined.

his hair was a mess from your fingers, shirt half-unbuttoned, chest rising and falling too fast. he stared down at you like you were the most devastating thing he’d ever seen.

“you’re shaking,” he whispered, brushing your hair out of your face. his thumb traced your bottom lip. “was that too much?”

you shook your head immediately, eyes glassy. “n-no… it felt so good…”

his expression softened into something dangerously fond.

he kissed you then, letting you taste yourself on his tongue. you moaned quietly into his mouth, small hands clutching at his shoulders like you were afraid he’d disappear.

when he pulled back just enough to speak, his voice cracked.

“baby…” he swallowed hard. “can i… can I be inside you?”

your breath hitched.

the question hung between you, heavy and reverent.

you wanted to say yes. you did want to say yes. but the sudden rush of everything, body over yours, the damp heat still pulsing between your legs, the sheer size of him pressing against your thigh through his slacks—made your brain short-circuit.

you stared up at him with wide, dazed eyes. lips parted. no sound came out.

jungkook’s face fell the tiniest bit. misreading your silence as hesitation, he started to pull back.

“i’m sorry—i shouldn’t have—”

your hands grabbed his shirt before he could retreat.

he froze.

you didn’t speak, just looked at him—soft, overwhelmed, trusting—and slowly shook your head no. not no to him. no to him stopping.

understanding flickered across his face.

he exhaled shakily. “you want me to keep going?”

a tiny nod.

“but you’re… you’re not saying anything.”

another tiny nod. your cheeks burned. you liked this, seeing the normally composed, fumbling professor come apart. liked the way his voice was starting to shake.

jungkook dropped his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard.

“you’re gonna kill me,” he muttered. then, quieter, almost broken: “please. sweetheart, please. i need to feel you. i need it so bad. i haven’t—fuck, i haven’t let myself have anyone since i was studying for my master’s. i buried myself in books and data and—and then you walked into my class and i… i can’t think straight anymore.”

his hips rolled once, involuntarily, grinding his clothed length against your soaked core. he groaned low in his throat.

“i’ll go slow. i swear. i’ll stop the second you want me to. just… please let me inside you. please.”

the please sounded almost pathetic. desperate. nothing like the quiet authority he carried in lecture halls.

and you loved it.

you stayed silent a little longer, letting him unravel.

his breathing grew uneven. he started pressing soft, pleading kisses along your throat, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“i’ll take such good care of you,” he whispered against your skin. “i promise. i just… i need you. need to feel how warm you are. how tight. please, baby. please say yes. i’m begging you.”

your heart squeezed.

finally, soft, barely audible—you breathed:

“…yes.”

jungkook made a broken sound in the back of his throat.

he kissed you fiercely once, then sat back just enough to yank his shirt over his head. belt. button. zipper. he shoved everything down and off in one impatient motion.

when he settled back over you, completely bare, your eyes widened.

he was… big.

thick. long. flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. the sight made your thighs tremble.

“i—i don’t think…” you whispered, suddenly small and unsure again.

jungkook noticed immediately.

he leaned down, cupping your face with both hands.

“hey,” he soothed, voice velvet-soft. “it’s okay. it’ll fit. i promise you it will. we’ll go as slow as you need. you’re so wet for me already… it’ll be so easy. is that okay?”

you swallowed. nodded.

he reached between your bodies, guiding himself to your entrance. the blunt head nudged against you—hot, slick, insistent.

“breathe,” he murmured. “just breathe for me.”

you did.

he pushed in barely an inch.

your breath caught. the stretch burned immediately. sharp. intense. you whimpered, fingers digging into his biceps.

“shhh, shhh,” he kissed your temple, your cheek, your lips. “you’re doing so good. so perfect. look at you taking me already.”

another slow inch.

the burn sharpened. tears pricked your eyes.

“jungkook—it hurts—”

“i know, baby. i know.” he stilled completely, trembling with the effort of holding back. “just stay with me. relax around me. let me in slow. you’re so tight… fuck, you feel incredible.”

he kissed you through it. soft, open-mouthed, distracting. whispered praise against your lips.

“you’re the most beautiful thing i’ve ever seen.”

“so good for me.”

“taking me so well even though it’s your first time.”

“i’ve wanted this for so long.”

little by little, the sting began to melt. the fullness turned heavy, aching, good. 

addictive. your hips shifted experimentally.

a soft moan slipped out.

his eyes fluttered shut. “that’s it… that’s my girl.”

he sank the rest of the way in one careful glide.

you both groaned.

he bottomed out, hips flush to yours, and stayed there—letting you adjust, letting himself feel every fluttering pulse around him.

“you’re perfect,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “so perfect. feel that? that’s us. just us.”

tears slipped down your temples—not from pain anymore, but from how full you felt. how wanted. how seen. he kissed them away.

“move,” you breathed after a long moment. “please… please move.”

he did.

slow. deep.

every drag of him inside you lit up nerves you didn’t know existed. the ache turned molten. sweet. you wrapped your legs around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer.

he groaned your name like a prayer.

“you feel so good,” he rasped. “so warm. baby, you’re squeezing me so perfect.”

you keened at the praise, nails raking lightly down his back.

“more,” you whispered. “please.”

he gave it to you—still controlled, still careful, but deeper now. harder. the bed creaked softly beneath you.

“look at me,” he murmured.

you did.

his eyes were liquid dark, reverent.

“i’m so proud of you,” he said, voice shaking. “letting me have you like this. trusting me. you’re everything. you know that? everything.”

your eyes fluttered. the coil was building again—different this time. deeper. all-consuming.

“jungkook—”

“i’ve got you,” he promised, hips rolling in that perfect grind. “come for me, baby. let me feel it. please, baby.”

you shattered.

harder than before. clenching around him so tightly he cursed under his breath. your whole body shook, soft cries muffled against his shoulder.

he followed right after, hips stuttering, burying himself as deep as possible as he spilled inside you with a long, broken moan of your name.

for several long minutes you just held each other. breathing hard. sweaty. trembling.

he pressed the softest kisses to your hairline, your closed eyelids, the tip of your nose.

“you okay?” he whispered eventually.

you nodded against his chest. smiled sleepily.

“more than okay.”

he exhaled, relieved. wrapped both arms around you and rolled so you were tucked against his side, still connected.

“stay,” he murmured, almost shy now that the urgency had passed. “just… stay with me tonight?”

you nuzzled closer, already drifting.

“always.”

the apartment was quiet in a way it had never been before.

not tense.

not forbidden.

just quiet.

the kind of quiet that settled after something life-changing.

you were wrapped in his sheets, hair messy, lips swollen, limbs pleasantly heavy. the world felt softer around the edges. unreal.

jungkook was sitting up beside you, chest rising and falling slowly, still trying to steady himself. he looked wrecked in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with disbelief.

you were looking at him like you had just discovered something sacred.

he ran a hand through his hair and let out a small, almost shy laugh.

“are you sure you okay?” he asked, voice lower than usual.

you nodded immediately. “perfect. all because of you .”

that made his ears turn pink.

he disappeared into the bathroom for a moment and came back with a warm cloth. the gentleness in his movements made your chest ache. he knelt beside you on the bed like you were fragile porcelain.

“let me,” he murmured.

he was careful. attentive. not clinical, but reverent. like this mattered. like you mattered.

you watched his face while he cleaned you up, the concentration in his brows, the softness in his eyes. he kept glancing up to check your expression.

“tell me if anything feels uncomfortable,” he said quietly.

you shook your head. “it doesn’t.”

he exhaled, relieved.

when he was done, you sat up slowly and took the cloth from his hand.

“my turn,” you said.

he blinked at you. “you don’t have to.”

“i want to.”

that softness again. that eagerness that kept undoing him.

you guided him back onto the bed, pushing him gently until he was the one lying down. he let you. completely.

there was something so vulnerable about him like that, broad shoulders against white sheets, hair falling into his eyes, chest rising steadily under your gaze.

you were just as careful with him.

your touch was slower, lighter, almost curious.

he swallowed hard.

“you’re staring,” he muttered.

“i am.”

he huffed a breath that might have been a laugh.

“why?”

you shrugged slightly. “i never thought you’d look like this.”

“like what?”

“soft.”

that made him go quiet.

when you finished, you tossed the cloth aside and crawled back toward him without hesitation. skin to skin. you pressed yourself against his side like it was instinct.

he stiffened for half a second. not because he didn’t want you there, but because he wasn’t used to it. not used to being held.

then his arm wrapped around you, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies.

you rested your cheek against his chest.

he smelled like clean laundry and something warmer now. something entirely his.

“was this okay?” you mumbled sleepily.

his arm tightened around you.

“yeah,” he said softly. “it was more than okay.”

your fingers started tracing idle patterns against his skin.

that was when you noticed it fully. the ink winding down his arm.

you lifted your head slightly, eyes scanning the dark lines and shaded details of his sleeve.

“i never thought you’d have tattoos like this,” you murmured.

he looked down at you, amused. “like what?”

“like this,” you repeated, dragging your fingertip slowly along the edge of one design. “i thought you’d have, like… a tiny minimalist one. something academic.”

he laughed, the sound vibrating under your ear.

“a tiny minimalist one?”

“maybe a paintbrush,” you said seriously. “or something pretentious.”

he laughed harder at that.

“i’m not that bad.”

you hummed, tracing another section carefully. “it’s pretty.”

“pretty?”

“yeah.” your voice was soft, sincere. “i liked that it didn’t match what people expected.”

he watched you with an expression that shifted from amused to something deeper.

“you didn’t seem surprised,” he said quietly.

“about what?”

“that i wasn’t what people expected.”

you rested your chin on his chest and looked up at him.

“i’d known that since the first day.”

his fingers slid into your hair absentmindedly.

“you were full of surprises too,” he murmured.

you smiled sleepily. “like what?”

“like how brave you were.”

you flushed at that.

“i was terrified.”

“you didn’t look it.”

you tucked yourself closer into him, your leg sliding between his instinctively. he inhaled softly at the contact but didn’t move away.

“i liked being close to you,” you admitted, barely above a whisper.

his hand stilled in your hair.

“i liked you being close,” he answered.

the room went quiet again, but it was different now.

comfortable.

your fingertip continued tracing the lines of his sleeve, slowly, carefully, memorizing. you followed each curve like you were studying something important.

he watched you the entire time.

like he still couldn’t believe you were there.

like he was afraid if he closed his eyes, you’d disappear.

“don’t look at me like that,” you mumbled without opening your eyes.

“like what?”

“like i’m going to vanish.”

his breath caught.

you opened one eye and smiled faintly.

“i wasn’t.”

his arm tightened around you again, pressing a soft kiss into your hair.

“good,” he whispered.

and for the first time since the line had blurred, neither of you felt like you were falling.

you just lay there, skin to skin, quiet and tangled together, tracing ink and memorizing warmth, like you had all the time in the world.

author’s note: this took forever to write bc i got super self indulgent😭 i hope you enjoyed it, i’ve had this idea for a while. thank you for reading<333

As the air began to wrap around Woojin, edges of his form started to blur, he glanced towards you one last time, “You’re still alive,” he said lightly, “that’s already impressive.”

“Don’t come back,” you snapped, “you prick.”

Woojin laughed so hard, you thought he must’ve been a psychopath, “I hope you’re wrong,” he said.

Then the space he had occupied folded inward, leaving the studio abruptly empty. The silence that followed was different than before, the room was no longer strained by too many demonic presences. 

Now there were only two of you.

You felt it immediately. The shift in the air and the way the room shaped itself around Jungkook alone, as if the world has decided he was the dominant force again.

You turned towards him.

Jungkook hasn’t moved from where he was standing, he was near the window, with his wings folded behind him.

“I don’t fear you anymore,” you said, “I despise you.”

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

You didn't mean to start a confrontation, but the words have been building since his conversation with Woojin.

You thought of what he said to his fellow demon, “the curse only lifts when a human develops affection toward me.”

"The curse only lifts when a human develops affection towards you," you confronted him, "isn't it?"

You took a small breath before continuing, "And you're expecting that eventually I'll develop affection towards you. I could never and I will never. Remember, I'm only here because the rent is cheap."

Jungkook didn’t look surprised, he was in fact not surprised.

He has been waiting for this reaction since Woojin left. He could feel the anger that has been building inside your tiny human body the whole time. 

He could feel it the way he could feel a storm in Kratos coming from miles away. 

"You're just angry," he said, "you don't mean whatever you just said."

"Oh, I do mean it," you replied, "you think if you stand there long enough, if you make yourself less threatening and more present, I'll adjust to you. You think the routine in this studio will do the heavy work for you and that I'll eventually stop reacting and I'll start tolerating you, hell, even developing feelings for you."

You let out a humorless laugh, then pressed a hand over your mouth and let out a puking sound because the thought itself made you sick, "Hell, maybe you even think I’ll develop feelings for you.”

His gaze stayed steady on you, "Tolerance is not the same as affection."

"It's the doorway to it," you replied, "you've said so yourself, proximity produces comfort and comfort lowers resistance."

Correct, Jungkook thought to himself.

It was satisfying to him that you were paying attention to what he says and does, which would either be useful or inconvenient to him, Jungkook hasn’t decided which yet.

Silence stretched between the two of you. 

Jungkook folded his wings, deliberately making himself smaller. Jungkook has learned centuries ago that making yourself smaller in the room was not the same as being weak, it was just a more effective option. 

Threats make humans run away, while restraint will push them to stay and try to figure out what is happening, you were already trying to figure out what he was.

Good, Jungkook thought to himself again.

He stood on battlefields before, yet now Jungkook was counting your small steps into developing affection towards him as a progress. It was always funny to him how the world works and how he ended up here.

"You say you could never," he said after a moment, "but humans never stick to their words."

"Not this one," you answered, "you are not a slow-burn romance waiting to happen. You're just a demon who happened to be attached to a lease agreement."

You hesitated only for a second before continuing, "And let's make something else clear. I will never sleep with you. Not by accident, not because of tension, not because you want me to develop affection towards you, and not because of empathy towards you, it will never happen."

Something changed in Jungkook's expression, he seemed taken aback. Not because sex was something he had never imagined as a topic coming from you as you were probably affected by what Woojin said. You were probably affected by it enough to bring it up to him.

It was also interesting to Jungkook the way you said it. It was like you had already imagined it happening, that was interesting to him. 

"You assume that is my objective," he said quietly.

"You're a demon bound by affection, you know physical intimacy usually leads to it. You would be foolish not to consider it a variable."

"I do not require your body," he replied, voice somehow colder now, "affection is not a biological reflex."

He took one step away from the window, not towards you, just away from the wall.

It was the smallest possible change in the room, yet enough to make the air shift. Enough to remind you, without any aggression required, that he was the largest and strongest thing in the space or maybe on earth, for all you knew. Though after what you had just learned since you've lived here, Earth no longer felt like a safe place. Not when there were other beings out there.

You can't even be sure that Jungkook's kind is not even the worst of them.

You didn't step back.

Jungkook took notes of that too. To him, you not stepping back meant you were learning to be around him.

The first weeks, you would have stumbled over your own feet if you caught a glimpse of his shadow. Now you stood your ground on legs that were still shaking.

That was not bravery. That was conditioning, his conditioning. You have been well-trained by him, whether you noticed it or not.

"You believe creating a distance will ensure your safety," he said, his voice quieter now, "very well, keep your distance. I have no intention of forcing you."

He let his gaze move over your face, your eyes, your nose, your mouth, then back up to your eyes. And he watched and felt your pulse jump in your throat.

You kept your expression very still.

Clever, Jungkook thought, but your body disagreed with your face. 

"Well if you’re keeping your distance," he said at last, "then my presence should not concern you."

"It does not and it never did," you replied.

That was the most dishonest thing you have said to him since moving in. He could feel the lie in the air the same way he could feel the shift in your beating heart.

Jungkook just nodded his head, giving you an acknowledgment of the terms just laid out between the two of you. 

The line you have drawn between you seems clear now. You believed you’ve finally conquered the demon, you believed it was your achievement to celebrate.

That was fine, that was exactly what Jungkook needed you to believe.

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You didn't sleep well after that.

Jungkook felt it. 

He could hear your breathing from across the room, the shaky breaths of someone lying still and thinking too hard. 

You were replaying the conversation in your head, and Jungkook didn't need to do anything or ask you to know that. He just had to listen to the way your heart is beating.

He sat by the window and waited.

In Kratos, patience was not a virtue, it is a weapon. 

You wait until your enemy exhausted themselves, until they make the first move out of desperation, until their uncertainty and their own impatience outpaces their discipline. Jungkook is not always the first to move on a battlefield, sometimes he let others come to him.

They always do, and Jungkook knew that you would too.

He clicked his tongue in the dark. 

Jungkook is feared across the whole of Kratos and now he was sitting in a human attic waiting for a school teacher to develop feelings for him. 

Seokjin knew exactly what he was doing.

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You woke up before your alarm even rang, your neck felt stiff but you couldn't just take the day off.

You saw Jungkook who was standing near the farthest wall from you. He was partially visible, not hiding, but just simply waiting for you to decide what kind of morning you wanted this to be.

"I know you're here," you said flatly, reaching for your phone, "I'm going to get ready and go to work."

He said nothing.

So you went to the bathroom.

Jungkook listened to the shower run and moved through the room while you were occupied. He has done this thousands of times since he’s been bound to this room. The difference was that this room has changed since you moved in.

It had a character now.

He could analyse what kind of person you were by the books you own and by the way your desk is organised with the lesson plans and notes of observations about each of your students. 

You cared more than you let people see. You noted everything down, and remembered it all so well. 

The shower turned off, and Jungkook moved back to the farthest wall from where you would be standing.

When you came out you walked through the studio, moving from the kitchen to your desk, to standing near your bed, giving yourself tasks so your mind had somewhere else to be and not the demon in the room. 

You leaned against the kitchen counter, preparing the first coffee of the day.

"Your coffee is going to be too strong," Jungkook said.

"I like it strong," you replied without turning around to look at him.

"You put in three spoonfuls."

"That's how I make it."

"That explains why you're always moving too fast."

"Are you criticizing my caffeine intake?" you asked.

"I'm observing"

"I don’t care for your opinions," you muttered back, "and I'd rather have this conversation after I've actually had the coffee you're criticizing."

You stood at the counter with both hands around the mug, not looking at him, and he stayed near the wall, not speaking, and the silence between you now was different from the silence of the first weeks.

You were now less afraid of him.

When you set the mug down and reached for your bag, you glanced towards him, "Last night," you began to talk then stopped. You picked up your keys and decided to not even bother talking to him, "Nothing, nevermind."

You stood there a second longer than you meant to, and he noticed the tension of your shoulders disappearing slowly.

"Bye," you said, before closing the door to leave for work.

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He spent the hours you were gone the way he spent the past years he’s been here, just being present in the room with nothing but his thoughts. 

Previously the absence of tenants had been unremarkable, but even if he didn’t like to admit it, without you the room felt different.

You came home around 6 PM, a little later than usual.

He heard your footsteps before you even reached the gate of the house. You were walking slowly on purpose and Jungkook knew it was because of him.

He heard the gate open, then the front door, then your voice in the hallway below, talking to the other tenants downstairs before you finally walked upstairs with your guard already up.

You opened the door to the studio and closed it behind you, and you just stood there in the middle of the room, still in your coat and your bag still on your shoulder.

The next few minutes, you were just standing in the middle of the studio with your coat still buttoned and your eyes fixed on nothing, like you have just forgotten what you were supposed to do next.

Your bag slid off your shoulder and hit the floor.

Then you sat on the edge of the bed, your fingers playing with the fabric of your coat.

"Hyunwoo drew a picture today," you said out of nowhere, “he's one of my students, he is six years old. He drew his whole family and left this big empty space in the middle, because his mum isn't there anymore."

Jungkook said nothing.

"He talked about it like it was just…  a thing that had happened," you pressed your palms flat against your thighs, "like she went somewhere, and sometimes he sees her, and that's just how it is. Hyunwoo wasn't upset, he just accepted it, the way kids accept whatever an adult gives them. I don't know why it hit me the way it did. I've heard worse from my kids."

"I think I was just already tired before that," you whispered quietly.

"Did the child seem distressed?" Jungkook asked. 

You looked up to where he was standing, you were surprised that he even responded to your rant that he probably couldn't understand.

"No," you replied, “that was the part that got me. He just... moved on. Finished the drawing and asked me if I liked his dog."

"Children adapt faster than people expect," his voice was almost comforting, "they haven't learned yet that they're supposed to fight what they can't change."

You looked at him for a moment before replying, "That almost sounded like something a person would say."

"I've been watching your kind for a long time, I know how your feelings work and it's getting boring now."

"Is that supposed to be an insult?"

The corner of his mouth moved, it wasn't quite a smile, more like a smirk and you hated that he looked so damn good. 

Are all demons just born good looking? You saw another one that wasn’t hideous as well, if anything his friend looked better than most humans, and by most you meant 98%.

You thought demons were supposed to be hideous, with horns, wings, and crocodile skin like the trolls in the Lord of The Rings. 

You looked down at your hands again to stop yourself from being amazed by a demon, "Can I ask you something?"

"You may."

"The people who lived here before me," you said slowly, like you were walking your way across thin ice, "the ones who stayed the longest, what were they like?"

Jungkook was considering how much information he should give you.

It shouldn’t be too much that you stopped being curious and approaching him, he ought to keep you wanting for more knowledge. But it shouldn’t be too little that you stopped asking altogether. 

"Different from you," he said.

"How?" you asked curiously. 

"Their fear moved in one direction, it built up stronger and stronger until it was too heavy for them to carry and then they just left after it gets too much."

You nodded slowly, "Did any of them ever talk to you?"

"One," he said, "she stayed three months, she used to talk to the room, to whatever was in here, and ask it to leave her alone. She was very polite actually," Jungkook couldn’t help but chuckle.

"What happened to her?"

"She got a job somewhere else, she left of her own accord."

"Did you make it harder for her to go?"

The question was direct, and he knew you wanted to understand the degree of what you were dealing with.

"No," he said.

"Why not?"

"She wasn't going to be interesting," he said simply, "there was nowhere for it to go."

"Jungkook," you muttered.

"Yes," he said, still looking at you.

"The curse, I'm not asking you to explain all of it, I just want to know what it costs you."

He let the silence linger for a moment before he answered, "Everything I was before it." 

"That must have not been easy," you said.

"No," he agreed, and his voice came out quieter than he intended, "it's not."

You stood up and walked towards the kitchen, you didn't want this conversation to go even deeper than it already was, "I'm going to heat up whatever Taehyung just gave me," you said, "and then watch something on the Telly."

"Probably something idiotic," Jungkook muttered.

"Very probably," you nodded your head at him.

"I’ll already know the ending, it’s so easy to predict," Jungkook said.

"Jungkook," you glared at him.

"It's obvious from the setup," he shrugged. 

"I know, but if you say it out loud, I will turn it off and go to bed," you said as you walked to the kitchen and you saw Jungkook smile.

Like a full on smile across his face, which you have never seen him do. 

Jungkook watched what his smile did to you, the way your chin moved up, the way you suddenly found something very interesting in him.

You might have been fond of him already, Jungkook thought to himself.

It wasn’t easy though for the Demon to smile. It took everything in him not to puke, but a Demon’s gotta do what he needs to do to escape this Heaven hole. 

"Go get your food," he muttered, looking away from you.

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You came back with a bowl of food and Jungkook was already sitting on the couch with his legs stretched out perfectly comfortably, like he has always been there. Which, technically, he had, he’s been here even longer than you. 

You didn’t know if you wanted to sit next to him, or just sit somewhere else. But the couch was yours as much as anything in this room was, and if you took the desk chair, you were giving something up that was yours.

You sat down on the other end of the sofa with your food on your lap, and there was a distance between the two of you.

You scrolled on Netflix and landed on Master Chef and immediately started playing and explaining it to Jungkook, "This show is basically people cooking food and trying not to cry, because they’re asked to cook it under time pressure,” you said.

"If humans cry because of time pressure during cooking, you guys have so much to be thankful for," he muttered.

You couldn’t help but roll your eyes at that, “the time pressure costs them being number one, being a winner."

"Doesn’t matter, you guys are just fragile in so many ways," he chuckled as he noticed the way you rolled your eyes at him again.

In Kratos, you would have died if you even talked back to someone as powerful as Jungkook.

"We contain multitudes," you said, and ate a bite of whatever Taehyung cooked as you laid back on the sofa.

As the episode continued playing, Jungkook watched it with half of his attention, one on the TV and one on you. The way the tension gradually left your body, the way you stopped pretending you weren’t relaxed.

Around twenty minutes in you tucked your feet underneath you, shifted your weight, and when you moved your legs, your knee was now closer to his side than before.

The two of you noticed the smaller gap, but proceeded not to care about it. Jungkook kept his eyes on the screen and just let the gap sit there between you, close enough to be warm and far enough to have plausible deniability.

The episode ended, and another one started automatically. 

About ten minutes into the second episode, your breathing slowed down and your head tilted toward his end of the couch. Jungkook looked at you for a few seconds, his eyes drifting from your neck, to the small furrow completely being gone from your forehead.

He couldn’t help but chuckle knowing that you just fell asleep so soundly and so immediately, on the couch too. If that’s not a sign of you slowly trusting him, you must be a very good actor, Jungkook thought. 

Jungkook reached over and pulled the blanket from the armrest over you. He did it before he finished thinking about it, and he stood there a second longer than he needed to.

Jungkook learned that acting caring towards you is useful, the small things like this is what makes humans.. love.

That was the sole and only reason he placed that blanket over you.

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You woke up on the wrong side of the sofa.

Yes, you fell asleep on the fucking sofa, and the first thing you did when you noticed wasn’t to look for Jungkook, but you were looking at the blanket first, then the silence, then the fact that the TV is off and the room is dark and you definitely did not mean to fall asleep here.

You stood up too quickly and tripped over the tangled blanket that had slipped to the floor.

Like any normal person, you reached out to find the edge of the couch, but you somehow couldn’t find it. And as you were falling, you tried to grab whatever furniture you thought would be near you, and you finally grabbed something that was not the couch.

But it wasn’t the couch or any other furniture for all that matters.

Instead, you felt a cold skin, a bone, and a wrist. 

Your fingers had already wrapped around it before your brain fully caught up, and the moment they did, Jungkook went completely still. 

It was like he was frozen in time and you were the only one in this house alive. It felt like to you that Jungkook was holding himself back. 

You blinked, and looked up at him.

Somehow even though your room was dark that you literally almost fell, the moment you looked at him, the moon started shining so brightly you could see his face so clearly.

Jungkook was right there in front of you.

You could see the line of his jaw, his eyes, and the way he was looking at you which was completely different from the way he would look at you normally. You didn't know what that look was, you just knew it was different.

God, he really is one handsome demon, you thought to yourself.

Neither of you said anything, even though his wrist was still in your hand. 

Jungkook hasn't moved it, hasn't moved at all to be exact. 

And your half asleep brain kept going back to how he could be across the room before you finished a sentence, and he was still here, right next to you, not moving.

Your heart was doing something fucking embarrassing.

Then his jaw tightened, just a little, and his wrist slipped out of your hand.

He walked, more like dashed, to the window on the other side of the studio, and stood there with his back to you.

You stayed near the couch with your hand still curved around nothing, just staring at it.

This was the first time the two of you have touched or been physically in contact with each other. And he is COLD, his body was so cold, as cold as a corpse.

And that took you by surprise, you assumed demons would have body heat especially seeing that they live in Hell. 

Hell, fire, all of that. 

And somehow, his body being cold made you sympathise with him, just a little.

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Don't.

Don't.

Don’t, motherfucker, Jungkook thought, referring to himself.

Hundreds of years. 

He hasn’t let anyone touch him in the hundreds of years he has been stuck in this studio. Jungkook had made sure of it, he kept just enough distance in every room and every encounter so that no one ever reached for him. 

Because the body remembers what the mind decides to forget. Jungkook has missed the touch of another, he has been missing all the mistresses he had. 

Your hand had been warm, and it somehow turned him on even more. He has never had sex with a warm body. 

Jungkook knew lust. He is a Demon, he was built partly from it, it is one of seven traits he was made of, and he spent hundreds of years learning in this studio to let it pass through him without wanting it.

Behind him, you cleared your throat.

"I'm-,”

"Go to sleep," he said, cutting you off.

"Okay," you responded quietly.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

He could hear you walk slowly to your bed and lie down. And he could even hear you pulling the blanket on your body. 

Jungkook hated humans.

He hated their noise, their softness, and their endless wanting for love and affection. He hated the way they filled rooms with their loud breath, like every part of their fragile body was begging the world to notice how weak they are.

He has never imagined sharing a bed with one.

The thought alone should have disgusted him. 

But your warmth had ruined something in him.

The moment your hand touched him, his whole body reacted. It was like his skin had been asleep for centuries and woke up all at once.

He wanted to tear himself away from it.

But he also wanted to kiss you.

It all started with one drink and a tradition neither of you ever meant to create.

You met Dean Winchester on a hunt that should’ve killed at least one of you. The kind of case where the air clings to your skin, thick with sulfur and rot, where the metallic scent of old blood seeps into your clothes and refuses to wash out. The kind where sleep becomes theoretical, where the motel mattress feels like it’s stuffed with wires instead of springs, and every time you close your eyes you see teeth, or claws, or the exact moment you almost didn’t move fast enough.

His father had sent him to work alone. That’s what he told you, so defensive, when you crossed paths in the middle of the investigation. He’d looked you over in one slow sweep, suspicious, unimpressed, and if he were honest, a little distracted. He only let you tag along because he thought you were pretty. Because you didn’t look like a threat. Because he underestimated you.

That lasted exactly until you shoved him out of the way of something with too many teeth and not enough skin.

After that, the way he looked at you changed.

Respect came first. Then something steadier. You became less of a distraction and more of a constant, someone who covered his blind spots without being asked. He liked to joke that you were the Robin to his Batman, tossing you that crooked grin like it was a medal. You always shot back that he had it backwards. He’d roll his eyes and call you a nerd, but there was pride there. Real pride.

When it was finally over—when the bones were salted, the bodies burned, the threat reduced to smoke curling into a black sky—the quiet felt heavier than the fight had. Adrenaline drained out of you, leaving behind only shaking hands and the hollow echo of what could’ve happened.

That’s when he knocked on your motel door.

Six-pack hooked through two fingers. Jacket slung over one shoulder. That half-smile curved across his mouth like armor he’d been wearing too long.

“It helps with healing,” he’d said, as if it were already tradition. As if someone had once told him that and he’d decided to believe it.

You didn’t argue.

From then on, every time a hunt went sideways or the memories got too loud or the weight of what you did for a living pressed too tight against your ribs, you ended up the same way: sitting on the scratched motel carpet with your backs against opposite beds, boots kicked off somewhere near the door, cheap beer sweating in your hands. The TV would glow blue in the corner, muted, casting shadows that flickered over Dean’s face as he talked nonsense, bad jokes, half-finished stories, complaints about bad diner pie or busted carburetors. You’d throw your own nonsense back at him, sarcasm and dark humor braided together until the sharp edges of the day dulled just enough to breathe.

It wasn’t healthy. You both knew that. It wasn’t healing, either. It was avoidance dressed up as ritual. But it was something. A quiet understanding that neither of you had to explain the nightmares or the guilt or the ghosts that followed you from town to town. You didn’t ask about the things that haunted him before you met, and he didn’t pry into the scars you carried under your jacket. You just drank, laughed too loudly, and let the world shrink to the size of that motel room until the morning came whether you were ready for it or not.

And when Sam Winchester joined the hunts—so tall, handsome, thoughtful, carrying books like shields—nothing about the tradition changed.

At least, not at first.

Sam didn’t drink the way you and Dean did. He’d nurse a single beer if pressed, more out of politeness than need, but he never stayed. While you and Dean sat cross-legged on the floor, bottles clinking together in careless toasts, Sam would linger in the doorway for a moment, watching with something unreadable in his expression. Concern, maybe. Distance. He’d offer a soft “Good night,” and retreat to the room next door, where the lamp would click off before midnight and the world would go quiet around him.

He rose with the sun. You and Dean sank with it.

Through thin motel walls, you could sometimes hear pages turning long after you and Dean had given up pretending the beer was helping. The soft thud of a book closing. The steady rhythm of someone who chose rest over running from his own head. And there was something about his refusal to drown himself the same way that made the air feel different once he was around.

Something in you shifted, too.

On hunts, you suddenly cared in ways you hadn’t before. You’d always been good, fast, instinctive, brutal when you needed to be, but now you wanted precision. You wanted understanding. You wanted to stand beside him and not feel like the loud one, the impulsive one, the chaos to his calm.

You double-checked research.

Memorized lore you would’ve skimmed months ago.

Practiced Latin incantations under your breath until they rolled off your tongue clean and confident.

You volunteered first.

You noticed the way his eyebrows lifted when you corrected a translation before he could. The flicker of impressed surprise when you connected a pattern in the disappearances before he finished outlining it. The quiet smile he gave you when your theories aligned.

You told yourself it was about being a better hunter. About honoring the expectations carved into you by your family. Be sharper. Be stronger. Be indispensable.

But it wasn’t.

And you knew you were completely gone the night you fought a vampire behind a hospital and ended up drenched in stolen blood.

The creature had ripped open a storage room, plastic bags bursting in slick, red explosions. The fight had been fast, violent. Hands, blade, teeth, bone. When you drove your weapon through its heart, blood sprayed in a hot, suffocating wave.

Sticky. Metallic.

Red soaking through your jacket. Seeping into your shirt. Matting your hair at the temples. It smelled like iron and antiseptic, like something sterile turned rotten. It clung to your skin in a way that felt impossible to wash off, sliding down your neck in slow, chilling trails.

Dean was laughing, breathless and exhilarated, already reaching for salt and fire. His boot nudged the body toward the trunk like it was just another Tuesday.

“Nice move,” he called, grinning. “You look hardcore as hell.”

But you—

You weren’t listening.

You were scanning the parking lot for Sam Winchester.

Your pulse had nothing to do with the fight anymore.

Red? Yes.

Disgusting? God, no.

Please no.

Your only thought, your only humiliating, traitorous thought, was whether you looked horrifying. Whether he would see you as monstrous instead of capable. Whether the blood smeared across your cheek made you look feral instead of strong. Whether this was the moment he’d realize you were too much, too sharp, too violent, too comfortable with the dark.

You wiped at your face, but it only smeared further, streaking your skin in uneven crimson lines.

You straightened your spine.

Slowed your breathing.

Tried to look unaffected. In control. Clean, somehow, despite the gore soaking into your collar.

And when he finally stepped into the glow of the parking lot lights, eyes wide for half a second before settling into calm assessment, you held your breath.

He didn’t recoil. He didn’t flinch.

He just walked toward you, slower than usual, gaze dragging over the blood-soaked jacket, the streak on your cheek, the tremor you were trying to hide.

“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly.

Not disgusted. Not afraid.

Concerned.

His fingers hovered near your arm before brushing it gently.

And in that moment, with your heart hammering, throat tight, breath caught somewhere between terror and relief...you knew.

You were kind of in love.

The quiet, dangerous kind.

The kind that didn’t explode or confess or demand. The kind that slipped under your skin and settled there, until everything you did started orbiting around it without you realizing. The kind that made you study lore twice, not because you doubted yourself, but because you wanted to impress him. The kind that made you smooth your hair in the reflection of the Impala’s window after a fight, checking for blood, for bruises, for anything that might make you look less worthy. The kind that made your chest ache in a way that felt almost physical when he laughed at someone else’s joke a little too long.

And your best friend wasn’t supposed to know that.

Never.

Not in a million years.

Not when you accidentally drank three—no, four—beers too fast because you saw the way that pretty girl you’d saved earlier leaned just a little too close to Sam Winchester outside the diner. The neon sign above the door had been flickering pink against the dark, casting a sugary glow over the gravel parking lot, and she stood there bathed in it like she belonged in a different genre entirely, soft cardigan, glossy hair, gratitude still bright in her eyes. She tucked a strand behind her ear and tilted her head up at him, smiling like he was something out of a storybook instead of a man stitched together by scars and motel dust. She looked at him like he was safe. Like he was gentle. Like he was the kind of man who could carry groceries, kiss foreheads and never once wake up screaming. Like he was hers for the taking.

You’d stood a few feet away with your arms crossed tightly over your chest, pretending you weren’t watching while absolutely watching everything. You tracked the way Sam shifted his weight, awkward but polite, ears going pink at the tips the way they always did when someone flirted too directly. He ducked his head slightly when she laughed, gave that shy half-smile that made your stomach twist into something painful and unreasonable. He didn’t flirt back, not in any deliberate way. He didn’t lean closer. He didn’t touch her arm. He didn’t give her anything you could point to and call betrayal to your own heart. But he didn’t shut it down either. He didn’t step away. He didn’t say he wasn’t interested. He just stood there, exactly the way he always was.

And when Dean teased him about it in the car later—“Sammy’s got admirers now, huh?”—Sam had rolled his eyes, fighting a smile he couldn’t quite suppress. You saw that too. The way his mouth twitched upward despite himself. The way he looked out the window to hide it. You noticed every detail with brutal precision, like your brain had decided to catalogue the evidence against you.

Especially the way he handled the number.

You watched him unfold the slip of paper once in the passenger seat, just glancing at it, and then refold it carefully along the same crease. Not crumpling it. Not tossing it onto the dashboard. Not flicking it out the window into the dark like it meant nothing. He slid it into the inside pocket of his jacket with absentminded care, like it might matter later. Like he might use it.

You told yourself you didn’t care.

But the beer tasted different after that. Bitter. Too warm. The carbonation clawed at your throat instead of soothing it, settling heavy and sour in your stomach. By the time you were back in the motel room, the air felt tighter, the walls closer, the hum of the air conditioner loud enough to scrape at your nerves. The TV’s blue glow was harsher than usual, too bright against the dimness, flashing across Dean’s face and the carpet and your hands wrapped too tightly around the bottle.

You found yourself talking more than usual, words spilling out faster than your thoughts could organize them, your voice edged with something sharp you couldn’t sand down no matter how hard you tried. You gestured loosely with the neck of your beer as if you were making some grand, rational argument instead of unraveling in real time.

“It’s ridiculous,” you muttered, staring at the wall instead of at him. “Girls flirt with the hunters who save them like we’re some kind of fantasy trope. Like we’re not covered in blood and trauma and sleep deprivation half the time. Like we’re not one bad night away from something crawling out of the dark.”

Dean hummed noncommittally, which only made you talk more.

“And somehow,” you continued, the words tripping over each other now, too fast, too forceful, “they manage to ignore me completely. Especially the one from the last town. Especially her. Like I wasn’t the one who dragged her out of that basement. Like I wasn’t the one who—” You cut yourself off, jaw tightening, because the rest of that sentence felt too revealing.

Dean was watching you over the rim of his bottle, his eyes narrowing just slightly, not in suspicion but in recognition. He knew you. He knew your tells. He’d seen you furious, sarcastic, exhausted, bleeding, but this was different. This was frayed.

“Ooh,” he said slowly, lowering the bottle and pointing it lazily in your direction, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re jealous. That’s what’s been bothering you all night.”

You scoffed too quickly, the denial snapping out of you before you could temper it. “I am not.”

“Uh-huh.” He leaned back on his hands, stretching his legs out in front of him like he’d just solved a puzzle. “So this is your way of admitting you’re in love with me?”

He was joking. Of course he was. That was what Dean did when things got too close to the bone. He deflected with humor, turned everything into something you could laugh at instead of sit with. He gave you an out.

But your brain didn’t catch the joke. It didn’t latch onto the grin or the playful tilt of his voice. It latched onto the ache blooming slow and unbearable in your chest. Onto the image of Sam’s shy smile under neon light. Onto the careful fold of that paper. Onto the terrifying certainty that you would never be the kind of girl who tilted her head sweetly and looked uncomplicated. You were blood and sharp edges and sleepless nights. You were the hunt. And he deserved something softer.

The words slipped out before you could cage them, before you could swallow them down with the rest of the beer burning in your throat.

You laughed.

It didn’t sound right. It didn’t sound like you. It sounded small and fragile and cracked down the middle.

“You’ve got the wrong brother.”

Silence fell hard and immediate, like something had been physically dropped between you.

For a second, Dean just stared at you.

Not laughing. Not teasing. Not deflecting.

The TV flickered blue across his face, carving sharp shadows along his jaw and catching in his eyes in a way that made them look almost glassy. The beer bottle in his hand hovered halfway to his mouth, forgotten entirely, condensation slipping down over his knuckles and dripping silently onto the carpet as the weight of what you’d just said settled into the room.

“You’re kidding,” he said finally.

It wasn’t a question. It was a lifeline tossed lazily into the space between you, an opportunity for you to laugh and say of course I am, Dean, relax, and let the whole thing dissolve into another one of your late-night almost-confessions that never quite meant anything by morning.

You wished it had been a question.

Your heart started pounding, slow at first and then violently, each beat heavy enough to feel in your throat, in your wrists, in the space behind your eyes. It felt like it was trying to claw its way out of your chest and physically shove the words back in, rewind the last thirty seconds, undo the damage.

Dean sat up straighter, the lazy sprawl gone from his posture. “You’re not kidding.

Silence again.

Your laugh this time was thin and brittle, like glass about to crack. “Dean—”

“How long?”

There was no anger in it. No edge. That’s what made it worse. If he’d snapped at you, if he’d rolled his eyes or made some crude joke to shove the whole thing back into a box, you could’ve hidden behind that. But he was steady. Serious.

You swallowed. Your mouth was dry despite the beer. “It’s not—”

“How long?” he repeated, quieter now, but firmer. Not demanding. Just needing the truth.

You looked down at your hands because you couldn’t look at him. There was still dried blood under your nails from earlier, faint and stubborn no matter how hard you’d scrubbed in the motel sink. It clung in the half-moons of your cuticles, a dark reminder of what you were, what this life was. You focused on that instead of his eyes, tracing the lines of your knuckles like they might offer you an escape.

“Since he came back,” you admitted finally, the words scraping on the way out. “Probably since the first time I saw him reading.”

You remembered it too clearly, the way Sam had been hunched over a book at the tiny motel table, lamplight catching in his hair, brow furrowed in concentration like the fate of the world depended on the paragraph in front of him. You’d stood in the doorway longer than necessary, watching the way his lips moved slightly as he translated something under his breath. It had been stupidly domestic. Stupidly soft. And it had undone you.

The confession felt like stepping off a ledge in the dark and waiting to see if there was ground below.

Dean leaned back slowly, dragging a hand over his mouth as he processed. You could almost see it clicking into place behind his eyes: every late-night research session where you’d insisted on double-checking Sam’s findings, every too-quick volunteer to ride shotgun when his little brother drove, every time you’d gone uncharacteristically quiet when someone flirted with him. The way you hovered half a step closer during fights. The way you always positioned yourself between Sam and whatever looked meanest in the room. Dean had probably chalked it up to loyalty before. To instinct.

Now he understood it wasn’t only because Sam was his little brother.

“Damn,” he muttered, not loudly, not dramatically. Just…absorbing it.

You braced yourself. For the teasing. For the accusation. For him to say you’d crossed some invisible line neither of you had ever spoken about but always respected, the unspoken rule about family and feelings and how complicated they made everything.

Instead, he looked wounded.

Not betrayed. Not furious.

Just hurt in a way that made your chest tighten.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, and there was something raw in it. “I thought you trusted me.”

That hit harder than anything else could have.

Your throat tightened until it hurt to speak. “Because it’s stupid,” you said, the words tumbling out unevenly. “Because it complicates things. Because you’re my best friend and he’s your little brother and this job already screws up enough stuff without me adding this to it.” Your voice wavered despite your best efforts to steady it. “Because if it goes wrong, I lose both of you.”

That landed.

You saw it in the way Dean’s jaw flexed, the way his gaze dropped briefly to the carpet before coming back to you.

“You wouldn’t,” he said automatically.

“You don’t know that,” you shot back too quickly, too defensively. “We talked about this. About what feelings could mean in this line of work. Distractions. Weak spots. We don’t do it. We don’t get attached like that.”

Dean scrubbed a hand down his face again, slower this time, like he was wiping away years of stubborn belief. When he looked at you again, there was something steadier there, something older than the teasing and the beer rituals and the jokes you both used as armor.

“You think I’d see you as weak for that?” he asked quietly. “That it would change how I see you?”

You didn’t answer.

The silence stretched just long enough to make it clear that you had, at some point, believed exactly that.

“Hey.” His voice sharpened slightly, not harsh but firm, grounding. “Loving someone isn’t always weakness. Especially not him.”

The words surprised you enough that you finally looked up.

Dean huffed out a breath, shaking his head faintly. “Sam’s…Sam. He’s the good one. The one who still believes in stuff. In people.” A faint, almost reluctant fondness tugged at his mouth. “You could do worse.”

Your chest ached in a way that felt almost unbearable.

“You’re not mad?” you asked, barely above a whisper.

He looked at you like the question offended him.

“I’m your best friend,” he said. “Not your father.”

Something in you cracked at that. Because he was choosing you. Choosing to understand.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely between them. “But you better be sure,” he added, softer now, the protectiveness creeping back in around the edges. “Because if you tell him and he screws this up, if he hurts you or you hurt him—” His eyes darkened. “That’s gonna be a problem.”

A small laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “You threatening your own brother and me at the same time?”

“I’m threatening anyone who makes you or him cry,” he corrected, without hesitation.

Silence settled again, but it wasn’t suffocating this time. It was heavy, yes. Complicated. Full of consequences and what-ifs. But not catastrophic. Not the end of something.

Through the thin motel wall, there was nothing but quiet. No footsteps. No movement. Sam’s lamp had probably been off for hours. He was likely asleep, unaware that his name had just reshaped the air in the next room, unaware that your heart had just been turned inside out on cheap motel carpet.

Dean nudged your boot lightly with his, a small, grounding gesture.

“So,” he said, a faint trace of his old smirk returning, softer now, almost careful. “You jealous of that girl, huh?”

You groaned and dragged your hands down over your face. “Shut up.”

Morning didn’t arrive gently.

It came like a threat.

Your alarm never went off, you woke up before it, jolted out of sleep with your heart already racing, as if your body had remembered before your mind did. Sunlight forced its way through the thin, sun-bleached motel curtains in harsh, unforgiving stripes, slicing across the room and straight into your eyes. It felt deliberate. Personal. Like the universe had decided you didn’t deserve a soft landing.

Your mouth was dry enough to ache. Your tongue felt too big. Your head throbbed in slow, punishing pulses that started behind your eyes and radiated outward, settling heavy at the base of your skull. Every tiny shift of your body made your stomach roll in warning.

You groaned into the pillow, pressing your face deeper into the scratchy motel fabric like you could suffocate the day before it fully formed.

And then it hit you.

Not just the hangover.

Everything.

The blood. The hospital lot. The sticky metallic scent that had clung to your hair. The beers. The motel lamp casting that low golden glow. The way the words had slipped out of you like they’d been waiting for years.

“Fantastic,” you muttered hoarsely into the empty room.

You dragged yourself upright, muscles protesting, and immediately regretted it when the room tilted violently to the left. You grabbed the edge of the mattress until the spinning slowed to a manageable sway. The air felt stale, thick with old beer and motel cleaner and last night’s confession still hanging somewhere invisible but tangible.

You forced yourself to your feet and stumbled to the sink. The bathroom light flickered on with a dull buzz, too bright, too white. You splashed cold water onto your face, the shock of it biting into your skin, dripping down your neck and soaking into the collar of your shirt.

You looked up despite yourself.

You looked hungover.

You looked wrecked.

Your eyes were rimmed red. Your hair was a tangled disaster. There was something different in your expression too, something unguarded, something exposed. Like you’d peeled back a layer and forgotten how to put it back on.

You brushed your teeth twice. It didn’t help.

By the time you stepped outside, sunglasses shielding your eyes from the mild morning light, the world felt offensively loud. Gravel crunched under your boots like gunshots. A semi roared past on the highway beyond the motel, the sound vibrating in your ribcage. Somewhere nearby, the ice machine groaned and clanked to life. The vending machine hummed with a low mechanical drone that drilled straight into your skull.

The Impala sat parked crooked near the ice machine, black paint gleaming in the morning sun like she hadn’t done anything wrong.

Dean leaned against the hood, one boot crossed casually over the other, coffee in hand. He looked unfairly functional. Annoyingly solid. Hair combed back. Clean shirt. Awake in a way that felt almost offensive.

“You look like hell,” he greeted as you walked toward him.

You didn’t remove your sunglasses. “If you value your life,” you said evenly, voice scraped raw from sleep and regret, “you’ll lower your voice.”

He grinned instinctively, but it faded a notch when he really looked at you. His gaze sharpened just slightly, scanning your face the way he did before a hunt, assessing damage.

“Drink some coffee,” he said, gentler than the joke. “Before you pass out and I have to explain that to Sam.”

Your stomach flipped violently at the name.

You moved past him toward the small outdoor table near his room and sank into the metal chair, the legs scraping loudly against the concrete. The sound made you flinch.

As if summoned by your dread, the motel room door behind you opened with a sharp click.

You didn’t turn at first.

You knew. You felt it.

Sam Winchester stepped out, keys in hand, sunlight catching the edge of his silhouette before he moved fully into view.

He looked rested.

Hair still slightly damp from a shower, curling faintly at the ends. A clean flannel stretched across his shoulders. Jeans sitting low on his hips. Awake. Put together. Fresh in a way that felt almost cruel compared to the wreckage inside your skull.

“Morning,” he said easily.

Your stomach dropped.

You forced yourself to look up.

And there it was, that softness in his eyes. That immediate, instinctive scan of your face. He always looked at you like that. Like you were something that needed checking on. Something worth noticing.

“Morning,” you croaked.

Dean coughed into his coffee to hide a grin.

You kicked him under the table without looking.

Sam frowned slightly, stepping closer. His gaze lingered on your face longer this time, cataloging the tight jaw and the way your sunglasses were doing more work than they should’ve had to.

“You okay?”

There it was.

That tone.

Low. Concerned. Uncomplicated.

Your brain, still fogged with alcohol and humiliation and the memory of Dean’s steady eyes last night, latched onto it like oxygen.

“Peachy,” you said weakly.

Dean lost the battle and laughed outright this time.

You kicked him harder.

Sam’s eyebrows drew together as he looked between you both. “What?”

“Nothing,” you and Dean said in unison.

You reached for the coffee like it was a life-saving IV. Your hands trembled faintly when you wrapped them around the mug. The heat bit into your skin. You welcomed it. You took a swallow too quickly and burned your tongue.

You didn’t even react.

You were hyper-aware of everything.

The way Sam’s arm rested loosely along the back of the chair. The way his knee bumped the metal table leg when he shifted his weight. The faint scent of soap and laundry detergent that followed him when he sat down across from you.

Did he still have her number folded in his wallet? Did he think about calling her? Did he replay last night the way you had replayed him?

“So,” Dean said casually, cutting into his breakfast with unnecessary force, the knife scraping too loud against ceramic. “Sleep good, Sammy?”

Your lungs forgot how to work.

Sam shrugged, reaching for his own coffee. “Yeah. Why?”

Dean took a slow, deliberate sip, eyes flicking toward you over the rim.

You stared at him through your sunglasses in clear warning.

He smirked into his mug but said nothing else.

Coward.

Sam’s gaze drifted back to you, slow and deliberate this time, like he was trying to read something written just beneath your skin. “You sure you’re okay?”

And God.

You wanted to scream.

Because he was looking at you the same way he had in that blood bank parking lot, when the night had smelled like copper and exhaust fumes, when your hands had been slick with someone else’s blood and you hadn’t even realized you were shaking until he’d grabbed your face. Both hands. Warm against your cheeks. Thumbs brushing under your eyes like he needed to see you clearly, needed to confirm you were solid and breathing and still there.

He had said your name like it meant something fragile.

Like it meant something his.

And now he was looking at you like that again.

Gentle. Concerned. Completely unaware that he was the reason your skull felt like it was splitting open. The reason your chest felt too tight for your lungs. The reason last night wouldn’t stop replaying in humiliating, slow-motion clarity.

You straightened slightly in your chair, forcing your shoulders back even though the movement made your head throb harder. You ignored the way your pulse jumped into your throat, betraying you, loud and uneven.

“I’m fine,” you said, softer now. Controlled. Just believable enough. “Just…drank more than I meant to.”

Sam’s mouth curved faintly at one corner, a barely-there smile that tugged more with his eyes than his lips. It was the kind of smile he gave when he didn’t want to tease, but couldn’t help it. The kind that always felt private. “You don’t have to keep up with him, you know,” he said, nodding toward Dean.

Dean scoffed immediately. “Rude.”

But you weren’t listening anymore.

Because Sam was still looking at you.

Looking.

The morning sunlight filtering past the motel overhang caught in his hair when he leaned forward to grab a napkin he didn’t need, the brown strands glowing faintly gold at the edges. His sleeve slid back slightly, exposing his wrist as his fingers brushed the edge of the metal table near yours. He didn’t touch you. Not quite.

But he was close enough that you could feel the warmth radiating from him.

Close enough that your skin felt aware of the absence of contact.

You wondered if he could hear how loud your heart was beating. If it was as obvious to him as it felt to you.

You wondered if Dean could.

Sam’s voice carried faintly as he stood and rounded the car, keys jingling in his hand. “Hey, I’m gonna run back in, left my phone charger on the nightstand.”

“Take your time!” Dean called a little too cheerfully.

You squeezed your eyes shut.

The motel door clicked open.

Then shut.

And just like that—

You were alone with your best friend.

And your headache.

Oh, and his question.

“You think he’d say no to you?”

“That’s not the point,” you shot back, a little sharper than intended.

“Then what is?”

You swallowed, the movement painful in a way that had nothing to do with the hangover. “The point is…” You exhaled slowly, searching for words that didn’t feel like stepping off another cliff. “If I say it out loud, it changes everything.”

Dean didn’t argue.

Didn’t joke. Didn’t brush it off.

Because he knew you were right.

The air between you thickened with that shared understanding. The vending machine beside the ice maker hummed steadily, the low mechanical buzz drilling straight into your skull. The smell of hot asphalt and stale coffee lingered in the air. A car passed on the highway beyond the motel, tires hissing against pavement.

Your head pounded in slow, punishing waves.

“Can you—” You stopped mid-sentence, pressing your fingers hard into your temples as if you could physically hold your skull together. “Can you get me a water? From the machine.”

Dean stared at you for a second, eyebrows lifting. “You’re avoiding the topic?”

“I’m dying,” you muttered.

He huffed out a reluctant laugh. “You’re dramatic.”

“Please.”

That did it.

He studied you for another beat, like he was debating whether to push you further, whether to keep prying at the fragile thing you were barely holding together.

Then he sighed. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Where would I go?” you said weakly, not opening your eyes.

Dean gave you one last assessing look before turning toward the vending machine. You heard the scrape of his boots over gravel. The faint metallic jingle of coins being dug from his pocket. The machine’s low mechanical hum shifting as he pressed the selection button.

“Don’t pass out,” he muttered over his shoulder.

“No promises,” you replied, voice thin.

The morning air felt too bright, too sharp against your skin. You leaned back against the brick wall of the motel, the rough surface cool against your overheated back. The texture scraped faintly through your shirt, grounding. Your head throbbed in slow, merciless pulses. You could still taste stale beer at the back of your throat, bitter and sour.

You let your eyes stay closed.

You heard the clink of coins dropping inside the machine.

The mechanical whir.

The heavy thunk of a bottle falling into the tray.

Footsteps approaching across the gravel.

You didn’t open your eyes.

Didn’t move.

You just lifted your hand weakly, palm up, surrendering.

Something cool pressed into it, a plastic bottle, condensation already forming, cold enough to sting your overheated skin. Your fingers curled around it instinctively, grateful for the shock.

And then—

Another touch.

Two small pills placed carefully into your other palm. The brush of fingertips against your skin was fleeting but deliberate. Warmer than the bottle.

You didn’t think about it.

“Thanks, Dean,” you murmured, voice rough and low, barely audible.

Silence.

Not the usual sarcastic comeback.

Not the low hum of his voice.

Just—

“You’ve got the wrong brother.”

Your eyes snapped open.

And there he was.

You bugged him until he spilled his guts out to you. Assuming you would think of him as a nonsensical idiot but you believed in him. Believing his story, believing that he wasn’t the one hurting animals and others but the monster inside his head, believing in the man underneath the layers of monster.

People didn't blame you for associating with him, they blamed him. Claiming he's corrupted you. “Poor Harrington, Creel's rubbed off on her and possessed her.”

Henry stood at the edge of the yard, hands shoved into his pants pockets, breath fogging faintly. He waits. Counts to three. The pinecone hits the glass with a soft tap. Nothing.

He sighs, bends down, grabs another one—slightly bigger this time—and tosses it. Tap tap. The sound is careful, practiced. A second later, the curtain shifts. You peek out, already smiling before you even see him properly. You push the window open just enough to stick your head out, hair loose. "You know," you whisper, stage-serious, "normal people knock on doors." Henry looks up at you, lips twitching. "Normal people don’t have a third thing living in their head."

You disappear for half a second, then the window slides open wider. “Get up here before you freeze,” you mutter, already clearing space. He climbs carefully, muscle memory guiding him more than thought. Hands on the sill, a small grunt leaving his lips as he pulls himself up. The second he’s inside, you rush to hug him but your hands hover instead.

“Can I touch you?” you ask, voice low, you knew his body temperature was lower than normal. Courtesy of the monster in his head; trying to worm his way into Henry's body. Your hands, on the other hand, were warm — normal human temperature but you still hesitated before touching him. Not because he was him. But because you didn't want to hurt him.

Henry wordlessly steps into your space, placing his face where your hands hovered. He closed his eyes feeling the burning sensation in him. His hands hovered on your sides unsure of what he should do with them. He wants to touch you, hold you closer but his body burns.

“You're freezing Henry,” You frowned. “I'm fine,” He mumbles a programmed response. You shut the window behind him. He allows you to guide him to your bed. You let him lay down. “We need to get your body temperature up,” you say gently, slipping under the covers next to him.

You pull the duvet close over you two. Henry felt his world shrinking into — cocooning him in a little world of fabric and warmth and you. He stiffens at first. The heat hits him all at once — too much, too fast. His skin immediately prickles, tiny beads of sweat falling down his back. His breath stutters like his body doesn’t know what to do with being alive this way. Somewhere deep in his skull, something recoils. The cold hates this.

He shifts, unsure where to put his arms, elbows awkward, like a kid trying to imitate something he’s only ever seen from far away. You don't give him time to spiral. You scoot closer until there’s no space left to doubt, pressing your legs against his, her chest against his, wraps one arm around his waist.

“Better?” “…Yeah,” he murmurs, even though his skin prickles. “Next time bring fewer pinecones,” you chuckle, resting your head against his shoulder. He huffs a laugh. “Next time open the window faster.”

Your warmth seeps into him stubbornly. It burns — not painfully, not yet — but intensely, like standing too close to a fire. His fingers ache where they rest against your skin, the contrast almost overwhelming. “I’m sweating,” he exhales shakily, embarrassed, half-laughing, half-panicked.

“I know,” you reply, tenderly, “that means your body’s remembering how it’s supposed to work.” That does something to him. The idea that his body could remember. That it isn’t permanently broken. He lets you talk about nothing and everything at the same time.

“Steve's been acting beserk lately, probably those teen hormones.”

“Mom and Dad won't return till the next month, again!”

“Speaking of them, you know, you can use the front door because they're not home.” “Where's the fun in that?”

“I think Julie and Sam broke up again, I heard her crying to Lily about it.”

Henry shifts uncomfortably, “I'm ruining your sheets.” “Sheets can be washed again, love. You're not doing anything wrong.” You move slowly to get some tissue from your bedside table. Henry watches you dab the sweat away that pooled at his forehead. You move again, to discard the tissue. This time you hand him a letter that was on the same table. “What’s this?” Henry asks.

He worried if it was a college acceptance letter. He always wondered if you'd accept some good college and leave him alone there. Though a part of him wished you'd do that because he's dragged you in his mess for too long. He'd figure himself out, maybe hide from that doctor or even go to the doctor himself and fix the monster out of him.

However, a part of him selfishly wished you'd never leave him. He feels the most sane around you. He feels the most hope around you. He feels like the most loved person around you. It's not like the monster doesn't exist around you. It does – fiercer than ever actually. But around you, Henry feels that some day he'll be able to get this monster out of him. Even though it's grappling and growing in him faster than normal.

He thinks that maybe, just maybe, he can be human like you. That one day he would really really really try that the monster in him won't hurt people and Henry would win against the monster.

"I know that monster messes with your memories alot so I wrote you a letter with our photos stuck on the back. So that you know that I love you and I believe that you wouldn’t hurt me. I want you to have some physical proof of me, so that you can stay strong forever," you admit. It's true that the shadow monster uses Henry's memories against him.

It turns his happiest memories into its most traumatic versions of it. The monster does it to weaken him. Once, it showed Henry that he hit you. He was horrified and haunted when you leaned into his touch the next morning. You sat there explaining what actually happened — he had laughed at your words and then kissed you. Never once did he lay his hands on you, never in an abusive way.

You sat there, untangling every memory. Telling him stories of the actual happening again, and again, and again. Even after it was burned in his memories. Allowing him to believe he wasn’t beyond redemption just because one of the many happy memories turned rancid at the hands of the shadow monster.

“Can I open it?” Henry asks, voice quivering. You wanted to refuse, you wanted him to read it at his home. Because a part of you was terrified that he may find the letter cringe, waste, too childish even. But you couldn't let this memory go rancid, any but this. “.. Yeah,” you whisper, cuddling closer to hide your face in his shoulder.

He follows your instructions. Eyes scanning past the curve of your letters. Every word seeped deep into his heart and ripping tears that threatened to fall from his blue eyes. His breath shuddered like he was waiting for the moment to turn sour. His fingers run over the polaroids of you and him. The polaroids were bit blurry and stupidly humane.

“Can I kiss you?” Henry asks with glossy eyes. You nod, your throat tightened like it forgot how to breathe. He moved to press his lips against yours — moments light as a feather. His lips are cold against yours, noticeably so, and he feels it before you do. That stark difference. Too-cold meeting warm.

The reaction is immediate.

Heat flares through him, sharp and disorienting, like he’s stepped too close to a flame. Perhaps he has because you're his saving grace even though the monster tried to isolate Henry from you. You still didn't walk away. Being close to you meant angering the monster and perhaps he was playing with fire. But Henry didn't care.

Because this heat — this closeness that burns in his soul — is what he’s heard love is supposed to feel like. Something that overwhelms you. Something that hurts a little and makes you want more anyway. But for Henry it’s more than that. It’s proof. Proof that you're real. That this isn’t a trick of the monster.

Henry once looked at you as if he feared falling in love fear-mongering in him that love would ruin him endlessly. But now, he's lost infront of you. Completely ready to lose himself in the fire of your love. The lights flicker, the monster inside his head is uncomfortably livid.

Henry just kisses you harder. Desperately trying to chase the burn. Miserably swatting his hands at the only feeling that makes him feel human. Because no matter what comes later, no matter what tries to take him apart, this is something he will carry with him. Forever.

His breath catches. Somewhere deep in his skull, something recoils. The thing inside him hates this. Hates the warmth. Hates the way his body responds to it instead of retreating.

You don't pull away when he gets intense, you never do. Your hands come up to his jaw, thumbs brushing over skin that’s gone numb one too many times, Henry kisses you again, sensation rips through him so fiercely it makes his chest ache. He runs his hands all over you — body pressing against yours. Trying to feel as much as he could of that burning sensation.

The monster wants cold. Stillness, isolation — Henry does the opposite. He leans in, kissing you harder, deeper, like he’s daring the thing inside him to try and take this away.

Every second of heat is rebellion.

His soul feels like it’s on fire, and he welcomes it. Because dreams don’t hurt like this. Lies don’t burn. Twisted memories don’t make his heart pound so hard it feels like it might split his ribs open. But this ache, this burn, this overwhelming feeling that's tiring him out means you're here. Right now, with him.

He presses his forehead to your when he has to breathe, eyes squeezed shut, shaking slightly. “You’re real,” he whispers, like saying it out loud might seal it into the universe. “I know,” you murmur back, steady and unafraid.