𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🐇་༘࿐

“Walk with me, Lady Ashwell.”

“I have not agreed to walk anywhere with you,” you answered.

“No,” he agreed, “you have not, but I suspect you will anyway. Your lady-in-waiting is watching us very closely from the gate, and if you turn around and leave after only four minutes, she will report it to your mother by supper and your mother will then tell the Queen, and neither of us wants to receive that letter.”

He offered you his arm, “Ten minutes, my lady. One walk around the fountain and I promise I will not smoke.”

You looked at his arm and then looked past him towards the gate. Daisy stood exactly where he said, watching the two of you without even trying to hide it.

You sighed before finally accepting his offer, “Ten minutes,” you did not take his arm, but began walking beside him anyway, “not a moment longer.”

“Understood,” Jungkook nodded. 

To Jungkook, it seemed only fitting that you were so detached from the real world, especially when your father was among the nobles on his kill list.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

a/n: this takes place on the night before

Last night, you spent several hours thinking about how to best ensure that the Queen’s plan of arranged marriage between you and the Duke of Jeon will never progress beyond its first meeting.

Sometime after midnight, you turned off the lights in your room and lit up a candle. With the candle on your desk burned down to its final parts of wax and a book lying open before you, you came up with three possible plans.

Plans you believed might drive Captain Jungkook into a realisation that you were entirely unsuitable for him.

All three plans were based on a conclusion you’ve found: soldiers and noblemen value dignity above nearly everything else. Men throughout the Kingdom of Leon also have this obsession for appearing to be in control. They liked their households to be orderly, wives agreeable, and reputations free from anything negative. 

This then led you to believe that there is no faster way to repel a man who cares deeply about dignity than to demonstrate that you have none yourself.

Therefore, a man such as Captain Jeon Jungkook who is disciplined enough to command an entire regiment, would surely find the idea of being seen beside a woman who did not know how to behave like a proper lady, entirely unbearable.

You see no flaw or logical fallacies in your plan.

Once your plan was put into action, Jungkook would return to his regiment that very evening, inform his men that the Queen has made an extraordinary error, and write to Her Majesty himself requesting that the arrangement be cancelled. This would spare you the trouble of writing a letter to the Queen.

You could even imagine the relief on your father’s face once the Queen cancels this arrangement as the match would end through no fault of House Ashwell. It would end solely because Captain Jungkook could not stand the strange behaviour of the Ashwell’s youngest daughter, which is fortunately for everyone involved, was something most people already expected of you.

After coming up with these plans last night, you felt rather satisfied with yourself.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

a/n: back to the present

Walking beside Jungkook now, with the trickling sound of the fountain nearby and the trees shielding the two of you from the grey sky above, you decided there was no better time to put the first part of your plan into action.

You raised your left hand, slowly removed the glove covering it, and began picking your nose in the middle of the park.

It was not something any proper lady ought to do in public, and certainly not in front of the man she was expected to marry.

And you had chosen to carry out this perfect plan with Captain Jeon Jungkook, Duke of Jeon, walking at your side with his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

Jungkook glanced at you and did not so much as blink.

Perfect, you thought to yourself. 

That single glance from the Captain was surely proof enough that your plan had work. Captain Jungkook is, after all, simply another man who imagined himself marrying the perfect lady, and the perfect lady does not pick her nose in the middle of a public park. 

So you have done it.

You have successfully driven him away from the thought of proceeding with this marriage and you couldn’t help feeling rather proud of the lady you’ve become. All those years spent reading and studying did not fail you. 

Education truly is the most powerful weapon.

Jungkook had to suppress his laugh. He was impressed by the lengths you were willing to go to avoid marrying him. To his credit, if Jungkook was not attempting to bring down the Kingdom of Leon and if he didn’t need you to be his pawn, Jungkook might have been equally determined to avoid marrying you.

He noticed the people passing nearby beginning to look at you. A woman slowed down as she walked past, one of the elderly gentlemen near the fountain lowered his newspaper, and many others were glancing at you. So it would not take long for the story to travel from the park to someone with access to the palace. Then, by evening, half of the city might believe that Lady Ashwell and the Duke of Jeon were entirely unsuited to one another. And by nighttime, the Queen might believe it too. 

Jungkook understood your plan perfectly. And as a Captain known throughout the kingdom for his strategies, Jungkook did what he believed was necessary to preserve a marriage that must proceed.

Jungkook lifted his right hand, removed the glove, and did precisely the same thing.

You first caught his movement on your peripheral view. When you turned your head towards him and realised what he was doing, you stopped walking. 

"What are you doing, Captain?" you asked. 

“The same thing you are doing,” Jungkook replied, “I have always wondered what it would be like to pick my nose in a public setting. Lady Ashwell, you are remarkably brave.”

You looked at him in disbelief, while Jungkook stared back at you entirely unbothered, as if this was perfectly ordinary, “Captain, may I ask how you are not bothered by my improper action?” you asked.

“Why should I be?” Jungkook said, “I imagine everyone wishes to break the rules occasionally.”

“It is common decency, Captain, to not to do such a thing in public,” you answered, reminding him of common etiquettes. 

“I have only just done the very same as you, Lady Ashwell,” Jungkook said, tilting his head slightly.

“I had an urge,” you replied, looking away from him.

“As did I,” Jungkook said.

You realised rather late that starting your carefully devised plan by picking your nose in the middle of a public park might have been too reckless an opening move. Even worse, it seemed to have failed entirely. Maybe, as a Captain, Jungkook has already witnessed sights far more unpleasant and improper than a lady picking her nose, and therefore found the act to be normal.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

So you moved to the second method you had devised the night before.

“Captain Jungkook,” you said, turning your head towards him, “perhaps this meeting would be more delightful if you could tell me a joke.”

Jungkook looked at you, surprised at the sudden interest, “A joke?”

“Yes,” you said, “something amusing.”

“I do not consider myself a particularly humorous man,” Jungkook replied.

“Oh, do try!” you urged, “surely the youngest Captain in the kingdom has at least one joke.”

Jungkook looked at you for a few seconds, evidently suspicious of the sudden request, before finally agreeing, “Very well, lady.”

Jungkook had to consider which joke a lady such as yourself would be most likely to dislike, then remembered one Seokjin had told him, “A royal physician once asked a knight, ‘Do you still talk to yourself?’”

Jungkook paused, allowing you time to think of an answer before continuing the joke, “The knight replied, ‘No, we had an argument.’”

You laughed, loudly.

It was an undignified laugh, far louder than the joke deserved, and ending in a snort so unrefined that even you were faintly startled by it. It was precisely the sort of sound your mother had spent years in your childhood training you not to make.

Surely such a loud and undignified laugh would be enough to make Captain Jungkook reconsider the marriage. There was simply no possibility that he would willingly spend the rest of his life with a woman who picked her nose in public and then laughed like a madwoman.

Once again, you felt rather proud of yourself. This was without question, the finest plan you have ever devised. You could not help offering a silent prayer of thanks to the Gods above for giving you a father who cared so deeply about his daughters’ education.

You were brilliant.

At least, that was what you believed until Captain Jungkook began laughing in precisely the same manner.

His laugh was loud, graceless, and followed by a snort, a few snorts even, that were so remarkably similar to yours that you stopped smiling altogether.

Jungkook understood what you were attempting to do almost as soon as the first unnatural sound left your mouth. You were not behaving badly because you lacked manners, but you were behaving badly because you wanted Jungkook to believe that you did, and Jungkook found this considerably more interesting.

It was funny to him that you spent the first minutes of meeting him insulting his profession, refusing his arm, and attempting to make yourself appear so unsuitable that he would withdraw from the arrangement himself. 

Jungkook glanced towards the people nearby. Several heads already turned to look at the two of you, and one woman was whispering something to her companion behind a gloved hand. If Jungkook appeared embarrassed, offended, or eager to distance himself from you, those witnesses would leave the park believing that the meeting had been a disaster.

That was precisely what you wanted, and what Jungkook could not let you have. So he laughed as loudly as you did, even snorted a few times, and then he looked at you as if he was completely entertained by his future wife.

Now, anyone watching would not see an ill-mannered lady humiliating a respectable Captain and Duke. They would see two equally strange people enjoying one another’s company.

Jungkook smiled at the horror spreading across your face.

Your plan did not merely fail, Jungkook has made it evident that the Queen’s matchmaking was once again, perfect.

“You are mocking me,” you said.

“We have the same laugh,” Jungkook replied, “though I understand your confusion to me mocking you. I imagine no one has laughed the same way you do before.”

“No one laughs in such a manner, it is entirely improper,” you added.

“And yet here we both are,” Jungkook said, “I would say that makes us rather well suited, would you not? Perhaps the Queen was onto something after all.”

“The Queen,” you continued, “has clearly never heard either of us laugh.”

“I should hope not. I do not believe Her Majesty could withstand it,” Jungkook replied.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

You narrowed your eyes at Jungkook.

You could not believe that a man such as him truly laughed that way. 

A Captain who carried himself with such irritating composure, who even sat straight while smoking, could not possibly possess a laugh that sounded so remarkably like your fake laugh. 

He was lying. You figured Jungkook had seen through your plan and decided to imitate you and you refused to allow him the satisfaction.

Very well, you thought to yourself. This was precisely why you had prepared a third plan, in case the other two did not work. 

You began walking in the strangest manner you could, swinging your arms with exaggerated movements.

Jungkook, without missing a step, adopted the very same walk beside you.

A fully grown Captain and Duke was now marching down the central path of Darlington Park like a clown. And beside him was another duke’s daughter doing precisely the same thing.

“This is ridiculous,” you said, finally coming to a stop.

“Entirely,” Jungkook agreed as the two of you began walking normally, “but I have concluded that you are considerably more interesting than the Queen’s letter suggested. I do not believe that was a compliment I wanted to give, so I would ask that you not enjoy it too much.”

"I am not enjoying anything," you said.

"Of course not," Jungkook said.

You passed the hedge the groundskeeper has abandoned as he focused on the two of you. Then you noticed the two elderly gentlemen had also by now given up every subtlety and were staring openly at you and Captain Jungkook. While another pair of young women walking arm in arm began whispering the moment the two of you passed them.

"I do not understand," you finally said frustratedly, "why can you not recognise the service I am attempting to do for us both?”

Jungkook glanced at you but said nothing.

“I am trying to spare you a lifetime of me, Captain. Of every ridiculous and improper thing I might do between now and whatever unfortunate day we are made to stand before an altar together,” you continued. 

You gestured between the two of you before adding, “I am offering you the opportunity to walk away with your dignity entirely intact and inform the Queen that we are catastrophically unsuited to one another. You could be free of this arrangement within the week, if only you would cooperate instead of imitating every foolish thing I attempt.”

In another life, Jungkook might have thanked you for the escape you were offering him. But not in this one.

In this life, he had a kingdom to overthrow, and however little he liked you, he needed the marriage to proceed.

"Marriage with me wouldn't be so bad," Jungkook said.

"Yes," you muttered, "you are right. It would be worse."

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

You have barely taken two steps when a voice called the two of you from the direction of the gate.

“Captain Jeon! And Lady Ashwell, is it not?”

You and Jungkook turned around to find a man approaching the two of you. He wore a finely tailored grey coat and carried a walking stick, swinging it with unnecessary enthusiasm. 

You didn’t recognise him immediately, but your sister Margot had mentioned him once or twice over dinner, though it took awhile for you to remember who he was. 

“Viscount Lee,” Jungkook said, bowing his head, “what an unexpected pleasure.”

“Duke,” Viscount Lee replied as he reached you, looking between the two of you with curiosity. It was the sort of look that made it perfectly clear he intended to remember every detail of the encounter, “I confess, I did not know the two of you were so well acquainted.”

“We are not,” you said.

“Darling,” Jungkook said, turning towards you as he put a hand over his heart as if you'd struck him there directly with a thunder, “you wound me!”

You stared at him in shock and disgust.

And your mouth opened to correct him and to explain to Viscount Lee that whatever he believed he had just witnessed was a misrepresentation of the truth. But Jungkook did not give you the opportunity to do so.

“Her Majesty has chosen us for one another,” Jungkook said smoothly, his hand falling from his chest to rest briefly at your back. The gesture was so natural, and so entirely unexpected, that you nearly stepped forward from the surprise of it.

“Today is our first meeting and it appears, Viscount, that we are rather compatible,” Jungkook added, smiling at you.

“I can see that,” Viscount Lee said, “it was quite a sight, watching the two of you. I confess I stopped to observe for rather longer than I intended, even your gestures appeared to match, Captain. I do not believe I have ever witnessed such a thing between two people who have only just met!”

“We are told the Queen is rarely mistaken in these matters,” Jungkook said.

“Evidently not,” Viscount Lee proudly agreed, before turning towards you, “Lady Ashwell, I must admit, I have heard that you kept almost entirely to your books and rarely ventured beyond your father’s library. It is a pleasure to discover that the rumours were somewhat exaggerated.”

“They were not exaggerated,” you replied, “I do keep to my books, Viscount. This morning was an exception.”

“She possesses a remarkable number of exceptions, as it happens. I have had the privilege of witnessing several of them already,” Jungkook said.

Viscount Lee appeared delighted by what he was hearing, though you could hear the mockery beneath the Captain’s words.

“Have you indeed?” Viscount Lee asked, “you must tell me, Captain-”

“I am afraid Lady Ashwell is expected home,” Jungkook interrupted with such ease that the Viscount appeared not to notice he had been interrupted at all, “and I would not wish to keep her from her family any longer.”

“You understand, of course. A man in my position must be terribly careful about appearances, particularly where a lady’s reputation is concerned,” Jungkook said, offering the Viscount an apologetic smile.

“Of course,” Viscount Lee said, though his eyes remained upon you for a moment longer, “I shall not keep either of you. Though I confess, Captain, I shall be very interested to see how this arrangement develops. The entire city will be interested, I imagine, once word begins to spread.”

“I imagine it will,” Jungkook replied.

Viscount Lee bowed first to you and then to Jungkook before continuing down the path, satisfied with the acquired gossip for his evening conversation. The moment he was out of sight, you turned to look at Jungkook.

“Darling?” you repeated.

"A normal term of endearment, Lady Ashwell, nothing more," Jungkook said, entirely unbothered.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

You walked another few steps in silence before asking him another question,  "Just answer me. Why?" 

"My lady?"

“Why do you wish for this arrangement to continue?” you asked, “you have made it perfectly clear this morning that you find it every bit as inconvenient as I do. You did not ask for it any more than I did, and yet you have spent the entire morning doing precisely the opposite of what one might expect.”

You turned towards the Captain, “By every indication you have given me, you are actively attempting to keep this marriage alive rather than allowing it to die quietly, as we both so clearly wish it would.”

You looked into his eyes as you stated, “I would like to know why.”

Jungkook could not tell you the truth. He could not say that you were just a useful piece on a chessboard. He could not explain that marrying into House Ashwell might provide the revolutionists with a way into the secret meetings they had spent years attempting to infiltrate, or that it might bring him closer to the nobles whose names filled the list hidden inside his uniform.

Jungkook certainly could not tell you that the marriage might give them the information the revolutionists needed to begin dismantling the kingdom’s ruling order and move against the powerful men who have protected it for so long.

So Jungkook gave you the most convincing answer he could think of, though he knew any lady would not take it well, including you.

“Because if I am to be married, I would rather it be to one of the prettiest daughters society currently has to offer than gamble on whatever wife I might be handed next. You are considered a great beauty in society, my lady. I am a practical man, I have thought about this arrangement and concluded that it is a favourable one, that is why,” Jungkook stated.

You did not know what to say, so you just stared at him.

For a moment, you thought you had misheard.

Perhaps you didn’t hear some part of the conversation. You almost asked Captain Jungkook to repeat himself, simply to be certain that did not misheard or misunderstood. But the expression on his face told you that you have heard him perfectly.

“What a disgusting pig you are,” you said, looking at him with disgust, “Truly, soldiers are a sore upon society and I am beginning to understand again precisely why.”

The look on Jungkook’s face changed and for one brief moment you saw that you had finally struck him somewhere it hurt. It was the first insult you have managed to hurt him with all morning.

“You asked, my lady,” Jungkook replied, “and I gave you an honest answer as I did not take you for the sort of woman who preferred to be lied to.”

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The study at the Jeon townhouse looked the same as it had the night before. The same tall windows stood behind the heavy curtains, keeping most of the grey afternoon light from entering the room, and the books and reports scattered around the long table.

Jimin was there when Jungkook returned, seated in the chair nearest the door with a book open on his lap that he did not appear to actually be reading, and Seokjin claimed his usual spot by the fire, boots propped up on the table. And both of them looked up the moment Jungkook entered.

"Well," Seokjin said, not bothering to move his boots, "Captain J, it’s nice to see you're alive. I confess I did not expect you back quite so soon. I assumed a proper courtship would require at least a full morning of exchanging poetries and longing glances."

Jungkook walked across the room without answering his man. He pulled his gloves off, and set them down beside the letter from the Crown still sitting on his desk. Then poured himself a whisky and sat on the chair behind the desk.

"Well?" Jimin asked, setting his book aside.

"It went as I expected," Jungkook said.

Seokjin raised his eyebrow, "That's it? Did you not promise me a story?"

"There is a story," Jungkook answered, “The youngest daughter of House Ashwell is more intelligent than the letter suggested and considerably more stubborn than I anticipated. She stood up for herself, even called me an arrogant prick in the process. Then she spent the walk attempting to convince me and the society that we were unsuited by behaving as badly as she could in public. I had to do the same as her at every turn so nothing negative about our match reach the Queen’s ears. I had to do it for the sake of the revolutionists and it worked well enough. I believe Viscount Lee is repeating the story to half the city as we speak and none of it unfavorably."

"So the marriage will proceed?" Jimin asked.

"The marriage proceeds," Jungkook agreed.

Seokjin waited a moment, clearly expecting more, but when he realised his Captain was not going to say anything more, he asked, "That's genuinely all? By the look on your face when you walked in, I felt I was owed considerably more entertainment than this."

"There is one concern. Lady Ashwell has very strong opinions on soldiers and has clearly read a great deal on the Kingdom, considering how quickly she turned an argument about our profession into an argument about who faced the consequences from it,” Jungkook replied.

He looked around at the men gathered before continuing, “I despise her. Not because she called me an arrogant prick, I have been called worse. But I despise her for how easily and naively she formed the opinions she holds.”

Jungkook turned the glass once in his hand, watching the whisky swirling around, “She has spent her entire life in a mansion, protected by the very men she considers shameful, and has never once understood what her comfort costs us soldiers. It is easy to call soldiers a stain upon the kingdom when one has never gone without because of what they protect.”

Jungkook set the glass down as he continued, “But she is not stupid and that is precisely the problem. A foolish woman could live beneath this roof and notice nothing. Lady Ashwell reads, questions, and speaks whenever she believes something is wrong. She will not ignore a house full of men gathering in the study every week. The war gave us an excuse to gather without question but that excuse is gone now. Ten soldiers meeting in a townhouse with no war to speak of will draw questions eventually. A clever woman who dislikes soldiers and the war will soon be living beneath this roof and she requires considerably more caution than I expected.”

Seokjin's grin has now faded, "You think she'll work it out."

“I think,” Jungkook said, “that if we are careless, she will work out considerably more than any of us would like, and sooner than any of us expect. She speaks kindly of innocent lives, but her argument begins with her hatred of soldiers. A woman who believes men like us are a stain upon the kingdom is not someone I can assume will look kindly upon ten soldiers plotting to bring that kingdom down.”

“Then we shall simply stop meeting here,” Seokjin said, offering what he considered the most practical solution.

“No,” Jimin replied before Jungkook could answer, “finding another place secure enough for all of us would be difficult. We simply have to exercise more caution in this house than we have because this place will soon belong to her as well.”

“She will be lady of the house,” Jungkook said, “that means she will oversee it alongside Alfred. He is part of revolutionists, so I trust him to keep anything important from her, but every report, file, and piece of correspondence must be kept out of sight. Nothing is to be left in the study, sitting rooms, or even the bedrooms any of you use.”

Jimin gathered the correspondence in front of him into a single pile, “I will speak to Hana and Walter. If Walter is still using the townhouse for the underground press, it must stop before Lady Ashwell moves in.”

"See that it does," Jungkook said.

Seokjin looked at his captain, "Captain J, You seem remarkably unbothered for a man who was called an arrogant prick this morning."

"I am unbothered," Jungkook said, "being called an arrogant prick changes nothing about what must happen next. What concerns me is not what she thinks of me but what she might eventually see if we are not careful enough about what we allow her to see. Everything else that occurred this morning is frankly irrelevant."

"Captain, I believe you need her trusting you not questioning you. If she believes you are fond of her, she will not think to look too closely at what happens in this house," Seokjin said.

"She is not a woman who will be won over by fondness," Jungkook answered his senior officer, "she is too clever for it, and she would see through the flattery immediately. We ought to be smart when she is around is all."

Rain has finally begun to fall from the grey sky outside. Jungkook’s men, Jimin and Seokjin, left the study to find Alfred, the Jeon household’s butler, to begin preparing the mansion for everything that would need to change before Lady Ashwell arrived.

Jungkook reached for the Crown’s letter, folded it once, and placed it inside a drawer as the matter was already settled. 

Jungkook will be marrying you. 

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

After your meeting with Captain Jungkook, you and Daisy, your lady-in-waiting, spent the day at the public library. You did not return to the Ashwell townhouse until around four o'clock, with your arms full of books Daisy insisted you did not need but you purchased anyway. 

As you were walking towards your room, you heard your sister calling your name.

“_____!” Margot called the moment she caught sight of you passing the tea room, already standing up from her chair.

Your sister was dressed in a blue gown over long white skirts, her face lit up with excitement. Just one look at her told you she had heard some gossip and could not bear to keep it to herself a moment longer.

“There you are! Finally,” Margot said with a dramatic sigh, “I have been sitting here for half an hour waiting for you to come home and Mother refused to tell me a single detail until you arrived. Very mean of her, considering I am to be married in five days and surely deserve some entertainment before then.”

"Margot," you greeted as you set your books down on the side table. Behind you, Daisy quietly closed the door to the tea room, understanding that the Ashwells had matters to discuss that were not meant for her or the other servants’ ears.

"I did not know you were coming today," you said to Margot.

“I did not plan to,” Margot said, taking your hands and pulling you farther into the room.

Your mother sat nearby, while your father stood at the window with his hands behind his back.

“But Viscount Lee called on Lady Whitmore, who called on our aunt, who sent word to me within the hour. I could not possibly wait until my wedding to hear the truth from you directly!” Margot’s eyes brightened before continuing, “Tell me everything! I heard he called you darling in front of half the park.”

"He is infuriating," you said, sitting down on the blue chair, "that is the only word I have for him, Margot. He is infuriating, arrogant, and entirely too pleased with himself. Besides, he is a soldier and I have no intention of marrying one."

“You say that about every man,” Margot replied, entirely unbothered by your response. She sat back into her chair, “You said much the same of Lord Whitfield. And Baron Cole.”

"Neither of the men you mentioned were soldiers."

“No,” Margot agreed, “they were merely dull, which you said so yourself, if I recall. At least this one has given you something worth talking about! You have never been this agitated over a man!”

You opened your mouth to argue and explain precisely how Captain Jungkook ruined what should have been a perfectly executed plan to end the engagement. But before you had the chance to, your father cleared his throat by the window.

"____," your father said, "your mother and I have something to tell you, and I think it best we do before Margot continues on with whatever questions she has prepared."

You looked between your parents, "What is it?" you asked, you were nervous to hear what they were about to say. Your stomach had already begun to twist in knots. 

“We received another letter from the palace this afternoon,” your mother said.

“Another one? So soon?” you asked nervously. 

“The Queen has already heard about your meeting this morning,” your mother continued, visibly trying to choose her words carefully as she knew they would not be received gently, “it seems Viscount Lee’s words reached the Queen well before ours did, and Her Majesty was delighted.”

Your mother paused before continuing, “The Queen writes that she has rarely seen a match take so quickly that the affair has already become a sensation in certain circles. She has mentioned that she sees no reason for any further delay.”

“Further delay?” you repeated, clearly in shock from the news you heard.

“The wedding,” your father said, looking away from you, “it has been set for two weeks after Margot’s.”

The room fell silent.

"Two weeks," you repeated, "after Margot's wedding, which is held this weekend."

"Yes," your mother said quietly.

"So I am to be married," you slowly said, "in less than a month."

You sat still on the chair for what felt like five minutes, staring at your hands folded in your lap. Perhaps you thought that you ought to say something. You ought to argue as you did when you first read the letter. You ought to remind your father of every objection he raised himself of the bloodlines and the natural order of things. You ought to ask why none of that seemed to matter now.

But when you finally opened your mouth to fight for yourself, you found you did not have the energy for any of it.

You spent an entire morning fighting for your life and none of it mattered in the slightest, because the outcome, as your father has told you, has never truly been yours to decide.

"I understand," you quietly said instead.

Your mother looked visibly relieved, though she expected considerably more resistance and was not entirely certain what to make of its absence, "Darling," she said, "I know this is not what you wanted.."

"I understand, Mother," you said, interrupting her from finishing her sentence, "there is very little point in fighting a decision that was made before I was ever consulted on it. I do not intend to waste what remains of my energy fighting a battle I have already lost."

That was what you told your family.

Within your own mind, however, you were already searching for another way out. You have always believed there will always be a way out, like what one of your favourite authors wrote. 

There were three weeks between now and the wedding. Three weeks in which you must find some means of escaping the marriage. You did not yet know what or how you would be able to escape, only that you will find a way.

First, however, there was Margot’s wedding. And you would not miss your sister’s wedding for anything, not even your own freedom. Nor would you allow your troubles to cast even the smallest shadow over a day that belonged entirely to her.

For the next five days, you would smile, and endure the fittings and everything else as if your own future were not rapidly closing around you.

After that, you will escape.

“____,” Margot said softly, reaching for your hand, “I am sorry. I know how you feel about soldiers, but maybe he will not be so terrible. Captain Jungook is very handsome, at least. Believe me, there are worse faces to wake up next to.”

“Do not apologise, Margot,” you said, smiling at her, “I will not have you feeling guilty over any of this. This is still your week, and I do not want a single thought of my wedding taking up space that belongs to yours.”

“Are you certain?” she asked.

“I am.”

“There is one more thing,” your father said, making both you and Margot look up at once.

“Papa,” you said anxiously, “I do not believe I have the capacity for one more thing today.”

“Your mother and I have invited Captain Jungkook to dinner,” your father said, “this evening.”

You stared at your father.

“We thought it was best now that the wedding has been set, to take the opportunity to become properly acquainted with the man before he joins the family,” your father continued, “I confess, I should like to form my own opinion of him rather than relying entirely upon the opinions of others.”

"Tonight," you said in disbelief.

"Yes, honey. Tonight," your mother confirmed, "he sent his acceptance not long before you arrived home and he should be here by seven."

You closed your eyes for a moment and drew in a breath. You could not help wondering why the universe has decided that one day’s worth of Captain Jeon Jungkook was not enough of a punishment, "Of course he did," you said, mostly to yourself.

"You will want to change before he arrives," your mother added, already rising from her chair, "that dress has ink on its sleeves, darling, and I will not have Captain Jeon's first impression of this household to be one of a mess."

"Mother," you said, "he watched me pick my nose in a public park this morning. I do not believe a small ink stain is going to alter his opinion of this family.”

Margot let out a laugh, only to stifle it when your mother turned in her direction. 

"Regardless," your mother said, "you will change. And you will be civil at dinner, ____, whatever your opinions of the man. Whatever occurred this morning, he is very shortly to be your husband, and this house will conduct itself with proper hospitality.”

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Captain Jeon Jungkook arrived at precisely seven o'clock, not a minute before and not a minute after, which irritated you even more.

He changed out of his uniform and now wore a fitted black tailcoat with brass buttons, white trousers, and a dark cape draped over his shoulder. The clothes were formal without being too excessive, yet they still made him look commanding.

Jungkook stepped down from his car and greeted the doorman before climbing the steps to the Ashwells’ house. When the butler took his cape and hat at the door, you noticed that Jungkook thanked the man by name. You were certain he could not possibly have known it beforehand, which meant he likely asked in advance merely to impress your family.

What an irritating man, you thought to yourself. 

“Captain Jungkook,” your father said, approaching him with his hand already extended. You were surprised to hear none of the reluctance in your father’s voice that he expressed when speaking of the Duke of Jeon the previous day, “Welcome to our home.”

"Duke Ashwell," Jungkook said, taking his hand, "the pleasure is entirely mine. I confess I have been curious to see the house that produced four daughters of such reputation."

"Reputation?" your father repeated, he didn’t know whether to be wary or pleased of the word.

“Oh! all favourable, I assure you,” Jungkook smoothly replied, “Lady Medea’s wit is praised at nearly every dinner I have attended this season. Lady Ariel’s husband cannot spend five minutes at his club without finding some reason to brag about her. And Lady Margot, I am told, has arranged the wedding of the season, which I understand is to take place this very Saturday.”

Your father looked genuinely pleased.

You walked down the stairs then, having delayed as long as you could. Jungkook’s eyes found yours the moment you appeared. 

“Lady Ashwell,” Jungkook said, inclining his head, “we meet again, rather sooner than either of us anticipated this morning, I imagine.”

“Captain,” you replied, “I did not expect you to accept my parents’ invitation quite so readily.”

"I could hardly refuse," Jungkook said, "particularly not when your father was kind enough to extend it himself. It would have been rude not to.”

Your mother entered from the sitting hallway just then, wearing a gown she reserved for guests she intended to impress. She gave a small delighted laugh and you felt the evening beginning to slip beyond your control.

"Shall we?" your father said, gesturing towards the dining room.

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You hoped the dinner might provide some natural arguments. Your father did make his objections clear to Jungkook’s bloodline before. But within the first course, you were forced to abandon that hope.

"Tell me, Captain," your father said, once the soup had been served, "What was the northern war like? I understand your regiment was stationed there for the past two winters."

“It was harsher than I expected,” Jungkook said, “the cold was often worse than the war itself. A man can prepare himself to face an enemy, but the hunger and weeks without proper shelter are rather less honourable opponents. I am only grateful it ended when it did, Your Grace. Another winter there might have finished what the enemy could not.”

“A sensible answer,” your father said, giving his approval, “Parliament speaks endlessly of courage and victory, but very little of what it asks soldiers to endure between battles.”

“I could not agree more, Your Grace,” Jungkook said, “but I would ask that you not repeat that opinion to my officers. They are rather fond of the glory of victory than I am.”

Your father laughed at what Jungkook said. Across the table, you stirred your soup with more force than necessary, watching him warm up to a man he had called a stain upon the family bloodline.

“I understand your lands were formally restored to you only upon your promotion to captain,” your father said, “reclaiming an estate after so many years of neglect must not have been easy.”

“It was not, Sir.” Jungkook said, agreeing with your father, “the house was closed for nearly two decades by the time it was returned to me. I spent the first year simply learning what I had inherited, and the second year learning how much of it needed to be rebuilt.”

Jungkook paused before looking right at your father, “I understand, Your Grace, that you knew my father in the years before I was born. I have often wished I knew more of him than what little the records could tell me.”

His confession surprised you. Until then, you assumed his interest in the match was rooted in duty and something he wanted to get over with. It did not occur to you that he might have a more personal reason for accepting it so readily.

You found yourself wondering whether this was what had drawn him towards the marriage. Your father knew his father and by marrying into your family, Jungkook would gain more than a wife; he might also gain access to memories no record could preserve.

For the first time, his determination in the marriage seemed less like arrogance and more of him trying to learn about the life that had been taken from him.

The table briefly fell silent. You could see the complicated mixture of grief and guilt you have seen on your father’s face at the tea table two days earlier.

"He was a good friend to me in his time," your father said, "and I confess I have thought of him often these past few days, watching this arrangement unfold. I think he would be pleased to see his son so well established, Captain."

"That means a great deal to me, Your Grace," Jungkook answered.

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Your mother, for her part, required considerably less convincing than your father. 

She spent the second course asking Jungkook about his taste in music, discovering within a few short exchanges that he had a genuine appreciation for classical music, a fact that delighted your mother, as few gentlemen of her acquaintances could speak intelligently on the subject.

"You must join us for the classical sometime next season," your mother said.

“I would be honoured, Your Grace,” Jungkook replied, “though I fear His Grace may object to being so easily replaced.”

“He may still join us if he can remain awake through the performance. I am in desperate need of a companion who will not embarrass me by snoring,” your mother answered.

“I do not snore,” your father protested from the head of the table.

Your mother smiled, before saying, “Of course not, my dear. The entire row behind us merely imagined it.”

Jungkook lowered his gaze, clearly attempting to hide his amusement, while Margot made no such effort. You even had to press your lips together to keep from laughing.

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By the time the final course has been cleared, your father instructed the maid to bring out a bottle of brandy he reserved for his closest acquaintances. And as far as you knew, very few guests had ever been offered it.

“You will come to the wedding, of course,” Margot said as the evening finally began to draw to an end, “It will  happen this Saturday and I insist you come. You are practically family already, and I will not have my sister’s future husband absent from the celebration.”

“I would be honoured,” Jungkook replied, “provided your future husband does not object to a soldier attending in uniform. I am afraid I have little civilian attire suitable for such an occasion.”

“He will not object,” Margot assured him, “he served for two years before inheriting the barony. He will probably be delighted to have someone with whom he can discuss his previous life with.”

You sat through the remainder of the evening in stunned silence.

Your father, who had objected to Jungkook on the grounds of his bloodline. Your mother, who had spent years depressed of ever finding you a suitable match. Your sister who felt sorry for you now seemed genuinely convinced he might make you happy.

All of them had been thoroughly charmed by a shallow soldier who admitted he wanted to marry you because, in his words, you were at least pretty and he did not want to miss his chance. 

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When Jungkook finally stood up from his chair to take his leave, your father walked him personally to the door and the two of them were still deep in conversation about some matter of Parliament that your father seemed genuinely eager to continue at a later date.

“Lady Ashwell,” Jungkook said, standing before you while the butler fetched his cape. His voice dropped low enough that you knew the words were clearly meant for you alone, “I trust you found the evening as smooth as I did.”

“You are insufferable,” you replied quietly, not wanting to let your mother overhear.

“So I have been told,” Jungkook said with a smug expression across his face, “I find it considerably easier to win the favour of an entire household than that of the one member who has already decided to despise me.”

"I have very good reasons," you said, defending yourself.

“I do not doubt it,” Jungkook said, whispering in front of you, “though I confess, I expected your family to prove more difficult to impress.”

“They have mistaken good manners for good character,” you answered.

“An unfortunate habit,” he said, “I shall have to be careful not to behave too well in your presence. You might begin making the same mistake.”

“That is highly unlikely,” you said, rolling your eyes at him.

“Likewise,” Jungkook said, flashing you a smile so effortlessly charming that you hated yourself for noticing it at all.

Jungkook charmed your family without seeming to try, and yet not a single answer he gave them all evening told you anything real about the man himself. And you refused to be convinced.

You could not have explained it to your mother, or to Margot, or even to yourself in any reasonable way.

It was simply a feeling that whatever Captain Jungkook wanted from this house, it was not you.

"I'm here to see my children."

The air inside the hallway crackles and it had nothing to do with the cold winter air. One hand on the doorframe, your other fiddles with the keys as you survey the woman in front of you. It would be a lie to say that you hadn't imagined what the children's mother might look like — the woman who held Jungkook's affections for so long. 

This was not what you had expected. Her frazzled appearance, the nervous edge to her every breath as her eyes continued to dart toward the driveway, almost like she was expecting someone to turn up. Her arms tighten across her torso and her attention flickers back to you, "Can I come in?" 

You could tell that she was anxious to get inside and your heart aches when you thought of how cold she must be where she stands. But your concern is not loud enough to quiet the underlying suspicion that settles in your stomach. Something was wrong. How could you trust that she is who she claims to be? Was letting a stranger inside a house that wasn't even yours such a good idea? 

Another minute passes and the woman on the front porch grows increasingly agitated with each second, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Empathy wins out in the end and you give her a reluctant nod as you step aside, "Sure. Come in." 

She doesn't hesitate when granted permission — hurrying past you without as much as thanking you. Luckily she ventures no further than the dresser, studying the tidy space as though she was seeing it for the first time. 

The front door shuts behind you once more and you turn to her with an awkward but friendly smiles. "You can put your shoes right here," you gesture toward the shoe rack. 

"Oh," the woman blinks, like she had just remembered the ragged sneakers on her feet. She pulls them off with trembling hands, setting them alongside your own newly bought ones. When she straightens up she immediately loops back to what she had come here for. "Where are the children?" she turns to glance over her shoulder, "Upstairs?" 

Your heart beats rapidly against your ribcage, blood rushing to the tips of your fingers as you swallow. Shit. You had completely forgotten about Cassian and Rayne who'd gone to retrieve his beloved Frank. The sound of their footsteps were now echoing down the hall above you, undoubtedly headed back to the bottom floor. 

"How about…" your hand finds her elbow, and the woman jumps slightly, "You wait in the living room and I bring them?" 

She frowns at that, lips parting with an objection she never voices out loud. Then she turns and heads down the hall toward the living room — clearly familiar with the layout of the house, which only further unsettled you. 

The moment she's out of sight you jolt into action, moving for the staircase as fast as your legs would carry you. Climbing two steps at the tine, you haul yourself up only to be stopped halfway as you nearly go crashing into both children, who'd been descending the stairs. 

Cassian was now hugging his beloved dinosaur plushie, their coats buttoned up and ready to go. He makes a confused face when you appear in front of them. His sister stands just in front of him, her gaze dragging across your frame with a raised brow. "Was there someone at the door?" she asks, undoubtedly having heard the voices coming from downstairs just moments ago. 

You hesitate, teeth shredding the inside of your cheek as you think of a plausible explanation. "It was… The postman!" humming softly, "Yeah. He needs a package to be signed, it shouldn't take long." 

Rayne looks far from convinced, her dark eyes flickering to a spot over your shoulder before returning to you. Though before she gets the chance to interrogate you on the matter, you place a firm hand on her arm. "I need you to take your brother upstairs and wait inside your room. Can you do that?"

She doesn't answer to that right away, sending Cassian a quick look before letting her brows furrow deeply. "But it's just the postman—" 

"Do as I say." You cut her off, something you would've never done under different circumstances, and Rayne catches on quickly as the crease on her forehead grows all the more prominent. "Go to your bedroom, close the door and don't come out until I get you, understood?" 

Cassian makes a small disgruntled noise behind his sister but nods in her place, already tugging on her coat sleeve. The latter holds her ground for another ten seconds before letting out a sigh as her shoulders slump. "Okay," she says, turning to lead her brother up the stairs without looking back. 

You watch them take their leave, exhaling the breath that had been trapped within your lungs for the past minute. When heading back downstairs, you do so with a racing heart, approaching the living room as quietly as possible. 

The woman was seated on one of the sofas, her restless hands placed on her lap as she takes in the area silently. You clear your throat, making her twitch in her seat as her head snaps in your direction. "Are they—?" 

"They'll be a minute," you tell her, flashing her the most convincing smile you could muster. She seems to be put at ease by your reassurance, relaxing against the couch ever so slightly with a tilt of her chin. 

She was their mother that much was clear. If not for her eyes that resembled so much of Rayne's, then be it the, now slightly matted, curls her son inherited. Part of you feels guilty for keeping her from her own children — the other doesn't trust her to see them. 

Jungkook had made little notion of her during the three months in which you had been working under his roof. But when he, or the children, did, it was always followed by unspoken tension. You did not know what had happened between them, whatever it was, it had left permanent scars. 

"I never asked your name." 

The woman's sudden question pulls you from your thoughts and you blink. Something about her makes your throat dry up and you barely get the introduction past your lips as you shift by the doorway. 

She doesn't seem to notice the waver to your voice, simply humming to herself. "I'm Yelena." No handshake follows, she doesn't seem to keen on initiating one and neither are you. 

Yelena. 

It feels strange to put a name to the woman you had only been hearing about in short, sporadic bursts. A beautiful name it was. And though she looked… rough, you still imagined her to be a gorgeous woman underneath the eye bags and sickly pale skin. 

Jungkook crosses your mind for the first time since her arrival, his absence had been loud after your last conversation but now it was blaring. You glance down the hall, then back to Yelena who hadn't said another word. "Can I uh, get you anything to drink?"

She turns her attention back to you, it seemed to be straying a lot. "Water," is all she says, not bothering with any pleasantries as she goes back to studying her cuticles. 

You nod, quickly spinning on your heel as you head for the hallway again. Time was sparse and though you hardly believed her to be counting down the seconds, you knew that taking too long would raise suspicion. 

The telephone sitting on the dresser becomes your salvation and you pick it up without hesitation. Next to it sits the sticky note Jungkook had left all those weeks ago, in case you ever needed to get in contact with him whilst watching the kids. You had never called to his office, you'd never needed to. 

And yet here you are, frantically typing in the number with trembling fingers. You bring the phone to your ear as you wait, chewing on the blunt edge of your nail to ease your nerves. 

There's nothing but static to fill the oppressive silence around you and for a long while you think he might not pick up at all. Could you blame him? But then the call connects and you breathe out a sigh of relief as Jungkook's voice comes through on the line. "Hello," his tone is flat, devoid of any emotion at first, but when you don't respond it grows concerned, "Are the children alright?"

Your heart twists in your chest and you throw a glance at the stairs, nodding as though he could see you. "Yeah. For now at least," you murmur, pressing the handset a little closer to your ear as you speak directly into the transmitter, "You need to come back." 

Jungkook sighs, "What?" And you could perfectly picture his brows drawing together across his forehead. 

Sucking in a quiet breath, you dare a peek toward the archway which you had just emerged from, lowering your voice into a whisper, "There's a woman here. She says that she's here to see her children…" You gnaw on your bottom lip, worried that she might come looking for you — or worse, the kids — if you didn't hurry up. "Her name's Yelena." 

The line goes silent. 

You listen for Jungkook, catching only that of his steady breaths, they sound mechanical, like he was forcing each one past his lungs. "Jungkook, did you hear—"

"Did you let her inside?" His voice is cold now, much colder than it had been even during your last conversation — it makes a shill crawl down your spine. "Answer me!" He sounds upset when he repeats himself only a second later, "Did you let her inside the house?" There was a frantic edge to him, and in the background you heard the sound of a briefcase snapping shut. 

You grip the telephone a little tighter as you brace yourself. "Yes," it felt like confessing to a crime, "She's in the living room…" 

"Where are the children?" he asks. 

"Upstairs," you're quick to respond, "They don't know she's here. I told them to wait for me." 

Jungkook exhales on the other end of the line, but he did not sound relieved, "Good. I'm on my way." 

"Okay," you say, adding in a quiet, "Please hurry," before he gets the chance to end the call. He pauses at that — perhaps the waver to your voice or the way it had cracked on the last syllable gave you away. 

"I will." 

The static returns and you're left all alone in the far too big hallway. You stare down at the phone in your hand, clinging onto it even though Jungkook was already gone. Then you remember that Yelena was still waiting for you, and if she hadn't mulled over your absence yet — she was bound to any minute now. 

You return to the living room shortly, this time with a glass of water in hand, only to find the couch where you had left her to be empty. Your pulse jumps in your throat, dread washing over you until you spot her by the fireplace. 

Yelena's fingers were tracing the edge of the mantel clock slowly. "This one is new," she hums, more to herself than anyone else. Her gaze darts across the room and over to the coffee table when you set the glass down, then it continues across the walls behind and around you. "Tapestry is the same." 

She would go on like that for another two minutes, counting each change in the room under her breath. "Not the same pillows, old carpet, brown bookshelves…" Her feet barely make a sound as she pads around the sofa you sit on, and you avoid looking her way as you instead watch your own hands. 

You weren't scared — nervous maybe. She appears harmless but her presence still unsettles you deeply. And Jungkook's reaction certainly hadn't helped. You could only hope he was keeping his word and stepping on the gas to get here. 

The couch in front of you creaks and your attention pivots over to her as she sits down on the cushions opposite you. Even whilst seated, she was moving. Her leg bouncing restlessly, fingers picking at the sleeves of her fleece as her eyes dart around the space despite having examined it closely just now. 

It was impossible not to notice the signs in front of you. The way she kept wetting her lips, reaching for the glass to chug half of it before setting it down again. Her consistent shifting, how she keeps adjusting herself like she couldn't find a comfortable position. 

The fact that she was in some sort of withdrawal was clear — and that made you sweat. 

"Where's Jungkook?" she suddenly asks, her gaze fixating on you for once. 

That was the first time she'd mentioned him, and judging by the way she kept biting her tongue, she was anxious to hear your response. 

"He's at work," you tell her, leaving out the fact that he was currently racing home. You're glad that you did, for Yelena instantly relaxes a fraction, her shoulders slumping as she nods. 

"Ah," she hums, "That's good." Her fingers untangle, coming to rest flat across her knees as she straightens up against the sofa. There's a calculating look in her eyes now, a new sharpness that slices through the dull brown. "How do you know my ex-husband?" 

Your blood runs colder than the air outside and you hope she doesn't notice the way you struggle to take down your next swallow. Never had you wished so intently for Jungkook to just step through the door and spare you of the conversation about to unfold. 

"I uhm—" scratching the back of your neck, you send her a sheepish smile, "I'm the kids' nanny." 

Yelena's brows rise on her forehead, the corner of her lips tugging into a frown that she does little to hide. "A nanny?" She gives you a long once-over, "We've never had a nanny before…" 

You didn't linger on her statement, too caught up in trying to figure out why she was here now. What had compelled her to return after so long? According to Jungkook over a year had passed — so why now? 

But Yelena does not give you time to ponder the matter for long. She's already rising from her seat, brushing her pants with jerky movements as she turns her head in the direction of the archway behind you. "The children are taking long," she says, "Perhaps I should go check on them." 

Without waiting to hear your opinion, she steps forward, intent on heading upstairs herself to see what was prolonging their arrival. You shoot up from the couch, putting yourself in front of her as you exhale a shaky breath. "They'll be down in a minute," you assure her, placing a warm hand on her shoulder. She was freezing cold. 

Yelena jerks back at the touch, surprise striking her features before it morphs into something almost offended. "I'd like to see my kids," she huffs, trying to move around you toward the stairs. 

You match her stride, blocking her path once more as you give a strained shake of your head. "Let's just sit back—" 

Down the hall, a lock twists, the front door opening a second later. Jungkook was back. Never had you thought you'd be so relieved to hear that sound, especially not given your last talk in his study. Yelena seems to register the newcomer as well, her already pale face draining its last bit of color. 

She sends you a quick accusing glance but the footsteps were already moving down the hall quickly. Jungkook appears in the doorway just then, his dark hair is a mess, strands falling down to meet his brows, which were pulled together deep enough to form one. He pauses when he sees you, eyes landing on your hand resting over her shoulder. 

Yelena is pulled from her trance and she takes a few steps back, leaving your fingers to hover in the air uselessly before they drop to your side. Jungkook pays her little mind, crossing the distance between you in three long strides. His hand brushes your elbow, the touch far too tender for this moment. 

"Are you okay?" he murmurs, loud enough for only you to hear. 

Nodding, you remain silent, not trusting yourself to speak — or take your attention off of his ex-wife who'd gone back to picking at her fleece. Jungkook's gaze stays with you, searching your face and body for any signs of deceit. He exhales, nostrils flaring slightly as he releases you. 

"Go to the children," he instructs and when he reads the hesitation on you, he adds, "Now." 

You did not dare argue with him and without another word you head in the direction he'd just came from, slipping around the corner and savoring a long breath once you're finally out of sight. 

The stairs are right in front of you, Cassian and Rayne waiting just beyond them. You push off the wall you'd been leaning against, taking a step forward when suddenly, Jungkook's voice can be heard from the living room. 

"What are you doing here?" 

His tone is demanding just as it is void of any warmth. But it is the underlying tremor that he cannot hide, that makes you pause. You stand frozen in the middle of the hallway, fingers stretched for the banister but your feet still planted to the carpet. There you find yourself torn between going up to be with the children like you'd been instructed, or to stay where you were, just in case thing escalated. 

"I'm here to see my kids," Yelena follows his question up a moment later, but even she sounds doubtful of her own words. 

There's a sharp scoff — from who? you can't tell, but if you would have to guess, then Jungkook. "You have some audacity to call them yours," he snaps back almost instantly and it is then you make up your mind. 

Abandoning the stairs, you creep back to toward the archway, resting yourself against the wall as you let your head tip against it. Your palms are flat on top of the tapestry and you shift just enough to steal a peek around the doorframe. 

Jungkook stands with his back to you. His shoulders are tense, fingers twitching restlessly by his sides — the way you so rarely saw them do. He hasn't moved since your exit but Yelena has. She was back by the fireplace, caressing the mantel nervously as she avoids his gaze with a held tongue. 

"Don't lie to me," he bitterly adds. The floorboards creak under his weight when he takes a step forward, only to stop himself halfway of reaching for her, regretting the decision again. Though you could not see his facial expression, it wasn't hard to guess that it carried pain. "Over a year," his voice cracks just slightly, "It's been over a year and you haven't even—" 

He cuts himself short, abruptly turning and you quickly duck behind the wall once more, listening to the sound of his pacing. When you finally dare to glance around the corner, he was standing by the window, this time with one shoulder facing you. The tension in his jaw becomes clear now, it doesn't lessen when he rubs a hand over it. 

"You can't just show up here, especially not when I'm at work, you—" he inhales sharply, realization flickering past his eyes, "You weren't even going to tell me you were here, were you?" He sounds disbelieving of himself even as he confirms it, but he's not bothering to hear her out. 

Yelena doesn't deny it either, simply watching the path her hand takes across the mantel. You understood then that she had chosen a time frame in which Jungkook would be out of the house. Her showing up at the front porch was no coincidence but a planned move. It makes your stomach twist. 

"I wanted to see my children," she continues to push her narrative and her gaze moves up to meet his for the first time since her arrival. "But I knew you wouldn't let me." There wasn't an ounce of guilt within her eyes, as though she'd been perfectly content to do something like this without his knowing. 

Jungkook chokes on a strained laugh that's anything but amused. He rubs both palms over his face roughly, nails digging into his forehead as he breathes deeply. "The children?" he echoes between his fingers, "You really think I'll believe that?" His hands return to his sides and he takes a step back, hip bumping against the window sill, though he hardly seems to register it. 

"You," he points in her direction, "Have had all the time in the world to see them but you—" His lips press into a firm line, silencing whatever he might say next. 

Yelena makes a grimace, somewhere between hurt and offended. But she says nothing and Jungkook's irritation only mounts. "Why are you really here?" He asks, studying the worn clothes that hang off her lanky frame, the hollow of her cheeks, surely noticing the eye bags just like you had. 

"It's been a rough couple of months," she admits in a hoarse whisper, her face morphing into something pitiful, "I just need a little. Just to get me back on my feet."

Jungkook's brows shoot high on his forehead, an exasperated scoff passing his lips. "That's what this is about? Money?" His jaw clenches, "You didn't get enough last time — so what? now you're back for more?" He shakes his head, "Not a chance." 

His blunt refusal only makes Yelena double down as she stumbles forward, causing the former to jerk back. "Please. I promise I'll use them for good," she smiles, a weak and strained smile, "I'm all better now." The lie feels mocking and it slaps even you across the face, you're sure Jungkook feels the same as he regards his ex-wife. 

There's an intimidating scowl plastered across his face, but his hands were trembling by his sides as she approached. 

Your fingers have curled so tight around the doorframe that the splinters were bound to snap under the force, you barely notice it, far too occupied with watching the scene play out in front of you. You follow their every move and your heart pounds loudly in your chest — though not loud enough to mask the creak of wood behind you. 

Whirling around where you stand, you spot Cassian on the bottom step of the stairs. He's clutching Frank in one arm as he, too, listens to the voices coming from the living room. "Nanny?" he croaks, wide and uncertain eyes darting between the entryway and you. 

Quickly straightening up, you rush over to gently grab him by his shoulders. "What are you doing down here, sweetie?" you whisper, reaching down to take one of his hands in your own, "I thought I told you to stay with your sister." 

The young boy slowly nods. "I'm sorry," he mumbles, "I was thirsty… Rayne told me not to go." He hesitates, blinking once when the sound of Jungkook's voice comes barreling through the thick air: 

"You're insane to think that I'd give you anything!" 

Cassian turns toward the living room, his brows furrowing over his forehead. "Daddy's home?" He looks as though he wants to go to him, to hug his father even though he left less than an hour ago. You stop him, already climbing the stairs he'd just come from as you tug him along. 

"Let's go and wait in your sister's room for a bit." You don't look back, only slowing down enough to make sure that he was keeping up. 

He does so, albeit reluctantly, "But my water…" 

You were thankful that it was his biggest concern at the moment, and you give him a small smile. "I'll go and get you some soon," you promise him. 

The door to Rayne's bedroom had been left ajar and you nudge it open with the help of your shoulder as you pull her little brother inside with you. "Alright, why don't you take a seat right here?" You guide him down onto the edge of her bed, adjusting the dinosaur plushies in his lap. 

Cassian lets you arrange him without complaint, neither him nor his sister question your hurried, slightly unsteady hands when you walk up to close the door firmly. 

Rayne was sat by her desk, her coat hung up on the back of her chair and an open book laid in front of her — though its pages seemed to be forgotten. Their shoes were placed neatly by the foot of the bed, Cassian's outdoor wear draped over the wooden post. 

The air in here was a lot warmer than that of the living room, but even that temporary comfort was quickly shun by the sound of Jungkook and Yelena downstairs. Their conversation had clearly escalated into a full blown argument, loud enough to where you could slowly start to make out what was being shouted. 

Cassian stiffens when the voice of a woman registers — and not just any woman. His gaze meets Rayne's, searching for answers which his big sister refuse to give. "Who is daddy talking to?" he wonders, but receives no response from the older. She only turns back to her book, pretending like nothing was wrong. 

You bite your lip, scrambling for something to distract them both with as the discussion between their parents unfold in the distance. "I know!" Clasping your hands together, you manage to draw the young boy's attention, "Why don't we read something all of us together?" 

Without waiting to hear his answer, you walk over to the crammed bookshelf opposite the bed. No one responds, though Cassian shifts slightly where he sits as he fiddles with his plushie. Another sharp remark from Yelena downstairs makes you bite back a wince and you pull the first title you find from the shelf. 

"Alright, scoot over." You nudge Cassian gently and he obliges when crawling back to rest his back against the headboard. Frank is still pressed against his chest and he clings to the dino when you settle beside him. "Rayne, come here," you pat the spot to your right, giving her an expectant smile which she returns with a displeased frown. 

Any other day you think she might've outright refused, but she was not oblivious to what was going on downstairs and when their voices only grow louder, she finally hops off her chair and walks over. 

The small children's bed was hardly made for three, but you made do as you cozied up together, Cassian nuzzling into your side as his sister sat stiffly. Their bodies are warm against your own and you take a moment to savor the comforting feeling as you open the first page. 

"Which book is this?" Cassian asks against your shoulder. 

"Moby Dick," you tell him. 

"Does it have pictures?" 

"Not this version, no…" 

He scrunches his nose at that, "I don't like it then." 

"That's because you're dumb," Rayne retorts as she adjusts herself slightly. Her brother shoots upright at that, his features twisted into offense. 

"Am not!" 

"Are too," she hums when tilting her chin up. 

"Hey," you slam the book shut with more force than necessary, raising a brow as you glance between them. "Do we want to hear this story or not?" 

Cassian nods, looking chastised as he presses his cheek against your arm. Rayne only sighs, but makes no further remark on the matter. Downstairs, the argument continues and you try to drown out the noise as you begin to read: 

"…I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world." 

You had barely gotten through the first paragraph when Cassian suddenly speaks up, "Why does he want to sail?" 

Reaching a hand up to stroke his curly hair back, you smile. "You'll find out when we keep going." To which he nods and sinks back against you with a quiet 'okay'. 

Not even a full minute later, he interrupts again. "I don't understand," he whine after you had read: "This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship." Cassian had little patience for the much slower pace compared to his picture-books and was squirming on the spot, "And who is Cato?" 

"You wouldn't know him," Rayne says as she tucks her ponytail over her shoulder, causing her brother to pout. 

Shaking your head, you wrap an arm around the small boy in an attempt to still him. "It means," you hum when pointing to the page, "That he goes to the ocean whenever he feels sad, that way he doesn't do bad stuff." 

Cassian mulls over this new revelation for a bit. "More people should go to the ocean then," he finally says. 

You nod, "Yeah. They should." 

The children did settle down after a few pages, the younger's insistent questions eventually stop and soon enough he was dead weight against your arm — deeply asleep. Rayne sits quietly beside you, and when the chapter comes to an end she doesn't question why you stop reading. 

Downstairs, the sound of Jungkook and Yelena's arguing have ebbed out into silence — a silence that is soon followed by the slamming of a front door. It shakes the entire house and for a second you thought it might even wake Cassian, but the young boy only sighs in his sleep. 

Rayne, too, swallows a deep breath, one so heavy that it settles over the entire bedroom. She doesn't look at you when she speaks, her gaze fixed on something far ahead outside the window, something you could not see. 

"That wasn't the postman, was it?" 

Her tone is leveled, certain. It's not a question, not really, and judging by the way she avoids your gaze, you know that she knows. 

"No," you say, closing the book as you place it on your lap, "It wasn't." 

She parts her lips but no words come out, so she seals them together again. You thought she would ask about her mother, demand an explanation as to why her and her brother hadn't been allowed to see her. Was she angry with you? With Jungkook? But Rayne only nods, a slow tilt of her chin as she settles back against the pillows. 

You lift a hand, letting it hover for a moment before gently placing it atop her head. When she doesn't immediately reject the initiated contact you let your fingers brush through her dark, silky hair. Her lashes kiss her cheeks as her eyes fall shut and she lets out air through her nose. 

Ten minutes or so pass, it's not a comfortable silence but it isn't hostile either. After a while her breathing grows heavy as well, and she, too, falls asleep against your side. You stay frozen, simply basking in the feeling of having them close. Had it not been for the thought of Jungkook downstairs, you could've probably stayed where you were for hours. 

The mattress groans when you carefully shift your weight off of it, making sure not to wake either of the children as you drape a blanket over them. The younger curls into his sister's side to fill the absence you had left behind. Rayne lets him, her nose twitching when a lock of curls brush across her cupids bow, then she relaxes again. 

They look vulnerable like this, so small and fragile that it makes your heart ache. You stand there, watching them sleep a little longer before turning to head out of the room, closing the door after you soundlessly. 

You move slowly down the stairs, hoping not to make too much noise as you descend. When passing the large hallway, you find that Yelena's shoes are gone from the foyer, indicating that she really had left. When entering the living room you find no trace of her left in there, save for the glass of water you had provided earlier. 

Jungkook sits on the very same couch she had been not long ago. He cradles his head in both hands, dark fringe falling across his fingers. His elbows rest on his knees, leaving him bent forward as he breathes slowly and deeply. 

You linger by the doorway, unsure if he would want company right now. But leaving him alone like this didn't feel like an option either. 

He doesn't speak when you sink down on the cushion beside him, nor does he look up at you. Hell, you could've been a ghost for all you knew. There comes a moment of hesitation, then you reach up to place a hand on his shoulder, which immediately tenses under your touch. 

"The kids are asleep," you tell him. Normally he wouldn't want them napping during the day — another bullet point on his long list of rules — you think this afternoon might be an exception. 

Jungkook doesn't respond, but he exhales against his palms where his face remains buried. You sit in silence for a couple of minutes. He must know that whatever went down between him and Yelena wasn't exactly a private conversation, their voices had been loud enough to rattle the paintings on the walls and alert the neighbors. Even so, he makes no move to address it. 

"What happened?"

Your question isn't malicious, it's concerned in nature, but perhaps he saw it differently. It sits between you, heavy and loaded, until he finally leans back against the couch. His hands fall away from his face, revealing the tension etched between his brows and into his jaw. "It doesn't matter," he says. 

You frown, twisting in your seat to see him better. "Of course it matters," you press, "The children will asks questions, and I don't know how to answer them—" 

"You don't have to," he sighs, "It's not your job." 

Job. 

That single word stings more than you want for it to. The way he still views everything as a transaction — after all that had happened between you two he still made it very clear that you were nothing but the kids' nanny, and he was nothing but your employer. 

"Alright," you murmur, trying not to let the hurt show, "Will you at least tell me what's going on?" 

Jungkook groans, rubbing his palm over his forehead before letting his hand drop to his lap. "I really don't want to talk right now," he grinds out, fingers digging into his own thigh as he sits rigidly. 

You know that you should give it a rest but you can't help the pang of concern you'd felt at seeing Yelena — no matter how uncomfortable she made you. "She looked sick," you whisper and Jungkook's expression fractures slightly, "Is she going to be okay? Does she have a place to go?" 

Though you knew very little about the woman who had appeared on the doorstep, you could tell that she had come here as a last resort — and Jungkook turned her away. For good reason you want to believe, but it still didn't ease your mind. 

"I have it figured out just please—" He's still not looking at you, but the muscles in his face twitch as he heaves another breath. "Drop it, alright? She's an addict who has no business trying to get in contact with my children." 

He speaks of her with such contempt, his features twisting with disgust as he utters each syllable. And yet, the tremble to his jaw and his glassy eyes betray him in the end. The conversation you'd had in his study earlier feels pathetic and small in comparison to whatever was going on right now — and you shove the feelings it had left you with aside as you shift a little closer, hoping to provide comfort. 

"Do you want me to stay longer today?" you ask him, the hand you keep on his shoulder reaching for his face. "I could see to the children, take them out for a bit when they wake up?" 

Jungkook's hand clasps around your wrist — firm though not painful — as he halts your fingers that were just shy of brushing his cheek. "No," he says flatly, tugging your hand back to your own lap, "I want you to go." 

That cuts deeper than you'd expected for it to. He was rejecting you entirely, he didn't even want you around. And you know that you should be giving him space, it was obvious that the conversation between him and Yelena had upset him greatly but could he not see that you were only trying to help? And what of the children when they woke up? 

You wondered how that would play out before realizing — it wasn't your job. 

So with a defeated sigh you push yourself up from the sofa, nodding as you flatten out your shirt over your jeans. "Okay." Your footsteps echo throughout the room as you make your way across it. Only once you reach the doorway do you pause, turning to peer over your shoulder. 

Jungkook was still sat on the couch, his gaze fixed to the floor. His face holds no emotion but you knew it was there, buried beneath the hardened layers. Your fingers curl into a loose fist before releasing again. "Call me if you need anything," a small olive branch that you hoped he would take, "You know where to find me." 

But Jungkook simply grunts, not lifting his eyes even as you head to leave. The front door shuts a minute later and the house is left in silence. You clutch the car keys in one hand, all thought of taking the children for a ride vanishing as you slump down behind the wheel. 

Letting out a big sigh that had been building in your chest for hours now, you twist on the engine and pull out of the driveway.

The streets are covered in snow, forcing you to go easy on the gas to stay steady. You wonder how Jungkook had managed to get home so quickly without landing himself in an accident… Immediately scolding yourself for letting your thoughts wander back to him, you try to steer your mind elsewhere. 

Christmas spirit was still in the air. Almost each house you drove past had decorated gardens and you spotted trees in almost every home — a stark contrast to the Jeon estate. Families were out with their children, mothers and fathers holding hands, snowball fights taking place in the front yards. A domestic sight, really. 

A big sign advertising fireworks reminds you that New Years was coming up in a short four days, and you still hadn't made any plans. Daehyun was going out with a couple of friends, you could surely tag along if you wanted to. Or perhaps you would spend it cooped up in your apartment, toasting to yourself at midnight before hitting the sack. 

Part of you had hoped that after spending the holidays with them, Jungkook would invite you to celebrate the new year as well. Though that had been before he dropped you off at the train station, before your conversation in his study and before his ex-wife turned up on the front porch. You sigh, giving up on the idea again as you come to a stop by a red light. 

Your fingers drum against the wheel mindlessly, your gaze drifting lazily across the street ahead of you when you suddenly spot her — Yelena. 

She was walking down the street across from you to the right. Had it not been for her disheveled appearance, the thin fleece and mattered hair that made her stick out among the many, you probably wouldn't have noticed her. She trudges forward with her arms wrapped around her torso, shivering with each step and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth. 

When the light turns green you don't hesitate to make a sharp turn, cutting off another car who expressed his dislike with a long, blaring honk. Ignoring him, you easily catch up with Yelena, slowing to match her pace as you lean over to roll down the window on the passenger side. 

"Hey!" 

Your voice startles her and she skips to the side as her head whips in your direction, her hair flying everywhere. For a moment she looks confused, then recognition settles over her features. 

"Can I give you a ride anywhere?" You don't know what compels you to make the offer, all you know is that you're eager to get her off the freezing streets. Looking at her now — in the freezing December air — it was hard to think her to be the same woman that had been yelling inside Jungkook's living room. 

You don't find yourself unsettled by her in this moment, even though she was clearly unwell. Rather, you pitied her as she walked down the pavement in nothing but a fleece to protect her from the darkest and coldest month of the year. 

But Yelena doesn't seem to share your feelings. Her brows knit together as she eyes your car warily. "Did he send you?" There's venom lacing her every word and the mention of Jungkook catches you by surprise. 

Keeping one hand steady on the wheel, you glance back at the road before shaking your head. "No. I just happened to drive by and—" 

"Well you can tell him that he's a selfish asshole!" Yelena points a finger toward you, spitting the words in your face. "And I don't need you throwing me a pity party," she scowls, "I know that you called him, you snake." She turns away from you then, spinning on her heel and heading in the opposite direction just to get away. 

You sit in stunned silence for a while, your vehicle barely inching forward as you blink slowly. The chilly breeze sweeps in through the open window on the passenger side but it's not until the drivers behind you start slamming their horns that you finally snap out of your trance. 

Leaning over to hastily roll your window up, you press down on the gas to get them off your back. It seems like no matter what you do — your help was unwanted. With a final glance in the rear view mirror, you catch sight of Yelena's retreating figure in the distance. A sigh escapes you as you turn your attention back to the street before you, bumping the radio up to another lame Christmas Carol. 

Then you drive home. 

── [ ✉️ ] I like this I think. It's so different seeing Jungkook from a different POV after being in his head for so long. Some might think his reaction was a bit underwhelming (?) But trust me, he's going through it on the inside. We already know him to be very quiet about his feelings, but they'll be unfolding as the chapters go on. Please leave me your thoughts I'd love to hear them <3

The chairs in Madame’s office are as stiff as always, the ones that force posture.

You don't need the help, but you notice the two people across from you do.

The man adjusts his position twice in the first minute. The woman doesn't.

You like her immediately.

"Thank you for making time on short notice, Mademoiselle."

The woman speaks first. English, clipped but warm enough. Early fifties, silver-streaked hair pulled into a chignon that wouldn't embarrass a principal. Her name is Catherine Ashworth—Associate Director, listed on the card she slid across Madame's desk when introductions were made. The man beside her is James Whitfield, Ballet Master, quiet-eyed and taking notes in a Moleskine with handwriting you can't read from this angle.

"Of course," you say.

English doesn't take effort for you to form in your mouth, the vowels simply tighten and the consonants land cleaner.

It's the accent you spent two summers in London perfecting.

"It's a privilege."

Catherine opens the folder. You catch a glimpse of printed stills—rehearsal footage, frozen mid-arabesque, mid-port de bras. Your body on paper, dissected into moments.

"Your Ondine rehearsal footage is impressive," she says, turning one of the stills toward you as a reference point rather than a compliment. "The emotional depth is unusual for someone at your stage. Technically you're where we'd expect a soloist at this level—clean, consistent, excellent line. But the interpretive work is what flagged you for us. The first-act variation in particular."

You know which one she means.

The solo where Ondine discovers her own reflection.

You'd rehearsed it twenty-six times.

"Thank you."

"We've been watching the academy's output for the past three seasons," James adds, glancing up from his notebook. Softer voice. Midlands accent flattened by years in London. "Madame Villon has been generous with footage and reports. You've been on our radar since your Giselle Act Two last spring."

Since Giselle.

Eight months. They've been watching you for eight months and you didn't know.

Your spine straightens by a millimetre. Involuntary.

Madame sits at the edge of her own desk, blinking slowly in that way she does when she's already made her decision.

She says nothing. She doesn't need to. Her silence is its own kind of endorsement.

"We'd like to discuss your future with the company," Catherine continues. "After this season's production concludes, of course. We don't poach mid-run." A small, professional smile. "But the timing works well. Our intake cycle opens in June. We'd be looking at an Artist contract initially—standard entry for external recruits—with a six-month assessment period."

Artist of The Royal Ballet.

Entry level, yes.

But entry level at Covent Garden is not entry level.

It is the door that Margot Fonteyn walked through. Darcey Bussell. Sylvie Guillem, who left the Opéra de Paris for exactly this door.

You know the trajectory.

Artist to First Artist in two years if you perform. Soloist within four. Principal within six, if you're exceptional.

And you are exceptional. That's not arrogance. It's the same assessment you apply to your développé: either the line is correct or it isn't.

For you, it is.

"I'd be honoured to discuss it," you say, hands folded in your lap, perfectly still.

After Ondine.

Five weeks until Ondine decides whether London is real.

Five weeks until the role you've been shaping your body around becomes the audition tape for the rest of your life.

Five weeks until London—grey skies, the Thames, studios that smell different from these ones, an entirely new architecture of expectation.

You've been waiting for something like this since you were thirteen and your mother drove you to Bordeaux for your first serious audition, and you stood in a hallway full of girls who all looked like you and thought: 'I will outlast every single one of them.'

You have.

Catherine leans back slightly, exchanges a glance with James. Then looks right back at you.

"There's one additional consideration," she says. "We're restructuring our soloist pairings for the next season. Gildo—our current principal—needs a new partner for the autumn programme. We'd ideally bring in two dancers who complement each other technically. Different strengths, cohesive line when partnered."

She turns to Madame.

"You mentioned you had several dancers worth considering for the secondary position. We'd love to see some footage, if you have recommendations."

Madame nods. Crosses to her desktop and angles the monitor toward the table. "I've prepared clips of four candidates. All upper academy, all in their final year."

The footage begins. Amélie first—strong jumps, musicality slightly behind the beat in allegro. Then Manon—beautiful extensions but her transitions between movements read rehearsed rather than inhabited. Camille next.

You watch without expression.

Camille is good. That's always been the particular cruelty of competing with her—she's good. Her Kitri variation is technically accomplished, her fouettés land clean.

But her artistry is a costume. It'd the performance of emotion rather than the experience of it. The smile that arrives half a beat too early because she's anticipating the musical phrase rather than responding to it. The port de bras that follows the choreography instead of growing from it.

Good is not what the Royal Ballet keeps.

"If I may," you say.

The room shifts its attention.

"Léa Moreau." The name leaves your mouth before you've fully decided to say it. "She's not in Madame's selection, but she should be."

Madame's eyebrow lifts—not in disapproval, in interest.

"She's a lyrical dancer. Her technical ceiling is slightly below Camille's in allegro, but her adagio work is the strongest in the academy. Her line in sustained movement is exceptional—long phrasing, very musical, never rushes transitions." You pause. Consider. "And she listens. Her partnering instinct is genuine. She adjusts to whoever she's working with, not the other way around."

You don't say that she roasts chestnuts with honey in the dorm kitchen and never asks questions she doesn't want honest answers to and once covered for your missed curfew without being asked.

You don't say she is the only person in this building you've never wanted to destroy.

"She's gentle," you add. "It reads as generosity onstage. Audiences trust her immediately."

Catherine writes something on the margin of her folder. James looks at Madame.

"I have footage of her Lilac Fairy from last season's showcase," Madame says, and there's approval in her voice—or its closest relative.

She pulls up the file.

The clip plays. Léa in lavender, bourréeing across the stage as though the floor is grateful for her feet.

Catherine watches the full ninety seconds without looking away.

"Lovely," she says.

"We'll review her profile," James adds, closing his notebook. "Madame, if you could send the full footage packages to our offices by end of week?"

"Of course."

They stand. Handshakes—Catherine's firm and dry, James's briefer. Madame walks them toward the door. Catherine turns back to you once more.

"Five weeks, Mademoiselle. We'll be watching Ondine closely. Dance it like it matters."

"I always do," you say.

The door clicks shut.

You sit in Madame's stiff-backed chair for four more seconds.

You recommended Léa.

You recommended another dancer—voluntarily, unprompted—for an opportunity that could have been leveraged, hoarded, traded.

You could have said nothing. Could have let the four preselected names stand, let the competition sort itself.

You don't interrogate why it wasn't the case.

Simply, you stand, smooth your skirt, and walk out of Madame's office into the corridor.

Five weeks.

London.

The smile arrives before you can arrange it into anything controlled. Small. Private. Tugging at one corner of your mouth like a thread pulled from inside.

You let it stay.

You've always known fear is physical, and you see it now in his fingers.

His hand is shaking in yours—a feeble tremor that starts somewhere in his wrist and travels outward into his fingers.

It's not the cold, because the gloves handle exactly that.

It is something else entirely, something that started approximately four seconds after you reached over and took his hand at the mouth of Passage des Panoramas and has not stopped since.

Interesting.

The Passage swallows you both in its amber warmth, the vaulted glass ceiling sharing the view into the obsidian December sky above.

The Christmas spirit has colonized every shopfront—gilt garland looped between old brass signs, window displays gone saturated with red and green, a string of miniature lights running the length of the upper gallery like a second ceiling of stars.

The smell of it is specific: roasted sugar from somewhere deeper in the arcade, old paper from the stamp dealers, coffee from the brasserie at the corner, and underneath all of it the faint mineral damp of the mosaic floor from where heels have tracked in the outside wet.

You like this passage. You've come here alone before, walked the length of it for no particular reason except the way sound changes inside—crowd noise buffered, swallowed, outside city reduced to a mere murmur.

However, given the dates, currently it's filled with people in every centimetre of available space: families with strollers that take up full aisle-width, a group of tourists photographing the ceiling, couples moving slowly, arms linked, window-shopping with a leisure you've never quite understood.

Taehyung's hand tightens on yours.

You glance up.

He's looking straight ahead. His jaw is set. His shoulders have crept toward his ears in a slow, unconscious migration and his free hand is fisted in his coat pocket. His breath comes through his nose, hushed but hurried—the same pattern you use during a technically demanding phrase when you need oxygen and silence simultaneously.

Counting, probably. Or trying to.

"Too many people?" you ask.

"No," he says, immediately, and then flinches at his own automatic deflection. "I mean—it's—fine. It's fine."

It's not fine. His hand just communicated that clearly.

You stop walking, which causes a small ripple of irritation from a man with a large shopping bag who has to navigate around you. You ignore him. You reach up and unwrap your scarf—pale grey wool, wrapped twice this morning against the biting cold—and loop it around Taehyung's neck instead.

He startles. His chin drops to look at the fabric settling against his coat.

"Pearl, your—you'll be—"

"I'm warm." This is not entirely true, but you have better circulation than he does and this is non-negotiable. "Stop talking."

You tuck the ends into his collar. His throat moves in a swallow and you feel it before you pull your hands away.

"You have the thread," you say, lower. "On your wrist. Yeah?"

He looks down. His glove covers it, obviously, but you both know it's there. The pink cotton sitting against his pulse, soaked with your perfume.

He nods, the motion small, slow, like confirming something that matters.

"So you're going to be fine," you say. "The people can't actually touch you."

He nods again. His shoulders descend by a fraction.

The crowd eddies around you and he holds your hand like it's the thread—like if he keeps the grip steady the rest of it will stay manageable.

You resume walking, and this time you set the pace. Slower than your usual. Enough that he doesn't have to rush, doesn't have to calculate trajectories through moving bodies, can simply follow the direction your hand gives him.

You pass the stamp dealer, the old print shop, a window full of vintage perfume bottles clouded amber. He notices the perfume bottles—you catch his gaze snagging on them for two seconds before he redirects forward.

Noted.

The hosiery shop sits three-quarters down the passage, between a bistro and a dealer in old theatre programmes. The window display is modest—a mannequin in a black bodysuit, three pairs of tights displayed on small wooden stands, a hand-lettered sign advertising lingerie, pantyhose, accessories in looping script. Warm light inside. Small enough that the crowd doesn't press at its entrance.

You feel the exact moment he reads the sign.

His hand doesn't just tremble. It seizes.

"I'll—" He stops walking. His whole body stops, actually, a full halt in the flow of the arcade. "I can—I can wait outside, I'll—there's that bench by the print shop, I saw it, I'll just—"

You don't let go of his hand.

"Come on."

"Pearl—" Horror. Actual horror in his voice, coloring it a full shade more desperate. "It's a—it's—I can't go in there, those are—"

"Tights. I need new tights." You tilt your head toward the door. "I go through two pairs a week. It's a supply issue."

"But—but the—the window—"

The mannequin. He cannot look at the mannequin. His face has gone the full coral, blazing from his cheekbones through his ears and flooding down his neck into your scarf, and his free hand has come out of his pocket to grab his coat hem instead.

You could let him wait on the bench.

That would be reasonable.

That would be the logical, efficient choice.

But the expression on his face is the single most endearing thing you've seen since he told you your breasts feel like clouds, and there is not a force in this city sufficient to make you let him out of your sight right now.

"Taehyung."

He makes a sound like you've condemned him.

You pull him through the door. He makes it two steps inside before his body forgets how to walk.

His hand clamps down on yours, every finger locked like he's decided this is the handhold he lives or dies by. The woman behind the counter looks up from her tissue-wrapping, takes in the two of you—his face a full-body emergency, your expression entirely serene—and returns to her work with all the profound disinterest of someone who has seen everything this shop can produce.

You look around.

Racks of garments hang in careful arrangements by colour: ivory at the far wall, jewel tones in the middle, the softer pastels toward the window. Everything lace and satin and thin ribbon, every hanger something he is currently refusing to look at directly.

There are no tights.

"They don't have what I need," you observe, scanning the room. "I should have a look around anyway."

His exhale is a religious experience. A full, shuddering collapse of air from lungs that had been holding on for dear life.

You walk toward the ivory wall, pulling him along.

The first thing that catches your attention is a set displayed on a stand at eye level: ivory satin and scalloped lace, a bustier cut with wide satin bows knotted at each cup. Architectural and soft at once. The matching bottom is a high-cut lace thong with a small bow at the center front, paired with a low-slung garter piece. Everything cream-toned, warm white, the lace beneath the satin panels almost transparent.

You reach out with your free hand and touch the fabric.

"Pretty," you say, to no one in particular.

He makes a sound that is not a word.

You turn to look at him.

His face is extraordinary.

The coral has gone past the nose and cheekbones and ears, flooding down his neck and is visibly heating the air around his collar. His free hand is fisted in the hem of your scarf where it hangs loose around his neck, and his jaw is locked in the position of someone actively preventing their own teeth from chattering. His eyes are fixed somewhere near the base of the display stand, refusing elevation.

Cute.

Devastatingly, infuriatingly cute.

You want to take a picture and stare at it for the rest of the season.

"What colour do you like?" you ask.

His head jerks toward you. Away. Back. The fringe falls forward.

"I—I d-don't—that's not—I'm not supposed to—"

"On me," you clarify. Helpfully.

The sound he makes has no linguistic content. His free hand grabs your coat instead of the scarf, knuckles blanching.

"Selkie."

He exhales like you've wounded him.

"B—" It gets stuck. He tries again. "B-blue."

His voice comes out barely above a murmur, and his fringe is fully covering his eyes now, chin angled down.

"Blue. You—y-you'd be… pretty. Blue."

You look toward the pastel end of the room.

There, against the left wall: a pale blue set, the particular shade of early morning water, of the underside of a wave.

The bra is lace over an underwired structure, two wrap-around satin ribbons crossing at the ribcage in an X before meeting the matching bottom. The lace is floral, delicate. The bottom comes in two options displayed side by side—a plain thong in matching lace, and a tie-side version with long pale blue satin bows at each hip.

You walk toward it.

He follows. He has no choice, architecturally.

You look at the two bottoms.

"Which one," you say.

He is staring at the floor between your feet.

"Second one," he says, so quietly you almost miss it.

"The bows?"

He nods. Once. Hard.

You take the set from the rack. He's warm through the glove. Almost feverish.

You turn, because you are a person who looks at a whole room before making decisions, and your gaze travels the middle section of the rack.

A burgundy set, deep plum-wine lace, floral pattern cutting through with some transparency, the whole bodysuit structure rising into double satin straps that cross the chest in a way that owes more to architecture than clothing. Garter straps dropping from the hemline. The sheer quality of the lace is such that you'd be visible through it, shape and shadow both, fabric existing less to cover and more to frame.

Then you half-turn to where he's standing beside you.

His gaze has drifted upward. He's seen it.

The sound he makes is a choke. A genuine, full-throat choke, like something went down wrong. His hand seizes yours hard enough that you feel the individual bones of your fingers compress.

Interesting.

You say nothing. You turn away from the burgundy set and move toward the counter.

"I'm going to pay," you tell him. "Look around. If there's anything else you like." A pause. "I'll buy it."

His hand tightens immediately. A frantic, reflexive clamp.

"N-no," he says. "No, I—please. Please don't let go."

"Behave."

"P-please." Quieter. Urgent. "Please, I—p-please don't make me—I don't want to—please—"

He is begging you not to release his hand in a lingerie shop.

He would, you note, genuinely rather stand here holding your hand than browse freely. He is holding onto you the way drowning people hold on to things.

You look at him for a moment.

His eyes are enormous and wet at the edges and the coral is so intense it looks like you could warm your hands on it.

You smile.

Then you uncurl your fingers from his.

He stands there. Adrift. Both hands now fallen to his sides, one still warm from yours, chest rising and falling in the short, helpless rhythm of someone who has been set loose in a room and told to function.

The saleswoman has already located the blue set in your size from the display model—she's seen you looking, seen the way you held the fabric. She sets it on the tissue without comment.

You pay. Card, tap, done.

Then, you glance back at the burgundy bodysuit and the lady quickly gathers it and wraps it in tissue as well.

Once done, you pick both bags up and turn.

He's standing in the exact same spot you left him in. He hasn't moved a centimetre. His beanie, which had been tucked in his coat pocket, is now pulled down over his ears, presumably because he needed to put his hands somewhere and that is what they found.

He looks like a very tall, very coral, very distressed person who has been waiting for a rescue that isn't coming.

You click your tongue twice. The same sound, the same rhythm as before.

His head comes up.

You extend your free hand, palm up.

He crosses to you in four steps and takes it.

"You bought the tights?" he asks, voice still rougher than usual, not quite recovered.

"No."

"Oh." He processes this, thumb moving against the back of your hand, absent, involuntary. "Then what did you—"

"Something you liked." You push through the door back into the passage, and the amber warmth follows you out into the cooler arcade air.

He looks away from you immediately. Finds a fixed point somewhere near the mosaic floor and pins his attention there. His free hand comes up and burrows into the end of your scarf, pulling it higher around his chin.

"I didn't say—I wasn't trying to—"

"You said blue. You said pretty."

His jaw closes. Opens. Closes again.

"And something else," you add. "Little surprise."

The noise he makes is muffled because he has pulled your scarf up over the lower half of his face and is currently attempting to disappear inside it. His beanie comes down another centimetre. Only his eyes are visible—the mole beneath his right lash catching the passage light.

You walk, and he walks beside you, and the Christmas crowd moves around the two of you like water around something fixed.

Your grandmother was a woman of extremely limited wisdom except in two areas: posture and pastry.

You set both coffees down on the small table outside the boulangerie—two metal chairs, a heater above that provides mostly theatre—and push the paper bag toward him.

He's been sitting with his spine very straight and both your shopping bags arranged carefully at his feet, handles upright, equidistant from each other. Guarding them. Like if he moves a centimetre the bags might run off.

"Chocolatine," you say. "Here."

He looks at the bag. Looks at you. Looks at the bag again.

"N-no, it's okay, I don't—huh?"

"Take it."

His hand extends reflexively, the way it always does when you tell him to do something. Fingers close around the paper. He opens it, looks inside at the laminated pastry layers, the dark chocolate visible at the cross-section where it was cut.

"I didn't—you didn't have to—"

"Taehyung."

"Right." He swallows. "Thank you."

You wrap both hands around your coffee and watch him over the rim.

He lifts the pastry out of the bag. Takes a small bite. His eyes close for half a second—involuntary, the way eyes close when something is actually good and the body reports back before the brain can censor it.

Then he opens them.

"It's pain au chocolat," he says.

You pause.

"What?"

His chewing becomes slower. "Pain au chocolat. Not—it's not called—" He breathes. "It's pain au chocolat."

You look at him.

He is flushed from forehead to collar and his hands have found the hem of the paper bag and are doing something destructive to it and his fringe is a full curtain over his eyes and he is absolutely, unmistakably, not backing down.

You set your coffee down.

"I grew up calling it a chocolatine."

"I—yes." His head dips lower. "I know. It's—in the south they—" He stops again. Starts again. "In Bordeaux. They say chocolatine in Bordeaux."

"And everywhere reasonable."

"That's—" His jaw does the thing again. "Th-that's not—"

"Everywhere reasonable, Moss."

"It's pain au chocolat." The words come out quiet, unhurried, with a conviction so total and so un-Taehyung that it briefly reorganizes the air between you.

His shoulders are up around his ears and his knuckles have gone white on the bag and he is staring at the tabletop with complete focus, but he said it.

He said it plainly and he did not take it back.

You stare at him.

He stares at the table.

"Hm," you say.

This apparently registers as dangerous because his head comes up fractionally, just enough for you to see the lower half of his face past the ashy curtains of hair.

His mouth is pressed shut. He looks like a man who has survived a wrecked ship and cannot yet confirm whether he's been hit.

"So you can talk back," you say.

"I—no—I'm sorry. I'm—you're not wrong, it's just—it's a regional—it's a name, it doesn't—I'm not—" He exhales, long and thin. "I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize for having an opinion."

His fringe sways.

"It's pain au chocolat," he says again, smaller. Like he can't help it.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

"Where I'm from," you say, "every boulangerie, every grandmother, every market—"

“Chocolatine is a Southwest word,” he says, something tentative in his voice; like a door opened a centimetre and he’s speaking through the gap before he loses his nerve. “It came from—in the south there was—the suffix, -ine, like amandine, like nougatine. They just—”

He stops. His hands are shaking slightly on the table.

“Sorry. I—Mamie. She used to tell me about the—about how words travel. Along borders."

Mamie.

He said the name like it comes from somewhere deeper than the conversation.

"Your grandmother," you say.

He nods. One small, single motion.

"She was—she knew a lot of things like that."

His thumb traces the edge of the bag.

"About words. Where they come from." A pause. "She grew up near Lyon. But she—she loved to know where things came from. She said—"

He stops. Exhales.

"She said Paris has this habit of deciding it invented everything."

You look at him.

He is staring at the pastry in his hand. His fringe is still down. But his shoulders have dropped, just slightly, half a centimetre away from his ears.

"She sounds correct," you say.

The corner of his mouth moves. Barely. A flicker that doesn't quite become anything but almost does.

"She was," he says. "Usually."

The passage crowd moves past the edge of the side street in its Christmas-fogged drift, indifferent.

"I'm not calling it pain au chocolat," you say.

"I know." He takes another small bite. "That's—it's fine."

"It's not fine. It's incorrect. It’s chcoolatine."

"It's the correct name—"

"Moss."

"It's pain au chocolat."

"You said that."

"I'm saying it again." His voice has that quality again—the one that appeared when he first corrected you, that strange, braced conviction sitting under three layers of nervous energy. "It's—the lady at the counter. She understood what you meant but she wrote pain au chocolat on the bag. You can see it. Right there."

He points at the bag. There is, in fact, pain au chocolat written on the bag.

"I asked for a chocolatine," you say. "She gave me one. Transaction complete."

"She was—" He stops. Presses his lips together. "She was just being polite. It's pain au chocolat."

"Say chocolatine," you say.

He blinks.

"Say it."

"I—" He shifts in his seat. "That's—I can't."

"Can't?"

"I can't."

"Can't or won't?"

His mouth opens. Closes.

His fringe sways as he looks down at the table. His fingers find the edge of the ruined paper bag.

"Can't—"

You reach across the table.

Your thumb finds the corner of his mouth—a small smear of chocolate sitting at the very edge of his lower lip, left from his last bite.

You swipe it clean in one motion, pull your hand back, and lick it off your thumb.

He stares at your mouth.

The coral comes back so fast it looks like a tide coming in. His ears, his cheeks, the bridge of his nose—all of it, immediate. The paper bag crinkles once, softly, as his hands go still.

He looks back down at the table.

"...Won't," he says. Very quietly.

You bite the inside of your cheek.

"Be a good boy," you say, "and say chocolatine."

He makes a sound. Not quite a word. Not quite not a word.

His hands come up and he presses both forearms crossed against the table and then puts his forehead down on them, face-first, fringe pooling across his wrists, and stays there.

Hidden. Completely hidden.

"That's—" His voice comes out muffled by his own arms. "That's not fair. You're—" His shoulders shift. "Pearl."

"Hm?"

"You're not—you can't just—the word good boy in that—in that voice—" He stops. Revises. "It's not fair."

"I'll reward you," you say.

He goes very still.

Useful.

You observe all of him—the lowered head, the forearms crossed on the table, the scarf pulled high as if the wool could do the work his nervous system refuses to do.

He is listening with his whole body now—not just the words themselves, but the cadence, the tone, tje temperature of them.

So praise works.

You knew that already.

He reacts to approval wrapped in softness. In something that sounds less like a command and more like care, which is a distinction you're just beginning to map.

You tap one nail slightly against the cup.

"Would you like that?" you say.

His head lifts up a fraction—enough for you to see one eye through the fall of his fringe.

"Wh-what?"

"A reward." You tilt your head. "For being good."

His eyelashes flutter for a second.

"Y-yes," he replies, and the word comes out damaged. "I m-mean—if you—if you wanted to."

If you wanted to.

As if your wanting isn't the only reason any of this is happening.

You want to press deeper into the bruise now that the pattern is laid out for you to appreciate.

That's how the word presents itself after that. A role with its hands already pressed around his throat.

You let one beat pass. Then another. Long enough for him to feel the delay.

Then, soft as anything, you say:

"Mommy will reward you."

The sound he makes is not audible so much as felt. A full-body something, transmitted through the metal table, his forearms on the surface conducting whatever that was into the furniture and out through the legs and into the stone below.

He does not raise his head.

His ears are the colour of something that has been burning for a while.

"Don't," he says, into his own arms.

"Don't what?"

"Don't say that." Still muffled. Still not looking up. His fingers have curled against his own wrists, gripping the sleeve of his coat. "You—I—when you s-say—please. Please."

He sounds genuinely beseeching. He sounds like someone who has been handed a problem that exceeds his current processing capacity and has no idea how to file it. He sounds like he is one more syllable from sliding entirely under the table.

The ashy ends of his hair splayed across his forearms come to life under the passage light making it through the window.

"So it works," you observe.

His head lifts off his arms slowly, like he’s not sure he heard you properly, fringe crushed in odd directions against his skin. There's a pink line printed across his forehead where his sleeve pressed into it. His eyebrows pull up in the middle before they pull together, a small crease forming between them.

Puppy.

That’s the only word for it.

“What works?” he asks. Quiet. Earnest.

“Nothing.”

“Pearl.”

“Hm?”

“…What works?”

You take a sip of your coffee. Watch him over the rim. His hands have found the edge of the paper bag again and are doing small, unconscious damage to it, pleating and unpleating the same fold.

“You really want to know?”

He nods. Shy. The fringe falls forward by itself, the way it always does, as though gravity has decided his hair belongs in front of his eyes and not away from it.

You set the cup down.

“Come here.”

He comes.

Not in the way he usually complies—the bracing-for-impact flinch, the obedient approach that reads like penance. This time his hands fly down and he slides his chair two centimetres closer and then stops, like he's hit an invisible line and can't decide whether crossing it is allowed.

When he settles, his knees are almost touching yours under the table. He keeps his hands folded in his lap, out of sight.

"Closer."

His eyes flick up.

He moves the chair one more centimetre.

"Taehyung."

"I'm—I'm close."

"Mm."

You lean forward, slightly. Both elbows on the table. Chin resting on the backs of your folded hands. So close that the steam off his coffee fogs the space between you, that he has nowhere to put his eyes except on your mouth or on the table.

And the table has been thoroughly examined already.

He picks the table nevertheless.

"Praise," you say.

His fringe shifts. "I—what?"

"You react to praise. When I call you good." You watch his throat move. "That's what works."

His hands, under the table, do something you can feel in the small vibration running up the leg and into the metal surface.

"I don't—" He stops. Starts again. "I don't know what you mean."

"You do."

"I—"

"Taehyung."

"Pearl, please—"

"Say it."

His head dips lower. The fringe takes over.

"When you—" He swallows. The sound is audible. "When you say—that word. Those words. It—" He stops. His shoulders are creeping again. "I don't know how to—I don't know what to do."

"Which words."

"Please—"

"Which ones, Moss."

A long pause while a scooter passes the mouth of the side street and its engine fades into the arcade's muffled sounds.

"Good," he says. Very quietly. "When you—say I'm good."

"And?"

He hesitates.

Then: "Mommy."

You feel your canines throb.

"Louder."

"I can't."

"Yes you can."

"Pearl—"

"Try."

"M—" He swallows. The coral deepens by an entire shade. "Mommy. When you—when you say mommy. That one."

You lean back a fraction. Just enough that he can breathe without your breath touching his face.

He looks like he needs the centimetre.

He does not, in fact, use it to breathe.

He uses it to pull the sleeve of his sweater down over his hand, as if needing a physical barrier between himself and the air. Wool over glove. Double insulation.

You don't fully understand why.

"Hands."

"What?"

"Why are the gloves still on."

He swallows.

"It's—cold."

"We're under a heater."

"The—the heater is—"

"Taehyung."

His jaw closes.

"I don't want to get you dirty," he says.

It comes out so quietly that if the passage crowd had been louder you'd have lost it.

You look at him.

You think about the stairwell. You think about the pink thread on his wrist. You think about the way he flinched earlier when a man with a shopping bag had to navigate around the two of you—not from the jostle, from the proximity. You think about the bleach smell that clings to his shirts even after they've been washed. You think about how, when you reached across the table to take the chocolate off his mouth, he'd stared at your thumb like you'd just completed a religious rite.

"You think you're dirty," you state.

His whole body flinches. The chair scrapes back a millimetre.

"That's—"

"I'm not asking. I'm telling you what I've observed." You interrupt him. "You think you're dirty, and you think everything you touch gets dirty, and that includes me."

His shoulders are up around his ears and his fringe is a full curtain and he is, visibly, trying to decide whether to leave the table.

"Pearl—"

"I'm not done."

He freezes.

"You're wrong."

His breath catches. You can hear it.

"You're wrong about the direction of it. I don't know where you got the map, but it's upside down." You tilt your head. "I'm the one who took your hand in the passage. I'm the one who put the scarf on you. I'm the one who walked you into the shop and picked out something blue because you said blue and pretty in the same sentence and I wanted to see what your face did. That's not something happening to me. That's something I'm choosing."

He is not breathing. You can see he is not breathing.

"Nothing about you contaminates me." You say it flat. Like a fact. Like the line is correct or it isn't. "Are you listening?"

He nods. The fringe moves with it.

"Say it."

He seems to struggle to gather courage for a bit, until:

"N-nothing about me contaminates you."

"Good boy."

He ducks his head.

You want to bite him.

You want to bite him specifically on the soft part of his neck just under the jaw, where the coral is flooding strongest. The urge is not abstract. It is a physical thing sitting low in your stomach, and it has been getting worse for weeks, and today—today, in the shop, with his hand clamped around yours hard enough to compress bone, with his voice going to pieces over the word blue—today it crossed from occasional to problematic.

You pick up your coffee. You take a sip. You do not bite him.

Yet.

"So here's what's going to happen," you say.

His eyes drop to your mouth.

"You're going to finish your pastry. You're going to carry the bags home for me because you've been guarding them like they're state property and I'd hate to interrupt the mission." A pause. "And then you're going to go home."

He nods. Small. Agreeable. Not yet tracking.

"And you're going to get into bed." You keep your voice level, low, the same register you used for ‘good boy’. "And you're going to wash your hands first, because you probably wash your hands when you get home."

His throat moves.

"And you're going to try very hard not to think about the blue set."

His hand comes up. Fists in the hem of your scarf where it's still wrapped around his throat. He pulls it up to his chin.

"Pearl—"

"And you're going to fail." You tilt your head. "You're going to lie there and you're going to think about it. You're going to think about how the ribbons cross at the ribs. You're going to think about the bow at the hip. You're going to think about me putting it on."

His other hand has come to the hem of his sweater. Pulling. A specific downward tug of the wool over his lap.

He does it when his body has done something he wishes it hadn't.

You bite the inside of your cheek so hard you taste copper.

He is so endearing it's starting to feel like a personal injury.

The urge to sink teeth onto the exact spot where his pulse is kicking under the scarf and leave a mark he'll have to look at for a week and call it his own fault resurfaces again.

You hold it back and it feels like containing a wave.

"And you're going to get hard," you say, soft and gentle. "And you're going to feel awful about it."

His exhale is a small, wrecked thing.

"You're going to feel—what's the word you use. In your head." You lean in another centimetre. "Filthy?"

His eyes close.

"Disgusting?"

"Pearl, please—"

"Unworthy?"

"Please—"

"You're going to feel like you've done something terrible, because you're lying there hard over a girl who, in your head, you still don't think you're allowed to want like that. Even though that girl bought you a pain au chocolat this afternoon and made you say which panties you liked on her."

The sound he makes is almost a sob and lands in the exact space between the two where breath stops working.

"And you're going to try to stop." You watch his face. "And you're not going to be able to."

His head is fully down again. His hand has not let go of the sweater hem. His other hand, the one not occupied with the scarf, has gone back into his lap and you know—you know with the particular clarity of someone who has been paying attention for weeks—that it is flat against his thigh, not moving, held there by force of will.

Good.

"And afterwards," you say, softer still, "you're going to get up. You're going to strip the bed. You're going to put your sheets in the sink because you don't like using the machine for certain things, and you're going to scrub your hands until they hurt. Maybe you'll use bleach."

His shoulders are shaking again, though it’s not crying.

"And you're going to tell yourself you've done something unforgivable." You pause. "Because you got hard over a girl you think is clean."

"Pearl—" His voice is gone. It comes out shredded. "Please—please stop—"

"Am I wrong?"

A long silence.

"No," he whispers.

"Look at me."

He doesn't.

"Moss. Look at me."

He does. Barely. Over the edge of the scarf, through the fringe, just enough that you get his eyes.

They're enormous and wet and the coral has painted him from collar to hairline.

"Moss."

"Mm."

"I'm going to ask you something, and I want you to think about it before you answer."

He nods. Small.

"You've cupped my tits."

His whole body flinches like you've slapped the table.

"Pearl—"

"Let me finish."

His jaw closes.

"You've cupped my tits. You humped my leg until you came in your pants and I felt it through the denim." You glance at your cup. "I've had your cock in my mouth. I've swallowed."

His gloved hand spasms once on the table. His other hand, you know without looking, is doing the sweater thing again.

"Does that make me dirty?”

His face does something you've never seen it do before.

It's not the coral. It's under the coral.

A full-body negation, a no that travels from his scalp down through his shoulders into his hands. His eyes go wide and wet and the shake in them is the same shake that's in his glove.

"No." It comes out immediate. Total. Un-hedged. "No. No. No—Pearl, you're—you're not—you could never—no—"

"Sure?"

"You—" He's babbling now, genuinely babbling, the words falling out faster than he can shape them. "You're—you're the cleanest—you're—the cleanest thing. You're—I don't—you couldn't get dirty—it's not—it doesn't work like that, you're not—you couldn't—Pearl, no—"

"So none of it dirtied me."

"No—"

"Not my tits in your hands."

His head shakes. Hard. Fringe flying.

"Not your cum in my mouth."

"Pearl—"

"Answer me."

"No—no it didn't—you're not—"

"Then explain to me," you say, "the direction of the mess."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it.

Nothing comes out.

You can see the specific, panicked math of a man whose entire cosmology has just been asked to account for itself and is discovering it cannot.

You don't let him off.

"If I'm clean, Moss—" you lick your lips "—and your hands have been on me, and your mouth has been on me, and your cock has been in my mouth, and I'm still clean—"

"Please—"

"Where does the dirt go."

"Pearl—"

"Where does it go."

"I—I don't—I don't know—"

"Think."

"I—I can't—"

"You can."

His hand fists in the sweater.

"I—" he tries, voice shredded. "I—it's—I'm the—I'm the one—it's me, it's always—it's me, it doesn't—"

"So it stays on you?"

"Yes—"

"And doesn't transfer."

"Yes—" He swallows. "I mean—I—I don't know—I don't—I try to—"

"Mm."

You lean back. Pick up your coffee. Take a sip. Let him sit in the unfinished sentence.

"Here's what I've decided," you say.

His eyes come up.

"You're allowed."

His brow pulls together. Small crease forming between his eyebrows. Confused.

"Allowed—"

"To want me. To think about me. To touch yourself thinking about me. You're allowed. You don't have to clean it off afterwards. You don't have to apologize for it. You don't have to scrub it out of yourself."

"I'm—" It comes out in a cracked whisper. "I'm allowed?"

The tone itself lands somewhere warm in your lower abdomen.

The specific, disbelieving register of a boy who has just been handed something he did not expect to be handed in his lifetime and is asking you to confirm you meant it.

"Mm. Allowed."

"But—"

"No but."

"But I—"

"No, Moss."

He swallows. The throat moves all the way down into the scarf. His fringe falls forward and he does not push it back.

You watch him for another beat.

Then you lean in one more centimetre and you drop the register.

"Of course," you say, "if you're going to do it anyway, I'd rather supervise."

His head jerks up.

"Supervise—"

"If you say chocolatine," you say, "I'll give you my number. And tonight, when you fail not to think about me, I’ll call. And I'll tell you what to do with your hands."

He stares at you.

His eyes are enormous right now, almost doe-like.

Big and wet and catching the window-light through the side street, the mole under his lower lash standing out against all that coral, fringe at half-mast, the brow still pulled into that small confused crease.

If he had a tail it would be definitely wagging.

"Really?" he says.

It comes out so small. So earnest. The hopeful, cracked version of the word, like he's asking you to confirm that gravity has been suspended just for him.

You smirk.

"So you are a pervert after all."

"I—"

"It's fine." You wave a hand, small, dismissive. "Mommy likes it when you get like that."

He makes a sound that is not a sound but a full-body something. The wool-tenting situation under the table gets measurably worse. His hand is back in the sweater hem, pulling it down, and the other hand has gone somewhere out of sight.

"Chocolatine, Moss."

"I—"

"Now."

A beat. The heater clicks.

"...Chocolatine."

It comes out the way you knew it would. Soft. Barely there. The final syllable eaten by the fringe.

"Good boy."

He closes his eyes.

"Phone."

His gloved hand goes to his pocket on reflex.

The phone comes out. Old model, scuffed case, the kind of screen that has a thin crack running from the top corner.

He sets it on the table between you.

The lock screen is a plain grey. No wallpaper. No photo. A single, sad little default.

You don't comment.

You glance up. "Code."

"...Zero-seven-zero-seven."

Of course.

You type it. The home screen opens and it is as empty as the lock screen—a grid of default apps, no folders, no rearrangement, nothing added.

You go into contacts.

There are four.

His mother. Marcel. Mamie. And Kirby.

Kirby?

The contact photo is a low-resolution image of a round pink cartoon creature with round pink cheeks. Saved, you note, with a heart emoji. Pink.

You close your eyes for half a second. Open them.

Do not grimace. Do not grimace. Do not—

You almost grimace.

You tap New Contact. You type your number from memory. You tap the name field.

You save yourself as Nereid🩷.

You hand the phone back to him.

He takes it. Looks at it. Stares.

"Don't lose it," you say.

"I—I won't."

"Don't save me under anything else."

"No. No, I won't. I—" He stops. Swallows. "I won't."

You stand.

You do it with a quick, girlish flourish—one smooth motion up out of the chair, a small toss of your hair off the back of your coat, a quarter-turn toward the mouth of the side street.

He is still sitting. Frozen. The phone in his gloved hand, the pastry bag destroyed at his elbow, your scarf around his neck, his sweater pulled down over his lap in a configuration he clearly believes is subtle.

You turn back to him.

"Well?"

"I—"

"Grab the bags."

"Y-yes—"

"Hold my hand."

"Yes—"

"Walk me home."

He stumbles up out of the chair so fast it scrapes the stone. Both shopping bags in one gloved hand, handles gathered, arranged upright dutifully. The phone goes back into his pocket and is immediately patted to confirm it's still there. He checks. Pats again.

"Y-yes—yes, of course—" He crosses to you in two strides. "Yes. Yes."

His free hand comes out.

You take it.

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© jungkoode 2025

"We should try this trend, baby. Remember those Ghostface masks we bought last to last year for Halloween? I think We still have them."

"The Ghostface thing?" he asked, eyebrows knitting together as he replayed the clip.

You nodded eagerly."Yeah. You know... the mask... chasing and... well... you know."

You awkwardly gestured with your hands getting flustered...trying to explain.

A teasing smirk slowly spread across his face. "So... you're saying you want me to chase you then fuck you? "

You snatched your phone back almost instantly and smacked the back of his head. "Yah! Don't say it like that."

"...But yes."

Your cheeks were already warming.

The thing about Jungkook was that he was just as weird as you. He'd happily entertain almost any ridiculous idea if it sounded exciting enough..especially if it made you smile. That didn't mean he wasn't soft. If anything...it was one of the things you loved most about him. He could go from being an absolute menace to the gentlest person you'd ever known in a heartbeat.

He laughed and pulled you closer by the waist and pressed a quick kiss to your lips.."Yeah...its hot" he murmured with a grin. "I can see why people are into it. Let's do it."

You immediately slipped off the bed..standing there in nothing but one of his oversized T-shirts.

"Okay... when do we start?" you asked..folding your arms across your chest..pretending the idea itself wasn't already making you wet.

Jungkook stood up too..suddenly looking much more serious than before. "Go hide somewhere, baby," he said. "Give me a few minutes." His unexpectedly committed expression made you burst into laughter. "You're taking this way too seriously."

"You asked for the full experience." He raised his eyebrows as if slipping into the character right away.

Still giggling but now a little nervou....you opened the dresser drawer and grabbed the old Ghostface mask and tossed it toward him.

"Call my name when you're done?." You said while walking out of the room and he nodded while catching the mask effortlessly.

The door clicked shut behind you.

_

You disappeared into the bathroom near the kitchen and stared at yourself in the mirror. Your heartbeat was already racing.

You checked the time on your phone, then shut it off. You fixed your hair and splashed cold water on your face and took a deep breath before stepping back into the hallway.

The apartment was quiet. Most lights were off and only the dim red light strips Jungkook had installed the ones he said looked better in his lives cast a low and eerie glow. Jungkook was nowhere to be seen.

You walked forward slowly. “Babe?” No answer.

The apartment felt unsettling quiet..making your throat go dry. As you looked around your phone suddenly rang...the sound making you jump.

"Unknown number"

You answered the call with shaky fingers. Only heavy breathing came through the other side, “Hello?” you said, still No answer, “Hello? Who’s this?” you tried again then his voice came through low and rough. “Shouldn’t have answered the call, dove.” He breathed heavily into the phone.

Your stomach flipped. “B-baby, what—?” You laughed, scared shitless. “What’s with the number??”

“Tsk tsk.”

“Who-who are you?” You played along catching his subtle warning.

“Have patience, darling. Maybe turn around and see me yourself?” He said it calmly and instantly disconnected the call. You spun arounsd but no one was there you're heart was pounding loudly by now abd then you turned back to your original position and there he was...standing near the balcony.

You shrieked. “God!”

You stumbled back a few steps. He was wearing nothing but his jeans...his toned abs on full display...hand tattoos glowing under the red lights and that Ghostface mask… it made you cunt throb because you're boyfriend looked so damn unreal.

“You’re so obedient, my love,” the masked man said...walking slowly toward you like he had all the time in the world. “Following my orders like a good fucking girl.”

“Who-how? Who are you?” you asked...fully committed to the act even though you were very terrified. “You should keep your windows locked, dove. Anyone could come inside.” He tsked, mocking you.

Before you could answer him he said, “Run…”

“Gguk, come on-” he cut you off mid sentence,“Run.” His voice was calm this time..a pause and he continued, “If I catch you… I kill you.” he started walking towards you with larger steps now.

You shrieked and bolted...your bare feet slapped against the wooden floor as you sprinted into the living room...almost slipping while dodging around the couch. Heavy footsteps came after you.

As if he already knew you weren’t getting away..

You didn’t dare look back. You could hear his breathing through the mask..slightly muffled but very real...another slow footstep..then another..yhen suddenly… nothing...his footsteps stopped.

You kept running anyway...ducking behind the kitchen counter. Your chest rose and fell hard. You strained to hear any sound but there was just Silence.

Only the soft sound refrigerator humming and your own frantic heartbeat could be heard. “…Babe?” you whispered...trying not to laugh at how scared you sounded.

No answer came so you peeked around the corner....it was empty.

So you got up and checked the guest room but it was also empty. The bathroom and the balcony was empty too so you called him out.

“Jungkook?”

The apartment suddenly felt much bigger than it actually was because every shadow looked wrong and every doorway felt like someone was standing just out of sight.

You slowly walked back into the hallway, hugging your own arms. “This isn’t funny anymore…”

You took another step. The floor creaked beneath your feet...You froze.

“…Baby?”

Silence....

“Okay… I give up.”

Just as you let out a nervous laugh and turned toward the bedroom......Someone was standing in the doorway...Perfectly still as if waiting for the perfect moment to pounce on you.

You didn’t even know how long he’d been there...but his head slowly tilted to one side and not a word he said but those hollow black eyes locked onto you.

A scream tore out of your throat and stumbled backward on instinct before turning to run again.

The moment you moved…He moved too..and this time his arm snapped around your waist strongly...yanking you back hard against his bare...burning-hot chest.

You shrieked so loudly that you were sure tomorrow someone will definitely make a complaint about it.

The cold mask pressed against the side of your neck and you felt his hot breath through the fabric as he growled low.

"Got you. "

His voice came out as a lowand distorted growl through the Ghostface mask and before you could even breathe...Jungkook spun you around and shoved you down onto the hardwood floor. Your knees hit first..then your palms...the cold wood made you gasp. He was on you instantly...heavy and terrifying. The mask hovered right behind your ear as he pinned your chest down with one hand between your shoulder blades...forcing your ass up.

“Too much?” he rasped, already yanking the oversized t-shirt up over your hips. “Tap my bicep twice and I’ll stop.” You nodded frantically against the floor.

He laughed darkly the sound sending chills down your spine...,“But that’s useless, isn’t it, dove?” He shoved two thick fingers into your soaked pussy without warning...curling them viciously. “I’m going to fuck you too dumb to even remember how to tap.”

You cried out..already drooling on the floor as he finger-fucked you hard and fast...the wet and obscene squelching sounds filling the room. He added a third finger...stretching you open while his thumb rubbed rough circles on your clit.

“Say it,” he growled..pumping faster. “Tell me why your windows were unlocked.”

You sobbed...hips jerking back against his hand..,“B-because… I wanted you to come in…”

“Louder, darling.” he cut you off... “I wanted you to creep in and ruin me!” you cried..tears spilling down your cheeks.

“Good girl.” He pulled his fingers out with a filthy wet sound and slapped your pussy once...making you jolt. Then he freed his thick and heavy cock and slammed into you in one brutal thrust

You screamed...nails scratching against the hardwood as he started pounding you mercilessly on the floor.

Every deep stroke made your tits drag against the wood...your cheek pressed to the cold surface while the Ghostface mask stayed locked in place above you.

“Does your boyfriend know?” he taunted...voice menacing through the mask as he railed you..,“Does he know his sweet little girlfriend is on the floor getting fucked stupid by a stranger’s cock?”

“N-no-ahh!” you sobbed...pleasure ripping through you so hard your vision blurred. He grabbed a fistful of your hair and yanked your head back...forcing you to arch deeper.

“Say it. Tell me what a filthy little dove you are.”

“I’m a filth-!” you wailed, drooling and crying as he destroyed your pussy. “I’m getting fucked stupid on someone else’s dick!”

“That’s right.” His hips snapped harder...the sound of skin slapping skin loud and wet...,“Making such a fucking mess on the floor like a desperate little dove. Look at you dripping everywhere baby.”

He suddenly pulled out...leaving you clenching around nothing.

You whined pathetically until he sat back against the bed frame and dragged you forward by the hair,“Open your mouth.”

The mask loomed over you as he pushed his cock past your lips and straight into your throat. You gagged hard...tears pouring down your face while he fucked your mouth with deep and controlled thrusts.

“Eyes up,” he ordered and you looked up at the terrifying white mask...choking and moaning around his thick length. Spit dripped down your chin onto your chest and the floor.

“Messy fucking girl,” he groaned...voice distorted. “Crying on my cock while your boyfriend is somewhere out there. Does he know you love being used like this?”

You shook your head weakly...sobbing around his cock. He pulled out suddenly...strings of spit connecting your swollen lips to his glistening length.

“Beg for it.” jungkook said, “Please… please fuck me,” you cried, voice hoarse and broken. “Please just ruin-me-”

He flipped you onto your back on the cold floor..spread your legs wide and slammed back inside your dripping cunt. The new angle made you scream...back arching as he pounded you mercilessly. His hand wrapped around your throat not squeezing hard...just holding you in place while the mask stared down at your tear-streaked and ruined face.

“Gonna cum all over a stranger’s cock, aren’t you?” he snarled. “Say it.”

“I’m gonna cum-I’m cumming-!” you sobbed...body convulsing violently as your orgasm crashed through you.

You squirted messily all over his cock and the floor...shaking and crying from the intensity.

Jungkook growled deep in his chest and buried himself into you deep...flooding your pussy with thick..hot cum. He stayed deep inside you..grinding slowly...letting you milk every last drop while you twitched and whimpered beneath him

._

You lay trembling and ruined on the cold hardwood floor...thighs shaking..tears still slipping down your flushed cheeks. Your pussy throbbed and leaking a messy mix of both your releases onto the wood beneath you. You could barely think straight..mind fuzzy...body buzzing.

The Ghostface mask hovered above you for a few more seconds… then Jungkook finally reached up and pulled it off.

His face was flushed..hair messy and damp with sweat and eyes soft and full of love the moment they met yours. The terrifying ghost face was gone replacing with your boyfriend now.

“Baby…” he breathed, voice hoarse but incredibly gentle.

He tossed the mask aside and immediately gathered you into his arms...lifting you off the messy floor and onto the bed like you weighed nothing. He pulled you against his chest...wrapping you up completely in his warm and strong embrace. His skin was hot and slightly sticky...heart still racing under your cheek.

“You okay, my love?” he whispered..pressing soft kisses to your forehead...your wet cheeks and uour swollen lips. His fingers stroked slow...soothing circles up and down your spine. “Was it too much baby? Be honest..im sorry if it was.”

You shook your head weakly...still sniffling and trembling in his arms. “It was… so much. Scary… but so good. I loved it.”

He let out a relieved chuckle and held you tighter....one hand gently brushing your messy hair out of your face. “You were so perfect, baby. So fucking good for me.” He kissed the top of your head again and again...rocking you gently. “My strong, brave girl.”

You curled deeper into his chest....feeling safe and small in his arms after everything he’d just done to you. He reached down and gently wiped the tears from your cheeks with his thumb, then kissed where they had been.

“I made such a mess on the floor,” you mumbled shylyand embarrassed now that the heat had faded.

Jungkook laughed softly...the sound warm and fond. “I’ll clean it later..don't think about it. ” He pulled the blanket over both of you and tucked you closer and his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your hip. “You were crying so pretty… taking everything I gave you like my perfect little dove.”

You blushed hard and hid your face in his neck. He smiled and kept kissing you...soft andbloving kisses everywhere he could reach.

After a few quiet minutes...he tilted your chin up so you could see his eyes.

“We should do this shit way more often,” he murmured...voice low and sincere. “Maybe next time I’ll chase you with the lights completely off… or tie you up first so you really can’t run.” He smirked...but his eyes stayed soft with a hint of mischief. “Only if you want to baby, of course.”

You shivered at the promise but nodded...feeling warm and loved in his arms.

“I love you,” he whispered...pressing one last gentle kiss to your lips. “So much. You did amazing, baby.”

He held you like that for a long time...stroking your hair and rubbing your back...whispering sweet praises until your breathing evened out and lulled you into a warm...safe haze in his arms.

Tea time at the Ashwell house was by long tradition, a quiet affair, and has been for as long as you could remember it.

It was a silence that everyone in the household simply agreed to keep, and the Duchess of Ashwell, Lady Cecily, always brings out the most beautiful china just for this occasion.

Your father would go through his letters and official messages he considered too dull to discuss at breakfast.

Your mother, more often than not, usually spent the hour arranging and rearranging the seating for whichever dinner party is coming up in the next few weeks, murmuring names to herself as if they were pieces on a board she alone understood the rules of. 

And you would always bring a book with you and hoped that no one would ask you to set it down, because a closed book in this house was an invitation for conversation, and conversation in this house rarely went anywhere you wished it to.

Lady Margot, your sister, would usually be in the room as well. But ever since getting engaged to the Baron of Rohan, she has been too busy to ever be in the House of Ashwell. 

Today, however, no one has brought anything to distract themselves. 

Your father's correspondence sat untouched at his elbow, your mother's guest list had not been so much as glanced at, and you have left your book upstairs in your library, though you could not now recall the decision to do so, only that your hands have felt too unsteady that morning to hold anything.

The letter from the palace was placed quite literally in the center of the table, propped against one of your father’s books. The seal of the letter was broken now, yet it still presented the unmistakable crest of the Crown, and every time your eyes drifted toward it you felt something in your stomach tighten.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

"I do not like it," your father said, for what was perhaps the fourth time since the tea had been poured and each time he said it, it seemed to carry a little less certainty and a little more stubbornness. 

He has not touched his teacup and the tea has long since stopped steaming.

"Edmund," your mother said, trying to stop your father from saying more, especially since the housemaid was still present near the door and was only leaving then, "honey, the tea is growing cold."

"Let it grow cold, then," your father said.

The moment the housemaid left and shut the door behind her, your father sighed with relief, "I do not like it, Cecily. He has commoner blood running through his veins. His mother was no more a lady than the girl who irons my shirts, and I am asked to hand my youngest and brightest daughter over to her son as if that were some manner of honor."

"Papa," you said, as you set your cup down with more force than the delicate china deserved, “why does it matter that he has commoner blood?"

Your father turned to look at you as if you just asked him the most obvious question. He looked at you like you just asked him why water was wet, or why the sky on a clear day is blue instead of any other colour. 

It was the look he gave you whenever you asked a question he considered too obvious to require an answer, and it was, you long ago decided, the look you disliked most on his face.

"Why does it matter?" your father repeated in the hope that hearing it aloud a second time might reveal to you the answer you were apparently too foolish to see on your own.

"Yes," you said, refusing to be scared away by the tone of your father, "why does it matter whose blood a man carries in his veins, if the man himself is disciplined, capable, and by every account I have heard from anyone who has actually met him, more competent than half the lords who sit in Parliament?"

"Because," your father sighed as he set his own teacup down, "I do not wish for my grandchildren to carry commoner blood in them. Is that such a difficult thing for you to understand, ____?"

"What are we, Papa…" you said, and your voice had gone quieter now, "..what are we without commoners? What are we without the maids who dress us each morning and lace us into gowns we could not manage on our own? What are we without the men who till the very land you collect rent from every quarter? or the boy in the stables who cleans the stalls each dawn so that your horse does not stand ankle-deep in its own filth before you take it out for your morning ride? Tell me, what precisely you imagine keeps this house standing, if not the very blood you seem so determined to keep from mingling with your own?”

"That is different," your father answered, and his jaw tightened in anger, "the natural order requires that some are born to serve and others born to be served. It has always been so, and it will remain so long after both of us are dust. And that means I do not wish to see my daughter, my own flesh and blood, married into a name that only barely escapes being called a servant."

"He is not in service, Papa," you said, "he is a Duke."

"He is a Duke," your father acknowledged, though he clearly found the fact distasteful, "with a mother who was not."

"It is fine, I suppose," your mother interrupted then, "since he is still a Duke, and a Captain too, and there are certainly far worse arrangements a daughter of ours might have been given. Recall Lady Whitmore's youngest, married off at sixteen to a widower thrice her age, with gout in both feet and a temper to match, poor thing writes to me still asking after remedies for his moods that I have no earthly notion how to provide."

"That is hardly a fair comparison, Cecily," your father muttered, "you deserve better," he said, turning his attnetion back to you, and for one brief moment, you thought perhaps this conversation might yet end somewhere reasonable with your father.

"I agree," you said, and you meant it, "I do not wish to marry a soldier of any blood, commoner or noble."

Your father blinked, visibly caught off guard, like he did not anticipate the two of you arriving at a conclusion from such entirely different directions, his own objection rooted in bloodlines and yours rooted in something he clearly didn’t think to consider at all. 

"Well," he said, “he is still very respectable in his position. A man who has risen as he has, through discipline and merit rather than mere inheritance is not a man to be dismissed out of hand, whatever his mother's origins…"

"What side are you on now, Papa?" you interrupted, and you could not entirely erase the desperation from your voice even if you tried, "not a moment ago you told me that you did not wish for me to marry a man with commoner blood in him. Now you tell me he is respectable and a man not to be dismissed? Which is it?"

"He can be an exception," your father said, "with his Captain's title earned through service, and the Dukedom restored to him by right of blood, whatever the circumstances of his birth and his father; his father was once a most respectable man indeed."

Something in you went very still, "Did you know his father?"

Your father's expression changed, so subtly but you caught it, "I did," he said, and his voice had gone quieter, it was a topic that clearly has been left untouched and undisturbed for many years, "he used to come to this house often, in the years before you were born. Duke Jeon the elder was close friends of ours once, Cecily and I both, though I doubt you would recognise the name from anything but rumor and scandal now. We dined together, the three of us, more evenings than I can properly count... before what he did."

"Before what, Papa?" you pressed him for answers when he did not immediately continue.

"Before he threw it all away.." he finally answered, "..on a commoner girl who caught his eye at some harvest festival, of all the foolish, unremarkable places for a Duke to lose his senses. I told him it was madness and no good could come of a match so far beneath his station. I warned him that the court would never forgive it, and his own children would pay the price for a passion he could have satisfied in a hundred different ways without ever making her his wife. He did not listen to me and married her within the year, and got her with child not long after. The whole of the court turned its back on him for it, myself included, I confess, though I have wondered many times since whether that was the wisest course."

"And did any good come of it?" you asked, even though you already suspected the answer you would be given. You already knew fragments of the House of Jeon’s history as it was a well-known scandal. 

"They were murdered," he answered calmly.

Your mother was surprised to say the least, to see her husband talking of the history of their friend out in the open, something he has never done outside of their bedroom.

Your father continued on, "Both of them were murdered though the details were never made public, and I confess I never pressed to learn them, a cowardly friend I was. The boy was left with nothing. There was no protection from the court since they never accepted his mother, no acknowledgement from anyone who might otherwise have taken him in and raised him as his birth deserved."

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

For a long moment, none of you spoke. 

Your mother had even gone quite still and forgot her tea, she took a deep breath before saying, “Well, I heard much later, that he was raised first by the church, and then handed to the army, since neither the church nor the army seemed overly concerned with whose blood ran in him, as long as he could hold a rifle steady and follow orders.”

You felt sympathy stirring in your chest, sympathy for a man you have never once met, a soldier at that.

But curiosity began taking over you, "How did he receive his land back then Papa?" you asked, "if the court never accepted him? If no one would so much as take him in?"

Your father looked away as he answered, "There were a few of us, in those years, who fought for the late Duke of Jeon's son," he said, “fewer than I would like to admit, and I acknowledge that none of us did nearly enough, myself included. But we fought for Captain Jungkook to earn his land back; that was the only thing any of us could fight for then."

"You never told me that," you said, surprised at your father’s involvement in Captain Jungkook’s life.

"I did it for my late-friend and there was very little to tell," your father said as he reached for his tea at last, though it had long since gone cold, "grief and guilt can change what a man believes. I loved my friend yet that did not stop me from voting against his son’s inheritance twice before shame or something like it, made me support it the third time."

Your father sighed again before continuing, "it is old business, ____. Best left where it lies. Whatever small part any of us played in it does not undo the rough years he spent his childhood, or the years he spent earning back what should never have been taken from him in the first place."

"So do I still have to marry him?" you asked.

You had to give it a try because no amount of sympathy could ever make you abandon the quiet and unremarkable life you have planned for yourself. And you still did not want to be married to a soldier.

Your father let out an even longer sigh then. Edmund spent the better part of his life believing he had power, yet now, in his youngest daughter's presence, he had to admit out loud how little that power could help her when it mattered most to her.

"There is not much I can do about it, my dear," your father finally answered, “it is the Queen's request and one does not decline Queen Seraphine however much either of us might wish otherwise."

"And if I were to write to Her Majesty myself," you said, still insisting and hoping there was some way out of this, "and explain in whatever terms she might find persuasive, that I have no wish to be married at all?"

Your mother let out a small laugh, "Darling, no one writes to the Queen to decline her arrangement. You ought to write to thank her for her consideration, and you can only hope that the meeting itself somehow provides proof you two are an incompatible couple.”

"And if it does not provide me one?"

"Then you are to marry a Captain and a Duke," your father answered.

You did not find this especially reassuring and said nothing further, though now at least you understood your first meeting needed to show some serious incompatibility between you and the captain.

"Well," your mother said, sensing that there was no more to the conversation, "there is nothing more to be settled this time. Best we all go about our day and let the matter rest until his letter arrives with the details of the first meeting."

Your father grunted in agreement and retreated behind his newspaper once more, though you noticed he did not turn a single page of it for the better part of twenty minutes.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The study at the Jeon townhouse was not, by any measure, a small room.

Jungkook made certain of that when he took possession of the house. It occupied half of the western wing of the second floor, its ceilings high, its windows tall and heavily curtained that there was almost no sunlight that could shine through it. The walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookshelves filled with volumes on military strategy, law, taxation, fantasy, even romance, and many other genres that Jungkook had read cover to cover. 

It was a room made for gatherings like this. Ten of them, the leaders of the rebellion, or revolutionaries as they preferred to call themselves, sat around a table that had once hosted formal dinners for the late duke’s political allies.

Jimin sat on the right side of Jungkook with a stack of correspondence in front of him that he has been sorting into three different piles. 

Seokjin, a senior officer of Jungkook’s regiment, claimed the chair nearest to the fire, which he always does every single meeting without fail.

Dennis, Captain of another regiment, was sitting right next to Seokjin. 

Kilian, Captain of a different regiment was also present, sitting on the left side of Dennis.

Owen, a sergeant, sat on the floor with his back against the door and is the only man in the room who genuinely enjoyed the tedious parts of the work, the numbers that made everyone else's eyes glaze. 

The remaining four were scattered around the room in various states of attention: two senior officers from Dennis's regiment, a clerk named Hana who worked in the tax office and have spent the last four months quietly copying figures that did not match what Parliament had told its people, and the last person there was Walter, who ran an underground press.

“If the northern depot’s records are right,” Hana said, running her finger down the column, “then someone is stealing almost twenty percent of the supplies before they reach the soldiers. If a hundred crates are sent, only eighty arrive. Whoever is taking the rest is making a great deal of money and seems to be getting too comfortable.”

“The Duke of Pemberton is on the committee that approves the supply orders,” Owen said from the floor, “he’s been there for six years. Eighteen months ago, he built a new house in the east district, one far too expensive for someone earning his salary.”

“So he belongs on our list as well,” Dennis said.

“We can add him as a suspect,” Killian replied, “an expensive house is suspicious, but it proves nothing. All Dukes purchase expensive houses now and then. We still need to find concrete evidence that he is on it, then we will go after him.”

“We need to find a way into that secret meeting the nobles and politicians attend,” Seokjin said frustratedly, warming his hands without looking up, “the one we still haven’t managed to infiltrate.”

None of the revolutionists have ever managed to enter the secret meeting. 

Over the years, they pieced together what little they knew from servants and commoners who overheard fragments of conversation, from intercepted letters that were carefully resealed, and from a coachman Walter had spent nearly a year befriending. 

The men who attended the secret meeting were not all nobles or members of Parliament, but every one of them was wealthy, powerful, or well connected.

These men shared one belief: the kingdom’s existing order benefited them and they would do whatever was necessary to protect it. Nothing said in the room was ever repeated outside it, none of their decisions ever appeared in official records. 

Yet they quietly paid informants, bought people’s silence, and destroyed reformers who threatened them, sometimes financially and sometimes by far worse means. As far as the revolutionists could tell, this group was behind much of the corruption they have spent years trying to expose.

“We’re not going to solve the supply theft tonight,” Jimin added, “and Walter’s letter can’t be published until we confirm the figures with at least two more sources.”

Kilian interrupted Jimin as he pointed a finger at the letter lying in the corner of Captain Jungkook’s desk, “So, are we going to discuss it or keep pretending none of us have noticed it sitting there for the past half hour?”

Every head in the room turned towards Jungkook's desk.

The letter has, in fact, been sitting exactly where Jungkook left it when he cleared the desk for the meeting, its broken seal catching the light just enough to be noticeable to anyone who happened to glance in that direction twice, which evidently everyone did at some point.

Seokjin sat forward immediately, "I was going to mention it eventually," he said, "but yes, thank you, Captain Kilian. There is, in fact, an elephant on this table that I would very much like it addressed. Why is there a letter from the Crown sitting on your desk, Captain Jungkook? One that you have very deliberately not brought up once in thirty minutes?”

"It is not relevant to tonight's business," Jungkook answered.

"Everything is relevant to tonight's business," Dennis said, "that's rather the entire premise of our weekly meeting, is it not?"

Walter, who rarely spoke first in these meetings, tilted his head towards the desk, "Palace seal," he said, "I'd know that wax anywhere, I've forged enough of it."

"You have forged the palace seal?" Owen repeated excitedly. 

"Twice. It was for a good cause both times,” Walter said, defending himself.

"Focus," Jimin said, though he was fighting a smile.

Jungkook sighed before picking the letter up off the desk and read it aloud in the same flat voice he usually uses to read out a report:

To Captain Jeon Jungkook, Duke of Jeon, Her Majesty Queen Seraphine extends her warmest regards to the Duke of Jeon, and takes considerable interest in writing to him on a matter she believes will be met, in time, with both understanding and gratitude. After the most careful and thorough consideration, Her Majesty has identified a match she believes to be well-suited to the Duke's temperament, character, and standing: Lady _____ Ashwell, youngest daughter of Edmund Ashwell II, Duke of Ashwell. Her Majesty is confident that the Duke will find in Lady Ashwell a woman of considerable intellect, strength, and steady character, qualities Her Majesty has long observed and believes will complement the Duke's own. It is Her Majesty's deepest wish that Duke and Captain Jeon consider this arrangement not as an obligation, but as an honour befitting a man of his distinguished service. The Queen has given this match her most careful consideration and has every confidence that both parties will find, in time, a connection well-suited to their respective characters, whatever unfamiliarity may exist between them at first. Her Majesty trusts the Duke will make arrangements to call upon Lady Ashwell at his earliest convenience, and requests that he communicate his intentions regarding the manner and timing of their first meeting to the Ashwell household directly. Her Majesty extends her confidence in the Duke's judgment and her gratitude for his continued service to the Crown. By Her Majesty's own hand,Queen Seraphine of the Kingdom of Leon

"OUR CAPTAIN IS GETTING MARRIED," Owen screamed out from the floor and the room erupted with noise. 

The two senior officers started pounding the table, Dennis let out something between a laugh and a whoop, and Hana was clapping her hands together though her face did not look entirely happy. 

"This," Jungkook said, dragging a hand through his hair, "is precisely why I did not want any of you to know."

"You cannot possibly have thought we would let this pass without comment," Kilian said delightfully, "you are the single most eligible bachelor this kingdom has produced in a decade and you are getting married."

“Can’t the Captain get out of this?” Hana asked. 

“Impossible, Hana. It is the Queen, hence making this arrangement a royal decree,” one of the two officers finally spoke. 

"So it's Lady Ashwell?" Jimin asked, once the noise and enthusiasm in the room had settled quietly. 

"Yes," Jungkook said.

Dennis sat forward, his arms still folded over the back of his chair, and something changed in his expression, "House Ashwell..." he said slowly, "that's… Jungkook, that's perfect!"

"I'm aware." Jungkook admitted.

"No," Dennis said, "I don't think you are. The Ashwell isn't just any house. The duke sits two seats down from Lord Pemberton in committee. His wife hosts half the gatherings the wives of every man on our list attend without fail every season. And…" Dennis tapped the table, once, twice, "...and he is exactly the sort of man who would be in that secret meeting. The meeting we've spent three years trying to find a door into."

"As I said, I am aware," Jungkook said.

"You'll be inside their territory," Dennis went on excitedly, “not as an outsider begging for an invitation. You will be there as a family. As his son-in-law. So you will need to go through this marriage no matter what."

Jungkook sighed. He had always intended to accept the arrangement. He understood the advantages, especially since no one has said that the marriage had to last forever. Once the revolutionaries achieved their goal, Jungkook could easily leave you behind.

"So you're going ahead with the marriage?" Jimin asked. 

"Yes," Jungkook answered. 

Seokjin let out a long dramatic groan and tilted his head toward the ceiling, “Ugh,” he said, “Captain J is about to marry a woman from House Ashwell, and even on their wedding night, he’ll probably be thinking about stolen supplies.”

"I will not spend a night with-" Jungkook was cut off before he could finish his sentence.

"Is it the four sisters?" Dennis asked, grinning now, any serious conversation was briefly set aside in favor of the considerably more entertaining subject of Jungkook’s arranged marriage.

"Yeah," Jimin said, “prettiest family in the city and half the regiment's been in love with one Ashwell girl or another since before I made Lieutenant. There was a whole season where three of my men wrote poetry about the second daughter and none of them would admit who was worse."

"It was Private Baek's," Owen joined in from the floor without hesitation, "he rhymed 'grace' with 'face' four separate times."

"Aren't three of them married already?" Walter asked, interrupting Owen and Jimin’s conversation.

"Two married, one engaged," Hana answered, "the one the Queen mentioned in the letter is the youngest of the lot."

Jungkook looked around the study, at the people who in ninety seconds have given him more information about his future wife than he managed to gather in the entire span of reading the letter twice. 

Jungkook sighed before he asked, "Does anyone in this room care to tell me what she actually looks like?"

The room fell silent.

Seokjin let out a sound as if he was about to deliver some bad news, “That is the one thing none of us can help you with. She rarely appears in public and her debut ball was held during the worst of the war two winters ago when half the city was still mourning, apparently only half of those invited attended. I don’t think anyone in this room has ever seen her clearly.”

"I've seen her at a distance," Walter unexpectedly answered as every head turned towards him.

Walter shrugged his shoulders, entirely unbothered by the sudden attention, "I delivered pamphlets disguised as a book order to the Ashwell house once, years back. And saw a young woman reading in the window as I left. I couldn't tell you much beyond that she looked like she would rather have been left alone."

"That is the single most useful piece of information anyone in this room has given me," Jungkook said.

"I try," Walter said, and returned his attention to his pamphlet.

"So, where will my Captain meet the woman he is about to use to bring down kingdom of Leon?" Seokjin asked, teasing his captain. 

"The park," he said.

The whole room went silent again.

"The park?" Kilian asked.

"Yes, Darlington Park. There is a fountain near the entrance, and I will be there at eleven, tomorrow morning."

"Jungkook," Kilian said, choosing his words carefully, "is it not customary, in matters such as this, to call upon the Lady's household first? To be received properly in the Duke's own home, to speak with him directly before ever being introduced to his daughter, to observe the courtesies that-"

"Nothing about this is customary anyway," Jungkook said, cutting him off and the way he said it showed that the subject was not one Jungkook would like to revisit again.

"Half the city walks through Darlington before noon," Jimin said, "Capt, you'll be recognised within the first five minutes."

"I'm aware, and I do not care," Jungkook said.

"Are you courting a scandal on purpose," Walter asked, genuinely curious now as he set his pen down, "or has that simply not occurred to you yet?"

"Scandal implies I have done something worth gossiping about," Jungkook said, "I intend to stand by a fountain and if anyone manages to make that scandalous, they are more imaginative than I've given this city credit for."

"You clearly haven't met my aunt, Captain," Seokjin said, laughing from his chair.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

"He has chosen the park," your mother announced that evening, holding a second letter that is shorter and considerably less ornamented than the first, "Darlington Park, specifically near the fountain by the east entrance."

"A park?" your father repeated, setting down his newspaper for the second time that day, "he does not intend to call upon this house first, to be received as any respectable suitor ought?"

"I suppose Captain Jungkook-"

"You may reject the park," your father said, cutting your mother off, "you may send word this very evening that he is to call here properly, as any man courting a Duke's daughter ought to conduct himself, rather than summoning her to sit upon a public bench like some servant."

"No," you said, before your mother could reply, and both of them turned to look at you with surprise, "I am fine with the park."

"You are certain?" your mother asked.

"Meeting him here would feel stranger than meeting him in a park full of strangers. In this house, I would be expected to pour tea, to smile at him, to behave as if I was pleased by the whole arrangement, all while the two of you sat nearby listening to every word I said and every word he said in return. In the park, at least, I might breathe without an audience."

Your mother thought about your justification for some time, her expression softening in a way you did not expect, "Well, If that is truly your wish, then I shall let the matter stand as he has proposed it."

"It is," you said as you reached for your book again, hoping that the conversation might now be permitted to end.

"You are certain it is not merely stubbornness speaking, darling?" your mother asked, unable to leave the matter entirely alone, “it would not be so terrible a thing to allow him to come here."

"I am sure of it, mother," you insisted. 

Your father lowered his newspaper enough to look at you, "She has a point, Cecily, let them meet on their own," he said, defending you. 

Your mother sighed and stood up to her study to reply to the Captain’s letter, leaving you and your book to whatever peace remained of the evening.

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

The next morning, the sky was grey and looked as though it might rain.

You have dressed up for your first meeting with the Duke of Jeon in a pale lavender gown with short puffed sleeves, white satin gloves covering your hands, and a necklace of small silver pearls. 

Darlington Park seemed made for a morning like this. Its wide gravel paths ran beneath rows of trees and at the centre of the park stood a large fountain. Wooden benches lined the paths of the park, with many already occupied by elderly people reading newspapers and sitting beside their small dogs.

You were nearly to the gates with your lady-in-waiting, Daisy, who was two steps behind you with a basket she insisted on carrying even after you told her twice that it was unnecessary.

Then you stopped walking as a thought struck you out of nowhere.

You did not know what he looked like.

Nor, you supposed, did Captain Jungkook know what you looked like. 

The Queen's arrangement only involved a name,  title, and a letter full of warm and carefully chosen words about suitability and confidence in a match well-considered, but there was no portrait accompanying it.

Daisy, who was walking two steps behind you, was enjoying this particular errand a great deal. She noticed you stopped walking and paused as well, "Lady ____," she said, setting the basket down against her hip, "would you like me to accompany you until you have found Captain Jeon Jungkook? I could wait nearby, out of sight, should you wish it, and only come forward if-"

"No," you answered, resuming your walk before your nerves could fail you, "I should be able to find him just fine, Daisy. He is a soldier in uniform standing about in a public park. I imagine he will not be difficult to identify."

"Of course, my lady," Daisy said, although something in her tone suggested she was not entirely persuaded.

Then, after a moment spent catching up to your pace, she added, "just remember, Lady _____. He is the most handsome of all the men you shall find in this park today. You will notice him at once, my lady, whether you meant to or not."

You gave her a look, slowing your pace despite yourself, "And how would you come to know a thing like that, Daisy?"

"I accompanied Lady Margot to a ball last spring," Daisy said, visibly proud of the memory, "The Duke was in attendance that evening and every lady in the room noticed him, whether they wished to admit it or not. A fair number of the gentlemen too, though for rather different reasons, I should think."

You rarely attended balls yourself, having long ago perfected the art of coming up with excuses; a headache, a book left unfinished, a sudden stomachache; and so you have no way of confirming Daisy's account.

"I am quite certain," you said, with rather more confidence than you entirely possessed, "that I will manage to identify one man in a soldier's uniform among however many others happen to be strolling about this morning."

"Of course, my lady," Daisy said again, though she did not immediately turn to leave, "may I ask, my lady and forgive me if the question oversteps, are you very much dreading this morning?"

You thought about the question longer than you expected to, surprised that Daisy asked it at all and surprised that you found yourself having to think about the answer.

“Yes, I am,” you finally answered after a minute. 

♡━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━♡

You followed the gravel path towards the fountain, passing a nursemaid pushing a pram and two elderly gentlemen cheerfully arguing over a chessboard balanced between their benches.

As you walked, you silently rehearsed what you might say to the man you already decided you would never ever marry, especially since you have never met him and more specifically because he is a soldier and a captain of a regiment at that.

So far, you have only prepared yourself to say:

“I will never marry you. I am told you are a captain and I confess I find very little to admire in that, considering how much war has already cost this kingdom and its people.”

You were repeating it in your head until you caught the smell of cigarette smoke.

It was faint yet still polluting the fresh morning air. So you followed the smell before you have entirely decided to, your feet moving ahead of your own consciousness.

And there, seated on a bench facing the fountain, with one arm draped along the back of the bench, was a soldier. 

You stared at him with irritation.

He was dressed in full formal uniform: a long, dark navy coat worn over a fitted black military jacket with a high collar and rows of silver buttons, while black leather gloves covered his hands.

The uniform made him impossible to be overlooked and passersby glanced at him twice before quickly looking away. Even his boots were polished to such a shine that you could not decide whether it came from military discipline or simple vanity.

He has not noticed you yet, or if he had, he gave no indication of it whatsoever.

His gaze was fixed on some point past the fountain, holding the cigarette loosely between two of his fingers as its smoke was dispersing into the grey sky.

You stood there a moment longer than you meant to before walking a few steps closer to the bench. 

"Of course," you said, the words coming out of your mouth before you could stop it, "it is one of you men in uniform, polluting the air people came here to breathe."

He did not answer, and did not even so much as glance in your direction, which irritated you even more than if he simply was just rude to your face outright.

"And you are rude, too," you continued as you saw no dignified way to retreat from this interaction, "do you imagine, because of that uniform you are wearing that you are owed better manners than the rest of us? or that you are somehow above the ordinary courtesies a stranger extends to you in a public park? Arrogant prick."

That finally earned you his attention. 

He turned his head slowly and looked at you with an expression that was maddeningly and infuriatingly unbothered by the accusation, "I am not certain what I have done to you my lady, to earn such a greeting," he said, and from the tone alone, you could tell he found the whole exchange more entertaining than insulting.

"Polluting the air," you answered as you raised your hand to count his offenses off with your fingers, "being involved in the war, killing innocent people. Shall I continue, soldier? or are these sufficient enough for one morning?"

"It is a public space," he said, "and I am smoking as far from the vulnerable as this bench allows.”

“The children,” he said as he pointed a finger towards where the children are, “you will notice, are gathered at the far side of the fountain with their nursemaid.”

“And the elderly gentlemen you passed on your way here,” he continued, pointing a finger at the gentlemen, “are a good twenty paces distant.”

“And as for the war, my lady, I would gently suggest that without soldiers such as myself, you would not be standing here at all. You wouldn’t be standing in a park kept safe enough for ladies such as you to stroll through unaccompanied on a grey Tuesday morning. There would be no city around this fountain for you to walk through so freely and no roads safe enough to bring you here, were it not for men willing to stand in war,” the soldier said, smiling at you. 

"Without any soldier," you said, refusing to let him think he won the argument, "there would be no war to begin with."

The soldier let out a laugh, "Of course," he said, rising to his feet as he brushed some cigarette ash from his sleeve, "a rich and noble lady such as yourself would not know anything of it, I imagine. You live in a bubble, my lady, and I confess I do not begrudge you the comfort of it but I would ask you kindly not to lecture men who understood war and what it actually means after living it.”

"I know enough to know that soldiers are a sore in society, glorified for deeds that should be shamed rather than celebrated,” you argued back, lifting your chin high, entirely unwilling to be the one to concede ground first.

He looked at you a moment longer before he stubbed the cigarette out against the arm of the bench, "What a waste of time," he said mostly to himself, and turned to walk away without so much as a farewell.

"Indeed," you said to his back, watching him take a few steps before you realised you might actually need his help, "Wait, soldier! Do you know which one of the soldiers in this park is Captain Jungkook? I do not recognise which of the soldiers he could be."

The moment he heard you, the soldier stopped walking.

Then he turned around slowly, and the expression on his face changed. It was as if he couldn’t believe what he just experienced. 

You might have been rude to him, but at least you were honest. You were protecting the air quality of the park from the dreadful and unhealthy smoke from his cigarettes. But you also understood that you deserved the look on his face that silently reminded you of everything you just said to him as you asked for help after insulting him. 

"Ah,” the soldier before you chuckled.

“Captain Jeon Jungkook, as it happens,” the soldier tilted his head ever so slightly, “is standing right in front of you.”

You stared at Jungkook as he stared back at you, and for a moment neither of you seemed inclined to be the first to acknowledge what had just occurred.

For one full second, you could not even breathe.

Was this really him? You thought to yourself. Was he really the Captain the Queen had written about with such warmth?

You spent the walk here rehearsing arguments for the Captain who turned out to have an infuriatingly composed face, watching you with the patience of a man waiting to see what you would do with the information he just presented to you.

And beneath all of it, there was a small and unwelcome thought. One entirely unrelated to anything you intended to feel this morning, the traitorous thought that Daisy was not wrong. You were so focused on his cigarettes that you completely overlooked the face attached to them.

In this moment, you admitted that you were the dumb one to ignore his facial features that definitely stood out.

You hated the thought that came to your mind. You hated that your mind agreed the Captain was handsome. And you despised it even more that you had to consciously force yourself to stop thinking that way. 

Jungkook thought you would greet him the way every other woman would introduce themselves to him.

Jungkook did not expect to be called an arrogant prick within the first thirty seconds of meeting the woman he was supposed to marry. Yet there was something in that unscripted introduction that had already crept itself into a point of interest he had no intention of examining further. 

Jungkook had to remind himself that you were just another piece on a board. It was only inconvenient and irritating that the piece had loud opinions. 

"You are Captain Jungkook," you repeated, mostly to hear how absurd it sounded out loud.

"I am," Jungkook confirmed.

"I find that hard to believe."

"Are you calling me a liar, Lady ______?" Jungkook asked as he smirked.

"You are truly Captain Jungkook?" You asked as your eyes scanned his face and body, "I would have expected a more... elegant man. Then again, you are a soldier."

"You wound me," Jungkook said, as he mockingly put a hand over his heart.

"I doubt that very much," you said, rolling your eyes.

“No,” Jungkook agreed, “I suppose words alone would not be enough. Still, I admire the effort.”

Jungkook walked towards you with his hands clasped behind his back. He looked as if your insult had barely affected him.

“What exactly were you expecting, my lady?” he asked, “I admit, I am curious. What does a duke’s daughter imagine when she thinks of a captain?”

"Someone who does not smoke in public parks," you shot back.

“That is a low standard. I could easily meet it by tomorrow,” Jungkook said.

“Someone..” you continued, “who stops others from embarrassing themselves, even if he finds it amusing.”

“Ah, that standard I have no intention of meeting. It was, indeed, very amusing,” Jungkook paused before giving you a bow, “allow me to introduce myself properly, since we seem to have done everything else in the wrong order,” he chuckled.

“Her Majesty has decided that we are exceptionally well suited to one another. I admit, after the last five minutes, I am struggling to understand why, but I am told the Queen is rarely wrong,” Jungkook said with an amused look that made you want to wipe that smug smile off his face.

He then inclined his head to introduce himself, “Captain Jeon Jungkook, the Duke of Jeon.”

You did not curtsy.

Your ears were still warm from your outburst, and you doubted you could manage such a gesture, “Lady ______ Ashwell,” you said flatly.

“Walk with me, Lady Ashwell.”

“I will not agree to walk anywhere with you,” you answered.

“No,” he agreed, “I know you do not want to, and neither do I. But I suspect you will anyway. Your lady-in-waiting is watching us very closely from the gate, and if you turn around and leave after only four minutes, she will report it to your mother by supper and your mother will then tell the Queen, and neither of us wants to receive that letter.”

He offered you his arm, “Ten minutes, my lady. One walk around the fountain and I promise I will not smoke.”

You looked at his arm and then looked past him towards the gate. Daisy stood exactly where he said, watching the two of you without even trying to hide it.

You sighed before finally accepting his offer, “Ten minutes,” you said, ignoring the arm he offered you, but began walking beside him anyway, “not a moment longer.”

“Understood,” Jungkook nodded. 

What a pathetic loser. What the fuck did you see in this clown?

“Dude, you’re shaking. You okay?” Jimin nudges him with his elbow, raising a questioning eyebrow, black hair falling in his curious eyes.

Jungkook shakes his head, and removes his apron angrily, grabbing his pack of cigarettes and phone with him. He knows he’s being unreasonable; you’re single, and beautiful, God so fucking beautiful it physically hurts him, and he’s just the lucky guy that gets to fuck you whenever you’re up for it, nothing more, nothing less. A supporting character. Fuck, he knows. But his feelings are for him, they’re private, and right now they’re out of fucking control.

The urge to punch your date in the throat is driving him up a wall. He needs to get the fuck away from here—away from you and your innocent, ignorant ways. Deep breaths, deep fucking breaths Jeon, she hasn’t fucked him yet, and don’t you dare picture that, don’t be a fucking dick, walk away, walk away now.

“I’m going on break,” he announces, but he’s already on the other side of the counter, going for the door, hands busy with the lighter you gifted him on his birthday.

You’ve said your hello’s, you exchanged the necessary, polite words you do every time you see each other in public so there’s nothing else to say. He doesn’t look at you as he passes by, can’t bear to. There’s nothing else you could possibly want with him, not unless it’s after hours, behind closed bedroom doors. Or bathroom ones—or rooftops, staircases, couches, balconies, the beach that one time, his car, the steering wheel digging into your lower back, just last week—no.

Not fucking going there.

Sitting on the ledge right outside the shop, he puts the cig in his mouth, bringing that silver lighter close to it, lighting the edge of it. Taking an inhale of the stick between his fingers, he feels the harmful calm it produces overtake him for the first time that day. He needed nicotine like he needed your pussy pressed against his face, especially since you walked in with that lame looking motherfucker after you told him you’d call.

You never did.

Jungkook doesn’t want to be this way; he never used to curse this much, smoke this much, not before he met you. You’ve tested him in every possible way a man can be tested, have haunted his every waking thought, have wrapped him around your pretty fucking finger and are twirling him around in a never ending, whiplash inducing dance out of which there’s no escape. He’d do anything for you, be anything for you, god he already has, but you couldn’t care less. There was no love in you for him—not the kind he has for you.

Trust him, he wishes he could cut all ties with you, forget you. Stop loving you so goddamn much. But there’s no button for that, no way he can get out of his own body, discard his heart.

Goddamn him, his fucking dick is hard just with the proximity of you. Knowing you were near, having smelled your perfume earlier, the sweetness of your scent mixed with vanilla and something floral, something he’s only smelled on you, and that cursed mini skirt, fuck him, with those legs of yours… legs he’s had wrapped around his torso, over his shoulders, legs he’s kissed a thousand times over, has run his hands over, has worshipped.

No, you couldn’t do this to him. This is the last time you fuck him over, the last time he lets you—he’s going to put you in your fucking place, he decides. He’s going to have to show you who’s been there for you, who fucks you dumb, senseless—who’s cock you’ve been screaming for over and over again, who’s cum you’re craving down your throat almost every night.

Who you belong to. Because fuck anyone that dares so much as think they can have you. You’re his. He just has to get it through that thick head of yours, once and for all. Before he goes fucking insane.

Finishing his smoke, he ties his hair back and away from his face, getting off your Instagram page at once. Look at him, obsessing over your whereabouts, the tags on your pictures, who you’re with when he’s not with you. In you. Fucking ridiculous.

He goes to your last text conversation, a curt message from you two days ago at three in the morning. His eyes skim over it, reading it in your drunk voice, that delicious slur of your tongue, the way you must’ve slowly blinked at his texting you so late in the night. He wants you to think of him always, all goddamn day. As much as he does.

He wants you as obsessed as him.

[03:21am] just came home.

[03:22am] it’s late (y/n). go to sleep.

He decides to text you, then. Make sure you know he’s not going to let this go, that you’re taking it too far coming there, dressed like that, and with another man when his seed is still inside of you.

[19:07pm] is this my replacement? disappointed in you sweetheart.

If Jungkook’s good at anything—he knows how to get a good rise out of you. All that’s left is to sit patiently and wait. You’ll come to him, eventually. You always do.

A half an hour later, you’re standing in front of him, manicured nails digging into your crossed arms in barely contained anger.

He wipes his hands with a rug, giving Jimin the drinks he’d just made, completely ignoring your thunderous glaring. He feels those eyes pierce through his soul, though. How can he not—he’s never been very good at pretending, and God knows you demand all of his attention.

“Replacement? Really, Jungkook?”

Jimin looks between the two of you, sensing the tension. He’s always suspected there’s something going on, but that just confirmed it. Failing to hide his smirk, he balances the tray in one palm and fucks off to the last remaining table for the day.

“Am I wrong?” Jungkook stares at your mouth, the dark stain of your lips, the curve of your jaw, those ample cheeks of yours—you’ve such a cute fuckable face, it’s one of his worst weaknesses.

He can never stay mad at you for long.

“You are.”

“My apologies, angel.”

The sarcasm doesn’t escape you.

You sigh, leaning against the counter, extending both hands towards him. He blinks at them, his own morphing into fists at his sides. He wouldn’t cave in, not this time. You needed to be taught a lesson. You needed to stop refusing him, treating him like second choice.

“Can we talk about this later?” You say in that velvet voice of yours, the one that never fails to hypnotize him into submission. “He’s waiting for me outside.”

Jungkook let’s out a dry laugh, nodding his head bitterly at your words. There’s no magic behind them today, no spell. “We wouldn’t want him to wait,” he deadpans.

“Jungkook.”

“(Y/N).”

You huff, and remove yourself from the bar completely. His body instinctively moves closer, but his mind is set. A terrible fucking jealousy is eating him alive, setting him aflame.

“You’re acting childish.”

“Sweetheart, I’m not the one two-timing people,” he retorts as calmly as possible, wanting to hurt you a little. Nothing like how you’ve hurt him. “Does he know how filthy you like getting fucked? How there’s another man that knows his way around your body like the palm of his fucking hand?”

You step back, face betraying guilt. “Stop it.”

He shrugs, and winks at you, proud of himself. “It’s the truth, angel. Don’t bring him into this if you don’t want him getting hurt.”

“You’re such an asshole, Jeon Jungkook,” you snapped, eyes glittering with tears. Jungkook looked away at once, his jaw clenching in annoyance.

Are you really taking that fuckers side? How long have you known him? Maybe a fucking week, if he had to guess. Jungkook has had you for years.

“Don’t ruin this for me,” you demanded, stomping your foot like a little kid.

Jimin had returned to his post next to his friend, and was witnessing your amusing temper tantrum. He also noticed the younger man’s struggle, the effort it took to stay put in that place of his.

“Ruin?” He mused over the word out loud, then laughed wholeheartedly, with his entire chest. It was an empty sound, a patronizing thing. “If you want to go with him, be my fucking guest baby girl. But if you do,” he warns, forearm resting on the wood in front of him. “you better forget about me. I’m not fucking sharing you.”

You stood hurt, a sour expression curving those perfect lips downwards, weighing your options. This was the moment Jungkook would finally see if you truly thought anything of him, if he mattered enough for you. Or at least if he was more important than a random guy you picked off a club. And God he hoped, for your sake, you picked him. Otherwise he would not be responsible for the Hell he’d give you afterwards.

Who he’d become if you dropped him. He’s scared of himself.

“What’s it going to be?” He presses, pinning you in place with those dark orbs. “Don’t make me become someone I don’t want to be, honey. You and I both know you’ll regret it.”

“Fuck you.”

Jungkook smiles at you, all charm and danger. “It’d be my pleasure.”

When you sulkily sit on the bar stool, and start typing on your phone, your decision sets in him. You chose him. His chest swells, his cock straining against his pants. He’d take you right then and there if he could; lift you on top of the counter, and fuck into you until all you know is his name, until all other men pale in comparison to him. What he does instead—he pulls your face in for a bruising kiss, his big hand cupping your jaw tightly, his tongue forcing your lips open.

“Get a room, Jesus,” he hears Jimin mutter, but he could give less of a fuck. He’s waited way too long for this. Let them watch, I know how to put on a fucking show.

You melt under his touch, letting him consume you. He growls low, and bites down on your bottom lip. You moan, and everything blurs—you’re alone. He craves nothing but you, needs to have you before insanity renders him incapable of fucking you properly.

“I’m getting off early,” he hesitantly pulls back and slaps Jimin’s chest, apron coming off in a blink of an eye.

“Sure, yeah, cause you can do that,” his friend sarcastically replies, but lets him go anyway.

“Don’t be too mad at him,” you add, smiling sweetly. Jimin smiles back, can’t help it. Jungkook glares, messenger bag over his shoulder, and jumps over the wooden top in one swift move.

“Stop fucking staring, Park,” he wraps an arm around your waist protectively, and takes you away. “I’m off!”

You barely made it to the car, before Jungkook turned you around, locking you between the passenger door and his muscled chest. His knee pushed between your legs, your hands on his sides squeezing the skin there. His head dipped to your ear, voice soothing you open, receptive. When his fingers disappeared beneath your skirt, a gasp tore through your throat, goosebumps rising on your skin.

You wanted him too, your pussy told him so. Your panties were all creamed up, thighs begging to be rubbed together to provide any sort of friction. He gave it to you, the pad of his thumb rubbing over your clit. You were throbbing—fuck how much he loved this.

“Tell me baby girl, were you going to keep him around for me to watch while you get fucked? You know you only have to ask,” he whispered, teasing you with those long fucking fingers of his.

In plain sight, for everyone to see. Christ.

“Like Hell you would,” you retort, breathless. “You’re a selfish man, Jungkook.”

He smirks at that, clicks his tongue against his teeth, and chuckles darkly. “You’re right on that,” he pulls you on him and rubs his erection against your clothed cunt. “Can’t let no one touch what is mine.”

“I’m not yours.” A weak remark, as your hips moved with his. He ignored it entirely.

He saw your naked neck, the way you swallowed, and attacked the sensitive skin there, grazing it with his teeth, sucking harshly on it. You hissed at the sensation, yet wanted more. What a contradiction of a woman, Jungkook thought, pulling me in but pushing me away. Unfortunately, for what he was planning on doing to you, he couldn’t be seen.

“Oh, but you are,” he whispers against your cheek, cuffing both of your wrists in one hand behind your back, slowly opening the car door for you to get in. “Oh angel, for how fucking adorable you are, you sure don’t use that pretty little brain of yours much.”

He lowered his head to be on eye level with you. He couldn’t possibly make it any clearer, not unless he bought a ring and put some babies in you.

“I own you.”

Your eyes told him so. The musk on his fingers guaranteed it. He smacked the door shut, licking your juices clean off. You tasted like fucking paradise.

He’d fucking destroy you.

Jungkook loved your neck, how easily it could turn purple, how perfect his hand fit around it, almost like it was made for him. He wouldn’t doubt it for a fucking second—the rest of you molded all over him, every nook and cranny.

Lifting you up the kitchen table, he felt like taking you raw, just like that; pushing your skirt up and burying himself in your folds. His thumb hooked between your lips, pressed down to open your mouth, your gaze following his movements closely. Pudding in his hands, to do whatever he pleased. Every time.

“Look at my little slut,” he admired, pushing his thumb in his second favorite hole of yours. “Suck, baby, show me what that mouth does best.” You did, your tongue swiping all around, over and under, wetting and sucking dry, repeating again and again, until Jungkook was satisfied.

He never was. If he could, he’d fucking snort you up, have you run through his bloodstream for the rest of time. His perfect fucking girl, the one that refuses to give into him, the one that drives him mad.

“Are you thinking about him?” He asks you, the same jealousy nibbling at him. It never left—it never leaves. “How his fingers taste, how they’d curl inside that cunt of yours? It’s fucking morphine, did you know, sweetheart? Why do you think you got me on my knees for you?”

He removes his digit, and decides playtime is over. He’s been lenient enough. You notice exactly when the change takes place, when his eyes darken, and your breathing quickens, fear replacing exhilaration. This was the cruel man that could make you come just with his filthy words. As much as you fucking loved it, he was ruthless—absolutely brutal.

“No,” you mumble, shaking your head. “No, Kook, no, I never—”

Not your coffee boy, but the one that uses a belt to teach you lessons. The one that always knows just how far you’re willing to go.

“Shut the fuck up. You knew what you were doing.”

Jungkook spits in your open mouth, squeezing your throat submissive. You struggle to breathe, but you take it, tightening your thighs around his hips in shameful arousal. He watches you swallow, tongue coming out to show him, just as he likes. He rewards you with a suffocating kiss, before he does it again.

“I bet you wondered how his dick would feel against those velvet fucking walls of yours,” he continued his verbal torture, his other hand pushing your panties to the side, feeling your slick, lapping it with his index, before shoving three fingers inside you at once. You hissed, nails digging holes on his shoulders.

“Yeah?” He fucks you with his entire hand, palm rubbing against your clit. You can’t think of nothing else but getting filled to the brim. “Your mouth works doesn’t it, honey?”

“No one’s fucked me but you in two years,” you confess in a haze, looking at him through your eyelids. Silver shone on his lip and eyebrow under the hidden lighting of his apartment. A shadow draped in gold.

You saw the movement of his jaw, the way his mouth became a thin line. He obviously enjoyed hearing that. But was it enough? Fuck no.

“But they’ve touched you,” he bitterly concludes. “They’ve tasted my pussy, my lips… haven’t they?” He sounded so miserable, so resentful. Your heart ached for him.

You loved this man, but he would never believe you, and you can’t blame him. You loved him in a different way, the only way you knew how. And he did the same. You met and crashed like waves. Your silence was answer enough.

The next moment struck like lightning. All you felt was pain, as he pushed you down on your elbows and ripped your panties off you in one movement. You weren’t even able to scream, the action barely registering in your brain.

“Unbutton my shirt,” he instructed you, no part of him touching you whatsoever. A shudder rippled through you, and down to your unclothed pussy. You scrambled to do as told, afraid of the consequences, hands shaking.

Jungkook groaned impatiently. “Stupid fucking whore, can’t even do something as simple as this,” he snarled at your face, every ounce of affection gone. “D’you need help, sweetheart? Perhaps a manual? None of this is helping your case, you know.”

“I’m—I’m sorry, please,” you whimper, hurrying to undo the stubborn buttons.

He cocked an eyebrow, gaze vicious. Hateful. Something kicked inside of you, a horrifying feeling—you were losing him. He was going to leave you after this. All he’s ever wanted, all you very much were aware of that he craved most—to have you all to himself, to call you his. You never gave it to him, always held back, and for what you’ve no idea. But this, having your body, pleasuring the both of you, it was the one thing if not the only part he had, the one thing he could do, he was allowed.

“Please,” he repeated, the word seemingly unfamiliar to him. “Please, what? Are you sorry at all, baby girl? Do you want me to go easy on you?”

You shake your head again, pushing the shirt off him, bulky muscle now exposed, the chiseled chest you so loved running your tongue over, and the V disappearing beneath his boxers, inviting, nearly a threat.

“Fuck me,” you pleaded, reaching a hand out to touch him, his most private part. “Please. I know I’ve hurt you, I’m sorry, please set me straight, fuck it out of me, I want only you, I promise, only you.”

“Lies,” he shouts, and lunges at you, pinning you down by your waist, skirt pulled roughly from your body. You’re met with the ceiling, but won’t dare move, won’t make a sound unless he tells you to. It’s a thin fucking line you’re walking on, one you haven’t experienced a whole lot.

You hear a shuffling of sorts, before a thud and then you feel it—his hot breath on your cold folds. Those veiny hands on your hips again, before he devours you. The vibration of his growling sends you into a frenzy, and you clench around nothing. Your clit between his sinful lips he sucks painfully at first, wanting to hurt you, but gently afterwards, after your cries settle and you’ve accepted your fate.

You’re at his mercy, and you better behave.

“Used fucking pussy,” he spits on it, fingers working together with his mouth to get you ready for his bulging cock. “What am I supposed to do with a second hand slut like you, huh? Begging to be filled with dick, dripping over my kitchen table…” he tsk’s, tongue flat against your wetness. “You don’t fucking need me, right, I’m just another naive guy wrapped around your goddamn finger, you could have me replaced at any time.”

“That’s not true!” you cry out immediately, hand getting lost in his thick brown locks. “Fuck!” A slap cuts the air—on your pussy. And he does it again, smacks the sensitive area until it’s red and throbbing and licking all over his chin.

“Quiet,” he snaps. “I can make it hurt like never before, honey, don’t fucking test me.”

You’re certain you’re losing your mind by that point, the ache between your legs overwhelming everything else, the thought of needing his cock like you need oxygen the only reasonable solution to making the pain go away. You’re coming before you know it, and Jungkook is a starving man, he licks it all up, licks you dry, marveling at the way your body responds to him, always has.

If only your heart would do the same. If only there was something he could do to make it beat only for him, as his does for you.

“No one will make you come like I do, sweetheart, God my fucking witness. No one knows their way around this pussy like I do, no one will fucking take the time.”

You go to sit up, pull him into you, needing comfort, needing your friend back, the one that made you feel good because you asked, not the half mad one, the obsession, the misshapen thing—for once you need his warm love, the one he’s been talking about, the one hiding behind the heartbreak. You don’t care how awful that is, how selfish you sound.

His palm presses down on your stomach as he towers over you, taking all light with him, flushed cock standing proudly between you, inches away from where you need it most. If he would just move closer, if perhaps you could wiggle further down the table…

“Do not fucking move, angel,” he warns, kissing your sobs silent. With a flick of his wrist, your breasts are in full view, his fingers pinching the erect nipples, calloused palms slapping the plump skin, abusing it.

Every touch vibrates directly in your cunt. You’ve become a blubbering mess, needing nothing but that long stick between his legs. A whore, as he said, a whore with no other purpose than taking dick, his dick, only his, because he’s the only one you want, the only one you need, the only one touching you like this, pushing your limits, driving you over the edge—

“Look at you, my beautiful mess,” he kisses your lips again and again, yet refuses to touch your core. Endless torture, when will it end, when will it end! “Do you understand now? This is what it feels having you under me every night, yet not having you at all,” he shushes your gut wrenching cries, removes your hands from your face, forces you to look at him. “My baby, my love…” he coo’s tenderly, caressing all the way down your body, before his arms hook under your thighs.

He positions you just at the edge of the round table, and quickly leans to lap at your cunt one last time. Christ, fucking Heaven in a woman; it’s alright sweetheart, it’s over, shhh, no more crying, I got you where I want you, I’ll take care of you now, no more crying, fuck if you could see yourself right now, so goddamn hot, a fucking vision just for me, just for your man, you perfect angel, you perfect fucking thing, all for me, all this for me—

You couldn’t describe the tidal wave of relief that washed over you as soon as he buried himself inside you. Both hands on your waist, he slammed you down onto his rock hard cock, his pace fast, relentless, absolutely everything you could’ve ever asked for.

“Harder, fuck, fucking kill me! Don’t stop, please, please, please, please…” incoherent thoughts jumbled together in a string of words, yet Jungkook understood perfectly.

Of course he did.

“Fucking slut…only way you deserve to be fucked…I’m gonna flip this cunt inside out, sweetheart, so no one will be able to screw you. You’re taking my cock so well, baby girl, fuck I want to tear you apart, I want to write my name in this pussy, mark it,” he growled in your ear, manhandling you like a goddamn lifeless doll, pistoling into you with incredible force, so much so you’d think he’d bruise you from the inside, but you couldn’t stop begging him to do so, all of it feeling oh so fucking good.

You want me to mark you, don’t you, you want me drilling into you all fucking day, I know you do, you insatiable goddamn pain in the ass, let me hear you, scream for me, baby, let me know who’s fucking you—say my name, he tightens his grip on your throat, his eyes insane with lust.

“Say my fucking name.”

“Jungkook,” you moan into his hair, nails scratching down his back.

“That’s right, baby. Again.”

“Jungkook!”

I fucking love you, sweetheart, I don’t give a fuck if you never love me back, just give me this pussy, let me drown in it, let me get lost and hide forever in your folds, yeah baby? Come for me now, cream on my dick sweet thing, c’mon, one two three—you scream at the top of your lungs, holding onto him for fear life as your body convulses violently, his own release spurting in thick white strips on your stomach as he barely manages to pull out, and everything goes black. He keeps you on him until you calm down, his pace slow and steady, fucking you both back down to reality.

Your breathing is incredibly labored, hair sticking on your forehead. You look so fucking beautiful to him, the prettiest girl he’s ever seen. His pretty girl. He kisses your forehead overtaken by the strange feeling in his chest.

“God—I love you, you know?” You mumble against his chin, suddenly very shy.

Jungkook stills, his entire world pausing its spinning. “What did you just say?”

You try to cover your face, but to no avail. He’s much stronger than you, much more determined to look into those eyes that could never lie to him. You could make him the happiest man on earth or send him down to the darkest pits of Hell with just three words.

“I love you,” you repeat hesitantly, looking up at him. His expression crumbles. “I know it doesn’t mean anything, that I’m late and you probably want nothing more to do with me after this, but—”

His palm slams your mouth shut. Your eyes widen in surprise.

Jungkook then, still inside you, looks at you with the fondest look on his face, his body weight pressing down on you in the most delicious way.

“You’ve no idea what the fuck you’re saying right now, sweetheart, so I’ll forgive you,” he blinks, bewildered, in disbelief. “I never said I’m leaving you. It’s never crossed my mind.”

You furrow your eyebrows, but your words are muffled. He seems to comprehend perfectly well, anyway.

“You could kill me if you wanted, and I’d willingly die by your hand, (Y/N). Have you any idea what it means to love you?”

Not those who hope for it. Not those who pretend they deserve it.

Those who earn it.

Your body moves through the adagio sequence, follows into a développé. Hold. Lower. Again. The muscles in your supporting leg burn—useful sensation. Pain means progress. Pain means the movement is working properly.

Better. Not perfect. Better than yesterday.

Not good enough.

The mirror shows what it always shows: technique approaching perfection, lines that would photograph beautifully, the kind of physical control that separates professionals from dreamers. Separates the necessary from the expendable.

You adjust your arabesque two degrees higher. Your hip flexor protests—ignored. Your standing leg trembles almost imperceptibly—corrected immediately.

Focus. Extend. Hold. You must hold longer.

This is what excellence requires. This is what perfection demands.

The studio door opens with its familiar squeak. Footsteps—too heavy to be Camille, too quick to be Mathilde. Unnecessary interruption during sacred practice time.

“Pearl?”

You complete the movement before turning. Perfect completion before acknowledgment. 

Léa stands in the doorway, dance bag slung over her shoulder, that genuine smile that makes the others suspicious. That smile that serves no professional purpose.

Your hand moves automatically to your ear. The small freshwater pearls you’d chosen this morning—tiny, understated, appropriate for practice but unnecessary. A detail you’d forgotten until now.

You should not have forgotten.

“Your earrings today.” Léa’s smile widens. “Pearl on each ear. It’s cute.”

You stare at her. Say nothing. Turn back to the mirror.

Cute is not the objective. Cute is diminutive. Cute is what people call things they can dismiss. Things that don’t matter. Things that aren’t threats.

You are not cute.

You return to the barre. Léa’s footsteps retreat. The door closes. Silence returns.

Necessary. Useful.

Pearl.

The word settles strangely in your mind. Foreign. Organic. Not the terminology you’re accustomed to—excellent, precise, adequate, insufficient. 

Not ranking. Not measurement.

Something else.

Pearl suggests something formed in darkness. Something created by irritation, layer upon layer, until the discomfort transforms into something valuable. 

Something precious.

You dismiss the thought. Return to your sequence.

This is not the time for meaningless associations.

Practice ends after forty-seven minutes. 

Water bottle emptied. Hair secured. Towel folded precisely. Studio returned to its pristine state—because this is how professionals behave. This is what separates the worthy from the wasteful.

The academy empties around you. Evening descent into the city’s rhythm.

Your feet choose their own path—not toward the dormitory where your roommates dissect each other’s failures like scavengers. Not toward the café where pretense masquerades as normalcy.

Instead, you find yourself walking past L’Heure Bleue.

This is not part of your usual route. This serves no professional purpose.

This is unnecessary.

The convenience store squats between a dry cleaner and a shop that sells nothing but light bulbs. Blue neon sign flickering weakly in the gathering dusk. Ugly building. Utilitarian. Everything your world is not.

You’ve catalogued this place dozens of times during necessary errands. Noted the employee behind the counter—mixed features, asian bone structure beneath that particular ashy blonde that must be natural. The genetics work perfectly. 

Yet he is always looking down. Always hidden beneath soft waves that catch the light like spun sugar.

Clean hair. Well-maintained despite his environment.

Interesting attention to detail.

Kim. That’s what his name tag says. Just Kim, no first name offered. Incomplete identification. Deliberate obscurity.

Most significant: he avoids your gaze.

Men look at you. Always. It’s unavoidable mathematics—your form draws eyes like gravity draws objects earthward. Instructors, dancers, strangers on the metro. They look and evaluate and want.

This is expected. This is normal.

Kim doesn’t. Stares at his hands, at the floor, at inventory sheets. Anywhere but you.

That’s unprecedented.

You push through the automatic doors because you need protein bars. Because your schedule demands efficiency. Because your nutritional requirements follow precise calculations.

Because you want to see what happens when you force him to look.

Testing methodology. Acceptable scientific approach.

The store smells like disinfectant and that peculiar staleness that comes from retail work. Aisles of necessities arranged in perfect rows: toiletries, tinned goods, the nutrition bars that constitute half your daily intake. Organization. Structure.

Someone maintains this properly.

You move through the space. Water first—the glass bottles you prefer. Superior to plastic. Better mineral content. Then toward the protein section where new packages catch your attention.

‘Moss Nutrition,’ the label reads. ‘Organic spirulina and chlorella blend for optimal performance.’

Moss.

The word snags your attention like a loose thread. 

You examine the package more closely—sea-green wrapper, minimal design, ingredients listed in precise font. No unnecessary marketing claims. No false promises.

Honest.

Algae-based protein. Sustainably sourced. The kind of nutrition that promises efficiency without pleasure. Form following function.

Perfect.

You select three bars. Walk to the counter with controlled steps—neither rushed nor leisurely. Purposeful movement.

The employee—Kim—stands with his head bent over inventory sheets. Latex gloves on his hands. Always latex gloves, you’ve noticed. Barrier protection. Contamination anxiety or simple hygiene consciousness.

Clean. Methodical. Careful.

You place the bars down, making a slight noise. Sharp plastic against the worn counter.

He doesn’t look up. 

Even when you clear your throat—not impatiently, just to indicate presence that should be acknowledged. 

Professional courtesy requires acknowledgment.

Basic service protocol demands eye contact.

His gloved hands still on the papers. You watch his fingers—long, slender, but hidden beneath blue latex like surgical equipment. Like everything he touches must be protected from contamination.

Or protected from him.

That suggests self-awareness. Consideration for others.

Unusual.

Slowly, as if the motion requires enormous effort, he raises his eyes.

Dark brown, almost black. Eyebrows drawn together in something that looks like pain. Mouth slightly open as if you’ve revealed something to him that he wasn’t prepared to witness.

Like he’s seeing divinity.

Like he’s been waiting to see you.

This is not the usual male gaze. This is not evaluation. This is not assessment or want or professional judgment.

You blink slowly, analyzing this unusual attention. Processing the shift from invisible to seen to this.

He stares for seven heartbeats. Eight. Nine. 

You count them because counting creates distance, creates control, creates the space you need to analyze his expression properly.

He interrupts your processing when he whispers: “Moss?”

His eyes are fixed on the protein bars between you. But his breathing has changed. Shallower. Quicker. 

Physical response to your proximity?

Unprecedented reaction.

“Yes.” Your voice comes out precisely modulated. Neither warm nor cold. Simply factual. 

His gaze moves from the green packages to your face. Lingers there for exactly three seconds. Then, deliberately, to your ears.

“Pearl.”

The word drops into the space between you like something significant. Recognition of symmetry. Of two things that exist in relation to each other despite belonging to entirely different worlds.

Ocean treasures and forest floor. Light and shadow. Precious and humble.

You nod, testing his response to acknowledgment.

His mouth curves into the softest smile you’ve ever seen. Nothing practiced about it. Nothing performed. Just genuine pleasure at having identified something beautiful.

Then he looks down again, that pillow of hair falling forward to hide his eyes.

He’s hiding from you again.

That won’t do.

You want those eyes back. Want that unfamiliar expression focused on you like it was made for that purpose. You’ve tasted the shape of his attention now—sweet and desperate and utterly unlike anything you’ve encountered before.

Men look at you. But this one…

This is different. This is useful.

Test it. 

Your hands move to your throat. To the silk scarf wrapped around your neck—soft gray that matches your coat. You unwrap it slowly. Let the silk slide through your fingers like water.

Men respond to presentation. Men respond to skin.

This is basic mathematics. Visual stimulation equals attention. You have spent your entire life understanding this equation.

Still, he doesn’t look up.

Unacceptable.

More direct approach required.

You lean forward. Plant your chest against the counter, presenting the deep neckline of your practice maillot that the scarf had been concealing. Black lycra that clings to every line of your torso. The swell of your breasts pressed against the fabric, visible and unmistakable.

This is what works. This is what always works.

Men look at your body. They evaluate your form. They want what they see. This is expected response. This is normal response.

He is a man. He should look.

He must look. 

The sudden motion catches his peripheral vision. His eyes flicker up automatically—

And then everything breaks.

His breath doesn’t just catch. It tears out of him like he’s been struck. His eyes go wide, that expression returning but magnified into something that looks like terror and revelation combined.

Not desire. Terror.

Why terror?

He stumbles backward like you’ve burned him. Like the sight of your body is too much for his system to process. His gloved hands reach blindly for support—

The display rack behind the counter explodes. Red Bulls and Monster cans scatter across the floor in a symphony of aluminum chaos, rolling under shelves and behind equipment with metallic music.

Violence. Chaos. Disorder.

“Oh.”

The sound escapes you before you can control it—yours, a genuine surprise at the violence of his reaction.

This is not normal male response. This is not standard appreciation or desire or professional assessment.

This is something else entirely; more complex.

You move around the counter without thinking. Automatic response to help, to fix, to restore order. 

Because order must be maintained. Because chaos serves no purpose.

You’re about to kneel—about to lower yourself to gather the scattered cans—when his voice disrupts the air like bubbles in water.

“No.”

The word tears out of him. Raw. Desperate. Panicked.

“Don’t kneel. You can’t…” His breathing is ragged now, visible anxiety flooding his features. Latex gloves gripping the edge of the counter like anchors. “Please don’t kneel.”

Please don’t kneel.

Why?

What does kneeling mean to him? What significance has he attached to that position?

This suggests hierarchy. 

You stop. Straighten. Step back behind the counter while questions multiply in your mind like cells dividing.

You watch him on the floor among the scattered cans. His latex-gloved hands shake as he reaches for each aluminum cylinder like he’s got a ritual for it.

Even in chaos, he maintains method.

Respect for order. Professional despite circumstances.

This is not standard employee protocol.

“Moss?” you say.

His head tilts up sharply, like you’ve called his name—eyes wide and startled, that expression returning but tinged now with anxiety.

Interesting, how he responds to that word like recognition.

“Do you like the brand?” You gesture toward the protein bars still sitting on the counter.

His eyes drop immediately back to the cans. He continues picking them up—one, then another, arranging them in perfect rows. Two beats of silence stretch between you.

Then, simply: “No.”

No elaboration. No explanation. Minimal communication.

Unacceptable.

“So what is it?” Your voice sharpens slightly. Testing. “Green? Do you like green?”

His gaze flickers to your maillot—the black lycra that clings to your torso. He studies the color like he’s deciding whether it meets some internal standard.

“No.”

Frustration builds behind your sternum. Clean, precise frustration that demands resolution. You require answers. You require understanding.

“Do you simply like moss, then?”

“No.”

Three nos. Three refusals to explain. Three deliberate withholdings of information.

This won’t do.

You move around the counter again. He freezes mid-reach for another can, his body going rigid like sensing danger.

“Then what?” The question hovers. “If not the brand, not the color, not moss itself—what exactly are you responding to?”

He doesn’t answer. Doesn’t look up. His breathing has gone shallow again, that panicked rhythm you noticed before.

He’s terrified of you.

And yet he called you pearl.

Like he’s assigned meaning to it.

You take another step closer. “You said pearl. Like you recognized something. Like it meant something specific.”

His latex-gloved hands still completely.

“It did mean something,” you continue, voice dropping to that tone you use when extracting truth from reluctant sources. “Didn’t it?”

Still nothing.

Different approach required.

You crouch down—not kneeling, just lowering yourself to his eye level. He flinches at your proximity but doesn’t move away.

“Look at me.”

He doesn’t.

“Look. At. Me.”

Slowly, like it causes physical pain, he raises his eyes. They’re darker now, pupils dilated with what looks like fear and something else. Something that makes your pulse quicken in an unfamiliar way.

Interesting physiological response.

“Pearl and moss,” you say deliberately. “Those aren’t random words, are they?”

His throat moves as he swallows. Hard.

“Are they?”

“No.” The word barely makes it past his lips.

Progress.

“So what are they?”

Another swallow. His eyes dart away, then back, like he can’t decide whether looking at you is salvation or damnation.

“Ocean,” he whispers. “Ocean and—and forest floor.”

Ocean and forest floor.

Treasures and decay.

Light and shadow.

Hierarchy. System. Order.

You lean forward slightly. “And which one am I?”

His breathing stops entirely. For a moment you think he might not answer, might retreat back into that terrified silence.

Then: “Pearl.”

The word drops between you like a stone into still water.

“And you’re moss.”

It’s not a question. You’re stating the pattern he’s revealed, the strange mythology he’s constructed around you both.

Classification complete. 

He nods once. Sharp, desperate movement.

He’s created a hierarchy with you elevated, with him below.

This should feel normal. This should feel expected. You are exceptional. People should recognize this. This is how things work.

But something about his reverence feels different from the usual acknowledgment of your superiority.

Why different?

You stand slowly, and in doing so, his eyes track your movement with the desperate attention of someone watching something precious and fragile.

“Stand up,” you say.

He doesn’t move.

“Stand up.”

“I can’t.”

Can’t?

“Why not?”

His gloved hands clench against his thighs. “You’re… you’re too close.”

Too close for what? Too close for standing? Too close for breathing?

Too close for reverence, perhaps?

A smile tugs at the corner of your mouth. Not kind. Not warm. Curious.

“Kneel then.”

He freezes mid-motion. Completely still except for the rapid rise and fall of his chest.

“Properly,” you add, and your voice drops to something softer. “At my feet.”

His throat works around a swallow—thick and difficult. His eyes go half-lidded like he’s fighting some internal war between terror and desire.

But he does it.

Shifts his position until he’s directly in front of you. Settles back on his heels with his gloved hands placed carefully on his thighs. 

The posture for worship.

Oh.

Oh, this is entirely new.

The smile spreads across your face properly now. Fascinated. Like you’ve discovered something unexpected. Something that responds to you in ways you didn’t know were possible.

“Much better.”

He trembles. Actually trembles. Like your approval is too much for his system to process.

When was the last time someone looked at you like this? When was the last time someone saw you and trembled with something that isn’t desire or professional assessment?

When was the last time someone worshipped you?

Never.

This is entirely new territory.

You lean forward slightly. Just enough to invade his space. Just enough to test the boundaries of whatever strange dynamic you’ve stumbled into.

His breathing becomes audible. Rapid. Shallow. But he doesn’t move away.

Good.

Very good.

He seems to relax in this position. Like kneeling in front of you is exactly where he belongs. 

His gloved fingers start picking at the latex material—nervous habit that reveals more than he probably intends.

Self-soothing behavior. Anxiety management. Control mechanisms.

“What’s your name?”

His eyes stay fixed downward. “Kim.”

“Your first name.”

A pause. Two seconds. Three.

“Taehyung.”

The syllables feel foreign in the air between you. Soft consonants and careful vowels.

“Korean?”

“Mixed.” His voice is barely audible, word pulled from him like thread from fabric. “Born here. Raised here.”

You study his profile. The way his ashy hair catches the light. The distance he forces himself to maintain even while kneeling at your feet.

This is the most he’s ever spoken. Probably the most he speaks to anyone.

Selective communication. You are privileged recipient.

“And you work here.”

“Yes.”

“Every day?”

“Most days.”

You crouch slightly. Reach for the silk tie at his throat—standard store uniform that no one else maintains this methodically. 

The fabric slides between your fingers. You adjust the knot. Two millimeters higher. Perfect alignment now. Your fingers work exactly as when you pin your hair, secure pointe shoes, and arrange water bottles in descending order of preference.

Order restored.

The tie passes through your hand as you let it slide—silk against skin, your fingers tracing downward until you reach the end. Testing the quality. Evaluating the—

The automatic doors shriek open.

Pink hair catches your attention first. Unnatural color that serves no professional purpose. Then the sketchbook tucked under one armpit, phone pressed between shoulder and ear in a configuration that suggests poor posture habits.

Unprofessional phone etiquette.

“—and then I told him that’s not how you draw negative space, you can’t just—”

The voice carries across the store. Loud. Animated. 

Unnecessary.

She stops mid-sentence. Mouth opening slightly as her eyes register the tableau—you crouched before him, your hand at the end of his tie, his perfect kneeling posture.

Your fingers tighten around the silk. Just slightly. Just enough to feel the fabric resist. Like a leash under tension.

He makes a soft sound—surprise, or something else. His breathing changes when you tug the tie, eyes fluttering but staying fixed on your face like you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to earth.

Interesting response.

The pink-haired girl stutters into her phone. “I—I’ll call you back.”

You don’t move away. Don’t acknowledge that someone else exists in this space that belongs to you and him.

She’s studying the scene with the intensity of someone trying to solve a puzzle. Gaze moving from you to him and back again. Confusion creasing her features.

“Taehyung?”

Something twists in your chest, like when you miss a step during grand jetés—the moment when your body expects support and finds air instead.

She knows his name.

You glance at him. His attention wavers—shifts toward the voice calling him like a reflex. Natural response to recognition.

Unacceptable.

Your fingers find the tie again. This time the movement is pure instinct. Pull. Not adjustment. Correction.

His gaze snaps back to you immediately. Pupils dilated. Breath shallow.

Better.

“Moss,” you say quietly. “Get up.”

He blinks rapidly. Confusion and obedience warring across his features. Then scrambles to his feet with the desperate eagerness of someone who cannot disappoint you.

Standing, he’s taller than expected. Your eyes reach the hollow of his throat where the tie knot sits perfectly aligned now. The height difference creates interesting geometry—you looking up, him looking down. 

Yet, the hierarchy remains.  

Something else reaches you now. A scent. Roasted chestnuts and something deeper—vetiver maybe, or just the warmth of skin that exists in cold spaces. Not cologne. Nothing artificial. 

Just him, standing close enough that you can catalog the specific quality of his proximity.

You like this.

Why do you notice that? Why does the specific measurement matter?

You move toward the counter. Collect your protein bars—. three packages arranged in perfect parallel lines on the worn surface.

The girl’s name tag reads SOPHIE in cheerful block letters. Art student, based on the sketchbook. Probably here for supplemental income while pursuing impractical creative endeavors.

Predictable trajectory.

She frowns at the space between you and Taehyung. Still trying to decode what she witnessed.

You nod once. Acknowledgment without warmth. Professional courtesy extended to a colleague you’ll never see again.

Then you turn.

Face him directly.

“I’ll see you around, Taehyung.”

His name feels right in your mouth. Chosen. Claimed.

He nods rapidly. Eyes wide with something that looks like disbelief. Like hearing his name from your lips is a gift he didn’t expect to receive.

Necessary.

You walk toward the automatic doors. Feel their eyes tracking your movement—his with worship, hers with confusion. The contrast satisfies something in you that you don’t name.

You don’t look back.

Behind you, two people stand in a space that still holds the shape of what just happened.

Behind you, someone knows his name.

But you said it last.

next | index

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© jungkoode 2025 | banner and dividers by dailynnt

June 23rd, 1977

The floor thumps in rhythm with the heavy bass blasting from the stereo, cranked up to the highest volume setting. Even the mattress seemed to be moving along to the song, sending vibrations through his body as he sprawls out across the bed. He stares up at the ceiling idly, watching the cloud of smoke as it curls around itself, some of it catching in the afternoon sun. 

Jungkook liked to start his days like this — seeing as he woke up around noon — with blaring noise to cancel out reality for a moment. He can barely hear his own thoughts even if he tried to focus on them, much less the fervent pounding of his mother's fist to the door — pure bliss. 

Posters are slapped to his walls, the house's original yellow peeking out where his poor tapestry didn't cover. Majority of them are bands, AC/DC, Judas Priest, mostly Black Sabbath though. There are a few cut-outs from porn magazines, women with their tits pressed together, arched to his liking. Jungkook would jerk off to them whenever he was bored or simply horny — which was his default state for the most part. 

His sanctuary is brief today, the banging on his bedroom door managing to overpower even the shrill of the singer's raspy voice. He hadn't heard her stomp up the stairs, but he imagined his mother to be muttering her displeasure all the way up the thirteen steps — a number that irked him. 

"Turn it down!" comes her aggravated yell. Any other mortal might've missed it due to the sheer velocity of his music preferences. But Jungkook was well versed in listening for his parents' every breath in order to avoid them whenever he snuck out. 

"Jungkook!" She's got her knickers in a twist today it seems, usually she would give up after the initial shout. "Unlock your door this instant!" The command is followed by the rattling of the handle as his mother yanks on it roughly. 

To that he simply rolls his eyes, reaching one hand up to rub at his temple where a headache had began to build. He sinks a little further into the mattress, hoping that the next track would deafen whatever scolding she was about to deliver. For a moment he's almost inclined to believe it did. She had gone silent in the hallway, perhaps she'd given up and returned downstairs. That would have been the best of worlds. 

"Are you smoking in there?!" 

But of course not. His gaze drifts to the cigarette caged within his index and middle finger, and he rolls it between them leisurely. "No!" he calls back. 

The smell had probably seeped under the crack of his door which she pounded on, pungent enough for her to catch — not that he gave a shit. "Get out here right now!" his mother remains persistent, "Your father needs your help in the kitchen!" 

Jungkook groans, his head tipping back onto the pillow with a thud, "I'm busy!" 

He could feel her anger, radiating off of her in hot waves as she stands just beyond his door. Had he not been smart enough to lock it, she would have probably roughed him up by now. The thought makes the corner of his lip twitch as he brings the cigarette between them for another drag. 

"Don't make me ground you a second time this month!" Her threat doesn't make him flinch, they never did, but it does make him frown. 

"You can't ground me, I'm nineteen." 

"Nineteen or not—" her voice rises loud enough to overpower the opening instrumental of Paranoid, "You still live under my roof and you do as I say!" 

Jungkook snorts, his head lifting off the cushion it had been resting on. "Suck my fat cock!" he hollers back before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. 

The pounding to his door starts sounding more and more like a madman beating a drum. "Don't you dare use such language with me!" oh she was livid, "Get out here right now before I have your father dismantle this door himself!" 

She wouldn't actually have him do that, Jungkook knows it just as well as she does. With the cigarette shoved between his lips, he pulls on his thick leather boots, insistent on wearing them despite the heat. Then he heads over to the window, undoing the latch and shoving it open as he climbs out. 

It's quite the trek but Jungkook has made this journey enough times to be at ease as he hangs off the ledge of the windowsill, knuckles whitening as he holds on. To his left is a downspout, close enough for him to hook one leg around it. There's a brief second where he's at risk of falling as he lets go, always is, but he catches himself on the pipe and slides down without much trouble. 

The grass bends under his weight and he takes a couple of steps back. With one final glance toward the house and a satisfied drag from his cigarette, he makes for the street — intent on finding entertainment elsewhere whilst his mother continues to yell at the 8-track playing in his bedroom. 

Jungkook enters the filled town square with little plan. The sun sits high in the sky, making the outdoor cafes attractive to the general public. He couldn't care less for them. The thought of bumping elbows with the person on the table next to his own makes him scrunch his nose in disgust. Instead he lets his attention flicker over to the fountain that sits in the center of the plaza. 

An old statute of a woman stands carved in the middle, water sprouting from her open palms before falling into the basin. It's not terribly crowded and he heads over to claim a spot on the stone ledge. Its cool enough to combat the summer heat, the artificial rain skimming along his back comfortably. 

He surveys the area briefly, noting the a group of kids hovering by a display window, two men playing chess on a nearby bench and a handful of mother's chatting loudly as they pushed their strollers back and forth. Jungkook found studying people to be far more pleasant than actually engaging in any real conversation with them. 

Slipping a hand into his jean pocket, he fishes out the pack of cigarettes he always kept on standby. He tilts his head down, fringe falling across his forehead and the world around him goes dark as he lights the embers and takes a long drag. 

"Mind if I bum one?" 

He hadn't noticed her approach, the sound of her footsteps easily drowned out by the commotion around them. But there she stands. With dark brown curls that fall down her shoulders, a white flannel tucked into her navy jeans and a vintage-looking bag slung over one arm, fingers curled around its thick leather strap. 

Jungkook glances left, then right, making sure that she was actually addressing him and not the homeless-looking man a couple of feet away. She nods to the pack, still resting in his palm with an expectant but friendly smile. 

He springs into action right away, "Uh, sure." Shoving his own cigarette between his lips, he fumbles to pluck a second one from the box. The lighter comes next and she accepts both with a grateful hum. 

His next swallow goes down with strained effort as he watches her put a flame to it and inhaling. Jungkook hadn't pegged someone like her for a smoker, but he finds himself completely entranced by the way her mouth wraps around the cigarette. He doesn't even realize she's returning the lighter until its back in his palm, and he stares at it dumbfoundedly. 

"Can I?" she then asks as she gestures toward the open slot beside him. 

He mods, scooting over to give her room as she takes a seat. His own cigarette sits forgotten between his lips as he steals a peek at her through the corner of his eye. She tips her head back, long and dark lashes fluttering against her cheeks when she savors another puff. 

"Long day?" he finds himself asking, finally regaining that of his composure. Usually he hates small talk, but something about her makes him open up for it anyway. 

She grins, "Yeah. Something like that. You?" 

Jungkook scoffs. His day had started less than two hours ago — but sure, his mother's nagging had put a dampen on his mood. He busies himself with a long drag, letting the ash slip down his throat like some reverse chimney. When he turns his attention back to her, he finds her free hand extended. 

"What's your name?" she asks when their fingers lace together in a simple greeting. 

"Jungkook," he says, taking a moment to study the intricate swirls of polish on her nails. 

She tries his name out for herself, tongue clicking against the roof of her mouth in approval, like he'd just passed some unknown test of hers.

"I'm Yelena." 

Their gazes meet and whatever pathetic answer had waited on his tongue vanishes as he loses himself in the way her brown eyes glimmer under the hot afternoon sun. She withdraws her hand all too soon, lifting it to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear as she brings the cigarette back to her lips. "Nice to meet you, Jungkook." 

Yelena — or, Yelena Louise Emerson, as her full name was, not that it mattered of course — was a lot more decent than the girls from his high school years. She spoke with grace he hadn't known before, the words coming effortlessly even as she discusses the most mundane topics, and Jungkook finds himself clinging onto each sentence. 

After finishing their cigarettes he proposes a walk which she happily agrees to. They cover every inch of the city side by side, moving at a leisure pace and stopping to peer at trees, park benches and other nonsensical stuff. He learns that she's two years his junior, her eighteenth birthday coming up in September, two weeks after his twentieth. 

She had graduated only a month prior and was going into fashion school this fall. "What about you?" Yelena asks when they cross the bridge going over the canal. Jungkook's steps falter, his twitching hands finding purchase in the pockets of his loose jeans. He hadn't thought much of what he wanted to if he was being honest — university never enticed him, hell, he barely made it through senior year. 

He shrugs, "I don't know. Don't got no plan." Right now he was leeching off his parents, had been for the past two years without shame. A job felt like a sadistic play of torture and he had no intentions of acquiring one in the near future. 

"Really?" Yelena has stopped too, she was now leaning against the railing, arms folded across her chest. "I figured you were in a garage band or something." 

Jungkook frowns, "What?"

But she simply raises him a brow, shooting him a pointed look and he glances down to his attire. The crease on his forehead deepens as he studies the ill-fitted t-shirt, which he regrets not washing as he stands before her. He lingers on the print across his torso, "What's wrong with Black Sabbath?" 

Yelena laughs, the sound echoing off the bridge they stand on and Jungkook blinks in surprise. "Not that," she gestures toward him in his entirety, "You got the look." Cocking her head to the side, she thoughtfully adds, "I like it." 

The tips of his ears burn pink at that and Jungkook quickly clears his throat as he squints toward the scorching sun. He can feel her gaze on him even as he stubbornly refuses to acknowledge it. Part of him wishes she would look away, the other longs for her undivided attention.

"Are you wearing makeup?" 

Her sudden question catches him off guard and he sends her a puzzled look. Yelena points to her own eyes and Jungkook reaches a finger up to caress one of his lids. "Oh," he muses, "Yeah, I guess." The black charcoal he wore was part of his everyday appearance, sometimes he even slept in the smudged eyeliner — it was a bitch to wash off anyway. Though Jungkook had never considered it makeup. This was just who he was. 

Yelena nods, cracking a small smile as the afternoon sun illuminates her dark curls, "Looks cool." 

After their first rendezvous they agreed to meet up again. Nothing crazy, another walk around town, coffee at the local cafes, a shared lunch, stuff like that. It wasn't much but suddenly Jungkook had more a reason to roll out of bed each day. He even made an effort to brush his teeth in the morning and changing into clothes that hadn't been decaying on his floor for the past week. 

His parents caught on rather quickly. Suppose it might've had something to do with the fact that he was skidding down the stairs at an adequate 10am instead of 2pm. "Going somewhere?" his father had asked as he peered up from behind the day's paper. 

Jungkook came to a halt in front of the hallway mirror, shoving a hand through his wild hair once, then twice. "Nope," he'd clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, "Just headin' on a walk." Whether they bought the cheap excuse or not was of no difference to him, he'd left through the front door before either of them had time to process his response. 

On their fourth get-together, Yelena had pointed to his eyebrow. "Did it hurt?" she asks, curiosity lacing her words. They were sat criss-cross on top of the plaid blanket she'd brought from home, shaded by the large oak tree they huddled under. 

"Nah," Jungkook shrugged, one of his fingers toying idly with the spiky end of his piercing. "I'm thinkin' of getting more." He liked to pride himself on having quite the pain tolerance, a needle going through his brow hadn't been much of a fuss, nor the patchwork of tattoos he'd started on his right forearm. 

The park was oddly quiet on that Saturday morning, with only a few birds chirping in the distance and the gentle breeze that brushes through their hair. "I think lip piercings are cool," Yelena muses, her eyes lingering on his mouth as she said the words. 

Jungkook felt his throat go dry and he hoped she didn't notice that he fought to swallow. "Yeah?" he cleared his throat, "They're alright." He'd tired to play it off, but his nonchalance only lasted him so far — and the very next week the needle had sliced his bottom lip, a silver ring now hugging it. 

The more time they spent together the more he learned about her — for Yelena came with a lot of surprises. She knew how to sew, crochet and knit, in fact each piece in her wardrobe she had designed and made herself. It became clear when taking a closer look at the personalized flair of her shirt, the added flowers to her jeans or the headband she had crafted from her mother's old dress. 

Her dream was to open her own clothing store in the future, though she said that fashion school was a decent start in said direction. Jungkook agreed, he said that she was no doubt talented, she was bound to be a success — which was more than what could be said about him. 

His infatuation with Yelena grew for each minute spent in her presence. And soon enough he was working up the courage to ask her on an actual date with him. It had been meek attempt. The words tumbled clumsily from his tongue and he had said them with a slight stutter, pathetic really. And yet — she'd said yes. 

So he took her to the movies, bought her a soft drink and popcorn. Then he watched her through the corner of his eye as the film played on the big screen before them. He noted the way her lips would twitch whenever she found a line particularly amusing, the rapid flutter of her lashes as she blinked the tears away during emotional scenes. 

Under the dimmed lights of the movie theater Jungkook had kissed her for the first time. A shy peck at first, testing the waters. But then she had kissed him back — slipped him tongue right there over their shared popcorn — and holy shit, Jungkook knew he was a goner. 

Summer came to an end all too quickly. And though Jungkook's routines included minimal change with the turn of season, things would not stay the same between him and Yelena. For all of July and August they had been basking in their own simple sanctuary. Passing a cigarette back and forth on his bed, listening to his 8-track together or going on long walks by the canal. 

Yelena would be busy most of the time from here on out. School was robbing him of her warm presence and giddy laughter. A selfish part of him wanted to ask of her to give it up and just stay with him as they were — he almost did. But this was her dream, and what was she to do with him? Sleep until noon and smoke cigarettes whilst leeching off her parents? No, Yelena was better than him. 

Jungkook knew that if he wanted to keep her in his life, he would have to make a change. His mother had raised him a brow when he brought up the idea of getting a job. Though she seemed happy that he was finally pulling himself together and making an effort. 

"Does this have something to do with the girl you've been seeing?" she asks over the breakfast table that morning. 

Jungkook snorts, "No." Blatantly ignoring the fact that his face was beet red as he shoved more eggs into his mouth and chewed quickly. But it had everything to do with her — as all things did recently. 

He managed to get a position at the local gas station. The hours were long and the tasks were boring. Each second spent there killed him and he nearly quit a handful of times. The thought of Yelena kept him going. She'd told him during one of their dates that she wanted to move out of her parents house, and he was hellbent on making it a reality for her. 

It took four months of hard work. Four months of resetting pumps and mopping floors as he busted his ass trying to save up. In that time he grew balls enough to ask her to be his girlfriend, like, officially. Jungkook had never had a girlfriend before, most of them were just brief one night stands and flirtatious banter. So he was determined to do things right with Yelena. 

From bringing her flowers each time they saw each other to splurging what was left of his paycheck on jewelry for her. She would always tell him that there was no need for materialistic things like that, but Jungkook didn't know how else to express his feelings, which led him to getting her even more stuff. 

But by the four month mark there was enough money in his account to pay off the first month's rent on a small, one-bedroom apartment. Jungkook had never felt more proud of himself as he handed her the spare keys, "It's ours now." 

The place wasn't luxurious by any means. Water pumped slowly, it took long for the shower to even heat up, but Yelena was happy, and that was what mattered. 

Living together wasn't bad at all. Of course they got on each other's nerves from time to time, it was inevitable. Suppose Jungkook did play his music a little too loud at times, but she would litter fabric and thread throughout the flat — making him curse loudly whenever he pricked himself on a hidden needle. 

Every moment, both good and bad, is what made those first months so special. It was where Jungkook truly fell in love with Yelena — it was also when he first had the guts to tell her that he did. 

A year passed as they spent both Christmas and New Year's together. That apartment saw everything. From them enjoying the first snow, to watching the birds as they returned in spring, to laying on the hard, wooden floors together as the summer rays spilled through the dirty windows. 

This was his happy place. 

Sunday afternoons were Jungkook's least favorite part of the week. It meant that the short weekend with Yelena was coming to an end. She would return to school come Monday morning, and he would have to haul his ass back to the gas station for another ten hour shift. 

The sheets are pooled around his waist, his glistening chest rising and falling slowly as he peers up at the ceiling. Sex usually took his mind off the gloomy reality that prowled the outskirts of his thoughts. The aftermath of his orgasm still lingers in his stomach and legs, they feel heavy where he sprawls out across the mattress. Today the voices are louder than the euphoric high of busting a nut. 

Yelena sits against the headboard beside him, her dark curls cascading down her shoulders in that post-intimacy way he loved so much. The cigarette hangs loose between her fingers, her gaze fixed ahead when she brings it up for another long drag. He could watch her for hours without ever growing tired, finding something new to obsess over each time — and if he didn't, then he would simply go back to her eyes, her eyes were everything. 

When she notices his lingering stare, she tilts her head with a lopsided grin. "What is it?" she muses around the cigarette, cocking a brow his way.

Jungkook sighs, a long, heavy sigh that had been sitting between his ribs for a while now. "Thinkin'…" 

She huffs, her serene expression doing little to mimic the conflicting feelings inside of him. "Uh-oh, that's never a good thing," Yelena drawls and he resists the urge to roll his eyes, instead muttering a quiet 'shut the fuck up' as he inhales. 

Silence falls over their small bedroom and by the time Jungkook finally speaks again, she's already finished the cigarette and put it out on the tray atop the bedside table. "Just— This," he gestures to the pale walls, the uneven floorboards and their rumpled sheets, "It's not enough." 

Yelena says nothing, but her lack of response only fuels him on. He peers up at her from where he lays, her brown irises reflecting in the afternoon sun, lips slightly parted in a question she has yet to ask. 

"I'm going to give you a good life," Jungkook states. 

She frowns, still slightly dazed from the moment they'd shared but conscious enough to pick up on what he was saying. "You already have," she turns to lay beside him, cheek propped up on her palm. 

Jungkook shakes his head, "Not good enough." The paycheck he received from slaving away at the gas station covered rent and then some. It was hardly a lavish life, and he knew that the small flat was eating away at Yelena, even if she never voiced it out loud. 

His arm hooks around her naked waist, pulling a squeal from her as he tugs her closer. Then he rolls on top of her, elbows bent as his lips brush hers. "I want to give you a real house," he murmurs between lazy kisses, "A big one." 

Yelena giggles beneath him, her hands finding their way to the back of his neck. "With white picket fences?" she wonders, there's a playful edge to the way she says it — but Jungkook is being dead serious. 

"Yes," he presses another kiss to her lips, "Sparkling chandeliers, a fireplace in the living room." He trails his affection to her jaw, tasting the sweat that still clings to her skin, "A large dining table, our own master bedroom…" His mouth finds her neck, breath ghosting over the marks he'd previously left. 

The idea blooms in his mind with each passing beat of his heart and he becomes surer of himself. "Would you like that?" He leans back enough to meet her gaze, and fuck, if she wasn't the most beautiful thing he'd ever laid his eyes upon. 

Yelena smiles, wide enough for her face to crinkle and her teeth to be put on display. "Yeah," she whispers, "I'd love that." 

It took him less than a second to join their lips together in a kiss full of hope. For a brief moment, he allows himself to believe that he could do more — be better — for her. Tomorrow seems far away, the floors that need to be mopped and the pumps he'll be resetting would not be his future, that much he's sure of. 

Jungkook wasn't a man of many talents. He'd tried to get into music once, begged his father to buy him an electric guitar only to quit after two weeks when he'd accidently snapped one of its strings. Painting was fun, for about three hours, until the color ended up bleeding through the canvas and he was left a frustrated mess. Then there had been chess, soccer, basketball, hell, he'd even tried gardening only for the plants to die under his care. 

One thing Jungkook did possess some know-how for — was tech. Nothing of the extreme sort. He would fix the antenna on the TV at home whenever it started acting up, re-wire the landline to better the sound quality for his mother, he'd even built in a custom speaker into his 8-track to enjoy even louder music. 

He figured that if there was one thing he might've had at least half a shot at, then it would be this. Long nights were spent sketching new models for the already advancing technology. Yelena had whined when he picked apart their landline a third time that week — though Jungkook insisted that he needed to figure out exactly how each part connected. 

It was a tedious process, crumpled papers littering the bedroom as he sat with a pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other, frantically trying to come up with improvements. And after a month of hard labor he thought he'd gotten a decent grasp on it. He consulted Yelena about some of his ideas, she said they were bound to be a success! 

Feeling rather confident after his girlfriend's praise, Jungkook had built up the courage to pitch said ideas to a few investors. He'd borrowed a suit from his father, combed his unruly hair back, even wiped the charcoal off his eyes. 

When walking across the marbled floor with the dress pants digging into his thighs and the cufflinks snug around his wrists, Jungkook felt like an imposter. He knew little about the corporate world and as he eyed the others in the lobby, he noticed their straightened postures and refined edges, nothing like that of his lazy slouch. 

No one spoke, which suited Jungkook just fine and he got comfortable on one of the unoccupied couches. There he tried to mimic their stance, though ultimately gave up and let his shoulders sag again. 

He lets his eyes wander across the rather futuristic interior. The grey walls were textured to replicate that of stone. Three spheres hung from the high ceiling, their shiny surfaces reflecting him where he sat cross-legged on the low, orange seat. They cost a fortune no doubt, as the rest of the place did. 

To his left there was greenery, a large ficus tree. He reached out to trap one of its leaves between his index and middle finger, only to be disappointed when he found that it was plastic. Turning his attention back to his hands, he instead gets to thinking about his next tattoo, he'd like something on his knuckles. 

A clock ticks slowly in the distance, interfering his thoughts and soon Jungkook finds himself counting each second in small groups of ten. Ten seconds here, ten seconds there. Six of those made a minute — a dozen made two. Three dozen of them later, the door across the room slid open. 

Out came a bitter-looking woman in a pencil skirt. She struts forward, heels clacking against the marble tiles, demanding everyone's attention as she comes to a halt before the cluster of sofas. Then she clears her throat loudly with a 'hmpf' sound, adjusting the clipboard in her hand as she pushes the glasses higher on her nose. 

"Gentlemen," her voice is short and clipped, and she seems to hold no one in regard when she speaks. "How fortunate that you're all here," it came out sarcastically, "You'll have five minutes in there each — don't whine for more time." A scribbling noise follows as she jots something down on the clipboard, drawing a harsh line across it before her eyes turn to peer out over the candidates. 

"Mr. Jeon, welcome inside first." 

The room beyond the door was much darker than the lobby. With only a small overhead light bulb to illuminate the spot he stood under. To his right there was a chalkboard intended for his use, Jungkook hesitated as he eyed it. Across from him was a long table, holding five men in suits. They looked to be in their fifties, possibly early sixties. 

Their conversation was a hushed murmur as they sipped on their coffee and aimlessly flipped through papers. No one seems to have noticed his arrival and if they had, they simply paid him no mind. The clock sounds somewhere behind him, a reminder that time was dire and Jungkook took a small step forward. 

"Hello—" he cringes at how unsure he sounds, "My name is Jungkook. I'm here to…" 

Neither of the men had paused to as much as glance in his direction, all of them occupied with whatever matter was being discussed over their morning coffee. He studies them for a long while, gaze narrowing as he follows the movement of their lips, a muscle in his jaw ticking each time they flick their tongues against the roof of their mouths — their skin pulling taut whenever they grinned to show off yellow-stained teeth. 

The mugs and papers on the table rattle when Jungkook slams his briefcase down on it, effectively drawing all eyes to himself. Not one of them had seen him storm up to where they sat, not one of them seems to have expected it either. He bites back a sneer, shoving the thoughts aside as he clears his throat. 

"Ah, who do we have here?" The man who sits in the middle finally acknowledges him as he leans back in his seat. He looks to be the oldest of the bunch, the mustache above his top lip had begun graying slightly. His dull eyes scan Jungkook up and down with little care as he twists a ballpoint pen between his fingers. 

Jungkook straightens up, towering over them all where he stands — it hardly provided any comfort. "Jeon Jungkook, sir." The formality tastes foul but he forces it out anyway. 

The man nods, glancing toward the briefcase unenthusiastically. "And what do you have for us today?" He sounds bored already, not a great start. The others have yet to speak but at least they were no longer ignoring his presence. 

There's a moment where he hesitates, fingers curling around the handle of the briefcase he'd so carelessly thrown onto the table. The metal latches come undone as Jungkook opens the case, turning it around to show the contents inside. 

All five men lean forward, brows furrowing across their foreheads. "What is the meaning of this?" The one to the left asks as he lifts his gaze. 

Jungkook gestures to the ordinary looking landline he'd brought along with him, then to the wires and copper hardware laying beside it. "It goes inside your telephone, sir." He forces a small smile that doesn't feel at all genuine, "It's a built in sound monitor, meaning you'll get a variety of ring tones other than the standard one." 

He'd tried it out for himself back home. Rather than the obnoxious shrill that most people had become so accustomed to, it now gave a pleasant, synth-like signal whenever a call was received. He presses the button labeled 'zero' twice and a simple melody begins playing. It fills the space between them all for a full minute, and Jungkook gauges their reactions closely — which was damn near impossible as they remained carefully neutral. 

When it comes to an end he swallows, one finger still hovering above the button without pushing down.

The man who'd originally made the inquiry lets out a sharp breath that comes across as half a laugh, and not a kind one. The rest send each other pointed glances, their attention returning to the piece of hardware and telephone inside the suitcase. He did not know if they liked it or not but he'd already wasted more than half his time by showing it off, so he continues briskly, trying not to let their scrutinizing glances bother him. 

"Replacing the ringer current with this installment provides five different sounds which can be altered to your liking. The copper line attaches just as the traditional one would with 90 volts but I believe that it's possible to tweak the quality of—" 

"Listen kid," the man in the middle stretched in his seat. The ballpoint pen dropped slightly between his fingers before he picked it up again. "Getting to pick a song you fancy is cute and all, I mean, what you showed was nice. But there's no money in it." He strokes his mustache, pretending to think it over once more though he hadn't as much as peeked at the mechanism a second time. 

His brows twitch and Jungkook rolls his shoulders as he bites back a snide comment. "There could be. If it was marketed right then surely—" 

"Marketing," the man sighs, "Costs money." He reaches forward to close the briefcase once more. "And I suppose you've thought of how to work around that?"

To that Jungkook can only shake his head. He'd been so caught up developing the new feature that the thought of launching it to the public hadn't crossed his mind. But how hard could it be — just print it on a few posters to garner interest, no? 

The man, however, seems far from impressed. "Advertising it would cost more than its worth," he says, "As would mass production. No one is going out of their way to spend money on a giddy ringtone, especially not with the current state of our economy." 

He taps the blunt end of his pen against the briefcase, "You've got bright ideas kid. But it won't make business." Nudging the case back toward Jungkook, he stifles a yawn. "Don't waste your time on aesthetics and do something useful instead, will you?" The other men huff under their breaths, amused smirks playing on their lips, some of them even commenting on the 'silly' melody. 

Jungkook forces the objection down his throat when the door behind him opens, signaling that his time was up. He says nothing when snatching the briefcase back, sealing it up and turning on his heel to leave. 

Yelena hadn't commented on his slumped shoulders or prolonged silence when he returned home. She simply kissed his cheek and told him that he'd have more luck next time. Ironic, Jungkook thought but held his tongue. 

He sat on the edge of the bed for a long while that night, the copper wires and software he'd spent a month carefully crafting resting in his palms. It looks pathetic. He thumbs the corner of the hardware idly, scoffing to himself before curling his fingers around it. 

"Aesthetics," he mutters to himself before hurling it against the wall. 

Jungkook spends the next couple of weeks picking up more shifts at the gas station. He monitors pumps, deals with drunks by the register who try to bargain for their fuel, restocks shelves and scrubs floors. Each day weighs on him harder than the last. And whenever he wasn't working he was moping in the apartment, chugging beer like it was water. 

Christmas comes and goes, the new year begins and soon spring was in full bloom. He thinks that he might just be promoted to manager at the station if he keeps this up. His parents surely thought him a failure — he knew that he was — even so, they said nothing. Perhaps they were happy enough that he was at least attempting to make a living for himself and Yelena. 

Yelena. 

Jungkook thinks she might be the only thing that gets him through the long hours behind the counter. Whenever the sky seems particularly dull or the thought of resigning becomes too tempting, he always imagines coming home to her. To find her on the couch, sketching new costume designs and chatting away eagerly about the new fabrics they had gotten in for the month. 

Her studies were important to her — her path in life was set straight. Sometimes Jungkook felt as though he was merely following wherever the tides took her as he scrambled to keep up. The idea doesn't bother him as much as it should, before her there had been no reason to do anything but smoke his days away. 

Within Yelena he found his purpose. 

That's why his heart had dropped to his knees when he found her curled into a ball on the bathroom floor that one late evening in March. He'd returned home from another long and dreary shift monitoring pumps and sorting shelves, calling out for his girlfriend when stepping through the front door — only to be met with silence. 

Yelena would always greet him with a kiss on the cheek as she wrapped her arms around his neck, adding on to the long list as to why Jungkook knew he wanted to marry her one day. But that night — the flat had been silent. 

Jungkook kicked off his shoes and ventured through the living room. "Baby?" he calls, half-expecting her to launch herself at him from whatever corner she'd been hiding in. Instead the one response he gets are the muffled sobs coming from the bathroom down the hall. 

He moves without thinking, bursting through the door with enough force to have it slam against the wall. "Baby!" He's prepared himself for the worst, at least so he tells himself. But seeing her like this — with her arms hugging her knees to her chest, choking on her own tears as she buries her face against the fabric of her pants — it breaks something in him. 

Gaze scanning the area frantically for the culprit of whatever had upset her, he comes to a stop when he catches sight of the pregnancy test sitting on the counter. Jungkook wasn't a complete moron, the red circle conveyed the exact reason for his girlfriend's distress and he sank to his knees beside her, joining her on the tiled floor. 

"I don't know what to do…" She manages to croak when he pulls her to his chest. Yelena's voice was always so bright and full of confidence. Now it sounds small. She trembles against him, fingers clutching weakly at his shirt as she continues to ramble incoherently, "I-I mean, I'm still in school and I can't just— We can't just…" 

Jungkook is only half listening to what she says. His thoughts have already wandered into territory which they had never before explored. He imagines what this would mean for the two of them, a child, something of their own. The thought of becoming a father terrified him, fuck, he was a terrible role model. Barely took care of himself, how on earth was he supposed to set his own kid straight? 

And yet, he can't deny the way his heart flutters when he sees the look in Yelena's eyes, glossed over with tears — though he weren't so sure they were sad anymore. "I love her terribly already," she admits in a quiet whisper. Jungkook's brain short circuits and he tilts her head back with a puzzled frown. 

"Her?" 

Yelena nods, the corner of her lip twitching into the ghost of that stupid smile he adored so much. "Just a gut feeling," she murmurs with a shrug. 

A gut feeling… Jungkook considers her words, his fingers stroking the line of her jaw carefully. A baby girl. Their baby girl. His entire being shifts in a new direction and he swallows to try and combat his suddenly dry throat. "What do you want to do?" He quietly asks, keeping his tone as neutral as he can, though the hesitation betrays his hope. 

She draws in a long breath, blinking slowly before moving her eyes up to meet his, "I want to keep her." 

Jungkook tries to ignore the fireworks going off inside of him as he leans in to let his nose brush against hers. "Then we will," he does not know where the sudden surge of confidence had come from, but he seizes the moment and presses his lips to hers in a tender kiss. 

Her doubt becomes evident in the way she slowly reciprocates the gesture, he knew her well enough to practically be able to hear the thoughts swirling inside her head. 

When they pull back he lets his forehead rest against hers, finding her gaze through heavy lids. "I'll figure it out. The money, the house, everything." His knuckles brush her cheek, the promise lingering between them, and Jungkook prays that he can make good on it. 

Yelena nods, allowing him to pull her in for another kiss, his next words a mere breath on her tongue: 

"I'll make it work." 

Yelena was fast asleep by the time Jungkook pulled his hoodie on that night. The moonlight spilled through the window, illuminating her figure under the covers as she rests quietly. He tucks the blanket over her shoulders, leaning down to press a lingering kiss to her forehead in a wordless goodbye. 

He pads soundlessly across the floor, stopping once he reaches the threshold to their bedroom. Allowing himself one final glance at her peaceful face with the promise he'd made weighing heavy on his heart — Jungkook then slips out of their apartment without hesitation. 

The streets are vacant after midnight and he makes his way down the pavement slowly. He has no real plan, wandering aimlessly past closed shops and empty benches. His hands rest within the front pocket of the large hoodie, March is unforgiving and cold, he should've brought a jacket, he thinks. But he doesn't turn back around, he can't, not until he's figured out what to do. 

Maybe he could pick up a second job? Then again, he was already spending each waking second at the gas station. He would have to sacrifice sleep all together if he wanted to save up enough to move Yelena out of that shitty flat. 

He comes to a halt under one of the streetlights, fingers slipping into the front pocket of his jeans to curl around the lighter he always kept on him. Tongue darting out to wet his dry lips, his other hand fishes out the pack of cigarettes. He plucks one out, flicks the lighter once, casting a flame which he shields with his palm. 

But he never lights it. 

His mind strays by the pregnancy test, still sitting on the bathroom counter, the one that had changed the trajectory of his life just a couple of hours ago. Jungkook could be a father a year from now — responsible for a life beyond his own. He twirls the cigarette between two fingers with a frown. Then he tosses the entire pack into the nearest bin and keeps walking. 

He's made it a couple of blocks when the first droplet lands on his cheek, the next one on the tip of his nose. The rain picks up the longer he walks, turning from a soft patter to a steady fall. It soaks through his clothes and he pulls the hood over his head to little avail. 

The pavement turns shiny, reflecting the street lights in blurry patches. Water splatters beneath the soles of his shoes as he trudges forward, disobeying the wind's harsh tugs as it tries to pull him back. 

He rounds a corner a while later, coming face to face with a tall building he recognizes with contempt. Its big windows, illuminated entrance sign, the men in suits, their frowns and sneers, their rejection that still wounds his pride to acknowledge. He stands there for a long moment, studying the large empire with a scrutinizing glare. 

One day, he thinks to himself. One day he'll prove those self righteous assholes wrong. "Fuckin' aesthetics my ass," he spits before turning away. 

Jungkook is soaked from head to toe when he reaches the next big street crossing. The lights are blaring red but not a single car has passed him since he set out over an hour ago. He keeps his feet on the white lines when he makes his way across, counting them under his breath. 

"One, two, three… Seven, eight, nine…" He frowns when reaching the last one, stomping his left foot against it once to make up for the road's lack of decency by ending on an uneven number. He mulls over this for a couple of seconds as he makes his way onto the sidewalk, and it's not until he finally lifts his gaze that he sees it. 

It's right there — squeezed between the laundromat and the bakery. Its empty display window and worn door calling to him like a siren would her sailor. 

He steps forward, halting by the large window where he's greeted with his own sullen reflection. Jungkook looks like shit but does not dwell on it, no, his attention is captured by the crooked sign stuck to the inside of the glass. He reads it once, twice, just to be sure: "FOR RENT." 

At first he shrugs the idea off. He couldn't afford to gamble like that, hell, he barely made enough at the gas station to cover his and Yelena's expenses, much less something like this. Yet his feet refuse to move, keeping him rooted to the spot as he squints against the harsh rain. 

The space was small but it would surely do. There was a counter to the left, another door which looked like it lead into a storage room of sorts. He could put up shelves on his own, maybe— No. He shakes his head but his eyes are already going over the number attached to the sign, memorizing the sequence without meaning to. 

There's a phone booth down the street and despite the late hour he heads for it, cutting the distance in less than ten long strides. He seeks refuge from the rain, wet fingers slipping against the buttons as he dials for the only person he could think to reach for in the moment. 

The line rings for a full minute and he's forced to listen to the static noise as he presses the handset to his ear. His teeth have torn the flesh of his bottom lip apart by the time the call connects and a familiar voice fills the small space he stands in. 

"Do you have any idea what time it is?" His words are groggy with sleep and a pang of guilt twists in Jungkook's chest at the chiding tone that was used. 

"Father I—" he turns to the empty display window and swallows, "I need a favor." 

Jungkook feels a strange sense of pride as he twists the keys in the lock a week later and steps inside his store for the first time. With the help of his parents he'd been able to place a down payment on the first three months' rent and while the space could use some sprucing up — it would get the job done. 

He spends his evenings off work cleaning the place, dusting off empty shelves and mopping floors — something he'd gotten very good at might he add. Yelena came to lend a hand, her artistic skills coming in clutch where his lacked. She helped him print a makeshift sign which they hung in the display window and that very next Monday he was proudly able to open the doors to 'Jeon Electronics Repair and Part Distributions.' 

"You sure about this?" Yelena had asked as she watched him get dressed that morning. She'd personally tailored his clothes for him, sewing on a logo they had come up with together onto the chest part. 

Jungkook nodded, combing his hair back with extra care as he peered at himself in the mirror. "As sure as I'll ever be," he'd said. And even though his palms were clammy with sweat and his heart racing in his chest — he knew that it was the truth. 

The shop opened early that morning, when the streets were littered with people all rushing to their 9-5. Jungkook watches as they pass by through the large window, busying himself with rearranging the TVs and landlines which he'd decorated the shelves with. 

He checks the time, 8:17 am. Seventeen minutes. His fingers tap against the counter when he retakes his place behind it, waiting anxiously for his first customer. By noon the store had been void of people, save for himself. Yelena brought him lunch on her break from class. When she asked how things were going he'd lied. 

The first few days were rough, horrible even. The hours went by without a single interruption and Jungkook grew all the more restless as time progressed. He'd managed to negotiate his hours at the gas station to weekends and nights — which wasn't ideal but he knew that he couldn't afford to give up the treacherous job just yet. 

Stubborn as he was, he returned Monday through Friday during that first week, flipping the open sign with more force for each day. He saw less and less of Yelena, only managing a brief thirty minutes during dinner time before he had to leave for his shift. 

She never pointed out the bags under his eyes, or the fact that he had yet to mention any sort of success within his new career path. But Jungkook knew that she was thinking long and hard about him at night, he would find her tossing and turning in bed whenever he returned home at dawn, managing a quick nap before setting out to work again. 

By Wednesday during his second week, time began to blur. His lack of proper sleep was quickly catching up and the ringing silence of his small shop easily lulled him into slumber, leaving him to doze off by the counter more than often. Had he been better rested, he might've heard the door chime that afternoon. Instead, the voice of an older woman is what brings him back to life. 

"Excuse me—" 

The light tap to his shoulder jolts him awake, his head snapping up from where it had been lolling against his folded arms. With bleary eyes he squints against the harsh light, blinking rapidly as the lady before him floats into vision. The sun behind her reflects off her back, casting a halo around her frame, making her look just like like the saint he'd been waiting for all along. 

Jungkook clears his throat, straightening up despite the protests of his aching limbs. "Uh— Yes, hello." He rubs a sheepish hand across the nape of his neck. 

His first customer was a woman in her late forties. With short, black hair in a bob, clad in a long, navy coat that reaches to her knees. Her freshly painted bottom lip is trapped between her teeth, eyes flitting around the shop. "I saw the sign and…" she hesitates, "Do you think you could take a look at this for me?" 

It's then he notices the landline she clutches tightly in both hands. He blinks once, mentally slapping himself to make sure that she was real, that this was actually happening. "Yeah— Sure, no problem." He's quick to slip back into the service role he'd developed during his shifts at the gas station as he retrieves the black box from her. 

"What seems to be the problem?" he asks when turning the telephone over in his palms. 

The lady hums and tucks a piece of hair behind her ear. "Well, it keeps cutting in and out whenever I make calls. My husband tried to mend it but I have a feeling he's just made it worse…" 

Jungkook nods, all too familiar with his father trying to get the TV at home to work by smacking the entire thing a couple of times before getting frustrated. He pinches the cord between two fingers, "It could be a faulty handset, or perhaps a damaged patch cable." 

His diagnosis is followed by silence and when he glances up he finds the woman regarding him with a puzzled frown. "It's an easy fix," he says, the corner of his mouth tugging into a lopsided grin. 

"Really?" she wonders, hope striking her features, "You don't think I'll need to purchase a new one?" 

He shakes his head confidently, "Not at all. I'll need an hour or so if that's okay." Leaning over the counter, he points to the window, "There's a cafe just across the street if you'd like to wait around nearby." 

The lady sighs in relief, some of tension ebbing away from her stiff posture as she nods. "Okay, I'll do that." She bids him farewell and Jungkook listens for the sound of her departure before turning to the landline in front of him. 

With no proper education on things like this, he figured he would just have to work with the knowledge he already had. He'd messed with the cords to the handset at home a handful of times and after spending over a month picking stuff like this apart to peer inside, he felt he had a good grasp on things. 

The world outside keeps moving, people pass by the display window as they talk eagerly among themselves, the sun moving lower across the sky. But the air inside his workshop remains peaceful, the reigning silence interrupted only by the sounds of him screwing the handset apart to locate the issue. 

Just as he presumed, one of the wires had nearly burnt through. Replacing it would erase the problem again. He heads over to the small storage unit where he kept the spares he'd bought with what was left of the money his father lent him. 

When ruffling through the box of copper, however, his attention catches on the same hardware he'd developed a couple of weeks back. The rejection he'd faced by the investors still makes him frown, their words tasting bitter in his mouth. Aesthetics. Cute. He pinches the wire he'll be needing, turning back to the door which he'd come through just a minute ago. 

But before he can walk out of the room, he pauses. He throws a glance over his shoulder, jaw clenching as he battles himself. His free hand closes into a fist before releasing again and Jungkook exhales a sharp breath. Without stopping to question his next course of action, he grabs the hardware and heads out to patch up the phone waiting on the counter. 

The lady returns just as they agreed upon an hour later. She pauses when she finds that her landline looked no different than it had when she dropped it off. "Is it.." pointing toward it with a subtle frown, "Is it fixed?" 

Jungkook gives a tilt of his chin, "Should be good as new. Why don't you try calling someone?" 

She hesitates for a second before picking up the handset and bringing it to her ear. Her polished nail moves across the buttons as she dials a number familiar to her, letting it ring for a while before it connects. "Hello— Hi honey," she pauses, "Oh no. I'm at the workshop, the guy here just got it fixed for us." 

Whilst listening to, who Jungkook presumes to be her husband, on the other end, she sends him a small smile which he returns — oddly enough. People had never been his thing, but seeing the sweet lady's face light up at the prospect of her beloved telephone working again — a result of his work — does something to him.

"No it's not cutting out at all, it's wonderful! Yes I'll let you know when I'm home— are you working late? Ah okay." 

She finishes the call with a shy tilt of her lips. "Thank you," she says, already reaching for her purse in order to pay when Jungkook suddenly remembers himself. 

"Oh, right!" he stops her halfway, "I've added something for you." Reaching for the box, he presses the button displaying the 'zero' with two quick taps. Shortly after, a soft tune begins to play. It fills the small shop, the synth a lot more pleasant than the regular high-pitched shrill the landlines would make. 

"It's a custom ring tone," he explains, "The hardware has five different tracks installed, you alter between them by pressing this button twice, a little tedious but it gets the job done." He swallows as he lifts his gaze to meet hers, anxiously awaiting her verdict. If she hated it then he was bound to be out of business by the end of the day. 

But the woman seems strangely enamored by this new revelation. "Really?" she tries the feature for herself, "And I can change them myself?"

Jungkook nods, "Yeah, anyone can do it." 

She hums a soft 'Ah, I see' leaning forward to inspect this new addition closer. The tune comes to a gentle end, leaving the two of them in silence once more. "Do I have to pay extra for this?" she wonders as her brows knit together. 

"No, no," Jungkook blurts when scratching the top of his head, "I added it without consulting you first so it's free of charge." 

The lady smiles, "This is amazing actually." She tries another of the tracks he'd installed, a look of amusement on her face, "I've never seen anything quite like it." 

She takes her leave shortly after and Jungkook exhales a breath as he slumps back against the counter. He counts the bills she left him — $20 — it wasn't enough for a house with white picket fences, but it was surely a start. 

Jungkook was rather surprised to find a short, chubby man waiting by the front of his workshop when he arrived at 7:50 am that very next morning. He was peering through the display window, thick brows furrowed deeply across his forehead. When he noticed Jungkook in the reflection he turned to him. His round face lit up, "Hello there," he says, greeting the other with a firm handshake. 

Glancing down at their joint hands, Jungkook blinks in surprise. "Hello…" he nods, "Can I uh help you?" Part of him wants to let the man know that the shop wasn't actually open yet, as though the big fat 'CLOSED' sign that hung on the door wasn't evidence enough. Though this was merely his second customer, turning him away would be bad for business, he thinks. 

The man nods, "Yes actually—" he cuts himself off as he reaches inside the bag he'd been carrying, fishing out a telephone box of the same model Jungkook had repaired just a day ago. "A colleague of mine told me that his wife had been here yesterday. He mentioned that she had a new set of ringtones installed. He explained them to be quite pleasant and you see the regular one makes my head ache terribly." Waving a dismissive hand to nothing in particular, he then turns to peer up at Jungkook with hopeful eyes, "Say— How much do you charge for the feature?" 

That week Jungkook had kept the store open Saturday through Sunday as well, pulling in more customers due to the unconventional hours. He'd made over $200 in the span of four days which was enough to boost his confidence and keep him going into the next week.

The door chime went off more times than he could count, people were spilling in from the streets faster than he was able to keep up. Most of them came in for simple repairs, a few through recommendations from friends and colleagues who had paid for his services before. 

His days were spent behind the counter, quick trips back and forth to the storage unit as he picked apart everything from landlines to heavy TVs that people somehow managed to haul all the way to his store. Often he would tweak the existing hardware, complimenting it with new, smarter and quicker features. 

"You adjust the volume with this one," Jungkook explained to the frowning man in front of him. 

He was turning a small remote control in his hands, accompanied by two simple buttons. "I can do it from the couch?" the man quires behind his bushy mustache. There was quiet hesitation lacing his question, like he thought the idea too good to be true. 

But Jungkook simply took the liberty of showing the man himself. He plugged the TV in, flicking on the first channel he came across before upping the volume with the simple remote control. "As long as you remain within range of the antenna it'll be fine," he explains when lowering the blaring sound effects of the cartoons playing. 

The man's furrowed brows had raised high enough on his head for Jungkook to get a good look at his eyes for the first time. "Indeed, this is extraordinary," he mused when taking the controller, testing the adjustments for himself. Before leaving he had shook Jungkook's hand with both of his, tipping him generously for his work. 

When the three month lease was up he'd made enough money to rent the place on his own. His job at the gas station was abandoned in favor of tending to his workshop — which was growing rapidly. Word spread quickly and all the more customers turned up on his doorstep, everyone eager to purchase the new installments he exclusively provided. 

As time passed Yelena grew all the more pregnant. She had put her studies on hold and was helping out around the shop as often as she could — even when Jungkook was breathing down her neck about giving it a rest and thinking about herself and the baby. 

"I've got it covered," he would say as they ate lunch together behind the counter, "You should be taking it easy." His gaze dropped to the round swell of her stomach, fingers reaching out to brush absently over the bump before pressing his palm flat against it. 

"I'm fine," she insisted, "Besides, I feel useless just sitting around at home all day." 

Jungkook hums, setting his unfinished chicken wrap down before sinking to his knees before her. Above him, Yelena protests, but he's hearing none of it. "Hey kid," his breath hovers above the fabric of her shirt, the material stretched thin to accommodate the life growing beneath. "Tell your mom to quit bein' so stubborn," he mumbles against the curve of her belly, "She's giving us both a headache." 

"Jungkook! Get up!" she hisses, "Customers could walk in and—" 

"Shh, shh," he hushes her with a press of his lips to the center of her stomach. "You hear that? There she goes again, always worrying about something." The scoff she emits only makes him smile and he nuzzles against her, inhaling the familiar and comforting scent of her perfume like a man starved. 

"Daddy's got everything covered, needn't to worry about a thing." 

"Geez, you're spoiling her already," she says, though there was no bite to her words. 

Jungkook hums, "Can't help it. She'll be my princess, I intend to treat her as such." 

"Princess, huh? What does that make me?" 

He grins, tilting his head back enough to peer up at her through his lashes, "My queen, of course." Fingers lacing with hers, he brings her hand to his mouth, placing a gentle kiss to her knuckles with reverent care, "Whom I intend to worship until my days on this earth are over." 

Yelena giggles at that, the curly ends of her hair bouncing as she shakes her head. "You're fucking ridiculous you know that?" 

"Yeah," he agrees with another press of his lips, "Ridiculously in love." 

Then came the day that would change his life forever. 

On a dark and dreary December night, just as the first snow had fallen — a faint cry had pierced the air inside the hospital room. 

Jungkook was kneeling by Yelena's side, her hand squeezed tightly in his as she fought through the pain with agonized yells. Each sound cut through his chest likes knifes, panic settling deep within his gut at the sight of the woman he loved, suffering like this. 

"It's okay, I'm here baby—" his voice is barely heard over her gasps and Jungkook feels truly helpless as he brushes a strand of her from her sheen forehead. "You're doing so good," he tries to soothe her but Yelena isn't listening. 

"Almost there," one of the nurses sat between her legs says. Her calm demeanor only throws him off further, how could she just smile when his girlfriend was in excruciating pain? "One more push," she encourages. 

Yelena's next scream has him resting his forehead against her shoulders, eyes screwing shut as he prays for her suffering to come to an end. He feels her body tense up against him, the blunt ends of her nails tearing through his skin as she clings to him. Jungkook lets her, his free hand keeping a white-knuckled grip on the bed sheets as he listens to her whimpers. 

Then it all stops. 

The room goes silent and Yelena's fingers go slack in his hold. He doesn't dare open his eyes, doesn't even dare lift himself up as he swallows thickly. But his ears betray him, the second that first unmistakable cry reaches him, he locks up. 

"Congratulations," the nurse's cheerful tone is barely audible, "You have a beautiful daughter." 

Jungkook's head whips in her direction, his gaze falling on the red, squirming human in her arms. She's covered in blood which the assistant nurse quickly wipes from her face before wrapping her up in blue cloth. He feels his throat dry up, all the color draining from his face as he fixates on the tiny life. 

"Do you want to hold her?" 

"W-What?" he croaks, blinking as he peers up at the nurse who'd walked over to where he sits on the floor. "Me? I don't know—" But he's already on his feet, hands awkwardly outstretched, not knowing what the hell to do with them. 

The nurse, however, doesn't hesitate as she places the small bundle in his arms. The moment he gets to hold her for the first time he feels his knees buckle. His first thought was that she was tiny, barely the size of his forearm. The second was how utterly beautiful she looks. 

Her face is scrunched up, her cries now silent as she wriggles around in his embrace. One of her arms had managed to slip free from the blanket and Jungkook's first instinct is to reach out. Her hand meets his index finger, warm to the touch as she clings to something she cannot yet see. 

"She's…" he trails off, unable to finish whatever sentence may have waited on his tongue. Instead, he brings her closer, letting that same little hand reach for his jaw, then his cheek. His vision blurs with tears that he does nothing to hide, allowing them to fall silently. 

For all that Jungkook was — he suddenly felt lost. The only thing he knew for certain was that she was his. His to love and his to protect. 

Yelena shifts slightly on the bed, letting out an exhausted sigh that has him turning to her in an instant. "Are you okay?" he reaches for her, a trembling hand finding hers as he tries to take back control over the emotions swirling within him.

She nods, a content smile playing on her lips. "Never been better," she says, her tired eyes flickering to their daughter. The nurse steps back in, gently moving the squirming baby over to Yelena, adjusting her against her mother's chest. Yelena embraces her like it was the most natural thing in the world, and Jungkook feels his heart grow double its size in his chest. 

He's back on his knees in a flash, crowding them both on the bed as he hovers as close as he can. "She looks like you," he murmurs, not knowing where he was finding the words for his mind was a mess by this point. 

Yelena chuckles, "You can tell already?" 

"Yes," he breathes. Just then, she finally opens her eyes, not a lot, a few careful blinks against the harsh and sterile overhead lights. But in them he sees the exact same warmth that had made him fall in love with her mother in the first place, "she's got your eyes." 

Their daughter makes a small noise, wriggling slightly before settling again, and Jungkook tracks each movement with microscopic precision, refusing to miss as much as a beat. 

"Do you have any names in mind?" the assistant nurse asks. 

Jungkook frowns, him and Yelena had discussed a few back and forth — none of them really sticking. Though there was one that stood out. She thought it was pretty, a name fit for a princess. He thought it reminded him of morning rain, when the world was still quiet and gentle. 

Yelena gives him a small nod and Jungkook turns to the nurse, unable to keep the smile from his lips. 

"Rayne." 

Taking care of a kid was a lot harder than it looked. It came with no instruction manual and was a lot more hands-on than he could have ever imagined. The first couple of weeks back home with Rayne were filled with sleepless nights. Him and Yelena would take turns rolling out of bed to go soothe their crying daughter.

"Baby," Yelena groaned as she tucked her face into the crook of his neck, "It's your night." And Jungkook would heave a sigh, nodding as he forced himself up and over to the little crib they had placed by the foot of their bed. 

Sometimes it would take minutes for her to fall back asleep, others he could spend a full hour rocking her back and forth, walking laps around the small flat and running his fingers through his hair. "Shh, just— Hush," he'd whisper to his crying girl, not that it ever helped — in fact it only seemed to make her cry louder. 

But when she wasn't ruining his chances of sleep, Rayne was the best thing that had ever happened to him. Jungkook found himself by her crib whenever work wasn't keeping him away. He talked to her, let her wrap her tiny hand around his finger. Most of all he loved the way she smelled — loved burying his nose in what little hair sat atop her head and simply breathe in. Yelena would laugh and call him silly, Jungkook never minded. 

He'd never thought of himself as a family man. But seeing the two of them together made him realize that he couldn't possibly wish for another outcome. Yelena was a perfect mother, and though she knew just as little about this as him, she took on her role with confidence. 

Each time he caught sight of her on the couch, with Rayne in her arms as she spoke to her so lovingly — his heart stumbled over its next beat. The world as he knew it had changed, now his daughter and the woman of his dreams were the only two that mattered. 

It didn't take long for Jungkook to realize that their current apartment was far too small for them. This wasn't a home fit for a growing family, least of all for Rayne. He wanted her to grow up someplace better. Where she could learn to take her first steps, say her first words and safely play with all the toys he intended to buy for her. 

His business, however, was taking off in tandem with his daughter's teeth growing in. The small little workshop had been upgraded to a larger one and he'd even been able to to afford his first two hires. Having extra hand around the place meant more customers, and more customers meant more money. By the time Rayne was six months old — Jungkook had scraped together enough to put down a deposit on a house he'd been eyeing for a while. 

"Can I open them yet?" Yelena had asked whilst being blindly led down the street. 

"Not yet," he mused, fighting off a stupid grin as they came to a halt before the gate. He savored the moment a second longer, then he let his hands drop to his sides, "Now." 

Taking a step to the side so to better read her expression, he watched as Yelena's gaze fell on their new home for the first time. It was a large, three-story house with bright walls and big windows that allowed for the sun to spill inside. 

Jungkook had been fantasizing about owning a property in this neighborhood ever since they first got their old apartment. And after much hard work, he'd finally made it possible. 

"Oh my—" Yelena presses a hand over her mouth, tears welling in her eyes even though she had yet to step inside. Her attention drops to the gate they stand by, fingers brushing the railing. "A white picket fence," she murmurs, glancing toward where it looped around the entire front yard. Nothing else came out of her mouth, rendered speechless by the same house they'd dreamed of together. 

"Wait until you see the kitchen," Jungkook grinned, already grabbing her by the hand as he led her up the graveled path to the porch. 

They settled in immediately and got to decorating the space. Yelena had always possessed more of an artistic touch than him, and he was happy to let her take the wheel as she ordered furniture and picked out tapestry. The same big chandeliers they had discussed back then were hung up in every room, sparkling in the morning rays. 

Jungkook knew that this would be his forever home. This would be the place where he and Yelena grew old together, where he would wake up by her side decades from now, still kissing her cheek and basking in a love that never died. 

For a long while things stayed that way. 

Yelena finished school and went on to open her own clothing store, with the help of Jungkook, who now considered himself a businessman. He himself, had been able to rent an entire floor in one of those ridiculously large skyscraper buildings — his office. Yelena had been there on opening day, insisting on cutting a red ribbon to make it official. He went along with it because he found her endearing. 

There was no longer a need to worry about money, about rent or whatever the future might hold. He simply devoted his days to the mother of his child, spending each second soaking up all the love he felt but never knew quite how to put into words. Suppose that's why his proposal had them both giggling over each other's sentences. 

Jungkook had known that he wanted to marry Yelena for nearly four years. Though he'd held off until the time was right — until he could proudly ask for her hand and promise her his life. 

He took her to dinner, to one of the local restaurants downtown, where they used to go back when everything was still new. Then they went on a walk under the moon, gazing up at the stars as she rambled on about the different constellations. They promenaded until they reached a familiar plaza. 

Yelena didn't recognize the fountain at first, too busy counting the lights above but when she did, she froze in her tracks. "Oh my god—" she said as she rushed up to the ledge, leaning over to dip her hand in the water, "Baby, this is where we met!" 

He watched her quietly, admiring the way her hair fall down her shoulders, the easy smile on her lips and the sound of her laughter. Then he got down on one knee, his heart thundering in his chest as he waited for her to turn back around. She did so with a frown, as though she was about to ask why he wasn't saying anything, only to gasp when she understood why. 

Jungkook had never been good with all that sappy shit. Long speeches professing his undying love were not his thing, still, he tried his best for her. He marveled at her beauty, her kindness, how grateful he was to have such a woman be the mother of his child — how is only wish now was to be able to call her his wife. 

They got married three months later. It was a big wedding, almost as extravagant as her. Each decoration was tailored to her style, the flowers, the table cloths, the archway where they stood as they took their vows. He spent hours pacing before the ceremony, practicing his speech over and over. His hair was not the wild and unruly mess it had been but a neatly combed through part of dark locks. He'd even taken out his piercings, they no longer felt like a part of him — this Jungkook was a brand new one — a married man. 

His mother cried, his father too, Jungkook cried as well, but no one shed more tears than Yelena as she said, "I do." 

Leaving Rayne with their parents, they took off on a long honeymoon consisting of endless beaches and late sunsets under palm trees. There he made love to her every single day, worshiping each limb until his kisses were littered all across her skin. He thought he couldn't be happier, but was quickly proven wrong shortly after returning home as Yelena told him that she was pregnant again. 

Jungkook was going to have a son. 

A tiny copy of himself running around their large estate. Someone he could teach how to be a man — as much as he know how to at least. And Cassian was perfect, utterly so. 

"Let me take a picture of you!" His mother said as they all gathered in their living room. They had returned home with Cassian only two days prior, but his parents were eager to see their second grandchild. Jungkook had tried to talk her out of it but there was no changing her mind. 

Yelena guided him down into an armchair, placing the tiny baby in one of his arms as she took her spot beside him. Rayne climbed into his lap cuddling up against his chest as she clutched at his shirt. 

"Well you'll have to smile a little, son," his father coaxed, pulling a laugh from his wife who rested her hand on his shoulder. 

At that, Jungkook did actually smile, he probably looked like an idiot. Not that it mattered. Nothing but this mattered — his family. He peered down at Cassian who wriggled in his embrace, feeling his lips pull into a grin so wide it almost hurt. 

His mother snapped the picture a second later, cooing at how adorable they looked. Jungkook knew he would treasure this moment forever. 

Life had this strange way of turning everything upside down when you least expect for it to. It was funny, how such an unsuspecting sunrise could lead to such a grim sunset. 

The day had started off just as normal, with him kissing Yelena goodbye on the front porch. She would be working from home while they waited for new fabrics at the store, which meant the house would be hers and the children's until that evening. Leaving his family was always the hardest part of his morning, and his kids had not made it any easier on him. 

Rayne clung to him a little tighter, her tiny arms wrapping around his leg as she sighed a quiet farewell. He'd bent down to embrace her properly, pressing his lips to her temple before straightening up and doing the same to Cassian who was held in his mother's arms. Then he had gotten in his car without as much as a clue of what was to come. 

It had been a slow morning for Jungkook as he sorted through paperwork by his desk, longing to return home. The ticking of the clock was all that could be heard for the hours leading up to lunch, save for the rustle of folders and papers as he rearranged things without actually taking a proper look. 

The call came early that afternoon. Jungkook had had half a mind to ignore it at first, not feeling like dealing with anymore investors at the moment. But something had told him to pick it up, be it the weird twist in his gut or the headache building subtly behind his eyes. So he'd reached for the handset despite his better judgment, bringing it to his ear and exhaling a deep breath. 

"Mr. Jeon?" 

It hadn't been an investor. 

"I'm calling from Amity Hospital regarding your mother and father in law. It would be best if you could get here as soon as possible." 

Jungkook did not know Mr. and Mrs. Emerson all that well. He had met them only a handful of times, the last being for Cassian's third birthday in June — that was three months ago. They were quite reserved people, even around their own grandchildren, though Jungkook knew they meant a great deal to Yelena, and her to them. 

He also knew that by the time the hospital had called to inform him about the accident — she must've already been there. So he rushed to his feet, whatever means he'd had of getting any work done disregarded in favor of his hurting wife. 

The drive was only twenty minutes, yet it felt like he sat behind the wheel for an hour, swerving through traffic and stepping on the gas a little harder than necessary. But once he made it inside and spotted Yelena on the floor by a few ambulance workers, he knew he'd been too late. 

She was all trembling limbs and shaky sobs in his arms when he finally reached her. The doctors had advised against seeing the bodies. "They do not look like your parents anymore," one of them said, the truck which hit their car had made sure of that. But she wouldn't listen, not even to Jungkook as he tried to reason with her. 

They stayed in the morgue for over an hour, her wails echoing off the sterile walls and flickering lights as she cried her heart out in front of the people who'd raised her. The children were at his parents house, safely hidden away from the anguish their mother was going through. Jungkook never left her side, but even then, there was nothing he could do to lessen the ache. 

Mr. and Mrs. Emerson died at only fifty-two and fifty-five. 

Yelena did not eat for three days. She barely left their bed and when she did, it was to make a quick trip to the bathroom before burrowing herself under the covers again. Day and night passed without much meaning for her and the endless sleep she succumbed to. The children's stay at his parents turned from a simple overnight one to almost an entire week. 

Jungkook hadn't been to the office at all. There was no space in his mind for work. He sat by the edge of their shared bed for hours, gently stroking her limp arm up and down. She would never acknowledge him, never respond to his whispered pleas and the calling of her name. 

By day four he spoonfed her soup. He gave it to her in small, manageable bites which she took without heaving as much as a breath. Yelena was always particular about her appearance, but right now she looks nothing like the woman he knows. Her hair is a wild nest atop her head, her clothes wrinkled and plastered to her body, lips chapped and dry. 

She doesn't try to stop him when he lifts her into his arms and Jungkook says nothing as he carries her toward the bathroom. Her body is boneless against his chest, her legs and arms dangling uselessly with each step he takes. 

The children would be returning home this afternoon. He could not keep them from their mother any longer — but he could spare them of witnessing her like this. 

He sits her down on the closed toilet lid. Then he undresses her carefully. The fabric smells but it barely registers, no, he's far too focused on the sickeningly pale hue to her face, the line of her collarbone that had become far too prominent after only a few days of starvation. 

Yelena doesn't shy away from being stripped bare, the only sign that she was even feeling anything but sorrow, was the shiver that ripples through her as the cold air nips at her skin. 

He runs a bath for her, filling the tub with warm water that he hopes will soothe her weak body and ease her plagued mind. Rolling his sleeves to his elbows, he transfers her gently. The goosebumps fade from her naked arms and chest, it fills him with momentary relief — though it vanishes when he sees the look on her face.

Jungkook has never lost someone close to him. Doesn't know what it feels like to grieve the people who gave you life. What he does know is that it will pass, with time. He just needs to be there for her, care for her when she's unable to care for herself. He could do that, he would do that. 

The sponge is lathered with soap and he squeezes it out into the water before bringing it to her shoulder. She flinches at the touch, only for a moment, but the small reaction was the first he'd gotten out of her in days now. He continues to wash her, making sure to get every inch of her body. 

Yelena sits quietly in the tub, the water around her is still except for the soft ripple whenever he dipped the sponge in it. He moves across her chest, over and between her breasts, down her stomach, thighs, calves and feet. She would always squirm whenever he kissed the inside of her knee, saying that it tickled. Today she doesn't even react. 

He rubs shampoo into her frizzy hair, massaging her scalp gently, the same way he would when she'd had a long day at work. It takes him nearly twenty minutes to untangle each lock, careful not to tug on the ends too hard and cause her pain. 

Once he pulls the drain and empties the tub she still hasn't moved as much as an inch. Wordlessly he lifts her back into his arms, grabbing a towel on his way before heading back into their bedroom. 

It feels like dressing up a doll when he pulls her favorite shirt over her head, tucking her arms through the sleeves and pulling it down her torso. He picks out things she would wear around the house — familiar pieces that he knows the children will recognize. 

Then he pulls her into his lap, brushing through her damp hair slowly as he speaks to her. He rambles on about whatever comes to mind, their children, work, the new sofa he was planning on purchasing. Multiple kisses are placed to the nape of her neck, her shoulder, the top of her head. 

Once he's finished she looks better. Not good, but no longer the corpse he'd found in his bed this morning. His thumb brushes over the hollow of her cheek, the shadows under her eyes — he doesn't know how to hide those. 

Jungkook tries to smile when he opens the door for his parents and children half an hour later. Both Cassian and Rayne are flinging themselves into his arms, and he hugs them back harder than he ever had. His mother offers to stay, he can tell that she means well, that she's only concerned. Still, he shakes his head and says that it's fine. The last thing Yelena needs is to be reminded of what she'd lost. 

"Can we go see mother now?" Rayne asks against his shoulder. He hesitates, prolonging the inevitable would only make matters worse. So he takes them upstairs, to where he'd left Yelena on the bed. 

She's sitting in the same spot where he'd dressed her, long hair almost dry by now. Her gaze is fixed to the far wall, the slow blinks and steady breaths she takes are the only sign of life within her. 

Rayne approaches first, hopping up onto the mattress beside her mother. "Hi mom," she says when placing a small hand on her knee, "Are you feeling better now?" An innocent question really. The kids knew what had happened, at least, as well as his own mother and father had been able to explain the concept of death to them. 

Yelena barely reacts to the gentle pat, but her eyes shift over to her daughter — it's enough to make Rayne smile. "It's okay," she says, "Your mom and dad are with the angels and the angels are nice." 

She receives no answer but doesn't seem deterred by at as she wraps her arms around her mother's waist, burying her face against her side. Yelena's lifeless eyes track the movement, but she never attempts to reciprocate the hug. 

A small tug to his sleeve makes Jungkook turn toward Cassian who had shifted to stand slightly behind him. He wears a deep frown, making him look almost frightened. His gaze flickers over to the bed and he makes a pitiful sound at the back of his throat, "Mommy is scary." 

His words were quiet enough for only Jungkook to hear, but they still cut deep. He crouches down, coming eye level with his son who stood no more than three feet tall. Reaching a hand up to stroke his dark hair back, he says, "Mommy is feeling a little sad right now. Sad people don't always look the same as happy ones, but that's still your mom. You don't have to be scared of her."

Cassian nods, a tiny tilt of his chin as he glances toward his mother and Rayne on the bed. He did not seem convinced by Jungkook's words but he did bring himself over to give her a small hug. 

Yelena did not return his embrace either, still sitting stiff as a statue on the edge of the mattress as she gazed at her children with emptiness. 

The following weeks were difficult. Jungkook tried to juggle everything at once. From taking the children back and forth to day care, getting through his busy work days and making time to tend to Yelena who was slowly getting out of bed on her own in the mornings. He spent less and less time in the office, one of the spare rooms had been converted into a makeshift study where he was able to focus for a few hours at a time. 

By the one month mark things were starting to look up. Yelena spoke again, and even though her voice lacked its previous charisma, she was no longer sitting in silence. She would ask about the kids' day, if she felt up to it she would even read them bedtime stories. 

"I can cook tonight," she said when coming downstairs to find Jungkook in the kitchen. He never considered himself a great chef, but the past couple of weeks forced him into learning a bunch of new recipes as he tried to make something his wife would eat with a little more joy. 

"You don't have to," he assured her, arm sliding around her waist as he pulled her to his chest — a small semblance of normalcy amidst everything. "Rest, I'll take care of it," he murmurs when pressing a kiss to her cheek. 

She shook her head, "I want to." 

Slowly they found their way back to what had once been. The road was never straight, there were still days where all she wanted to do was lay in bed, still nights where she cried into the crook of his neck as he held her through the pain. But it was worth every rare smile and every soft chuckle under her breath when he said something stupid. 

She went back to work not long after — only for a few hours at first, then a full week, then another. Jungkook thought that this was their turning point, the future was looking bright again. But he quickly found that the reason for her newfound happiness hadn't come from his continuos support and efforts, at least not entirely. 

It started small at first, like all things dangerous do. He noticed the empty bottle in the bathroom cabinet, on a shelf too high for Rayne and Cassian to reach. "For the headaches," Yelena told him with a shrug. 

Jungkook knew it to be a lie, and yet, he didn't try to stop her. He believed that if it took away the darkness — then perhaps it was okay. It was just pain killers after all. But one bottle every two weeks quickly spiraled into one every couple of days. And the darkness she was chasing away was replaced with something much more grave. 

"Honey!" 

Yelena's voice alerted him from down the hall and Jungkook glanced up from the papers on his desk just in time to see her stepping through the door to his study. "Yes, my love?" he asked, already setting his work aside as he straightened up in his seat. 

She said nothing at first, regarding him with calculating eyes before frowning. "Have you seen my meds? I could've sworn I placed them on the top shelf in the—" 

"I threw them out." 

His response makes her tense, shoulders drawing up as her gaze snaps to him. "What?" she huffs, a hint of disbelief creeping into the word. She didn't believe him, that much was clear. Jungkook had never went against her wishes, he was always there at her every beck and call, he would never do anything to upset her, surely it had to be a misunderstanding. 

But Jungkook isn't backing down. He swallows when pushing himself to his feet, rounding the table separating them as he comes to a halt in front of her. "I said, I threw them out."

The crease between her brows deepens and she folds her arms across her chest. "Why would you do that? You know I need those for my headaches."

He can feel the muscles in his jaw clenching at the excuse. "It's getting out of hand, you and I both know it." 

Yelena actually looked taken aback by the sudden confrontation. It was unlike him to ever say or do something like that. But her initial shock is quickly replaced with something much more bitter. "I told you, I need them for my headaches," she continues to push the same narrative as before, jabbing an accusing finger to his chest, "You don't get to decide when I stop." 

If she'd been able to hide the tremor to her bottom lip, perhaps Jungkook would've let her storm out again. But he caught it, just like he did everything with Yelena. His fingers curled around her wrist and he tugged her to his chest in a bone-crushing hug.

"I'm sorry," he'd whispered against the top of her head, "I just want you to be okay." 

She started crying then. Her tears were becoming all the more common but they still hurt him just as deep each and time. "I do too," she admitted against his shoulder, and for a second time, Jungkook had let himself believe that things were about to change for the better. 

Yelena stopped taking the pain medication but she never seemed to get better. There was always a grayish hue to her skin, the bags under her eyes didn't ease up and though she slept through the night for the most part, he knew that something was wrong. 

The children would jump into her lap — just as they always did — only for her to startle and scold them. Small, unnecessary things would bother her. The ticking of a clock, the crackle of their fireplace, even the sound of pages in a book being flipped. "Will you stop that!" she'd suddenly shout, and Jungkook would glance up from whatever he was doing with a frown. She always apologized on her next shaky exhale, but it didn't erase what had happened. 

He raided the bathroom cabinet, the bedside drawer, the closet — all in search of anything that could point to her strange behavior. Of course, he had his suspicions, it was impossible not to. He just didn't want to believe them, and without solid evidence they could not exist, until suddenly — they had. 

Jungkook knows that she probably hadn't expected him to still be in bed by the time she returned from her shower that Tuesday morning. But he had taken to working from home more than often as of late, to keep an eye on her, even though he'd never admit that out loud. 

So when she walked in, clad in only a towel, she hadn't thought to cover herself. "Morning," she'd chirped as she ran her fingers through her hair, pausing only when her husband's silence grew dreary. By the time she noticed where his gaze lingered, the damage had already been done. 

She tried to hide her arm, tucking it to her chest as she averted her gaze, "Baby I'm—" 

"Show me your arm." Jungkook shot out of bed without waiting for her to finish her sentence. His fingers close around her forearm as he pries it from her torso. Yelena protests, she yells for him to let go but he can't hear her, can't see her. All that exists are the puncture marks on her skin, the purple bruises that form around them, the evidence he'd been looking for without ever thinking he'd find. 

"What have you done?" His voice cracks on the last syllable, the brief anger slipping away just as quickly as it had come, replaced with dread, so much dread. 

Tears are streaming down her face but she says nothing as her arm goes lax in his hand. She cries silently for a minute and Jungkook doesn't take his eyes off the marks in the crease of her elbow, he doesn't touch them either — the thought makes him sick. 

Finally, she croaks out a quiet, "I had no other choice." 

"There's always a choice!" 

He doesn't mean to snap at her but he can't help himself. The fear is morphing into anger and Jungkook has no idea how to put a lid on it. "You can't just—" he barely registers the fact that he's crying too, the same salty tears sliding across his cheeks in messy streaks. 

Swallowing, he shakes his head, "Where are you getting this shit?" 

Yelena refuses to return his gaze and he knows that he will not get a response out of her. He glances down to where he's still gripping her arm, the way his fingers have sunk into her skin with such force that he wondered why she hadn't winced yet. He jerks his hand away, terrified of the emotions that were washing over him.

The words that wait on his tongue are not kind, so he shoves them back down his throat and heaves a breath. Then he turns away from her, focusing on the bed they'd been sleeping peacefully on just an hour prior. 

"Cover up," he says, "I don't want the children seeing that." 

Addiction was an infestation. What had started so small — so seemingly innocent — grew into a hungry monster. Yelena's addiction was tearing them all apart from the inside and out. It had festered itself to the walls, bleeding through the carpets and tainting their furniture with its poison. 

She looked like shit, perhaps even worse than she had the first few days after her parents death. It had been three weeks since she last went into work. Jungkook had been forced to maintain the employees salaries, trying to keep her business afloat as well as his own and the rest of his life. 

They talked less and less — and whenever they did it was brief. Yelena was in a foul mood almost every single day, and she took it out on those around her. 

He could no longer keep the children in the dark, least of all Rayne, who'd always been so perceptive for her age. She would peek around corners, listen in to conversations that should never have reached her ears. The worst part was that she didn't even have to try — Jungkook and her mother argued loud enough for the entire neighborhood to be shook on some days. 

"You're being selfish!" 

Yelena shot him a glare, "You have no idea what I'm going through!" Dinner was long forgotten about on the stove, the rice burnt to the pan, and the spatula used to stir it with, clutched in his wife's hand as she waves it aimlessly. 

"No. But I know what you're putting our children through, all your fucking shit is dragging them down with you!" He rarely cursed these days, but the conversations between him and the woman he loves were pulling out sides of him he thought to be only a distant memory. 

She pauses at that, spatula raised mid swing, like she'd actually meant to hit him. "I'm trying, okay? I'm—" shaking her head, she lowers her arm again. "You just keep pushing me. I need this shit to stay well. Can't you see what it fucking does to me when I don't have it?" 

Jungkook scoffs, "So that's it? Getting high is how you're going to deal with your family from now on?" He learned that Yelena had never actually processed the loss of her parents, never actually grieved them. Instead she'd turned to something that would take away the pain — not realizing it would steal everything else as well. 

"Why?!" she flings the spatula onto the counter, it slides across the marble top before falling to the floor with a clatter. Her eyes are livid with rage and confusion, "Why can't you just let me do this? Why do you have to take away the only thing that makes it better?" 

That stings, perhaps more than if she had actually struck him. Jungkook swallows the lump in his throat. Right. The drugs were her salvation. Not her children. Not him. But the substance which she abused and tormented her body and mind with. Something inside of him snaps, and he surges forward as he grabs her shoulders with trembling hands. 

"Because I don't want to bury my own wife before she's even thirty!" He spits the words in her face, the horror of the very possible reality dawning on him in that exact moment. Yelena must come to the same realization for she's gone mute in front of him, barely fighting his tight grip on her. 

Then all of a sudden, there's a small creak in the distance — a floorboard being stepped on too heavy. Jungkook's head whips in the direction of the kitchen doorway just in time to see Rayne's shadow slipping away again. Her footsteps are quick and light when they climb the stairs, the click of her bedroom door echoes throughout the now silent house. He feels his heart drop. 

When Cassian asked if his mommy was dying — Jungkook hadn't known what to reply. It was right after his fourth birthday, which they had celebrated at home, with his own parents joining them. Yelena came downstairs when it was time to blow out the candles, though she never indulged in the cake Jungkook's mother had baked. And when they finished eating she returned back to their bedroom. 

For someone so young, it was hard to understand just what was happening. Part of him is relieved that his son has yet to know the full extent of what his mother was going through. The other scrambles to fill in the gaps for him. 

"Is she sick?" Cassian had asked when Jungkook tucked him into bed that night. 

He placed the covers all the way up to his chin, "Yes, she is."

The small boy frowned, tiny fingers fiddling with a lock of his hair — the same dark curls his mother had. "Go to hospital?" he then wonders, to which Jungkook shakes his head. 

"Your mom has a sickness that medicine can't cure." 

Cassian lies silently for a little while, the soft lamp of his bedside table basking him in yellow warmth. His eyes — big and round — finds his father's, "Can you?" 

Jungkook hesitates, his brows pinching together as he exhales through his nose. "I can try." 

He kissed his forehead and arranged the covers over him one last time, promising his son that he would do his best, even if it meant losing himself along the way. 

He'd tried to get Yelena into rehab, a place with people who understood her struggles and were going through the same thing. Only for a month, he told her, just to see if she could get help. But she wouldn't have it. And as an adult, she couldn't be admitted unless she chose so herself. He kept trying for another two weeks before abandoning the idea entirely. 

Summer of 86' was horrible, worse was September. Yelena was far too gone to even remember his birthday, Jungkook didn't feel like celebrating anyway. Though he did bring her a scarf for hers — hoping that the soft fabric would spark something inside of her. 

She barely glanced at it. 

For every day that passed Jungkook watched as his wife slowly deteriorated. He'd found a stash under the bed — full of the shit she'd inject herself with. He threw it away without batting an eye. When Yelena caught on she had walked out the door, and didn't return until the following evening — he never knew where she went and he never asked. He knows that he's better off in the dark. 

She was never happy, but she wasn't always sad. There was a small gray area where she'd actually initiate conversation like a normal person, where she'd seek out the children without Jungkook having to force her — on those days Jungkook was always filled with the embarrassment of hope. 

It never lasted and he realized how stupid he must be to cling on to something that had already been lost. 

He was watching her die. Each morning he would wake, not knowing if she was going to rise with him. At some point it became too much, and he began to sleep in the guest bedroom. She never commented on it, he figured she might not have cared at all. 

Sometimes he would stare into her eyes, the same beautiful brown eyes that he'd fallen in love with all those years ago by the water fountain — he doesn't recognize them anymore. And perhaps he's naive for clinging to the memory of what had once been, stupid to think that there might be a way for them to return to the way things were before — even though he knows they won't. 

Rayne and Cassian stopped asking for their mother eventually. They ate whatever food Jungkook cooked them, got ready for bed with his help and were tucked in and kissed goodnight by him as well. The room down the hall — their bedroom — remained silent, but everyone knew who lingered on the other side of the door. 

What had done him in in the end had not been her death — for Yelena was still alive — but the world she had built wasn't. September month was coming to an end, and just like he had for nearly a year now, Jungkook was rolling out the pay to those who still kept her clothing store up and running. 

Only, the checks were rejected again. Strange. There should be enough money within the business to keep it standing for another couple of years without his wife's guidance. Still, he had contacted the bank himself, just to make sure. "No sir," the man on the phone told him, "There are no finances left. We sent out a notice last month, has Mrs. Jeon not received it?" 

Jungkook didn't let him finish and he did not respond to the inquiry as he slammed the handset down hard enough to rattle the entire box. He leaned back in his seat, rubbing a tired hand over his eyes as he realized where that money had went. Then he did something he hadn't done in years. 

To his right, in the bottom drawer of the desk, was a pack he'd kept just in case. He never had any reason to reach for it, even when the sleepless nights and arguments with Yelena reached their peak. Today he finds that it's his only reprieve. So he picks up a cigarette and lights it. 

The smoke went down his throat like an old friend and Jungkook wondered why he hadn't caved sooner. He exhales, letting the cloud dissipate as he ponders his next move. There's this one thought that eats away at him. Call it paranoia but he can't seem to shake it. 

Shoving the cigarette between his lips, he makes another call, this one to the bank which held all of their funds. He remains calm when the lady on the other end of the line tells him that all accounts were intact — all but the one he'd set up for the children's future studies. He would add to it each month, making sure both Cassian and Rayne were set to enroll in whichever university they pleased when the time came. But that one had been emptied. Not taken from — but stripped bare of every last dime. 

He shared access to the fund with Yelena, and it didn't take a genius to figure out where she had placed the money that was promised to their children. 

Jungkook got off the phone, sat back in his seat and finished his cigarette. Then he had another one. He felt oddly at peace given what he'd just found out. In fact, he thinks this might be his biggest moment of clarity yet. 

Once he's finished his second smoke he files the clothing store for bankruptcy and walked out of the study. 

He finds Yelena in their bedroom, half passed out on top of the covers — just like usual. She doesn't look up when the door clicks shut behind him, not even when he comes to stand by the edge of the mattress, looming over her with eerie stillness. 

"You need to leave." 

Jungkook is surprised by how leveled he sounds when he says the words he never thought would leave his lips. She finally cracks a bloodshot eye open, brows furrowing together as she peers up at him. "What?" she huffs. 

But he's done. The children were at daycare and school, the house was empty and no one would hear his next statement, no one but her. "You need to leave. I don't want you here anymore." 

Yelena pushes herself up onto her elbows, "What are you talking about?" 

"The money." 

Her face pales, which shouldn't have been possible given how sick she already looked. "I know what you've done," he continues, "And if this is the path you've chosen for yourself then I can't stop you." He swallows, fingers curling into a loose fist by his side, "You've ruined my life. But I won't let you ruin our children's too." 

He prides himself on how calm he's able to remain, even as Yelena's expression flickers between at least ten different ones in the span of thirty seconds. After an entire minute she finally moves — right toward him. 

Jungkook barely has any time to react before her arms wrap around his neck, her open mouth finding his in a kiss that feels nothing but loving. "Baby," she sighs against his lips, "We can fix this." Her small pecks move to his jaw as she drags her tongue along his skin — it makes him sick. 

His hands clutch at her shirt as he hauls her off of him again. "What the fuck are you doing—?" he spits, the composure he'd built in his study vanishing in an instant as Yelena fights his grip in order to attach herself to him again. 

Tears drip down her cheeks, "Please, baby. I'll get better I promise. I love you, I love you so much." 

He tries to block the sound of her voice out, tries to not let those empty and hollow make belief words get to him. This wasn't his wife. The matted hair, the dull eyes and the dark circles beneath them. This wasn't his Yelena, he knows that now. 

"Leave." 

It takes everything in him to not bring her back in his arms, to pretend that everything was alright, just for today. But he keeps his chin high, even pointing toward the bedroom door as he fights the tremble in his hand. She follows his finger, the tears drying up instantly as reality settles in. 

"Fine," she snaps. Turning on her heel, she heads for the closet as she begin ripping clothes out — clothes she hasn't worn in months. She shoves them into a bag, grabbing along whatever necessities she found laying around. Bottles are scattered on top of the dresser, most of them are empty but she still rummages through the mess in search of something that holds what she wants. 

Jungkook watches it all with his heart shrinking in his chest. A small, naive and pathetic part of him had thought — hoped — that she would choose her children over this. That she would choose him, just like he had chosen her everyday for the past year. 

But Yelena is not looking back, her mind was made up. If she could not have both then she would settle for the poison. 

She walks through the door without telling him goodbye, her shoulder brushing past his with enough force to have him stumble on his feet. He peers down to the floor, clenching his jaw shut as he bites back the pleas waiting on his tongue. 

"I'm sorry." 

"Please stay." 

"You're right, we can fix this." 

The same lies he'd been letting her spoonfeed him for months now. He couldn't take it anymore. But listening to the heavy thuds of her descending the stairs angrily, the sound of shoes being yanked on with a stomp, or the front door as it slammed shut hard enough to loosen it off its hinges — it broke him. 

Jungkook stands in the middle of their bedroom in silence, gaze lingering on the mattress where she'd been laying not long ago. His knees hit the floor solemnly and he stares down at his empty palms. 

Then he cries. 

The house felt empty in the absence of Yelena, and Jungkook had a hard time figuring out if that was a good or a bad thing. He found himself listening for her more than often, each creak of a floorboard and every tap of the wind against the glass has him turning in its direction, only to be disappointed again. 

For the first week or so, the children stayed with his parents. Jungkook couldn't bear the thought of seeing anyone right now, least of all his own kids, who he would have to explain the situation to at some point. His mother said she didn't mind — she even had his old bedroom rearranged into a spare one for them. 

He hadn't heard from Yelena since she slammed the front door all those days ago. Those days turned into weeks, and as he filed the divorce papers two months later, he came to understand that he never would hear from her again. He did not have to fight her for custody, she didn't even turn up. 

During the time that followed, Jungkook moved on autopilot. Things he used to take joy in became just another chore on his list. He'd built his life around Yelena, his business, this house, their children — everything was branded in her name, one way or the other. So it was easier to just stop feeling all together. 

The more distance he managed to place between himself and the things that were destroying him, the more control he would get. Jungkook started following a strict schedule. If he numbered his days by the hour, then he would never have space to stop and think about the things that haunted him. 

He would get up at five, take a cold shower and have coffee. Crowd his brain with work inside his study. Then he would wake his children — get them ready for the day before dropping them off at school and daycare — then he drove himself to work until it was time to pick them up again. 

But even his children reminded him of what he'd lost within their mother. Jungkook hates himself for the way he looks at them, with such little warmth that he wonders if perhaps he'd made the wrong choice after all. 

Cassian was thankfully too young to understand. He would cry for his mother, Jungkook would call his own — and she would come over to comfort the young boy. If things were particularly rough both children would spend a couple of days at their grandparents, no one questioned why. 

Rayne was difficult. She lingered in his peripheral vision, watching him whenever she thought he wasn't looking. It annoyed him just as much as it pained him. The last thing he wanted was for his daughter to see him like this, pathetically drowning in his own misery. He wants to apologize for the arguments she witnessed, wants to say something about Yelena to soother her — yet he does none of that. 

Because Jungkook was truly just a miserable piece of shit. 

So he doubles down on the strict schedule. Keeping both himself and the children busy so that he wouldn't have to address the things still left unsaid. He tries to keep up a front, especially around his eldest who always had her eyes on him — but he would slip up ever so often. 

Whenever he was lost in thought he would end up setting the table for four. And it wasn't until Rayne quietly pointed it out that he'd blink twice, sighing under his breath before grabbing the extra plate and returning it to the kitchen. Other times he forgot to cook and pack their lunch, Yelena usually did that. Rayne would be there to remind him again. 

After nearly eight months of struggling through the new routine, the house had settled into something akin to peace. It wasn't real, not even close — in fact it was more like play pretend. And though it was fragile, it was still better than things had ever been when their mother was still around. 

Jungkook went back to working his usual ten hours — returning to the office was a lot harder than he'd thought. No one had missed the ugly fall out between him and his wife. If his nearly year-long absence wasn't enough proof, then the missing ring on his finger surely got their gears turning. 

He did his best to ignore them for the most part. His employees knew better than to come to him with their concerns, lest they wanted to keep their job. Still, a few here and there came up to let him know how sorry they were. The rumors of his ex-wife's substance abuse were not new, but they'd resurfaced as Jungkook made his appearance after some time away. 

Things settled down a couple of days later, mostly because he kept glaring at whoever dared glance in his direction for longer than a heartbeat. Once the initial wave had passed, Jungkook actually found solace in spending time at the office. While the place was still tainted with the essence of Yelena, it was nowhere near as bad as the state of his home. 

In order to spend more time behind his desk, he began to ponder on a solution regarding his children. He was hardly a present figure in their life at the moment, so he thought that introducing someone else to watch over them while he buried himself beneath paperwork, wasn't such a bad idea. 

The first advertisement that expressed his need for a nanny went up that following afternoon. Jungkook wasn't picky. All he needed was someone who could follow the schedule his children had become accustomed to, preferably a decent cook but he didn't bother adding the detail. 

And no high school graduates. Yelena would've called him ridiculous, but Jungkook doesn't care. He remembers far too well the kind of person he'd been barely a decade ago, a nuisance to his parents and whoever crossed paths with him. It was the last kind of influence he'd want near his own children. 

He had very little luck in the beginning. Most of them were women in their mid twenties, though some had been even older and in need of another income — not that it ever mattered when they all went out the same way. No one managed to stick to the routines for longer than a day or so. Some of them even made comments on his children's "abnormal behavior" to which Jungkook fired them accordingly. 

Getting new candidates wasn't the issue — he offered enough by the hour to attract new applications every other day. No, the real issue was getting them to actually stay. 

So when the sound of the doorbell echoed throughout the house on that October morning, Jungkook had went downstairs just as usual. The children didn't even bother peeking out of their rooms anymore, they were used to meeting new faces by this point. 

He opened the door just like he always would, careful not to let his prejudice show in front of the newest hire. You were unlike the others. Not as put-together, he noticed the worn out edges of your coat, the poor state of your shoes, it almost made him raise a brow, though he caught himself just in time. Strangely enough, you reminded him of someone he'd known long ago. 

Then you opened your mouth to speak and his heart stuttered in his chest. "Hello, I'm here for the—," Your voice… God, Jungkook hadn't heard a voice so bright in ages.

He inhaled, cutting you off mid sentence. "You're the nanny," he says, and you nod, seemingly unbothered by his lack of manners. It makes him frown. Perhaps you'd actually make it through your first week. 

If you, or anyone you know, is struggling with addiction don't hesitate to reach out for help. Emergency Numbers (UK, U.S, South Africa, New Zealand, Philippines, Ireland, Australia, Canada & India). More Emergency Numbers. No battle is meant to be fought alone, you matter <3

── [ ✉️ ] God, hello. This is going to be a long one, don't even know if anyone will be reading this but I must get my thoughts out nonetheless. This chapter was so important for me to write. Not only does it provide answers to a lot of the questions we've had throughout the story, but it is especially important for Jungkook's character. I'm sure you noticed that I focused more on some parts than others. I focused mainly on the things that altered Jungkook's character in a way that's relevant to the story (such as him getting rejected by the investors, slowly building his career, the tone shift in him as a person throughout the entire chapter). He is the centrepoint for this chapter and while Yelena is important, how he perceives things and how they make him feel was my main goal with this. If I managed to do this correctly, then you will understand how Jungkook came to be the person he is present time. This was all about getting close and vulnerable with him in a way we never have before, I really hope that shows. The chapter also touched on a lot of triggering topics, I've tried to portray them with as much respect as I can whilst still indulging for the sake of the story to feel immersive and gripping. Okay, I'll surely ramble if you ladies come to me in my inbox with thoughts/feelings. I hope that not too many tears were shed, I'll give you a hug and lend a tissue if they were. I love you all so so much, please stay safe and take care of yourselves <3

The ribbon is an afterthought, a thing without value. Discarded, like the crusts of bread he's swept under his mother's table, like the #41 bus tickets still creased and yellowing in his coat pocket, like the things that never count for anything in the brief accounting of a day.

It shouldn't matter. It shouldn't feel like proof.

(but it does it matters it burns)

He tells himself the same things he always does: you never looked at him, you never meant for anyone to see it. Picking it up was reflex. Cleaning the floor, as always. Maintenance. Sanitation. Salvage. You drop, he retrieve. World as it's always been. Filth and order.

But his hands know better.

His hands, red with nerves and compulsive effort, can't let this particular piece of refuse go.

Ribbons don't last here—nylon fibers fray, stains settle in—yet in his palm it's as soft as wet hair between his fingers, as alien as forgiveness.

He's sitting on the edge of his bed, knees pressed together, back humped, the same way he used to shrink into himself after his father's bad days. The covers are thin, yellowed at the edges.

He stains everything he touches; there's no point pretending otherwise.

The room smells of bleach and must.

Damp wool, tired lungs.

The window is shut against the rain, but he can feel the temperature buffering up in little shudders along the glass.

Fifteen minutes until work. Thirty-seven minutes until the room with the glass, the one that nerves him up so sharp that his wrists pulse with heat, anticipation, dread.

He tracks the minutes because they're easier, cleaner, than tracking want. Minutes break into sevens, sevens stack into hours, and hours mark the gaps between the rare moments he feels chosen, if only by accident, if only as a collector of things nobody else wants.

And now this. The ribbon.

He ties it slowly, methodically, looping once, twice, three times around his left wrist, then again the other way, tugging until the ends lay flush, trembling in the airless light.

The knot is careful. The knot is essential. The knot means it will not fall, even if the rest of him does.

He threads the battered black watch over it, buckle scraping the bones of his wrist. It presses the satin into his skin, hiding the color from the world.

Only he knows it's there. Only he feels the drag—tight, secret—when he turns his hand over, feeling the pulse flutter beneath flesh and new devotion.

Why the watch?

He never wore one before. Used his phone, the clock on the register at work, the screech of the metro beneath the floorboards, marking time by sound, not weight.

Watches collect bacteria—he can recite the numbers, the studies, each one a slab of proof about the dangers of contamination trapped beneath plastic and steel.

But now: watch as imperative. Watch as excuse. Nobody asks about a watch. Nobody asks what he hides beneath it.

Nobody asks about the way the blue edge peeks out sometimes, how he fidgets with the hard disc on his arm whenever he feels eyes on him, real or imagined.

How he feels safest when the ribbon is tightest, marking the skin in a faint seam that echoes all the other places he's tried, and failed, to excise dirt and memory and want.

It's not enough, having it. Not really.

When was the last time anyone chose him for anything but labor or blame?

His stomach pitches, hollow with disgust, that familiar lurch like swallowing a chunk of rotten apple.

Profane, profane, profane—wanting to belong, wanting to matter, wanting to be held in the same equation as someone like you.

He shouldn't want that.

There's something shameful about even imagining it: your attention landing where it shouldn't, on someone who was never meant to be witnessed.

He tastes bitterness, mouth dry, tongue heavy.

He presses the watchband down, hard, until the buckle pinches. There, that's punishment. There, that's the line between suffering and sin.

The blue edge disappears under the watch—a secret now—and the throbbing at his wrist feels halfway to honesty.

He checks the time again.

Five minutes gone, spent thinking of you, of the ribbon, of the terrible possibility that one day you might notice what's hidden.

That moment—almost as sharp as terror—sends a flicker of hope up his throat so fast he wants to gag.

To be seen is to be ruined, to be named, to be known as the thief of things you've discarded.

But maybe to be seen is to be chosen, too.

The air in the room puffs up like clouds clogging the sky.

He bends forward, elbows on knees, face in hands, breathing through the panic tight in his chest.

The pressure soothes, a little. His eyes press shut.

The afterimage of your dance flickers beneath his eyelids—the turn, the fall, the blue ribbon spiraling to the floor like a dropped line from shore to deep water.

Maybe you choose things for a reason.

Maybe toys get discarded because they're broken, but even broken things have stories.

Maybe this is his—blue satin, hidden under plastic, marking time by your indifference, his devotion.

Thirty-one minutes until the room with the window. Nine until he has to walk beneath the flickering signs to the store where the world will forget he exists.

The ribbon tightens again at his pulse: reminder, tether, confession.

He doesn't know if he's ready to be chosen.

But he knows, at last, what it feels like to hold proof of having been wanted—if only once, if only by accident, if only by you.

Burgundy burns through the glass like a wound.

The color sits wrong on his retinas, darker than the navy that came before, deeper than anything he's prepared for.

Burgundy—not red, never just red, because red is too simple a word for what wraps around your torso like a second skin, for what pulls taut across your sternum when you extend into another sequence.

(burgundy burgundy burgundy)

His mouth fills with copper. Like he's bitten through his tongue again, though his teeth stay clamped shut.

The ribbon at his wrist pulses—navy against burgundy, yesterday against today, what you discarded against what you chose to wear.

Color was nothing before you. Gray convenience store, beige walls, black uniform.

Now each shade feels like scripture.

Navy first, the soft surrender of something you let fall.

Now burgundy, deliberate as blood.

Blood under nails. Blood in spit. Blood on thighs.

The associations stack up fast, faster than he can count them away.

His forearm itches where yesterday's scratches have scabbed over—seven parallel lines, precise as staff paper. His knees ache from last night's penance, two hours on bathroom tile until the bruises bloomed purple-black. His thighs bear their own map of restraint, crescents where fingernails dug deep enough to break the monotony of wanting.

Because it hasn't even been a week—four days? five?—since he first saw you through this window, and already his thoughts have curdled into something unmanageable.

They're worse at night.

(always worse when the lights go out when he can't count ceiling tiles when there's nothing but darkness and the memory of)

He counts your pirouettes.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

Perfect, as always. Perfect as he is imperfect, clean as he is contaminated, holy as he is profane.

When you pause to drink water, the burgundy fabric rises and falls with your breathing. He tracks each inhale, each exhale, timing his own breath to match until his chest burns with the effort of synchronized devotion.

(macarons macarons goddamn macarons)

The craving hits him like a fist to the sternum.

Rose macarons, powdered sugar dissolving on his tongue, the ghost-taste of how you smell when you pass close enough to contaminate his air with perfection.

He doesn't know hunger—has trained himself to exist on emptiness and obligation—but lately the want gnaws at him, hollow and horrible and all-consuming.

Feed him sugar. Feed him sweetness. Feed him the phantom flavor of your skin.

(profane profane profane stop thinking about taste about skin about)

You're finishing now. He knows your timing like scripture—ninety-three minutes of practice, seven minutes of cool-down, four minutes to gather your things.

The clock above the register reads 6:47.

Time to leave.

His hands shake as he counts the till. Seven stacks of bills. Count them again. Seven. Again. The numbers blur but the ritual remains.

One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.

The paper feels dirty beneath his latex gloves, contaminated by every hand that's touched it, but that's nothing compared to how dirty he feels watching you, wanting you, breathing the same air you've blessed with your presence.

Marcel left early—he always does on Thursdays, something about his daughter, something about life beyond this purgatory of fluorescent lights and expired goods.

Taehyung prefers the evening shifts alone.

No witnesses to his vigil.

No questions about why he stands at the back door, why he watches the narrow alley between buildings, why his breath fogs the window in careful patterns of seven.

Through the store window, he sees you emerge from the academy's side entrance.

Burgundy covered now by that oversized cardigan, but he knows what's beneath. Knows the way fabric clings to your waist, the precise angle of your collarbones, the mathematics of your beauty that he'll never solve.

(shouldn't know can't know knows anyway)

You pause at the corner, adjust your bag. The movement is economical, necessary. Everything you do is necessary. Nothing wasted, nothing excessive.

Not like him with his compulsions and his counting and his stolen ribbons hidden beneath watchbands.

6:51. Time.

He locks the register. Checks the lock. Checks again. Seven times total before his brain permits him to step away.

The store keys feel heavy in his pocket—responsibility he never wanted but can't abandon because abandoning things is what his parents did, what everyone does, what he'll never do to you even though you don't know he exists beyond the anonymous exchange of coins for cotton pads.

(pathetic pathetic pathetic)

The door lock requires another seven checks.

His reflection in the glass shows what he always sees—hollow face, unwashed hair, the uniform that never quite fits because he's the wrong shape for normal life.

How does someone like him dare to exist in the same world as your burgundy divinity?

You're already past the convenience store when he emerges.

He shouldn't watch you. Shouldn't know your pathways by heart.

But his feet know the route. Have memorized it through weeks of careful observation from the loading dock, from the alley shadows, from the safe distance of someone who understands his place in your universe.

Not following—following implies intent, implies threat, implies he has any right to share your path.

This is just... alignment. Synchronicity. The inevitable gravity of the unworthy toward the divine.

The street is damp from afternoon rain, reflecting neon in oily puddles. Beautiful. Ugly. Both.

The city can't decide what it wants to be, just like him—torn between the urge to disappear and the need to witness you existing in real time, in real space, in burgundy that makes his chest tight and his thoughts fragment into prayers he'll never voice.

One hundred meters ahead. Safe distance. Sacred distance.

The number matters—close enough to ensure your safety from the world's contamination, far enough to prevent his own corruption from reaching you.

He knows this route only to the first cross-street, where you turn left and vanish into territories he's forbidden himself from mapping.

(not yet not yet but maybe soon)

This time, however, the corner pulls him forward like thread through a needle.

He doesn't decide to follow—his feet simply continue their pilgrimage past the boundary he's drawn in his mind, past the invisible line that separates permitted observation from (wrong wrong wrong) trespass. The burgundy burns behind his eyelids even though you've vanished around the corner, even though all that's left is the echo of your footsteps on wet pavement.

(macarons in windows, macarons in dreams, macarons dissolving like communion wafers)

His body moves without permission. One block becomes two, two becomes three, and suddenly he's standing at the base of a building he's never seen before, watching you climb exterior stairs that spiral up like vertebrae.

You're going home.

(turn back turn back turn back)

But his eyes track your ascent—stairs, rusted gray, curve up to a door. Sage green, chipped and dignified, holding itself together by force of will.

And then—your door.

307.

A seven.

His palms go clammy—lucky number, holy number, not a coincidence, can't be a coincidence. The world doesn't offer signs to men like him unless it comes with warning.

But this is a warped blessing, a number flashed like prophecy: you live behind a seven, while he lives in a tangle of sevens and filth, fate and want knotted tight enough to cut circulation off at the wrist.

(walk away walk away now now now now now walkwalkawayawayWALKAWAY)

He should.

He doesn't.

Feet soft as shadow, fingers twitching, he moves.

Not the front steps. Never where someone could see. He hugs the wall, skirts the patch of mint overgrown at the foundation, finds the metal back stairs that curl behind the building. They hum with old rust, grease.

He can't tell if the churning in his chest is terror or hope.

He doesn't breathe as he mounts each tread—one, two, three, up to seven, then again, and again.

His pulse is a counting game, his hands are pillows of sweat. Everything blurs except for the balcony.

Not much of a balcony—just iron rail, shallow space, concrete dust. But it's outside your window. It's liminal, not entrance, not street: a soft diluted sin.

The curtains are parted. Not wide. Enough. Enough for a sliver of light to slip out, for a slice of the room, for him to press close and peek.

And there—you.

Blush blossom of your profile. Your back curved, arms rising, that mauve cardigan slipping from your shoulders like a cloud.

Burgundy. Burgundy everywhere.

The maillot hugs you in places his vocabulary fails to name. Across chest, between thighs, the shadowed V where the fabric vanishes between legs.

He forces himself not to swallow, not to blink, afraid to lose even half a second's vision.

He doesn't mean to watch. He doesn't mean to linger. He doesn't mean—

But he's pressed so close to the glass he's a smear, breath fogging, hand clamped over his own mouth.

His cock throbs stupidly behind zipper, blushing heat gathering at the tip like shameful cream, thick pillow ache in his groin.

He's dizzy.

He's pathetic.

He's—

You're real. You're there. You're not a statue, not divine marble, not the idea of perfection—you're pulling off your sweater and the static makes your hair fuzz at the crown.

One spaghetti strap falls, a shy red line across your shoulder. It sticks for a moment, caught on the ridge of your scapula, before sliding down with a whisper.

Your spine is a line of small freckles, a secret celestial map.

Left shoulder blade, three small speckles like chocolate dots on a macaron. Hollow of your back, a soft dimple just above the curve.

He wants to press his mouth there, roll his tongue over each freckle one by one, pillow-soft, until you're gasping clouds into the crook of his neck.

(blasphemous, blasphemous, blasphemousblasphemousblas)

The second strap drops.

You peel the maillot slowly, awkward, skin catching briefly on elastic.

He's shaking—palms, knees, eyelids, cock so hard it aches against his thigh.

The fabric skims lower, lower, revealing the narrow of your waist, the small of your back, the place where spine melts into soft round hip.

He learns you by inches. He is a student at the altar of you, face burning, breath caught, body strung tight as a pulled bow.

The burgundy bunches at your waist and for a sticky, sick moment he sees the edge of your backside, the upper swell, curves like blushing meringue; and he groans, quiet—so quiet—cock leaking, thighs pressed together hard enough to bruise.

You step out of view.

Bathroom. The door shuts.

He slumps against the iron rail, chest heaving, forehead pressed to cold glass.

Breath returns like a storm—rushed and ugly, rattling.

He almost sobs.

(shouldn't, mustn't, it's disgusting, divine, divine, divine, sickening)

Precum pools sticky in his briefs, making a mess that feels like penance, embarrassment flooding every cell.

He'd never. Can't. Won't. He doesn't.

(yes he will he will—)

No, no, no—he's frozen.

Breathes in, tastes his own hunger.

He fingers the navy ribbon tied under his watch, feels the texture, the threadbare softness pressed tight against his frantic pulse.

He mouths a silent prayer: forgive me, forgive me, forgive me, over and over, seven times.

You are gone behind the door and he (shameful, sick, twisted) imagines the rest: maillot pulled past your thighs, the part of you unseen, all the secret warmth, the little dimples at the base of your spine leading to places he's never permitted his mind to go.

He wants to melt into the floorboards. He wants to peel off his skin and dissolve into the night air. He wants to be nothing. He wants to be everything you touch, everything you throw away, everything you leave behind.

He's never felt this particular brand of hunger—raw and cotton-candy-sick, craving and revulsion at once.

Wants to be consumed by you, wants to pray to you, wants to bow his head to your ankles and ask for ruin.

He's a monster. He's a parishioner. He's a child. He's a thief.

And still the want doesn't fade.

He stands sticky and shaking, forehead pressed so hard to the glass he leaves a halo when he finally pulls away.

His legs are weak, cloud-soft. His cock is wet at the tip, every throb agony.

He doesn't dare move. Doesn't dare breathe, in case you come back.

In case he's caught in the act.

(desecration, desecration, desecration)

His lungs crackle—he's been holding air too long.

At last he inhales, ragged and shallow, and the cold slices through him, quelling the heat just enough to let him move his hands back to his sides, the navy ribbon cold and slick under his fingers.

Through the bathroom door, he hears water running. You're washing away the day, the sweat, the city's touch. Everything he's too contaminated to ever wash clean.

When you emerge, will you be wrapped in white? In nothing? Will he have the strength to look away, or will he sit here like the garden-variety pervert he's become, cataloging more pieces of you that don't belong to him?

(leave leave leave while you still can)

But the seven on your door holds him pinned like an insect to cork.

Seven. His number. Your number.

The universe's cruelest joke, making him think for one delirious second that this means something, that he means something, that a coincidence of brass could transform him from waste to worthy.

Holy number on your door. Holy sin at your window. Holy trembling in his chest.

He has trespassed. He will never be clean again.

He stumbles backward, legs jelly, his whole body flooded with sick joy-ache-ruin.

He knows, beyond a doubt, he will never be absolved.

He knows, beyond a doubt, he never wants to be.

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Camille sneers from the barre. Her reflection catches yours between rotations—that twist of lips, that narrowing of eyes. It is ugly, really, that expression on her face. The way her mouth quirks down at the corner, the way her nostrils flare just slightly. You would feel anger at the derision in her mouth, but it is so exaggerated it's pitiful, really. So you deviate your gaze, focus on the mirror in front of you, and continue twirling.

Another. 

Another.

The studio’s windows are streaked with last night's rain—Madame never allows the cleaning staff to touch them during rehearsal weeks. ‘Too distracting,’ she says. As if anything could distract you from the absolute necessity of this movement.

Your leotard cuts into your hip, just slightly. You'll have a mark there later. You don't adjust it. Discomfort is irrelevant. 

"Excellent extension,” Madame calls your name from the front of the room. 

Her voice is crisp, just as usual. You don't register it. Praise means adequate. It is what's expected of you. Expected and therefore unremarkable.

The rest of the company has moved on to petit batterie. You remain in your corner, working. They glance at you between jumps. You don't look back.

Madame calls your name again, and then says, "join the others, please."

You nod once. 

You take your place at the back of the group, not out of modesty but because it gives you the clearest view of yourself in the mirror. 

You need to see the mistakes before anyone else does.

Jean-Paul catches your eye in the reflection. Smiles. You don't smile back. His smile isn't for you—it's for the image of himself smiling at you. Everything he does is performance. You recognize it because you do the same.

The piano starts. Your body follows. Jump, land, repeat. Your muscles know the pattern. Your mind catalogs each moment, each placement of finger and toe. It's automatic, this dissection. This constant evaluation.

Madame walks among the dancers, making corrections, yet she never approaches you. That's not a compliment. It's simply acknowledgment that you'll fix your own flaws before she can identify them.

Elodie, in the front row, keeps glancing back at you. Her form is flawless as always, but you note how tense she is. How she always is around you. 

She knows you're gaining on her. She's thirty next month. Ancient, in ballet years.

The combination ends. The pianist pauses.

"Let's try that again," Madame says. "And this time, perhaps with some actual musicality? We are artists, not robots."

She isn't looking at you when she says it, but you feel the words land anyway. You've been called mechanical before. Precise to a fault. It shouldn't bother you—precision is the foundation of excellence—but something in your chest tightens.

Water break. 

The other dancers cluster by their bags, talking in low voices. 

You stay at the barre, stretching. 

Your hamstring protests. You push deeper into the stretch.

Madame beckons you. "A word, please."

You cross the room, spine straight, chin level. Your reflection follows you, a pale ghost in black cotton.

"Your fouettés are improving," she says. 

It's not a compliment. It's a fact.

"Thank you, Madame."

"The company performs Ondine next season. I'm considering you for the lead."

Your face remains neutral. Your pulse does not. 

Ondine. The water nymph who gains a soul through love, only to lose everything. 

Not just a lead—the lead.

"I'll work harder," you say.

Madame's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "That would be inadvisable. You're already overtraining. Work smarter, not harder."

You nod, though you don't agree. There is no ‘smart’ way to excellence. There is only work. Endless, punishing work.

You turn back to the center, Ondine in your head.

You’ll research her later. 

The piano begins again. You take your place. Your custom Freeds creak slightly—you'll need a new pair soon. This one has perhaps two more hours of life in it. You've already prepared the next pair, scoring the soles according to your usual pattern, crushing the box to your exact preference, sewing the ribbons in the specific formation that minimizes blisters on your Achilles.

Camille watches you from her place at the barre, her freckles barely visible beneath her foundation. She performs friendship whenever others are watching, but you've caught her moving your water bottle from your spot, just slightly, just to see what you do. 

Collecting weaknesses like souvenirs.

It is pitiful.

She is pitiful.

You are not.

Another combination. Another chance to fail. Another chance to be slightly less imperfect than yesterday.

L'heure bleue.

The hour, however, is not currently blue. Hours don't hold colors in themselves. The name is pretentious, like most things in this city. But the fluorescent sign flickers that particular shade of navy that matches the rain-slicked streets outside, so perhaps there's some truth to it after all.

You catalog the store methodically. Four aisles. One register. Three security cameras—one broken, its red light permanently extinguished. The floor tiles are chipped at the corners. 

Imperfect.

Everything is imperfect here.

Rain slides down the windows in precise rivulets. You've been caught in it twice today already. First during your morning commute, then during the three-minute walk from the studio to this convenience store. Your hair—still pulled back in its regulation bun—is damp at the edges. The slight discomfort of wet hair against your scalp is familiar. Almost comforting.

Better the rain, anyway. You need to understand water if you're going to embody it. 

Ondine. 

It sits in your chest, the role, like a stone dropped into deep water, heavy like an anchor pulling you under. 

You can already hear the applause, see the perfect arc your body will make as you take your final bow. 

Another performance. Another success. Another inevitability.

Your eyes move across the shelves with surgical precision. Land on the protein bars. The numbers flash in your mind automatically: 20 grams of protein, 180 calories, 4 grams of sugar. 

Excessive. 

Unnecessary. 

You grimace.

The bar goes back exactly where you found it, aligned with the others. Your stomach tightens—from hunger or discipline, you're not sure there's a difference anymore.

Your bun pulls at your scalp, the slight sting a reminder of structure. Beauty is pain. Excellence is sacrifice. These are not platitudes but mathematical certainties. Input equals output. You have the equations memorized.

The oversized cardigan hangs past your hips, concealing the lines of your body. Leotard, tights, canvas shoes—not pointe shoes, never pointe shoes outside the studio. That would be blasphemous. Disrespectful to the craft. You'd sooner walk barefoot through Paris than subject your pointe shoes to the indignity of street grime.

You move through the aisles with the same deliberate placement of feet that you use in adagio. Heel, arch, toe. No wasted motion. No unnecessary steps.

The cosmetics section is in the back corner, poorly lit. You need cotton pads. The ones at home are nearly gone—three left, to be precise. Not enough for tomorrow morning's routine. You glance down, locate them on the bottom shelf. 

Crouch.

A blur of motion interrupts your descent. Someone reaches—faster than you, more impulsive—and retrieves the package. Hands it to you without a word.

You note the gloves first. Latex. Clinical blue. Worn at the fingertips as if from constant scrubbing. 

Then the downturned face, completely obscured by ashy, wavy hair that falls forward like a curtain. 

You can't see his eyes. Can't see anything above the bridge of his nose. Just the curve of his mouth, pressed into a tight line. The shoulders hunched slightly forward. The careful distance he maintains—close enough to hand you the cotton, far enough that no part of him risks touching you.

"Thank you," you say. 

Your voice sounds strange in the empty store. 

Too formal. Too precise.

He doesn't respond verbally. Just nods once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin. His face remains tilted toward the floor, hidden behind that fall of unkempt hair.

You take the cotton pads. The package is slightly dented on one corner. Your eyebrows furrow before you can stop them.

The reaction is immediate. He snatches the package back, so quickly it startles you. For 2.5 seconds, you stand frozen, watching as he examines the shelf with frantic intensity. He selects another package—perfectly intact—and offers it to you with both hands, like a supplicant.

His fingers never touch yours during the exchange. It’s like the avoidance is intentional. Thought out.

You straighten, the pristine cotton pad package in hand. Consider saying something else. Decide against it. What would be the point? Social niceties are performances without purpose. At least on stage, the performance means something.

The rain continues its assault on the windows. You'll be soaked again on the walk back to your apartment. Your hair will frizz at the temples. Your canvas shoes will squelch with each step.

Bothersome.

You approach the register, mentally calculating how many steps it will take. It feels oddly hollow, this convenience store… 

Empty except for the cashier—a pink-haired girl with three facial piercings who hasn't looked up from her phone once—and the strange man with the latex gloves.

Seven steps to the counter. You take them.

The cotton pads make a soft sound when you set them down. The cashier doesn't move.

"Excuse me."

Your voice is clipped. Necessary.

She looks up, blinks, then sets her phone down with visible reluctance. Scans the package. Names a price that you mentally note is 0.20€ higher than last month.

Inflation. Even cotton isn't immune to economic decay.

You reach for your wallet—left pocket of your cardigan, where it always is—and find nothing. 

A blank space where certainty should be.

Your hand slides to the right pocket. Also empty.

You left it at the studio. The realization arrives without emotion, just a fact to be cataloged. An error to be logged. 

You never make this kind of mistake. 

(You made this kind of mistake.)

"I don't—" you begin, but stop. 

The sentence is a dead end. Unnecessary. 

You'll simply return the cotton pads to their shelf and come back tomorrow. It's inefficient, but not catastrophic. You have three pads at home, which is sufficient for one more morning routine. You'll adjust.

The pink-haired girl sighs. Her lower lip has a small sore where the ring passes through.

Before you can pick up the cotton pads, there's movement to your left. 

The man with the gloves steps forward. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough that you register the height difference. 

It is inevitable, catching  the scent of something warm beneath the clinical sting of antiseptic—roasted chestnuts, perhaps. The kind sold in paper cones along the Seine in winter.

He keeps his head down, that curtain of fluffy hair obscuring his features. One gloved hand extends, placing exact change on the counter.

His fingers are long. Elegant, even in those hideous blue gloves. You notice a slight tremor as he pulls his hand back quickly—as if the proximity to the cashier might contaminate him somehow. 

The money isn't for him. He hasn't bought anything. It's for your cotton pads.

"I don't need—" you begin, but he's already retreating, backing away from the counter, from you.

His shoulders curl forward. The blue latex of his gloves catches the fluorescent light, making his hands look bloodless. He steps backward, once, twice, eyes still fixed on the floor.

The cashier shrugs, takes the money. "Need a bag?"

You shake your head. No. More plastic waste for something so small would be absurd. Wasteful. Undisciplined.

The cotton pads are yours now, purchased by a stranger who won't look at you. 

You should thank him. Social convention demands it. But when you turn, he's no longer beside you.

You scan the store, methodical. Not by the register. Not in the front aisle. You spot him in the back corner, methodically straightening items on a shelf. The motions almost beautiful in their devotion to order.

Three steps and you're close enough to speak without raising your voice.

"Thank you for the pads." 

The words come out stiff. Clinical. Ridiculous, suddenly. Thank you for the pads. As if there's any meaning to the gesture beyond simple efficiency.

He freezes completely. His back to you, shoulders gone rigid. You can see the line of his spine through his oversized black shirt. Too thin. His belt has been cinched to the last hole and still hangs loose at his waist.

When he doesn't respond, you consider walking away. You've fulfilled the social obligation. Acknowledged the gesture. There's no reason to prolong this interaction.

But something stops you. Some strange, unquantifiable curiosity about this man who won't face you. Who performs small kindnesses while visibly shaking. Who wears medical gloves in a convenience store.

You wait for a response that doesn't come.

A drop of water falls from your hair onto your collarbone. Slides down beneath your leotard. The sensation is unwelcome and bothersome.

He remains perfectly still, as if movement might shatter something crucial. His breathing is shallow. Almost imperceptible.

You should leave now. The exchange is complete. The social obligation fulfilled.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly. Study the slope of his shoulders. The precise angle of his neck as he stares fixedly at the shelf before him. The way his gloved fingers press against his thigh in a rhythm you can't quite decode. 

Something about him is... delicate. Like a blown glass figure one breath away from shattering.

A strange impulse seizes you. You want to see his face. Want to know if his features match the fragility of his posture. Want to understand why he refuses to meet your eyes.

You step to the side. Just slightly. Just enough that you might catch a glimpse of his profile.

His reaction is immediate—he turns away, keeping that curtain of washed-out hair between you. Maintaining his anonymity with surprising determination.

The motion is too deliberate to be coincidental—as if he's preserving something vital through this avoidance.

You find it... interesting.

Most men stare. They always have. Since you were thirteen and your body first began to take the shape that others found worth watching. Their gazes slide over you like oil—unpleasant but expected. A toll you pay for occupying space.

This man refuses to look at all. Refuses even to be seen himself.

The novelty of it sparks something in you. A flicker of curiosity. A desire to press just a little further.

"Why are you helping me?" The question is direct. Almost rude in its bluntness.

No response. Just that same rigid posture. The same careful avoidance.

The cashier calls from the front: "We're closing in five."

You should leave. The cotton pads are secured. The errand complete. There's no logical reason to remain.

You take one step back. Then another.

His shoulders lower by perhaps two millimeters. Relief.

Your eyes narrow. What a curious reaction to a simple retreat. As if your mere proximity causes him distress.

As you turn to go, something catches your eye. A small plastic employee badge clipped to his belt. Mostly obscured by his shirt, but partially visible now that he's shifted position.

The convenience store's logo. A name printed beneath it.

Kim.

That's all you can see from this angle. Just a single surname.

You file it away. A data point that shouldn't matter but somehow does.

Four more steps and you're at the door. The rain is still falling, harder now. Your shoes will be ruined.

At the threshold, some impulse you don't examine makes you pause. Turn back.

He's watching you now.

Not directly. Not obviously. But you can feel the weight of his gaze from across the store. Can see how he's angled just slightly in your direction, observing through that muted veil of hair.

When he realizes you've caught him, he jerks his head away. The movement is so abrupt it's almost violent. As if being caught looking is somehow worse than looking itself.

Something unfurls in your chest. Something you haven't felt before and therefore cannot name.

It feels like power, but softer. Like command, but quieter.

Like the moment in rehearsal when you know—absolutely know—that every eye in the room is fixed on the perfect arch of your foot.

You watch him a moment longer. Note how his hands have begun to shake more visibly. How his breathing has quickened. How he seems to be counting something under his breath—his lips moving in a silent rhythm.

Afraid. He's afraid. Of you.

The realization should make you uncomfortable. Should compel you to leave.

It doesn't.

Instead, you find yourself... intrigued. By his fear. By his avoidance. By the contradiction of a man who will pay for your purchases but won't meet your eyes.

He's like a puzzle with missing pieces. An equation that doesn't balance. A phrase of music that ends on an unexpected note.

And you… 

You’ve always been intrigued by seemingly unsolvable problems.

As you push open the door, the bell above jingles—a cheerful, discordant note in the tense silence of the store. The sound makes him flinch, though it's difficult to tell if it's the suddenness or simply the fact that it marks your departure.

But you file the reaction away with everything else you’ve noticed about him. Building a catalog of responses. Creating a framework for understanding.

You step into the rain, cotton pads clutched in your pocket. 

The water hits your face in cold droplets. Your shoes squelch with each step. Your hair grows heavier with accumulated moisture.

None of it matters.

What matters is tomorrow's rehearsal.

What matters is Ondine.

What matters is perfection.

What matters is, strangely, the image of his downturned face. 

The graceful arc of his wrist as he straightened those bottles. 

The way he was utterly aware of your presence.

It was beautiful—his fear; his distance. 

It makes you wonder what would happen if you shattered it.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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he owned his own mechanics company, the biggest in the city, which meant he worked like a dog but he earned good enough money to spoil you rotten. nothing had really changed after the divorce other than a formal understanding. he paid for your entire lifestyle, making sure you used his card for the groceries, the upkeep of your once shared home, your stupid skincare orders and of course, your sweet children.

jungkook’s only rule pending the divorce was made incredibly clear to you. he was the sole provider. him and only him.

you genuinely wondered whether his personal nightmare consisted of you working a shift with the way he’d get angry at you spending your own money, queuing another heavy argument that had you all but icing him out for a full day. enough to have him kissing down your neck in apology, all whilst groping your ass the way you secretly loved.

truthfully, he had never known how not to provide for you.

it lived somewhere deep inside of him, carved into his very being and instinct, so much so he thought it defined him as a man. once you had birthed your twin children, it was like something had switched in his brain to amplify it all that much harder. despite no longer being his wife, he supported you and the children, telling you it was the one thing he wouldn’t let you fight him on.

you were a princess to the core. manicured nails, weekly blowouts and a shopping addiction that only spurred jungkook on to work harder - you were his polar opposite, never having worked too hard a day in your life and he wanted to keep it that way. even your children were a gift from above, so well behaved and sweet that you had never struggled with them, loving nothing more than to pamper and shower them with all of your love.

you were an odd family unit, even you could recognise that, with your coparenting dynamic meaning he had unrestricted access to your home. he was over multiple times a week after work, always using the excuse of wanting to see the kids which of course was half true, but really, any access to you was worth making the journey over. you kept his stomach full and his annoyance high, just how he liked it.

no matter how well you were together, being married just didn’t work. he worked too hard, you pushed too much - you both wanted things from the other that seemed impossible, leaving you in limbo where all you’d do is argue. it would always end with him inside of you, but sex could only fix so much. somehow, not being together had only strengthened the tension between you as you made it your life mission to keep him on his toes, and he made sure you’d feel his presence no matter what.

in theory, you were perfect for each other.

because the thing about jeon jungkook is he liked his woman difficult.

liked when you bitched at him with glossy lips and french tips all curled onto your hips, scoffing at whatever he was telling you before taking his card to online shop. it was even better when you’d stomp around the house in your flimsy little pyjamas, pretending to be annoyed at him over stupid things he knew had no merit - it had him hardening beyond words.

you were his little minx, and he fucking loved it.

—

“mamma, daddy said i could stay up until nine today.” your son, minjae, giggled from his seat beside his sister on the couch, their favourite show playing on the screen.

“daddy’s stupid, baby. we don’t listen to him.” you cooed back as you handed them their snacks, the sound of your kids giggling enough to put a grin on your face.

“heard that.”

the deep voice came before you actually saw him, followed by the sound of heavy work boots by the door of your home. within seconds, you watched as he appeared by the doorway, in all of his obnoxiously masculine glory.

jeon jungkook practically swallowed your doorway whole as he stepped into the living room. broad shoulders were the first thing you saw as they stretched the material of his work t-shirt, his brand logo clear on his chest, the navy a fitting contrast to his tanned skin. his hair was messy, pulled back from his face, faint traces of grease still staining his forearms where he had scrubbed clean just minutes ago.

he was just so big. big hands, big biceps, big thighs - his muscles were something that you could never really get over, something he was very much privy to. he was the sort of man who reached for things on the top of the shelf without thinking, carrying both children with such ease that it had you malfunctioning in real time. his voice was low, gruff. the type that had people listening as though he was a natural leader.

a beast of a man.

“daddy!” minji, your little girl, squealed as she carefully placed her plate next to her before scurrying away to launch herself at him.

jungkook’s entire face softened, letting out a soft laugh as he picked her up, all whilst minjae copied his older sister, instead cupping his legs, much shyer than his overexcited sibling.

he cooed at them, his voice dropping low whilst he ruffled his hair affectionately. your children absolutely adored him, both sweet little things that glowed whenever their dad would appear.

you could never get over how good of a father he was, and despite your relationship not always being the best, he prioritised your children the way you wanted. even the way he provided for you, as the mother of his children, was beyond generous and underneath the bitchy attitude, you were grateful tenfold. he treated you three like you were a natural extension of him.

but unfortunately for him, you were simply unable to let him live in peace.

“you’re late.” you murmured casually from the couch, going back to filing your nails.

jungkook’s eyes lifted to yours. narrowing. he lingered, looking you up and down openly, hungrily, as though the prospect of you getting on his nerves whilst looking the way you did was straight out of a fantasy.

“traffic.”

“mm.”

“what’s that supposed to mean?” he scoffed a little.

“nothing.” you hummed again, all too casual, but he could see what you were doing.

that didn’t stop him falling victim to it.

“been here three seconds and you’re already being bitchy.”

you gasped dramatically, pointing your nail file in his direction as it became your turn to narrow your eyes into slits. “watch your mouth in front of the children!”

“but mamma, you called daddy stupid.” minjae, your sweet angel inquired with a tone of genuine confusion, the two words falling into the same category in his mind.

jungkook watched as you cooed at him, getting up from your seat to plant a big kiss to his cheek, before reciprocating it with his sister too who giggled.

“that’s because your daddy is stupid, my love.”

he scoffed again at you with a shake of his head, muttering something under his breath that earned him a hefty glare from yourself. he put minji down finally, his hand still on minjae’s head affectionately only for the pair to grab at his hands in a shared babble, leading him over to the couch to show him the cartoon they had just been watching out of excitement.

and despite being exhausted, jungkook was utterly weak at the knees for his kids, and thus, followed along immediately.

you watched him, having moved to the kitchen where you got a clear view of them from your position near the doorway. his big body sunk into the couch whilst minjae shuffled closer, settling into his father’s side. the entire vision was enough to tug at your heart as you fought down your cuteness aggression - especially with the way he just looked too large for the area he was sat in, with all the cushions surrounding him, his two kids. he looked silly.

particularly with the way minji was now climbing all over him whilst explaining the plot with deadly seriousness.

“and then she lost her crown.” she informed him sadly.

“shit,” jungkook remarked with raised eyebrows. “that’s bad.”

“daddy!”

“sorry. shoot.”

you rolled your eyes as he looked up, meeting your gaze momentarily with a sheepish grin, before you looked away, settling over the stove once more.

it happened every time.

you’d spend all day mentally preparing yourself to be annoyed at him only for jungkook to walk in through the door and utterly transform. he became so soft, so gentle when it came to your pair and it was a constant reminder that the one good thing that came out of this situation was you had picked the perfect father.

he’d listen to them properly - never offering them a half assed version of himself, especially since you had both come from such broken homes. always listening properly, no distractions, despite the fact he would work gruelling shifts that had him using his body for hours on hours. even now, he’d always have his hand rubbing up and down minjae’s back as his sister yapped and yapped, knowing he was the quieter one of the two and therefore the shyer one.

your chest squeezed at the thought.

“you feedin’ me tonight, or what?”

you swore if you rolled your eyes any more that night, they’d pop out of your skull.

“you’re so romantic.”

“been thinking about your food all day.” he grunted, walking into the kitchen properly to allow the kids their time on the tv, and of course, his time to terrorise their mother.

“that’s because you eat like an animal.”

“worked twelve hours today.”

“who’s fault is that?”

he couldn’t help the smirk on his face. he loved you bratty. “yours. you’re milking me dry.”

you narrowed your eyes, stirring his food in the pot, though you’d never admit you cooked solely for him and his taste, despite it being more than clear. behind you, you could hear the soft sounds of the familiar cartoon playing mixed with the twins’ occasional giggle, though it wasn’t long until the heavy sound of jungkook’s footsteps became louder and louder, souring your mood.

of course. the man couldn’t survive without being near you when given the option.

“you’re extra bratty tonight.” he observed casually, leaning against one of the counters, though his voice was twinged in exhaustion.

“you’re projecting.” you hummed back.

“am not.

“are too.”

“you text me a thumbs up earlier.”

“and?”

jungkook scoffed before coming to the counter closest to you, leaning, despite your refusal to look at him.

“you know i hate that fucking shit.”

instead, you chose to feign ignorance, going so far as to prettily turn your back to him with a flick of your hair. you couldn’t help but wind him up, it was genuinely your favourite thing to do considering his reactions were always just so worth it. a man you knew could ruin you in seconds holding back because he knew he truly didn’t have access to you anymore, and until you gave him the green light needed, he was stuck in limbo.

lord knew whenever you gave him a faraway nod, he’d have you up on the counters and in between your thighs in seconds, always telling you it was the only way he felt satisfied anymore despite not being touched.

your hand reached upwards to grab a plate from the cabinet above your head. before you could even touch it, your feet on their tip toes, a large arm reached over your head instantly.

his chest brushed your back in the process in a way that felt accidental at first, but immediately, you found yourself pressed almost harshly into the stove, his front pushing your back against him cheekily.

fucking ridiculous.

jungkook grabbed the plate effortlessly, barely having to raise his hand whatsoever. instead of handing it to you immediately, he merely pressed against you further, your eyes widening just a fraction as you felt every inch of him behind you, warmth bleeding through the very thin material of your tiny pyjama top.

he was always so warm after work, it made your head spin.

“could’ve got it myself.” you murmured under your breath, cheeks hot.

“yeah?” he dipped his head down, lips grazing your ear. “looked like you were struggling.”

you hated how much you loved it - how big he was compared to you, how he towered over you. jungkook made you feel tiny in a way that genuinely fucked with your head, all broad muscle and rough hands, and sheer overwhelming man. even now, one of his thighs nudged between yours absentmindedly as he reached around you to place the plate down for you.

“you’re in my space.” you shifted, pretending like you weren’t enjoying it.

he could read you like an open book.

“your space?” he let out a small laugh.

you wanted to push him away, annoyed at his amusement at your words and even more annoyed at the way he so casually touched you, especially considering he knew what it did to you. it made you weak everywhere, to the point where you were utter putty in the palm of his hands and he relished in the feeling - the woman he obsessed over equally as ruined by something he did without thought.

you opened your mouth to speak only to feel his too large hand suddenly slide over to your stomach, digits digging into your skin before yanking you back into him. you were no longer pushed against the stove, now completely entirely into him, meaning you could feel every inch, including the harsh bulge that had begun to form just by speaking to you.

a squeak nearly left you before your eyes fell into slits, huffing as you smacked his hand meanly. fucking brute.

“jungkook!” you immediately snapped at him, but it did nothing to deter him as his fingers spread wide, practically covering every inch of the skin on your stomach all whilst he held you to him like he had every right.

“stop moving.” he muttered against your ear.

“ugh, you’re such a brute!”

“hard to do that when you’re walking around our house looking like this.”

your mouth fell open.

“our house?” you hissed, though he couldn’t help but realise the way your shoulders had dropped a little, almost at ease at his words despite your words. “i divorced you, this is my home.”

“stupid divorce.” he huffed a little under his breath, face dropping into your neck as he breathed in your scent. “worst fucking decision of my life.”

the words came out flat - immediate, as though they were plain fact. it constantly knocked you of breath whenever he talked like that, knowing that deep down you agreed too, that despite the problems between you, the divorce was also a big regret of your own. perhaps that was why neither of you acted like it had actually happened, simply playing house as though you were still together.

“you wear these shorts on purpose?”

you hummed at him then, looking over your shoulder at him just as he pulled away from your neck, your eyes connecting. “they’re just pyjamas.”

his hand, however, slid over to your hip with a grunt, squeezing.

“you’re killing me walking around like this.”

you rolled your eyes so hard, your head hurt. “just had a twelve hour shift and it’s my shorts that are killing you?”

“yeah,” jungkook replied instantly, with no hesitation whatsoever, eyeing you almost meanly. “you know what you’re doing. cut the innocent shit.”

you scoffed dramatically despite the heat travelling up and down your body. “you’re so embarrassing!”

“you’re a fucking minx.”

his teeth grazed the curve where your shoulder met your neck before he bit down, teeth sinking into your skin just enough to have you jolting. immediately, you smacked him on his arm with a hiss despite the utter mess between your legs, your brain growing hazier by the second.

“ow! you dog!”

“keep being mouthy,” he muttered against your skin, gently sucking on the area he bit, planting heavy kisses before dragging his lips to your ear once more. “watch what happens.”

the threat settled low in your stomach.

you could feel it everywhere, deep between your thighs and in the thump of your heart, all whilst your mind malfunctioned in real time. jungkook watched you slump against him, knowing how badly you were affected when he spoke like that. vulgar. nasty. all heavy hands and filthy promises he’d whisper into your skin like they belonged there. you couldn’t help how your body reacted to him, not when he was the only living thing that knew exactly which buttons to press to have you fall on your knees for him, to shut your pretty little mouth up with ease.

you twisted in his hold, finally managing to part from him just enough to actually turn in his hold, trying your best to glare at him despite the hazy look in your eye. he wanted to devour you, head dropping low to properly meet your gaze, feeling his breath against your lips.

“you’re disgusting.” you weakly rebutted at him.

“you like it.” his mouth curled.

he could take you now, right here, and he knew you’d let him - knew you’d open up your pretty little legs for him to give way for all of the things he had wanted. he also knew you weren’t ready for it, and despite the heavy tension between you and the thick want that clouded every conversation, he’d never push until you were the one that initiated.

that was the rules afterall.

you had told him as much, plainly. he could eat you out as much as he wanted, and lord knew he did with absolute glee, but no sex, no kisses. you simply used him to get off, grinding on his hardened cock through his work trousers late in the evening, his hand on your mouth to muffle the loud moans you couldn’t keep inside. he was a mere toy, happy to be at your disposal.

the smug bastard let out a low hum before finally releasing you, his fingers squeezing your stomach one last time to remind you of his hold on you, before grunting lightly, stepping back. you watched him, openly, one hand going down to adjust the growing bulge that had formed whilst he took a seat at the table, just like you had wanted him to at the beginning, still palming himself as he watched you as though it was perfectly normal.

you turned, plating his food despite your warm cheeks, all whilst your ex husband sat there, massaging his cock at the sight of your ass openly. you knew that to anyone else, the dynamic was batshit crazy, but to you? this was all you wanted, all you ever needed - a fucked up lover who managed to match you, none of that sappy shit. you wanted a man, and a man you had gotten indeed.

you turned, placing it in front of him, already turning to walk away before a large arm darted out, grabbing you by the waist and pulling you down onto his lap, against the very bulge that was growing and growing and growing. he knew how messed up you’d get just from grinding on him, and he had every intention of making you cum tonight, multiple times hopefully. the thought thrilled him.

“get off!”

his hand flattened against your back as your legs came up onto the side of him, your core nestled so perfectly against his clothed cock that it pulled a tiny gasp from your throat, a hitch of breath that had him openly bucking his hips into you so you could feel it more prominently. the man was obscene, genuinely obscene and the worst thing was that you were equally as sick, capitalising off of the interaction by grinding right back down on him, as though his food wasn’t there, as though he wasn’t exhausted from the day he’d just had.

“always fucking mouthing off.” he muttered darkly, lips now grazing your jaw in sweet kisses. “then look at you..” another grind, heavier now. enough to have you whimpering a little, the friction of his heavy duty trousers delicious against your barely there shorts. “get so sweet when i put you on my lap like you belong.”

at that, you shut your eyes, unable to rebut or saying more when you knew it was the truth.

no matter how mouthy you were, jungkook always put you in your place the same way each time. a roll of his hips, a thrust of his tongue - you were his girl through and through, no matter what you told him. it was his obligation, his duty, to satisfy you in the ways you’d let him and god did he exploit the fuck out of those decisions.

heat flooded your entire body, just as you spread your legs for him properly, straddling him the way he liked, your head on his shoulder, hands on his chest. you watched him eat, eyeing his adam’s apple half in hunger yourself, only for him. only ever him. he was filth personified, what with his obsessive and controlling tendencies but it was what made you want him so badly - even now, he found himself feeding you from his own plate despite being starved, always putting your comfort in front of his.

all whilst forcing your clothed cunt down on him harder.

you spent the next few minutes like that, in a state of bliss like you hadn’t just spent the last ten minutes being mean to him for no apparently reason, but he loved it, holding you tight to him as he indulged in your needy tendencies. he didn’t care what you did, or how you chose to use him as long as it was him you selected.

you were his fucking girl, and he’d never let you forget it.

—

shopping had easily become one of your favourite hobbies after the divorce.

that wasn’t to say you didn’t indulge prior, but having jungkook’s debit cards in your pink chanel purse post divorce meant you could spend as frivolously as you wanted with full knowledge that he couldn’t complain or you’d revoke all access to yourself. it was pure evil coming from you, that much you could agree, but it wasn’t like you cared to be honest - he wanted to give you his money, who were you not to spend it at dior?

it was his fault, really, considering jungkook had managed to make the separation somehow more beneficial than the actual relationship.

his cards sat so pretty in your bag, begging, yearning to be used by you and you, of course, were never one to deny your soul of what was so easily accessible to you. how could you deny a gift when given with so much love, so freely as though it was what he had intended in the first place.

and so, you found yourself on your weekly shopping spree, humming under your breath. dressed in your cute little skirt, top accentuating your breasts in a way you know would have jungkook passing away if he saw you, all whilst your big heels clicked and clacked on the pavement; you indulged in the strip of shops that had become home to you.

fendi, gucci, louis, hermes, chanel, prada - you knew them all, and oh, how they knew you.

you had already spent an ungodly amount.

a new perfume just because the bottle was pretty, alongside some high end skincare you secretly knew was utter bullshit. two sets of expensive heels that accentuated the length of your legs so deliciously, you’d be a fool not to purchase them. countless dresses and cute little jumpers for your sweet babies too, things you knew that they would love and feel comfortable in all whilst sporting a hefty price tag.

the best thing about all of this? jungkook didn’t give a fuck.

if anything, you were the sure he had something clinically wrong with him considering the way he would ask you what you had purchased, notification after notification plaguing his phone and despite seeing the ridiculous price tags, it never deterred him from making sure he worked hard enough to accommodate you. ex wife or not, you were his to provide for - you just came with a specific price.

you knew he was genuinely crazy when you had bought a whole new wardrobe full of clothes after a horrible day, needing some retail therapy more than anything else, spending an ungodly amount only to see a single text from him in response.

“good girl.”

god, you had nearly moaned.

spending his money seemed to satisfy something deeply primitive in him. the bastard was everything you had ever wanted.

still, despite being an utter bitch to him any chance you got, even you recognised that there were rules and boundaries.

you knew that jungkook would let you buy whatever you wanted, to your hearts content no matter how stupid, but your heart still ached whenever he would come utterly exhausted after a particularly gruelling shift at the shop. being a business owner was one thing, having the largest mechanic shop was another - being the head mechanic, and actually getting your hands dirty each and every waking day from morning till night? that was a whole different ballpark, and you often found yourself returning things secretly, or putting things down whenever you’d get the familiar feeling of guilt.

unfortunately for you, said feeling was no where to be seen when all you could think about was how pretty the pink bag in front of you was.

it was ridiculous, completely and entirely - even you knew that.

the second you saw it, your hands darted out, fingers gently grazing the gold hardware, pink leather soft against your touch all whilst your heart began to beat in that all familiar way. you wanted it. needed it.

oh, how your chest fluttered at pretty things. you had always been this way, no matter the price tag, and jungkook had done nothing but absolutely untrue it throughout your relationship so really, you had no one else to blame but him.

and so you stood, bottom lip jutted out slightly as you tapped your manicured finger against your chin in thought, humming lightly before looking over to the sales assistant. even she knew this was out of your typical budget, which wasn’t to say you couldn’t afford it because with jungkook’s work ethic, you could do whatever you wanted. this was just a large amount, all at once, all on one thing.

with a little huff, you pulled out your phone.

god this was humiliating. never a day in your life had you asked jungkook for permission on anything, especially not when it came to your shopping purchases, but that horrible gnawing feeling all too similar to guilt was already finding home in your stomach. you were simply going to inform him because you were so nice.

you weren’t even sure why you were feeling this way when he had never even uttered the word no in your presence.

your eyes dragged to the price tag one last time before letting out another huff, finding his contact and pressing the ring button all whilst grumbling.

the phone rang.

once.

twice.

three times.

your mouth fell open. nothing.

you immediately called again, now suddenly feeling even more humiliated, and more annoyed with each passing ring. once the second call rang out too, your eye officially began twitching.

you were the love of his life, the mother of his children - the only person he could cum to the thought of and yet here was, not answering your calls? what, did he have a new girl? someone else to keep him company? was that it? spoiling another girl with his bank card so he could get hard?

the deluded thought had you almost shaking as you took your furious fingers over to your messages, texting out immediately.

‘hello?????’

silence.

‘i need you’

silence again - you were starting to feel seriously pissed off. who cared about a job this much?

‘answer your phone, dickhead’

your eye was fully twitching in annoyance at the consistent blue messaging bubbles in front of you, all decorated with a single word at the bottom. delivered.

then, because you knew nothing else other than being a natural nuisance to him, you began spamming.

‘jungkook’

‘jungkook’

‘jungkook’

‘jungkook’

still nothing. the audacity of it all.

you wanted to sit and deflate before the very bag of your dreams, heart half hurting over it not already being in a shopping bag with your name on it and other half straining at the thought of jungkook not providing the attention you so desperately needed from him to live. he always had his phone on him, you thought, mind going into a million different conclusions that each felt as warped as the next.

you couldn’t remember a single instance where he hadn’t answered you - meetings, working, mid shower, mid wank. no matter the inconvenience, he’d be quick to hear your voice even if it was so you could bitch at him because even you knew he was down bad when it came to you. the man could have been elbow deep in an engine and somehow still find a way to have the phone on speaker next to him.

you could physically feel yourself growing more and more irritated the more you demanded for his attention, all whilst each message sat unread, until you let out a small whine. you had never done this before - never begged for him to look at you, focus on you and now? you’d be lying if you said you didn’t feel a horrible twinge of anxiety in your stomach at the thought of you dropping in his priorities.

he was your jungkook, afterall.

in that hazy train of thought, you put your phone away, turning sharply on your heel and towards the door, making your way outside with your multiple bags on your arms. the shop was only a few streets away, and you were quick on your feet. you wouldn’t usually walk so much in these heels, but these were trying times and you didn’t have a moment to waste.

it wasn’t even about the bag anymore. it was the principle.

at least, that was what you kept telling yourself.

-

the horrible mixture of irritation, brattiness and insecurity swirled deep inside your chest as you practically marched over to the mechanics shop, your hair bouncing with each step all whilst your insane heels clicked loudly. your multiple shopping bags were beginning to hurt your arms, another thing you were sure to take out on jungkook despite the fact it was a self inflicted problem.

your shoes, ones you never really had a problem with, were beginning to dig into your feet and you were sure it was because you were already annoyed. they had long stopped looking cute and started feeling devilish, but unfortunately for you, your pride well outweighed the hassle of it all.

you marched right inside, only to be hit with the all too familiar smell of oil and metal. it lived permanently in the walls and into your ex husband’s clothing, and no matter how much you denied it, it felt like home - comforting beyond means, so much so that you found yourself craving to be wrapped in it whenever you would see him.

the large workshop was busy despite the afternoon dragging on with engines high in the air, toolboxes scattered on each section, concrete floors muddied and dirtied whilst you could hear someone on the far end of the room call out about a missing wrench. again, it felt like home.

a few heads lifted immediately upon your arrival, with all six raising as you stepped forward a little. the move instantly changed, as all of them greeted you warmly, some waving, sweet jin even going so far as to take the bags off of your arms and put them in jungkook’s office.

you knew them all personally, of course. you had been here for years, when your ex had first opened the shop, hiring all of them. you had brought lunches, been pregnant with your babies here, waddling around whilst they all debated baby names with you. a family dynamic that resulted in there being no sense of awkwardness whatsoever, despite the divorce.

your gaze swept around the garage, looking, searching, finally finding him.

your breath caught. annoyingly.

because, unfortunately for you, no matter how many years had passed between you, no matter how many arguments where you’d poke and prod, and certainly no matter how many times you pushed him to brink of genuine desperation; the sight of him was always enough to have butterflies erupt in your stomach as though it was the first time.

your heart skipped a beat as you watched him, lowered over an engine with a tool in hand, grease and something dark smeared on his hands all whilst his work t-shirt stretched around his torso unfairly. his biceps were bulging, your kryptonite, all whilst he seemed completely focused on what he was doing.

it wasn’t until he could hear everyone greeting you that had him looking to the side, where you stood, giving you full access to his face. the same dark substance was smeared slightly on his jaw, his dark hair pushed out of his face all whilst his tatted frame turned to fully face you.

if you thought you had been undone by a mere look at you, it was jungkook who felt his entire life stop.

you, his minx of a girl, dressed in a skirt too tiny for his liking with a cute matching top, one that pushed your breast up, giving him the perfect view despite the distance between you. the way your hair sat, your lips plump with lip gloss he longed to kiss off of you, and your high heels that still couldn’t match his height.

he was assessing you hungrily, a darkened look on his face as he admired you head to toe over and over, openly for everyone to see. he had no shame, he didn’t give a fuck when it came to you - you might have divorced him but you were every inch his wife and you knew it too.

you recognised that look, and with each heavy step towards you, it simply expanded to every one of his limbs. he was a man starved, hungry for one thing in his life and that was you. he still looked at you like it was the first time seeing you, even after all these years.

his jaw was harsh, tightened, as though your presence here had fucked him.

good, you thought bitterly, still annoyed. you wanted him to suffer.

he grabbed a rag on his way to you, cleaning his hands of clinging grease before shoving the cloth over his shoulder. once he was in front of you, you readied yourself, lips parting to no doubt spit some venom at him over your own insecurities but he offered no time. instead, jungkook grabbed you by your waist and pushed you firmly in the direction of his office, no words exchanged.

“jungkook!” you hissed, turning a little as your body was all but forced to walk in a direction, the click of your heels heavy on the dirty workfloor.

he didn’t respond, eyes meeting yours in heavy warning, a reminder that this was his workplace, where he was a working professional, where his rules reigned first and foremost. you hated how badly the thought swirled in your stomach, coaxing you out of your negative thoughts and straight back where you felt most at home.

once you were in his office, he turned to close the door. with a single flick of his finger, the lock turned, confining you into the space, all whilst you narrowed your eyes at him. with a small huff, you turned around, flicking your hair at him before walking over to his large seat behind his mahogany desk, sitting down on it as though it belonged to you.

it was laughable, really, how easily you managed to rile him up. just the sight of you, bare legs crossed and high heeled feet - he wanted to fucking ruin you just to remind you that you were all his.

“you should clean up.” you huffed once more, fingers pushing the stacks of contracts away from your space, annoyingly mixing up important papers.

he simply stood in front of the door, before walking over to the desk, resting on the corner of it, eyes meeting yours. he didn’t bother even looking at what you were doing, despite it no doubt causing him problems in the future - he couldn’t keep his eyes off of you.

“you walked here.”

it wasn’t a question. a loaded statement no doubt used to coax you into revealing your full emotions.

your eye twitched. “i have legs.”

“your heels are new.”

“and?”

his lips quirked up slightly. “they’re hurting your feet.”

“no they aren’t.” you snapped back, despite your toes hurting slightly.

his eyebrows lifted. you were such a liar, dressed in sin. he wanted to kiss you.

jungkook pushed off of the desk, walking past the pile of bags that jin had placed in the office for you no longer than a few minutes ago, his eyes still trained on you as he refused to look away. your own eyes faltered, dropping onto the bags momentarily as that familiar feeling of guilt wrapped around your stomach before it returned to his gaze, insecurity wrapped in anger only coming back harder.

he looked like he was approaching a skittish animal, as though he was trained to deal with you entirely. unfortunately for him, you had claws.

“don’t.” you hissed.

“don’t what?”

“do that.”

“do what?” he was fighting a dimpled grin.

you grit your teeth. you extended your hand, finger pointing at him harshly, accusatively, all whilst he walked over to you, until your digit was actually pressing into him. your nail dug into his stomach, not by your own doing, but his as he pushed his skin harsher against you, the sting a healthy reminder of how much he yearned for your touch.

“real scary, baby.”

you nearly shuddered, his voice heavy and loaded.

“i’m serious.”

“yeah, i know.”

you hated when his voice did that, low and certain all whilst his eyelids drooped just from looking at you. you retracted your finger, only for his own hand to dart out and grab a hold of your own until it was pressed against his stomach completely flat.

“you ignored me.” you murmured in annoyance, all whilst you let him manoeuvre you. “did i?”

“mhm.”

he nodded, half condescending and other half fucking enamoured by you. “and that’s why you’re here?”

“don’t act stupid.”

your hissing had his eyes narrowing.

“careful.”

the single word landed heavy, your mouth snapping shut. if anyone was to ask you your favourite quality about jungkook, it would always be the sheer dominance he radiated without even trying - all man, half assertion and other half brute, he plagued your every thought and yet it still never felt enough.

his grip on your hand harshened, as though he needed to feel you on him in a way that hurt, with fingers digging into his skin through his t-shirt. you gulped a little at the feel of his warmth.

“walked into my garage wearing this shit, your feet hurting, and you’re not gonna tell me what’s got you so bratty?” he muttered down at you, voice low.

your eyebrows pulled at his choice of words, peering down at your outfit. this was the exact clothing choice that had you guys arguing so often, what with your breasts accentuated and your ass barely hidden by the cute skirt - you couldn’t help the fact that you liked things on the shorter and tighter side, especially when they’d rile him up so bad.

“you ignored me.” you repeated, with a frown imbedded into your skin.

“never ignored you a day in my fucking life. what you talking about?” he scoffed a little down at you, all whilst your head had to tilt just to look at him from your seated position.

“called you twice, jungkook, and i text you.” it was your turn now to push your finger into him willingly. “you ignored me, so don’t pretend like you didn’t. i’m not an idiot.”

“i was under a car.”

“you always answer.” you rebutted.

his eyes narrowed. there really wasn’t any winning with you, he knew that better than most, but he also wasn’t an idiot. you wouldn’t have marched here for no reason, especially over a missed call or two whilst he was at work considering he never really had his phone on him. he had a receptionist out front, practically hired for the sole reason of being able to inform him whenever you needed him. you knew that, so why was this so upsetting to you now?

“don’t look at me like that.” you huffed.

neither of you mentioned the way his hand on top of yours began to caress your skin, intertwining your fingers as he continued to press further into himself.

“not looking at you like anything.”

“yeah you are, like i’m being stupid.”

he cursed under his breath as he took his other hand and rubbed it up and down his face, as though this was the cherry on top of a long and stressful day. you could feel your blood pressure rising in annoyance at the thought - he had no right to be annoyed with you, not when you were too busy being annoyed at him. how dare he?

“y/n.” he warned lightly. “this shit is pissing me off. you ignore me every chance you get, so why the fuck are you so upset?”

you felt your cheeks begin to heat, half in embarrassment and other in deeper annoyance at being called out. was it your fault that you rolled your eyes whenever he text you, too busy grumbling to actually respond? the nasty feeling in your stomach only grew as he watched you swallow harshly, too humiliated to tell him the real reason all whilst he refused to read between the lines until you actually said something.

the office felt too small, and for the first time during the entire interaction, jungkook swore he could read genuine discomfort on your face.

it was as though the conversation at hand was something you weren’t expecting, simply assuming this was another instance where he’d bow down and allow you to be bratty but, alas - he could see this time that this was different. you weren’t annoyed, you weren’t even upset; you looked hurt.

it was an emotion he couldn’t quite understand, knowing fully he had absolutely done nothing wrong, not having even seen his phone since lunch time. rationality mattered little between the both of you, especially whenever it concerned you, but this was strange even for you. your sudden silence, your lips pressing into each other as you looked away from him, eyes unsure, gaze confused - it had his stomach dropping.

the humiliation was heavy in your frame as you realised how stupid you were being. you had marched here in these heels, a pair that were currently ruining your feet as you spoke, wincing a little as you shifted your toes to make it more comfortable. twenty minutes of amping your own emotions up only to arrive and realise the disgusting, simple fact of jungkook had been divorced by you.

you. you alone.

you had made the decision.

you had chosen to kick him out, break up the marriage over petty arguments that were a norm if anything.

you had done that, with the full expectation of him still fulfilling his husbandly duties as though you had any right to him, any access.

that alone was a horrible pill to swallow.

unfortunately for you, if anyone knew you inside and out, it was the very man in front of you. he reached over to you, tilting your chin forwards, and then up, so that your unsure eyes met his, all whilst you maintained your bratty nature by keeping your mouth shut. he wanted nothing more than to ruin your lips for even starting with him today, with that sleek gloss covering each inch of surface.

you hated when he looked at you like this, as though he was able to dismantle the corners of your feigned disdain, softening them, eroding them until all that was left was you. only you.

before you could look away, you watched as your hunk of an ex husband, all muscle and all tattoos, dropped to his knees in front of you. his arms came around your waist, yanking you forward until either of your legs were around him, his hands heavy on your back. your skirt rode up naturally, allowing him to slot in against you, forcing you to maintain eye contact despite the intimate position.

you flailed for a moment, gasping, everything happening so suddenly but his grip on you was harsh, mean even.

“you thought i was with someone else?” he immediately challenged.

his eyes were narrowed, scowl evident on his lips as he looked at you harshly, as though the notion was enough to genuinely piss him off. despite his nature, he wasn’t one to ever get angry with you, usually directing his annoyance elsewhere but in moments like this, you exasperated him enough that he had no option but to tell you.

“jungkook-“

“missed two fucking calls,” he hissed at you, pulling you closer, harsher. “and you’re already mapping random shit in your head? you trying to piss me off on purpose?”

heat flooded your face in embarrassment, already feeling heat in your chest with the way he looked so annoyed. you hated how attractive he was.

“that’s not what i said.”

“yeah?” he scoffed at you openly, one hand moving to the side to grip your waist instead. “you walked over here in those heels over nothing?”

you hid the insecurity on your face underneath a layer of annoyance, bratty to the core even when you knew you weren’t in the right.

“what’s it to you? if you don’t want me visiting, i won’t come again.” you huffed, pressing him by his shoulders to push him back and away from you.

unfortunately for you, jungkook was made half from stone - unmovable, with biceps thicker than your head, chest and shoulders so broad that it often had your eyelashes fluttering up at him even when you didn’t realise.

“don’t try that shit with me, y/n. you’re in your own head about something that isn’t real, and you’re taking it out on me.”

his tone was laced with something that had your throat swallowing a lump, your eyes struggling to maintain eye contact due to the heavy, and intense heat in his gaze. he was openly pissed off, and you wished you weren’t battling so many emotions at the same time, instead wanting to capitalise on it.

instead of responding, you huffed a little, looking away despite it all. you lifted your chin slightly, ignoring your wandering fingers that were already tracing his tattoos out of habit, grumbling a little under your breath. you hated that he had managed to figure you out so easily, as though he knew the ridges of your brain far more than you yourself, able to peel apart each nasty thought that occupied your thought simply because he could.

you couldn’t let him win. you wouldn’t.

“maybe i wouldn’t think like this if you just answered your phone.” you huffed back at him, returning the eye contact once you had finally settled into your usual bratty self. “god forbid i assume my ex husband might actually move on one day. how am i supposed to know what you get up to all day here?”

you laughed once. sharp. mean. defensive.

“wouldn’t exactly be shocking, would it?” you hissed once more. “we’re divorced.”

for a moment, silence filled the room, all whilst jungkook remained awfully still in front of you.

a sick part of you felt rewarded in thinking you had managed to hit him right where it hurt, to act as a reminder that despite everything, you were the one in control, but that emotion completely slipped away once you watched him stand up.

he stood to his full height, causing you to tip your head back to maintain the eye contact from your sat position. instead of moving back, his hands dropped from your back and waist.

his left hand rose, fingers immediately darting until they reached your throat, wrapping firmly. enough to push your head towards his, and not enough to hurt, his darkened eyes showcasing the same scary, obsessive streak that had you moaning into your pillow every night.

you could feel dampness between your legs, your heartbeat quickening immediately at the showcase of such dominance above you, your eyelids growing almost hooded whilst he leaned down until your breaths were mingling.

“careful.” he reminded, for the second time that night, long fingers digging into either side of your neck.

you, who had never learnt a lesson for long enough to actually make a difference a day in your life, couldn’t help the look of utter petulance on your face.

“or what?” you spat at him.

within seconds, you were put in a state of vertigo as you were yanked up from your seat. before you could realise what was happening, jungkook had you in his lap, yanked forwards so that your ass was jutted out into the air. your skirt had been pushed up, leaving your tiny panties on show.

“j-jungkook!” you squeaked but he took no notice, your arms going up to wrap around his neck all whilst he planted his palm heavy against your now bare ass.

smack.

you squeaked louder.

he didn’t bother saying anything, soothing your ass cheek as though he hadn’t just smacked it. that was, until he repeated his action, the noise sounding off of the walls of the office.

smack.

over, and over, and over, and over.

he didn’t stop, repeating his action of soothing your ass only to slap it harder, all until you were a mewling mess, whimpering at him like a wounded puppy, his eyes harsher than you’d ever seen him. you felt sore, both of his hands now massaging you despite his growing annoyance.

the office was silent apart from the sound of your shaking breath, all whilst you clung to him, your eyes still matching his in a heavy, tension filled gaze that neither of you could look away from. he wanted to coo at you, wanted to hold you, kiss it better but fuck; he wouldn’t have you thinking like this ever again.

“the problem with you is you think a piece of paper changed shit between us.” he whispered down at you suddenly, voice meaner than you’d ever heard him. your eyelashes fluttered. “makes you think a judge signing off on some fucking divorce means you’re any less mine.”

“kook..” you whined quietly, causing him to massage deeper.

“that’s not how this works, baby. get that through your thick skull before i fuck it back into you, you understand me?” he warned, all whilst pushing his head against yours.

your noses touched, rubbing together almost romantically as he nuzzled against you, positioning you better on his lap despite the incessant sting on your ass. he slid your legs over his legs as he brought you closer and closer, his intensely large frame entirely engulfing you.

“we’re not together though..” you whispered at him, the horrible insecurity that remained deep in your bones, the same one you refused to ever show him, bleeding into your tone. “it’s only a matter of time before you meet someone new. even i know that.”

your admission was raw, honest - far more than you’d ever been in a very long time. he knew that, he could see it, especially with the way you felt utterly scared at even letting the words leave your mouth, nibbling on your lip immediately after as though you almost regretted being so truthful.

“what you want, y/n? want a ring? i’ll marry you today.” he scoffed down at you, as though your words were utter bullshit, anger still heavy in his veins. “you are my girl. you hear me? you. you’re mine, every bit of you, and i’m yours.”

you swallowed down the lump in your throat, as he began to kiss at your cheek, your nose and jaw, planting promises deep into your skin so that you’d absorb them as truth. he didn’t care that you guys weren’t together due to a technicality - you were his wife, entirely, fully. no one would ever be able to take that away from him.

the next few hours were spent in a way that felt like home.

he had first spent the first hour just holding you, watching you trace the tattoo peaking from his chest, the colours up and down his arm all whilst nuzzling deeper into him like you hadn’t been a bitch to him for no reason. his hands had roamed up and down you, cupping you warmly, touching you at times inappropriately just to have your usual brattiness shine through.

alas, work called, and so he placed you onto the couch in the office, murmuring something about ordering you food before kissing your head, turning to leave. the whine you let out was enough to have him curse under his breath, knowing he spoilt you far too often and that’s why you were doing what you were.

it wasn’t until you were dragging him back to you that he understood exactly what you wanted.

it had been two years since the divorce - no intimacy beside him going down on you here and there, but apart from that, it was all hidden kisses down your neck and gropes on your ass whenever he’d walk past.

that didn’t stop him from leaning down, one hand on the head of the sofa beside your head and pressing his lips to yours.

the breathy sound that escaped you from being kissed by him was truly enough to drive a man like jungkook wild, his lips moving, guiding, encouraging you to catch up with him. you did exactly that, hands yanking him further down until you could wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him as though this was the most natural thing you knew how to do.

he was your husband, after all.

parting from his lips, you both watched as a thin string of saliva separated you.

standing up tall had your eyes falling to the evident bulge in his utility trousers, your eyelashes fluttering up at him as you pretended to be indifferent to it. you hummed a little, raising your hand. “you can go now.”

the corner of his lip lifted.

such a fucking minx.

the rest of the day had him popping into the office, bringing you food, spending time with you whenever it was quiet. you gave him a haul at one point, showing him all the things you had bought with his hard earned money, even mentioning the bag you had eyed up earlier.

his response?

he had tilted his head in confusion, asking you why you didn’t buy it despite you telling him the price tag.

you had never been wetter.

by the time the garage was closing, he had you in the car, bags already put into the boot, whilst a heavy hand sat on your thigh, driving you home.

it felt like something had completely shifted between you now the unspoken had been spoken. it made you feel good, but you wanted more, craved it - you had spent so long pushing him away, even when you were married, that you had forgotten what it was like just to give into his affections. even slightly, it felt fulfilling in a way that left you hungry.

once your driveway came into view, you already knew he was gonna stay the night. it was common enough, usually forcing him to stay in the guest room like you wouldn’t be up all night wishing he would just come in already. alas, you had married, and divorced, a respectful man.

“kids coming back tomorrow morning?” he asked as he parked up, both of you walking to the door, all of the bags in his hand.

“afternoon.” you corrected over your shoulder, eyes meeting his. you watched as his eyes lifted from your ass in your tiny skirt, cheeks already slightly bruised and red from your earlier spankings, only for his gaze to lift back up to you.

he didn’t respond, simply following you in, locking the door behind him as you slipped off your heels.

“my feet hurt.” you huffed a little to yourself whilst flexing your toes a little.

he let out a slight laugh, placing your bags down on the kitchen table before grabbing you by the waist, lips attacking your neck almost immediately. your back hit his chest as he took a hold of your personal space, breathing in your floral scent now that you were all alone, with no one to interrupt.

no kids.

no garage.

nothing but the two of you and the dying tension between you.

“ugh!” you huffed, brattiness at an all time high, despite tilting your head so he could kiss you further. “you stink.”

“yeah?” he continued his kisses, fingers digging into your hips. “gonna join me in the shower?”

you rolled your eyes, just as he twirled you, towering over you so easily that you found yourself tilting your head just to be able to meet his gaze. his hardened jaw, the feel of his abs where your hands sat on his stomach - you hated him.

“you wish.” you retorted, just as his hands drifted down to your ass.

a large hand smoothed your ass, causing you to wince up at him a little, falling further into his chest causing him to laugh. you swatted his chest with a huff, hissing at him.

“meet me in there in two.” he whispered into your ear, squeezing once more before you huffed again, walking upstairs to your own room.

within the next five minutes, the water had been turned on, and jungkook had pulled his t-shirt off, grunting a little as he undressed in what he had always deemed to be a too small bathroom. it wasn’t until the door opened and he watched you walk in, just as the water had begun to spray down onto his chest, that he felt his stomach tighten.

he watched as you undressed, clothes pooling at your feet, your bra and panties dropping in seconds all whilst you joined him in the shower, almost paying him no mind as though he too wasn’t here. it wasn’t until you stepped back into him, letting the water hit your body instead of his that he properly yanked you back, bodies suddenly flushed against each other.

he tilted your head for the millionth time that day, lips grazing over your pulse, kissing as though he truly couldn’t get enough. he hummed against it, tongue tracing over it as his hands openly began running up and down you, clutching your breasts, your thighs, your stomach.

he loved when you acted like this. all snooty, as though he was beneath you despite your legs parting just as his hands drifted down. his, bratty girl. what a dream.

“missed this.” he whispered into your ear, just as you reached for the body wash.

“need to wash my body.” you huffed back, looking over your shoulder at him in that familiar bitchy way, only for him to lean downwards towards your face.

he grinned, twisting you properly in his arms so that you were actually facing him. the glare you gave him was enough to have his cock twitching against you, causing you to look down momentarily.

you could have sighed out of content, feeling it against you, so, so thick. so large, pressed against his stomach as he openly admired you, his own hands roaming over you as though he had every right.

the last time you had both hooked up was after you had signed the divorce papers. he had pounded you in the courthouse bathroom, with a hand over your mouth, and a hiss in your ear reminding you that no matter what, you still belonged to him, to which you had nodded, promising him. you were both so fucked for each other it was unreal.

queue two years later, you hadn’t actually seen his cock in so long despite having craved it for what felt like eons. despite what you felt, you knew you couldn’t bring yourself to cave in, yearning for something more than just sex and you couldn’t afford to get attached without it.

here you were, with that exact thing.

you were both so fucked in the head when it came to one another, with jungkook even going so far as to make a dildo for you that replicated his cock, just so you could pleasure yourself the exact way you wanted. it killed him inside to know you used it every night instead of using him, but with you in his arms right now, he hardly gave a fuck.

he watched as you lifted one of your hands, fingers brushing against the tip, all whilst your big eyes fluttered up at him in a sort of faux innocence. he cupped your hand, bringing it to his lips, before wrapping it around his cock properly.

you let out another sigh of content as you pumped him, up and down, all whilst water cascaded down onto both of your bodies. his head pressed against yours, lips brushing against one another so naturally it felt innate to the both of you.

his breath hitched just slightly as you used both hands, your heart fluttering at the feel of him so intimately against you.

“my pretty girl.” he pressed sweet pecks to your lips, whilst you tilted your head up at him, his hands openly massaging your ass again.

“so big.” you whispered back at him with a little sigh, thumb tracing over his slitted tip. “yeah? been stretching yourself out every night on your own?”

“trying to.” you mumbled back. his hand cupped yours, guiding you faster. “just too big sometimes to do it on my own.”

his eyes closed at your words, letting out a shaking breath, gripping you so much tighter before opening them up once more. he nudged his nose against yours, before pressing his lips harshly to yours.

your lips immediately moved in unison, bodies aligning as you both pumped his cock as though you couldn’t get enough of one another. tongues wrapped until they became one, your soft moans gliding through the falling water as jungkook pushed, and pushed and pushed until you were pressed against the wall.

by the time he was parting from your lips, you were a panting mess, your chest rising and falling. your hand dropped from his cock as he lifted you in his arms, your back pressed against the cool tile whilst he took your left breast in his mouth. sucking, biting, moaning - he was a mess against you, your hands pulling at his long strands that were growing damper by the second from the falling water.

the moan of his name on your tongue had him hissing, moving to your right breast. you had become a mural, a physical manifestation of his morbid love as he decorated you in purple bruises, your big eyes closing in sheer pleasure.

“don’t wanna wait anymore.” you whimpered at him, shaking your head as you began to pull his hair off of you.

he hissed a little from the shot of pain, not afraid to admit his cock twitched from the shock of it. at that, he gave your ass another smack, watching the way you squeaked before narrowing your eyes at him with a loud huff.

“need to stretch you out before i fuck you.” he grunted at you, both of your cheeks flushed from the steam of the shower.

“i don’t care. want it now.”

“stop being a fucking brat.” he hissed again, spanking you for the umpteenth time, your poor ass bruised.

you slid down from his arms, narrowing your eyes at him as you cheekily turned away. he stuck his tongue deep into his cheek as he watched you, soap suds washing down your body before you reached for a towel, sliding out before he could even stop you, only to watch you slip out of the bathroom immediately.

he wanted to curse. his cock had never been so hard in his life, and oh, the things he wanted to do to you - he felt like a born again virgin, having been celibate the second you had pushed him away after the courthouse fiasco. he matched your movements, washing his body before grabbing a towel, drying himself off and walking to your room.

the sight of you on the bed, sat, still in the towel, huffing a little as you checked your nails, pretending to be completely disinterested in him had his jaw ticking again. such a fucking brat.

you opened your mouth, no doubt to spew some utter bullshit to rile him up, but he didn’t give you a chance. within seconds, he had his hands on you, dropping you fully onto the bed, hovering over you, both towels on the ground almost immediately.

the sight of him on top of you, inbetween your legs had you rendered speechless for the first time in eons, a shaking gasp leaving you. it was the feel of his cock running up and down your already weeping pussy that had you actually letting out loud whimpers and whines, rotating your hips in hopes you could finally get what you wanted.

“spoilt rotten. that’s your fucking problem.” he hissed at you, grabbing your face with one of his hands, forcing you to look at him. “always get what you want.”

“because you always wanna give it to me.” you whimpered back at him, grabbing onto his shoulders before raising your legs higher, begging for more.

he hated how true your statement was.

before you could think, jungkook lined himself and began to push inside, all whilst watching your eyes widen only for them to shut tightly.

euphoric. that was the only, single emotion he could describe the feeling of his cock being hugged by your velvet walls after so long, your pussy clinging to him almost as desperately as he pushed and pushed until he was entirely inside of you. you couldn’t breathe, not when you swore you could feel him inside your stomach, your fingers digging so deeply into his shoulders you swore you’d scar him.

even when you masturbated on your own with the dildo, you struggled to take him fully, but having him all but bullying his cock inside of you, making sure you took it all? nothing had never felt better, with his sheer size stretching a home deep inside of you, one that you had missed more than anything else.

“jungkook.” you mewled out, lip already about to quiver.

god.

he had dreamt of this exact situation.

you, underneath him, chest rising and falling whilst your tits were decorated in bruises, symbols of his devotion to you. his cock, thick and heavy, deep inside of you as he watched you quiver trying to accommodate for him despite knowing it was all too much. god, he had dreamt indeed and yet it paled in comparison to what he was seeing.

two years.

two years of being denied this, and here he was, finally claiming his girl once more.

instead of letting you adjust, jungkook grabbed the bottoms of your thighs, lifting them slightly before beginning to thrust.

had you been a normal girl, he would have been gentler, kinder, maybe even sweeter but he knew you better than anyone else. you were a slut for him, through and through - couldn’t cum unless he was mean to your pussy.

and so, he did what any good ex husband would do.

he pounded.

your moans turned into loud whines of pleasure, back arching as jungkook set out a pace that you certainly couldn’t keep up with, scratching over his shoulders and biceps almost desperately. the chant of his name echoed around the room, only adding to his pace, his head pressing against yours.

“look at you.” he grunted loudly, hips slapping against hips, skin smacking against skin. “needed this so bad, didn’t you?”

“so bad.” you whined, with a shaking nod.

“that’s my girl.” he kissed your nose almost romantically, only making you whimper as he pushed your thighs against your chest, before pressing down on you.

the new position had your back curling upwards as you somehow managed to feel him so much deeper, your hands now shaking in the confinements of his hair. you couldn’t stop thrashing, as though all of the begging to get him to fuck you without actually prepping you were all stupid ramblings now that you couldn’t take it.

he loved the sight. there was nothing jungkook loved more than watching you grow more cockdrunk by the minute, what with the way your eyes were rolling to the back of your head, drool beginning to drip by the corner of your mouth.

he had never been more in love with you.

he pounded you over and over, coaxing orgasm after orgasm out of you until you were an overwhelmed mess, sobbing in his arms whilst trying to shut your legs around him, the overstimulation only gripping you by the throat meanly. by your fourth orgasm, you were babbling utter nonsense, a mixture of tears, mascara and drool all over you.

he had tapped your jaw with his hand, only for you to open up, watching him spit in your mouth. you clenched around him hard just as you swallowed, the sight something he knew he’d replay for time to come over and over over.

“so fucking tight.” he hissed down at you.

your positions had changed, with the both of you on your sides as he thrusted into you, his lips attacking the side of your face and shoulder all whilst you clung to the pillow in front of you, poor pussy leaking on either side of him. you were being ruined in real time.

“gonna get you nice and round baby. you’d like that, hm? like it when kookie fucks his cum into you?” he cooed down at you, condescending enough to have your brain begging for mercy. all you could muster was a loud moan, back arching into him at the promise of another baby. “please. want it so bad.”

“yeah?” he hissed, thrusts only getting meaner. “fuck…gotta put a ring on your finger first.”

at that, your legs began to shake.

“gonna take you out tomorrow morning. gonna cum nice and deep inside of you, and take you ring shopping so you can get what you want, hm?” he hissed down at you through his heavy breaths. “gonna be a good girl for me?”

“mhm..i’ll be so good, k-kookie. promise.” you whimpered.

jungkook gave you a hard thrust. he knew it was a lie.

“should’ve never let you go, baby. been missing my girl so much. should’ve kept you nice and full like you deserve.” he bit down on your shoulder. “but jungkook’s gonna fix it. just need you to cum for me, sweetheart.“

it was like he had control over your mind and body. your orgasm erupted through your body, clamping harshly onto his cock, causing him to choke as his thrusts faltered, already on the edge. waves of excruciating pleasure ran through you, grabbing you at every angle all whilst you coaxed him into his own orgasm, his loud grunts echoing off of the walls.

you could feel his hot cum reach all the way into your womb - a promise of what was to come, an assurance for the future. the thought of having more of his children only stretched out your orgasm as you cried out his name, his large fingers harsh on your clit to really force you over the edge.

by the time you were both settling down, you were a shaking mess.

cum plugged inside of you as he refused to pull out just yet, your bodies both sweating, hair a mess, makeup utterly ruined. jungkook had never seen you look so pretty, wanting nothing more than to propose to you right then and there, but even he knew you deserved far better than that.

it was when only ten minutes later, he turned you fully after pulling out, did he plant soft kisses to your face, all whilst fingering his cum back inside of you. you cried in oversensitivity, only causing him to coo at you, whispering sweet nothings about how good you had taken him, about how he needed the cum to stick to get you round and pregnant.

you could feel your eyes drooping as he took care of you, manoeuvring your body until it was utterly engulfed by his, your body sore and mind free.

for the first time in two years, you felt like you were home.

—

true to his promise, you were both out of the house by the early morning.

also true to his word, you were currently stuffed with cum, littered in an array of hickeys both from the previous evening and that morning, causing you to choose an uncharacteristically modest outfit for the day. you had hissed at him all the way to the shop, huffing at having to hide your body in full length clothing only for him to smirk quietly to himself.

he couldn’t get enough of you.

still bitching, still whining - he had stopped pretending like he didn’t like it, especially when you could see right through him. he was yours, yes, but oh how you were his. he had woken you up to his mouth on your clit, coaxing you to a sweet orgasm before fucking you with the promises of a life even grander than the one you were currently living. that alone had gotten three orgasms out of you.

now, you were in the ring shop, frowning, flicking your hair and rolling your eyes at him with every ring you were shown, rudely grumbling over how it just wasn’t the one.

the one you had on was beautiful, which only irritated you more.

you made the effort of moving your hand in three separate angles, turning it to the light, turning your wrist away. the diamond caught every flicker, as it shon and sang to you, all whilst you pursed your lips.

“i don’t like it.”

the jeweller openly frowned at you.

this had been the tenth ring he had shown you, and none of them made you happy. none were the ring you had envisioned, wanting something different and yet something classic, the oxymoron killing you from the inside out.

whilst the man behind the counter was quite startled by your behaviour, jungkook was certainly not.

he stood beside you, t shirt stretched over his figure deliciously, arm heavy around your waist as he maintained you flushed against his figure no matter how bitchy you were being with him. it only had him tightening his fingers on you.

you continued your comments to the jeweller as he showed you more and more rings, before he sensed the growing tension, leaving you both be for a moment. once you were alone on the shop floor, jungkook nudged you a little so you’d look up at him.

“enough.”

the word was quiet. commanding. enough to have your pussy clenching despite how sore you already were, not that it was enough to stop you wanting him in every single way. unfortunately, despite your lapse in demeanour the night before, you weren’t willing to let it show easily again.

you huffed. “none of these are right.”

“you’re being nitpicky on purpose.”

“maybe i just have standards.” you rolled your eyes at him, making a show of crossing your arms across your chest.

it was his turn to make his eyes narrow down at you meanly.

“you done?” he asked, with a small hiss. “your ass not sore enough, y/n?”

you grit your teeth as you willed yourself to be quiet, wanting nothing more than to rebut at him but even you knew jeon jungkook was certainly not above spanking you in a jewellery shop, especially if it meant you’d actually shut up. so, instead, you found yourself huffing a little at him again, picking at your manicure.

“just don’t wanna pick the wrong one.” you admitted in a much smaller voice, refusing to meet his eyes as you ruined your french tips, frown heavy on your face.

the admission was quiet, barely above a mumble but it hit jungkook right in his chest, knowing that despite the rushed nature of everything, this symbolised something so much bigger. starting again when the first time around had been a rush in itself was scary, especially when the stakes were so much higher this time. sure, you had been divorced once and you were marrying him again but you knew this meant you guys would actually have to work through your annoyances with one another.

the thought honestly scared you.

his devotion, his obsession, his incessant need to have you in his arms whether you liked him or not was reciprocated heavily by yourself, only masked with an air of indifference.

“baby.”

he pulled you out of your thoughts, making you look up through your lashes.

“buy as many as you fucking want. you want seven, huh? all days of the week?” he narrowed his eyes down at you. “there isn’t a wrong one, so get that out of your head.”

for the first time in that interaction, you properly turned into his arms, wrapping your arms around his neck with a soft sigh of content at his words. good answer, you thought, as you nuzzled into his neck, all whilst he pushed you against the jewellery counter.

by the time the owner had come back, you had finally made your selection, feeling almost shy as you watched jungkook pay for it. sure, you spent his money without thinking, but you were quickly realising how much better it felt with him beside you actually taking charge of the transaction part. the thought began to fester all over you as he signed the receipt, turning to walk you out as the jeweller began sizing the rings immediately.

unfortunately for him, you pressed your lips to his cheek in the sweetest action you could muster. judging from the flip in your eyes, the way affection swirled in them, he knew you wanted something.

“what?” he grunted.

“so..remember that bag?”

—

my babies!! i’m back!!

my first fic / one shot since the mature label got slapped on my page which means half of my followers won’t see this but i’m keeping optimistic!!

as usual, let me know your thoughts, i loveeeee reading your guys’ comments and asks so feel free to keep me in the loop with what you’re thinking

if you wanna support a bad b pay her london rent, my kofi is here <3

The shelf by the door coughs out its contents: a can rolls, then a bottle, another bottle, a clatter that jars the pulse behind his eye. Sticky leaks on the tiles. No one looks at him—customer, manager, pink-haired girl behind the second register sketching with a dried-out pen. He’s the quiet one. The shadow. The clean-up.

He counts the droplets on the ground. One. Two. The stain widens. Beer and cola. A chemical amber, eating its way along the grout. His fingers twitch for the cheap blue rag balled up under the till. Sticky spots, dirty dots, broken thoughts. Three. Four. Five. It’s spreading. Marcel’s voice always comes before the panic does.

“Kid! Clean that shit up, come on! Clients don’t have all day.”

He sees the world in surfaces and stains. Every footprint etched in last night’s grime. Chewing gum slicked flat under a boot near the cooler. The way someone’s fingernails left half-moons in the tape over the torn cereal box. Small atrocities. He is intimately acquainted with the way filth lingers—in the cracks, yes, but also in his chest, in the language of his own hands.

He moves without thinking: rag in hand, knees bending. The bottle neck is sticky. His palm leaves a ghost on the glass—oily, ugly. 

(dirty, dirty, dirtydirtydirt)

He swears he can hear her voice; the echo that raised him sharper than any cradle song. 

He wipes too hard, more circles than necessary, like there is any chance of making the world new.

One. Two. Three. Seven. Seven. Seven again. If the number is right, the feeling dulls. 

Nothing makes it right. 

The rag soaks up sugar, cheap wheat, that thin acrid scent that reminds him of old men on metro benches. The stickiness clings to his fingers, seeping past skin and nail, as if he’s absorbing the world’s waste molecule by molecule. 

If he had a choice, he’d bleach the whole city. Himself first.

Someone steps around him—he feels the shadow before the person—a grunt, a grumble in French about the mess, about incompetence. He shrinks into the crouch. Tries to take up less space. 

Sometimes, he wonders what it would take to be truly invisible. 

Sometimes, he thinks he’s halfway there already.

(worthless) 

He doesn’t know when the word started looping. Was it, really, at two years old? Maybe three. Maybe four, when he dropped a bowl and she made him hold the shards, blood trailing into the grout as proof of his clumsiness. 

‘If you were worth anything, you’d be clean. You’d be careful. You’d be quiet and good and wanted.’

He’s quiet. He’s careful. He’s so good at disappearing he startles himself when Marcel barks his name—the only time he hears it, sandpapered into a reprimand. 

Sometimes the sound of it makes him nauseous.

He presses the rag into the floor. Bleach sting in the back of his throat. Nails scrub until knuckles ache, the line between diligent and desperate lost years ago. He likes this better than standing—the way knees grind bone against bone, the ache that says he’s solid, present, here. 

It almost feels like penance.

He glances up—Sophie sketches him again, glancing once, twice, pausing on the curl of his neck. He will become a line in her notebook, a story she tells at parties, a tragic fixture in the background of her real life. He hates that he has thoughts about being observed. If anyone really saw, they’d peel back layers until nothing was left but the word. 

(worthless)

The store’s radio coughs static. Some old pop song limping its way through a broken speaker. The world blurs at the edges—what is Paris, if not concrete and piss and distant sunlight, leaking slowly across linoleum? He wishes the tiles here would just dissolve. 

Wishes his skin would too.

He wrings the rag out in the bucket, watches beer foam swirl with grime down the cheap plastic drain. His hands are pink, raw, stained with the same feeling that never quite leaves. His fingertips burn. Sometimes they bleed. That’s good. 

Pain is clean. Pain is honest.

Marcel doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t look at him. Sophie tucks her drawing away, eyes flickering elsewhere. Taehyung straightens, wipes his palms on his trousers, and returns to the counter. He exists to erase.

Counting in his head—seven steps to the end of the aisle. Seven minutes until the shift ends. Seven letters in the nine his mother wrote under his skin:

Worthless.

Sometimes he thinks it’s the only word he’ll ever earn.

And outside, the city is gray. Inside, he is nothing. Inside, he is clean.

(For a moment. For seven counts. That’s all.)

The water makes patterns like fractured light.

His shift ends like they always do—uneventful, almost unregistered in the library of his mind. 

Paris is set in a brooding mood, rain stalking down the windows carelessly. Taehyung watches each droplet make its slow descent, leaving dirty trails on the glass he'd scrubbed this morning. 

Seven hours ago. The bleach has worn off. Everything wears off eventually.