starry eyes sparking up my darkest night

Time moves fast in hospitals– or at least it feels that way to you, sitting in the Doctor’s office with your legs crossed, glass panes gleaming and sunlight too bright to bear. It's been over a year since Jungkook walked out of your apartment and into the autumn night. Some days it feels like yesterday; most days it feels like a lifetime ago.

“I swear time couldn’t go any slower right now,” Namjoon drags out the words laced in frustration. You sit in stunned silence at how he protests to even your inner thoughts. He leans back in his chair with a groan, the toe of his shoe tapping impatiently against the sterile tile floor. The clock above the door ticks loud enough to grate on your nerves, each second dragging longer than the last. You try to count them, but lose track somewhere past thirty, your eyes drifting instead to the maze of reflections in the glass panes.

Just as Namjoon opens his mouth to complain again, the door finally clicks open. The doctor steps in, clipboard tucked under his arm, his face carefully arranged in that unreadable mask you’ve come to dread.

He offers a polite nod. “Sorry to keep you both waiting,” he says, settling into the chair across from you. 

Namjoon exhales through his nose, a strained smile barely covering his impatience. “What do you have for us, doc?”

The doctor gives a sympathetic dip of his head before glancing down at his notes. His voice softens. “The experimental treatment given to Mr. Jung Hoseok was… mostly successful.”

“What do you mean mostly?” Namjoon almost hisses. 

"Well– the first dose of the trial medication stabilized his vitals, but the results weren't as consistent as we had hoped." The doctor shifts in his chair, tapping the edge of the clipboard. "As you know, we were only able to identify the mass during the third round of imaging, it took us far longer than we'd have liked. The treatment has slowed its progression, but there are side effects and we won't know the extent of them for another few months. For now it's fatigue, muscle weakness… but he is awake."

The words hang in the air, heavy. You don’t realize you’ve been holding your breath until it rushes out. You lean forward. “Awake?” Your voice cracks. “A-as in- he can talk to us?”

The doctor nods once. “He’s conscious, responsive. Though he’ll need assistance for now.”

And that was enough for you all, until it wasn’t anymore. 

The months that followed blurred into a rhythm of hospital visits and hollow routines. You moved through them the way you moved through water. It’s slow, heavy, and you never quite reach the surface. Some nights, you didn't reach it at all.

You think if you close your eyes hard enough, maybe just maybe you’d cease to exist. 

3.

2.

1.

You let out all the air in your lungs, and your eyes bulge out. When the panic settles, you’re at complete and utter peace. But it doesn’t last for too long. Just as your vision goes dark and you let the water fill your lungs until there is nothing left of you, you wake up with a loud gasp.

“Woah, bad dream?” The voice seems distant yet all too familiar. It’s the voice of your very dear friend. It’s the voice of Hoseok. 

You remember where you are again when your eyes hit the panelled ceiling. The metal grids give way to beaming lights subdued by frosted plastic, reminding you of the place you have basically called home for the last year. For as much money as it is to keep him here, you would be the first to admit Hoseok definitely has the best room in this hospital.

“I guess.” You let out a shaky breath and push up, palms flattening against the mattress as you swing your legs over the side. Bittersweet. Hoseok watches you with that careful tilt of his head, like he’s cataloguing your frayed edges. You don’t know that he’s wondering when your spirits had gotten so low. To him, you’ve always been the light of the group, though little did he know, you’d think the same of him. 

You sigh once more and face towards him, brows now strewn together, a serious expression crossing your face until a question lodges in your throat.

“Are you afraid to die?” 

It’s a heavy subject you’ve introduced, and you feel the room grow silent as Hoseok ponders over your question. Perhaps it’s because he’s so close to death itself that he doesn’t have to give it much thought for too long. He simply purses his lips and shakes his head ‘no’ in response. Maybe proximity to the edge makes it easier to answer; maybe he’s already rehearsed this. 

Not a day has gone by since he woke up that you haven’t thought about how to say goodbye to Hoseok. Your friend is still very ill. Maybe that’s why you’ve grown so much resentment towards the world. It’s hard to wrap your head around but you try not to think about it often because he’s here right now, conscious and most importantly alive.

Hoseok’s hospital bed is quite different from the hospital bed the nurse put in the room for you. It’s quite different from yours as it’s actually hooked up to something- a lot of somethings at that. A nasal cannula is stuffed up his nose, attached to two giant tanks of oxygen and for a brief moment, it pangs you to see him like this. You’ve lost count of the wires that seem relentlessly stuck to his body, working tirelessly just to keep him afloat. Sometimes you wonder if it would have been better to let go than to see him struggle like this. But you’d never share this thought out loud, shuddering at yourself for even thinking it just now. 

“It’s inevitable, _____.” A weak hand waves in the air as he tries to continue explaining his thoughts. “If not now, it’ll happen eventually- to all of us, so why be scared?” His voice is airy, quiet and less vibrant than you remember it being. 

“The after-stuff,” you prompt. “What do you think happens after?”

He smiles the kind of smile you remember from before the sickness. It's small, stubborn and heart-shaped. “The after-stuff is whatever you want it to be.”

It’s then that Namjoon chimes in as he walks into the hospital room, a tray of hospital food in his hands. You already know whatever he’s about to say will be utter rubbish. “Well, _____ some people swear you’ll wake up in paradise, rivers of milk and honey, endless peace. Others think you’re reborn, spinning through life again and again until you finally get it right. There are even people who say we just…merge with the light, some kind of cosmic energy.” He pauses, smirking as he shifts the tray in his hands.

“Or if you’re like me, you know that there’s nothing waiting. There’s no heaven, no reincarnation…just dirt and silence.” It’s said in poor taste, and you see Hoseok frown in response.

“I didn’t realize I was asking you.” You say, deadpan at how ridiculous he sounds. Leave it to Namjoon to kill the mood. “And I didn’t realize the Christopher Hitchens was a part of our friend group.” To this, Hoseok snorts weakly and reaches over for the remote that controls his bed. You watch as he pushes a button that allows the headboard to elevate, letting him sit up in bed. Namjoon strides towards him, swivelling the tray attached to the hospital bed in front of Hoseok before placing the steaming bowl of rice porridge on the tray. A side of white kimchi follows, but Hoseok merely pushes it aside. Your stomach growls in response, realization setting in that you haven’t had anything to eat today. Granted, you haven’t had much of an appetite for a while.

Namjoon simply ignores you and stretches out a hand. “Come, _____, we’ll grab you something to eat too.” You reluctantly agree and take his offering hand. Though your stomach is angry, rumbling the weight of Thor’s hammer itself. You can’t find the strength to leave Hoseok alone for even 10 minutes.

It strikes you as you walk the hallway that it's only two of you now. The halls feel wider without Jimin's nervous energy filling them. He stopped answering the group chat three months ago. He moved cities, changed his number, and you don't blame him, not really. After the heist, the guilt ate at all of you differently. Jimin just let it swallow him whole. You just regret not thinking of doing it first. Then again, you don't think you'd be able to leave even if you tried.

When you reach the hospital’s food court with Namjoon, it hums with the low chatter of visitors and the clatter of trays. By the windowsill, Yoongi sits hunched over his laptop, brows furrowed and a tongue pressed against his cheek. You know that it means he’s deep in code or trouble– maybe even both. He’s always damn up to something. He hasn’t noticed you yet, fingers tapping in sharp, relentless bursts. A knot of unease coils in your chest.

Namjoon doesn’t hesitate, steering you toward him. “C’mon,” he mutters, nodding at the empty chairs. Yoongi glances up as you approach, eyes narrowing briefly before he snaps the laptop half-shut. You can't help but notice it's like he’s guarding secrets. Still, he kicks out a chair with his foot in silent invitation.

Namjoon orders a big bowl of pasta for you, sliding a tray into your hands before you can protest. It’s a rose cream pasta and the first bite is so rich and velvety it almost knocks the air out of you. For a brief moment, you forget everything. You forget Hoseok’s laboured breaths, the sterile walls and the gnawing fear. You just sit there savoring the food. Who knew hospital chefs could cook up a mean pasta? Enough about the pasta. You tell yourself as you stab into it. Then you look at Namjoon, at Yoongi, at the two constants who’ve dragged you through hell and back, and you can’t help the bitter thought: it’s crazy that you still keep these sacks of shit as your friends after everything they’ve put you through.

You twirl another forkful of pasta, pretending not to notice how Yoongi keeps one hand planted on the lid of his laptop. What has him guarding it like a vault? Curiosity prickles at you.

“So…” you start carefully, tilting your head. “What’s got you looking like you’re about to declare war on that keyboard?”

Yoongi smirks faintly but doesn’t answer you right away. He leans back, eyes flicking to Namjoon. “She doesn’t know?”

Namjoon sighs, running a hand down his face. “Not yet.”

Your fork clinks against the bowl. “Know what?”

Yoongi drums his fingers on the table, weighing his words. “Another job.”

Your stomach lurches. “You’ve got to be kidding.” And just like that, you’ve lost your appetite. The pasta might as well be ash on your tongue. You shove the bowl forward, porcelain clattering against the tray, and the screech of your chair rips through the food court as you push back in one frantic motion. A few heads turn but you don’t care as you grab your tote bag and storm off past the rows of tables, through the automatic doors, and out into the back courtyard. The air hits different here. It’s crisp, carrying the faint scent of disinfectant masked poorly by trimmed hedges and damp grass. Patients wheel slowly along the paved paths, loved ones trailing beside them with soft voices and careful hands. It's a cruel contrast to the storm churning in your chest. 

You drop onto a bench beneath a bare tree, the tote bag slumping against your feet. You feel sick. 

“_____!” You groan out loud, the sound ripping from your chest as you shove yourself up from the bench. Twisting toward him, you see Namjoon striding across the courtyard, hands jammed into his pockets like he’s trying to anchor himself.

“Are you fucking serious, Namjoon?” The words spill out harsher than you intend, but you don’t reel them back. “After everything? After the mess you dragged us into already? Are you out of your fucking mind?” A couple nearby patients turn their heads, but Namjoon doesn’t slow. His jaw tightens and his footsteps steady until he stops just a few feet away from you.

“We need the money.” Namjoon’s voice is flat, but there’s a tremor under it.

“Fuck the money!” You snap, springing to your feet. Your palms ball into fists at your sides. “No wonder Jimin fucked off to wherever the fuck— I’m surrounded by a bunch of selfish—”

“Selfish?” Namjoon’s voice rockets up to match yours, and suddenly neither of you gives a damn who’s listening. He takes a step forward, chest heaving. “You’re calling me selfish? After everything? After the nights we slept in shifts keeping him breathing, after the loans we sold our souls for? Everything we’ve done has been for each other. For Hoseok. Just because your little fling got complicated doesn’t change that.”

You point, the finger shaking. “Hoseok is dying, Namjoon!“ Silence drops between you. It's heavy and oh. so suffocating. It's only broken by the squeak of a wheelchair rolling past and the low murmur of a caregiver. You think you'll be kicked out of here soon if you guys keep talking like this so publicly. But you can't help it. How else are you supposed to react? “The money didn’t fix him before and it’s not going to fix him now.” You hate that you’re a crier when you’re angry and you hate it even more that you’re now crying in public as the words spew without reason. “And don’t you dare minimize what happened. You’re lucky Jungkook didn’t put us in jail.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Namjoon snaps back, eyes rimmed with exhaustion. “Do you remember what the oncologist said? The treatments found what's been killing him and they slowed it down, yeah and guess what? He’s awake. Has been for 8 months. Time and medicine cost money. This isn’t about some adrenaline rush anymore. This is about buying him time to be lucid one more week, one more month. You’d rather let that slide because what? You feel guilty about Jungkook?” 

Your shoulders sag and your bottom lip quivers as you look at him, defeated. 

“I’m not minimizing it,” he says quieter, too tired to keep yelling. “But does that mean we bury Hoseok because we can’t live with our choices? Is that the line you’re gonna draw?”

“So we become worse thieves for one life?” You sit back down, dragging the heel of your hand across your cheek to wipe the tears away. “We used to have purpose. Now it’s just… wrong. All of it. We’re clutching at a thread that’s already frayed.” You meet his eyes. “I can’t do it anymore, Namjoon.”

For the first beat, something like shame flickers across his face. Then he clasps his hands together like he’s trying to hold himself in. “It’s not logic,” Namjoon admits and the words are raw. “It’s desperation. And yeah, maybe it’s stupid. Maybe it’ll ruin us. But if I had a choice between sitting in this courtyard pretending we did the right thing or giving him a chance to walk again– I’ll take the chance.” 

Around you, a nurse huffs past pushing a cart. Yeah, you're definitely going to get kicked out. Life goes on indifferent to how you break. You want to argue until your voice shreds, but the furious words dissolve into air. The truth is bitter, small, and undeniable. It settles between you both and the reality is that you’re all out of clean options. Hoseok is dying, and Namjoon’s grasping at straws to save his best friend. 

Namjoon straightens, jaw clenched. “I can’t promise it won’t hurt us more. I can’t promise anything but we have to try. We do this one right, and then we get out. No more risks after. I swear it to you.”

You look at him. In his face you see sleepless nights, math done in the dark, the same stubborn loyalty that once made him the one you could lean on. It’s not enough to make you agree. But it’s enough to make your anger hiccup into a different kind of ache.

“How much money is it this time?” You ask, your voice small.

“Half a billion dollars.” 

Your mouth goes dry.

“How the fuck are we going to do that?”

An hour later, you're back in the hospital room, sitting by the window across from Namjoon, who's excitedly bouncing back and forth as he explains.

“It’s this thing called Obsidian and this shit, _____, it works. It really works, and the best part is, it’s completely untraceable.” 

You nervously look over at Hoseok, who's sound asleep in the center of the room. You don't understand why this is being discussed right now but here you are. You can't lie, his excitement is undeniably contagious but despite it all, it's crazy.

Yoongi, who'd been quiet until now, looks up from where he's been fiddling with his phone. His tone is flat. "No one gets a magic bullet. Obsidian adds obfuscation layers, but there are still technical limits, market realities, people trying to map transactions. Nothing's foolproof."

Namjoon waves his hand as if swatting at Yoongi’s caution. “Still. Compared to bank transfers or the usual rails, this is the closest thing to disappearing a trail. If we move smart, if Yoongi can work the ledger-side…we can buy ourselves distance.”

You stare at them both, the words twisting in your chest. Hope and dread tangle when you realize the plan feels like a lifeline and a razor at once. Hoseok shifts faintly in his sleep, machines humming softly around him. 

“We’d be gambling on a lot more than just code,” Yoongi says finally. “Half a billion moves markets. There are legal heats, exchanges, and people who make a living unpicking this stuff. What I'm trying to say is that it won’t be clean.” The uncertainty in his tone makes your stomach drop.

Namjoon swallows and, for the first time, his bravado flickers. “We don’t have clean options,” he says, quiet. “Not anymore. This is just…our best shot.”

Silence settles over the room. It's thick and so suffocating, your head feels like it's caving in on itself.

You drag a hand down your face before looking back up at them. “So what’s the plan?” Your voice is steadier than you feel. “Because we can’t afford messy. Not with this kind of money.” You glance at Hoseok, then back at them. “Jail would be the least of our problems.”

Namjoon and Yoongi exchange a quick and loaded look. 

“It’s not a smash-and-grab,” Yoongi says. “It’s a transfer. It has to be quiet and scheduled.” He taps his phone, then turns it so you can see a grid of timestamps, nodes- something far too complex to fully grasp. “There’s a window. It's eight minutes or maybe less but it's where their system mirrors itself for auditing. That’s the gap.”

Namjoon leans in, voice dropping. “It’s happening during a private event. It's invitation-only and high security. It’s the kind of place no one questions money moving because everyone there has too much of it.”

Your brows knit together. “What kind of event?”

Yoongi hesitates for just a second.

“A gala,” Namjoon answers instead. “Investors, executives, elites…people who think they’re untouchable.” He laughs a bitter laugh. "Who knows, maybe they are untouchable." He's not doing any favours absolving the uncertainty.

A bad feeling creeps up your spine. “And we just…walk in?”

Namjoon doesn’t answer right away.

Yoongi does. “We don’t all walk in.” His eyes lift to meet yours. “We need one person inside. Someone who can blend. Someone who won’t get flagged. Someone who’s invited.”

The room feels smaller. “And you think that’s me?”

Namjoon’s silence is answer enough.

Your stomach drops. “Why me?” The question comes out sharper than you intend. It feels like déjà vu, and you’re so damn tired of being the guinea pig in their plans.

Another look passes between them and this one you don’t miss.

Yoongi exhales through his nose. “Because of who’s hosting it.”

Your pulse spikes. “Who?”

Namjoon finally says it.

“Jungkook.”

The name hits like a physical blow. For a second, you swear the machines in the room grow louder. Hoseok shifts in his sleep, completely unaware of the way your world just tilted.

Oh god. Oh no, no, no-

Namjoon presses forward and now there's urgency bleeding into his voice. "After the Gemini merger went through, GFC exploded. He's not just running a production company anymore– he's sitting on a media conglomerate. The gala is for his parent fund. He's tied to the company moving the funds, front-facing, the whole deal. What matters is you have a way in that none of us do."

“A way in?” You let out a hollow laugh. “I stole nearly three million dollars from him– actually, we did, Namjoon– and now you want me to steal from him again?” Your voice rises despite yourself before you force it back down. “Are you guys out of your damn minds?”

“Exactly,” Yoongi mutters. “Which means he remembers you.”

“That’s not a good thing!” You snap, exasperated.

“It means you won’t be invisible,” Namjoon says. “And right now, invisible people don’t get into rooms like that. Plus he sent an invitation.”

You stare at him, disbelief morphing into something sharper. “So your plan is to walk me into a room full of elite, powerful people– his room– and hope he doesn’t decide to ruin my life on the spot?” And you think why would Jungkook invite you? Is this a humiliation ritual? Are you dreaming again?

Namjoon doesn’t flinch. “My plan is to get you close enough to access what we need. Eight minutes. That’s all.”

“Eight minutes,” You repeat. “We failed last time. How can I trust you this time? And what if he recognizes me?”

“He will,” Yoongi says bluntly. Your throat goes dry as your gaze drifts back to Hoseok.

Your fingers curl against your sleeve as you watch him breathe. The idea hits you before you can stop yourself from speaking.

“…Then I have a condition.”

Namjoon stiffens. “This isn’t exactly–”

“It is,” you cut in, quieter now, but firm. “If I’m doing this, I’m not doing it your way.” Quite frankly, you're allowed to ask for this.

Yoongi studies you. “What do you want?”

You don’t look at them when you say it.

“Hoseok comes with me.”

The silence that follows is different from the others. It's not heavy with guilt or grief but bewildered and almost offended. You can feel Namjoon's stare boring into you without looking.

"He can barely stand," Namjoon says slowly, as if explaining something to a child.

"I know what he can barely do." You snap, your sharp eyes finally meet his. "But if I'm walking back into that man's life to rob him again, Hoseok is going to know exactly what we're doing and why. No more secrets. No more pretending this is noble while he sleeps through it." Your voice doesn't waver. "He deserves to see what his life is costing us. And if he tells us to stop, we stop."

Namjoon opens his mouth and then closes it. His jaw works like he's chewing on glass.

Yoongi is the one who speaks. "That's a hell of a condition."

"It's the only one I've got."

It takes you three days to work up the nerve.

Three days of rehearsing speeches in the shower, of mouthing words into the bathroom mirror that dissolve the second you try to hold them. Three days of sitting at Hoseok's bedside, watching him sip broth through a straw, laughing weakly at whatever variety show is playing on the mounted TV and swallowing the confession each time it crawls up your throat.

On the fourth morning, you arrive earlier than usual. The hallway is quiet and the nurses mid-shift change. You carry two cups of vending machine coffee that you know Hoseok isn't supposed to have. It's a peace offering or maybe a bribe. You're not sure there's a difference anymore.

He's already awake when you nudge the door open with your hip, propped up against the elevated headboard with his eyes fixed on the window. The morning light catches the hollows of his cheeks, the sharpness of his jaw that used to be softer. He looks like a pencil sketch of the person you grew up with, with all the right lines but now, thinner.

"You're early," he says without turning. His voice carries that raspy quality it has before noon.

"Couldn't sleep." You set both cups on his tray table, nudging one towards him. He eyes it, then eyes you, with a lifted brow.

"Is that coffee?"

"It's a vending machine's best interpretation of coffee."

He takes it anyway, wrapping both hands around the paper cup like it's something precious. You watch his fingers as they appear thinner than they should be, the knuckles more pronounced. He catches you staring and you look away too quickly.

"You've been weird," Hoseok says.

You blink. "What are you talking about?" You say it with a scoff.

"Weird. Weirder than usual." He takes a careful sip, wincing at the taste but drinking again anyway. "You keep looking at me funny. And you chew your lip when you're holding something back– you've been doing that since high school." He gestures vaguely at your mouth with the cup. "You're doing it right now."

You release your bottom lip from between your teeth. Damn him.

A silence stretches, filled only by the rhythmic beep of his heart monitor and the distant squeak of a cart rolling down the hallway. You pull the chair closer to his bed, the metal legs scraping against the floor. When you sit, your knees are almost touching the bed rail.

"Hobi," you start, and the nickname alone shifts something in the room. His expression doesn't change, but you notice the way his fingers tighten around the cup. "I need to tell you something. And I need you to let me finish before you say anything."

He regards you for a long moment, lips pressed together, before he gives a single nod.

You don't start where you expected to. You thought you'd begin with the plan, with Namjoon's blueprints and Yoongi's flash drives and the clinical structure of it all. Instead, what comes out is Jungkook's name.

"I fell in love with someone." The words feel foreign and familiar at once, like a language you used to speak fluently. "His name is Jungkook. Jeon Jungkook. He's– he was my boss. CEO of a film production company." You pause, tracing a scratch on the bed rail with your thumbnail. "I was supposed to be a distraction. That's all. And those were Namjoon's word, not mine. Just get close, earn his trust, keep his attention somewhere else while Yoongi and Jimin did their thing."

Hoseok's brow furrows, but he stays silent to honour his promise.

"But I fell for him, Hobi. Completely. Stupidly. The kind of falling where you don't realize it's happening until you're already at the bottom." You swallow hard. The coffee in your hand has gone lukewarm but you grip it tighter. A breath shudders out of you. "He told me he loved me, and I said it back, and I meant it. I meant every syllable."

Something akin to a mimicking ache shifts behind Hoseok's eyes.

"And then I robbed him."

The words drop like stones into still water. You watch the ripple cross Hoseok's face. It’s confusion at first, and then a slow, dawning understanding that rearranges his features entirely.

"We took two and a half million dollars," you continue. Your voice feels flat and mechanical because if you let yourself feel it now, you'll never finish. "The Gemini Pictures merger… Jungkook's company was about to become one of the biggest production firms in the industry. We stole the deal. Yoongi hacked the system, Jimin and I broke in at night. I used a secret entrance Jungkook had shown me in confidence. I used his password, which was the date we first met, to access his computer." You pause. "He'd changed it to that date because it mattered to him. And I used it to steal from him."

Hoseok's jaw tightens. He sets the coffee cup down carefully, deliberately, the way you set down something when your hands need to be free.

"He found out with security cameras we missed. He showed me the footage over a dinner I cooked him– sat across from me with flowers and an envelope and watched me unravel." You're not crying yet, which surprises you. Maybe you've cried it all out. Maybe the numbness has finally won. "He didn't press charges. He just… left."

The heart monitor beeps and in the silence that fills between the both of you, it beeps again.

"Why?" Hoseok's voice is barely above a whisper. It's the first word he's spoken, and it cuts deeper than any sentence could.

You look at him, really look at him. At the nasal cannula, the oxygen tanks, the constellation of wires that tether him to the machines keeping him alive. At the boy who used to outrun all of you, who danced until his shoes wore through, who laughed so loud it filled whatever room he was in.

"For you."

The next onslaught of silence that follows is not like the others. It doesn't settle, it detonates. Hoseok's face doesn't crumble the way you expected. It hardens into something ugly. You watch something cold move across his features, something you've never seen directed at you in all the years you've known him.

"For me," he repeats. There's no question mark attached to it, only a plain statement.

"Your medical bills were–"

"I know what my medical bills are." His voice is quiet, but the edges of it are bladed. "I see the invoices. I'm sick, _____, not blind." He shifts in the bed, the movement costing him visible effort, and you instinctively reach forward to help. He stops you with a look. "Don't."

Your hand hovers, then retreats.

"So let me get this straight." Hoseok's breathing has quickened, the cannula hissing faintly with each inhale. "You, Namjoon, Yoongi and Jimin— my best friends— decided to become thieves. To steal from people. To ruin someone's life." He holds up a trembling hand when you open your mouth. "I said let me finish."

You press your lips shut, the irony of your own request being turned against you.

"You fell in love with this man. And then you robbed him. While he was falling in love with you." He lets the words breathe, each one more clipped than the last. "And the whole time, I was unconscious. You just decided—all of you— that my life was worth more than your souls and you never once thought to ask me if I agreed."

The tears come now. Of course they do.

"Hobi–"

"Who asked you to do that?" The question snaps out of him with a force that startles you both. The heart monitor spikes briefly and a nurse peeks through the window before Hoseok waves her away with a shaking hand. He waits until the footsteps recede before he speaks again, quieter now, but no less sharp. "Who asked any of you to do that for me?"

"Nobody had to ask!" Your voice breaks open. "You're our family, you were dying, Hoseok, and we couldn't just–"

"You turned yourselves into criminals for me," he says, and the way he says it is almost disgusted and that disgust mirrors itself in you. "You destroyed a man who loved you. For me. And I didn't even get to have a choice."

A sob wracks through you. It's so ugly and uncontrolled. You press the heel of your palm against your mouth, trying to contain it, but it spills through your fingers like water. Hoseok watches you cry. He doesn't reach for you. He doesn't soothe you. For the first time in your friendship, he lets you sit in it.

When your breathing steadies to something resembling functional, Hoseok speaks again. "And now?" He tilts his head, eyes narrowing with a sharpness that reminds you he was always smarter than any of you gave him credit for. "You didn't come here just to confess. There's something else."

Of course he knows. The realization almost makes you laugh– a watery, broken thing. You drag your sleeve across your face.

"Namjoon has another plan. And it’s bigger, way bigger." You force yourself to hold his gaze. "Half a billion dollars. And it’s tied to Jungkook's company." You watch his eyes widen, his lips parting. "I told them I wouldn't do it unless you knew. Unless you were there. And unless you had the right to tell us to stop." You tell him everything about the plan, as much as you can remember from Yoongi's technical terms to the fact that there's a gala hosted by Jungkook they want you to attend.

Hoseok stares at you for a long time. Long enough for the light in the room to shift, the morning sun climbing higher past the blinds, painting warm stripes across the foot of his bed. His jaw works, lips pressing and releasing. You can see the war behind his eyes and the fury wrestling with something else, something softer and more complicated.

"You want to take me to a gala," he says slowly. "Me." He gestures at himself with the wires, the tubes, the hospital gown. "Looking like this."

"I don't care what you look like."

"That's not the point and you know it." He exhales, the sound rattling in the way that makes your stomach clench. He looks towards the window. "Do you still love him?"

The question catches you off guard, an ambush from a flank you hadn't defended. Your mouth opens and then closes. You think of the carnival, the Ferris wheel, fireworks reflected in Jungkook's dark eyes. You think of Lyara the penguin, waterlogged and drenched on your apartment floor. You think of the blue plastic ring.

"Yes." It comes out barely audible and the confession itself even startles you. You haven't been able to even admit it to yourself. "I don't think I ever stopped."

Hoseok closes his eyes. The heart monitor beeps its steady rhythm, indifferent to the weight of what's unfolding.

"Then you need to know something." He opens his eyes, and when they meet yours, the anger has dimmed. What remains is the Hoseok who held your hair back at parties, who proofread your essays at 3am, who once drove four hours in a thunderstorm because you called him crying. "If I let you do this… if I agree to be part of whatever the hell this is– it's not so you can steal from him again."

Your brow creases. "Then what—"

"It's so you can tell him the truth." His voice is firm despite its fragility, carrying a conviction that his body can no longer match. "About me. About why. About everything." He holds your gaze, unyielding. "You said he asked why, and you couldn't answer. This is your answer, _____. I am."

The simplicity of it winds you.

"If we walk into his world," Hoseok continues, "I'm not going as your alibi or your excuse. I'm going so he can see what you were trying to save. And then he can decide for himself whether it was worth what you took from him." He pauses, chest rising with a laboured breath. "That's my condition. Not Namjoon's money. Not Yoongi's code. The truth."

You stare at him, this man held together by machines and sheer will, and you realize that in trying to save his life, you forgot to account for who he actually is. He’s not a cause nor a justification but a person. One with more moral clarity in his deteriorating body than the rest of you have managed with your healthy ones. It's the Hoseok you've been fighting to keep alive.

"And if I tell him the truth," you say quietly, "and he still hates me?"

Hoseok's expression softens. For the first time since you started talking, you see the ghost of his heart-shaped smile but it’s not the full thing– just the scaffolding of it.

"Then at least he'll hate you for who you really are. Not for who he thinks you are."

You exhale. It feels like the first real breath you've taken in a year.

"And if Namjoon…"

"I'll deal with Namjoon." There's a glint in Hoseok's eye, something almost mischievous buried beneath the exhaustion. "He's not going to like it. But the last time I checked, it's my life you're all wagering with. I think that earns me a seat at the table."

You look down at your hands. They've stopped shaking. When you look back up, you reach for his hand gently, careful of the IV line taped to his wrist. He lets you take it this time. His fingers are cold, but they tighten around yours with surprising strength.

"I'm sorry, Hobi." The apology sits differently now. It's not the performative kind you've been rehearsing. It's genuine.

He squeezes your hand once. "I know." He regards you carefully and you wonder what he must be thinking. "But you owe that apology to someone else more than you owe it to me."

You nod, because he's right. He's so devastatingly right.

Outside the window, behind the curtains neither of you can see past, the autumn wind picks up. Somewhere on the path below, a young man in a black suede trench coat tucks his camera glasses into his breast pocket and pulls out his phone.

He dials and the line picks up on the second ring.

"She told him everything," he says, his boxy smile pulling wide. He pauses, listening. Then: "No, not yet. But she will."

A voice on the other end is quiet.

"Understood, Mr. Jeon. I'll keep you updated."

The line goes dead. Kim Taehyung pockets his phone, adjusts the grip on his cane, and walks back towards the parking lot. The first leaves of autumn skitter across the concrete behind him, carried by a wind that seems to know exactly where it's going.

Namjoon doesn't take it well.

You expect this, of course. You've known him long enough to read the weather patterns of his anger. The tight jaw comes first, then the nostril flare, then the deadly calm that precedes the storm. What you don't expect is for Hoseok to be the one holding the umbrella.

It happens the following evening. You're the one who texts Namjoon, a simple 'come to the hospital.' With no context. He arrives within the hour, Yoongi trailing behind him with his hands buried in his hoodie pockets and his laptop bag slung over one shoulder. They enter Hoseok's room expecting a logistics meeting. Instead, they find Hoseok sitting upright in bed– truly upright, not the half-reclined slouch he usually settles for. The TV is off and the overhead lights are turned to full. It feels less like a hospital room and more like a courtroom.

"Sit down," Hoseok says.

Namjoon glances at you. You're already seated by the window, arms crossed, offering nothing. It feels like when you're younger and your sibling is about to get in trouble. You can only watch from a distance and although it will be satisfying, it will also suck. He pulls up a chair, the legs squealing against the tile. Yoongi claims the far corner, perched on the windowsill with his legs dangling.

"She told me." Three words. Hoseok lets them land without a cushion, watching the impact register on Namjoon's face. To his credit, Namjoon doesn't flinch. But you see it, the barely perceptible tightening around his eyes and the way his fingers flatten against his thighs.

"Told you what?" Namjoon asks. It's not denial. It's a test– he wants to know how much.

"Everything." Hoseok holds his gaze. "RED Hotel. Jungkook. The two and a half million. The fact that four people I'd take a bullet for became thieves while I was unconscious, and nobody thought to mention it once I woke up."

The room goes vacuum-sealed. You hear the oxygen tank hiss beside Hoseok's bed, marking time in soft, mechanical breaths. Namjoon's jaw works. You recognize the motion as he's building an argument, assembling it brick by brick behind his teeth.

"Hoseok–"

"I'm not done." Hoseok's voice carries an authority you haven't heard from him in years. It's faint, sure and it’s carried on compromised lungs and thinned breath. But the steel in it is unmistakable. Namjoon's mouth closes. "I know why you did it. I understand the reasoning. I even understand the math." He gestures faintly toward the machines flanking his bed. "Trust me, nobody in this room is more aware of what it costs to keep me alive than the person it's actually costing."

The guilt hits all three of you simultaneously. You see it in the way Yoongi's gaze drops to his sneakers and Namjoon's throat bobs with a hard swallow.

"But you didn't give me a choice." Hoseok's eyes are glassy now, though nothing falls. "You decided my life was worth whatever it cost and you took that decision away from me." He pauses, the effort of sustained speech visible in the rise and fall of his chest. "I'm the one dying, Joon. Don't I get a say in what people destroy to keep me here?"

Namjoon leans forward, elbows on his knees, head dropping between his shoulders. For a long, terrible moment, you think he might cry. Namjoon doesn't cry. You've seen him through breakups, through his father's funeral, through the night Hoseok collapsed and the ambulance took twenty-three minutes to arrive. He didn't cry then. He’s organized, he’s planned, he’s calculated. Crying was a luxury he never permitted himself.

He doesn't cry now either. But it's close. When he raises his head, his eyes are red-rimmed, his voice stripped of its usual command.

"What was I supposed to do?" The question is so raw, so unlike the Namjoon who always has an answer, that it physically hurts to hear. "Watch you die? Sit in that waiting room and count ceiling tiles while they told us you had weeks?" His voice cracks on the last word. He catches it, swallows, presses on. "There was no version of this where I did nothing. I couldn't– I can't do nothing. Not when it comes to you."

The confession unpins something in the room. Yoongi turns his face toward the window, his reflection caught in the glass with a tight jaw and distant eyes. You wonder if he's thinking the same thing you are: that Namjoon never once framed this as anything other than a mission, a plan, a stratagem. Never once admitted that underneath the blueprints and the bravado, it was just a man terrified of losing his best friend.

Hoseok exhales a long, thin whistle through the cannula. "I know," he says, and there's no anger left– just a bone-deep weariness. "I know you can't sit back and do nothing. It's the most annoying thing about you." There's the faintest crack of a smile but it's gone as quickly as it appears. "But here's what's going to happen."

Namjoon straightens. You see him shift instinctively into listening mode, the same posture he adopts when a plan is being laid out. Old habits.

"I'm going to the gala," Hoseok says as if he's announcing he's going to the cafeteria. It's so matter-of-fact and decided, it surprises you again. "Not as a prop. Not as your sick friend who justifies everything. I'm going because _____ owes someone the truth and she's not going to do it alone." His eyes find yours and hold. "And I'm going because if this is what my life is costing, I want to look the price in the face."

Namjoon opens his mouth–

"I'm not finished." Hoseok's hand raises, trembling but firm. "The job goes forward. I'm not going to pretend I can stop you, you're all too stubborn and too stupid for that." The faintest ghost of warmth in his voice. "But the truth comes first. Before Yoongi touches a keyboard, before anyone transfers a single won, _____ tells Jungkook why. She shows him me. And if after he knows, if after he sees what you were trying to save, he still wants us gone? We go. We walk away. No arguments. I don't want to hear it."

"That's—" Namjoon starts.

"Non-negotiable." Hoseok meets his stare, unflinching. "You stole two and a half million dollars from that man to pay for my heartbeat. I think the least I can do is show him the heart."

The silence that follows is so absolute, you can hear the fluorescent lights humming above you. Namjoon sits motionless, eyes locked with Hoseok's. Something passes between them that you've only ever witnessed a handful of times. It’s a form of communication that predates the rest of you, rooted in a friendship that started before any of yours did. They were friends first. Before the group, before Jimin, before Yoongi, before you. That foundation carries a weight none of you can overrule.

Namjoon's shoulders drop but not in defeat, in concession. He nods once. "Okay." The word costs him more than the half a billion ever could.

Yoongi speaks for the first time. "For the record," he says from his corner, still facing the window, "I think this is the best idea any of us has had in two years." He turns, and there's something close to respect in his gaze when it settles on Hoseok. "You should've been calling the shots the whole time."

Hoseok smiles and it’s the real one this time, heart-shaped and warm, though it sits on a face too thin to hold it properly. "Yeah," he says. "I should've been."

Two weeks before the gala, your life becomes a choreography of preparation and pretense.

Yoongi sets up a command center of sorts in Hoseok's hospital room, much to the displeasure of the nursing staff. His laptop occupies the guest table, flanked by two additional monitors he smuggled in inside instrument cases. The wires snake across the floor like veins, taped down in haphazard lines that one particular nurse has tripped over three times. You've started leaving her apology chocolates at the nurses' station.

"The system mirrors for exactly seven minutes and forty-three seconds," Yoongi explains one afternoon, pointing to a diagram on his screen that looks like a subway map designed by a lunatic. The lunatic being Yoongi. "During that window, the auditing protocol creates a duplicate ledger. We intercept the mirror, redirect the funds through a series of Obsidian wallets layered on the platform’s blockchain, and by the time the mirror collapses, the money's been scattered across so many nodes it would take a forensic team six months to trace a single transaction."

"And you can do all of that in seven minutes?" You lean over his shoulder, squinting at the screen.

"Seven minutes and forty-three seconds," he corrects. "And no. I can do it in four."

"Then why do we need eight?"

"Because four minutes is for the transfer." He taps a second diagram. "The other four are for you."

You frown. "Me?"

"You need to physically access a terminal at the event. The system requires biometric confirmation from an authorized user to initiate the mirror. A fingerprint scan." He looks at you over the rim of his glasses. "Jungkook's fingerprint."

Your stomach bottoms out. "You want me to get his fingerprint."

"I want you to get him to touch a screen," Yoongi clarifies, pulling up an image of what looks like an ordinary phone. "This. It's a modified device, looks like a standard tablet. The screen captures biometric data on contact. All you need to do is get him to interact with it. Hand it to him, show him something on it. Thirty seconds of contact is all I need."

"You want me to hand Jungkook, a man I robbed and whose heart I broke— a tablet. And have him casually press his finger to it."

"Ideally his thumb." Yoongi's tone doesn't change. "Index works too."

You stare at him until he has the decency to look uncomfortable. From across the room, Hoseok snorts.

The suit fitting happens on a Tuesday.

Namjoon arranges it through a contact, someone who doesn't ask questions and makes house calls to hospitals. The tailor arrives with a rolling rack and a measuring tape draped around his neck like a stethoscope. The irony isn't lost on any of you.

Hoseok hasn't stood unaided in months, but he insists on being upright for the measurements. It takes both you and Namjoon to help him from the bed, his arms draped over your shoulders, legs finding the floor like a newborn colt. The tailor politely pretends not to notice the IV stand trailing behind his client.

"Charcoal or navy?" the tailor asks, unfurling fabric swatches.

Hoseok studies them with more intensity than a dying man should reasonably dedicate to colour theory. "Black," he says finally.

"Black wasn't an option," Namjoon mutters.

"It is now." Hoseok stands a little straighter, the effort whitening his knuckles where they grip the bed rail. "If I'm going to a party to show some billionaire what his money paid for, I'm not doing it in charcoal."

You press your lips together to keep from laughing, but the sound escapes anyway, a wet, breathy thing that's half humor and half grief. The tailor measures him with clinical efficiency: inseam, shoulders, waist. Each number feels like a subtraction, a quantification of how much of Hoseok has been whittled away. His waist is narrower than yours now. The tailor doesn't comment.

When it's your turn, the process is quicker. Namjoon has procured a gown that’s floor-length, deep emerald, with a neckline that suggests elegance and a back that suggests intention. You try it on in the bathroom, standing in front of the mirror under fluorescent light that does no one any favours.

You barely recognize yourself, and it’s not because of the dress, but because of the eyes staring back at you. They're harder than you remember. You wonder if Jungkook will notice. You wonder what will happen when you see him again and if you truly are prepared. You're most likely not but whatever, you're used to flying by the seat of your pants.

When you step out, Hoseok is back in bed, but he wolf-whistles, breathy and weak and absolutely ridiculous. And for a single, perfect moment, it feels like old times.

"Stunning," he says. "He won't know what hit him."

You smooth the fabric over your hip. "That's what I'm afraid of."

The days leading up to the gala pass in a strange twilight of hyperactivity and dread. Yoongi runs simulations, Namjoon drills contingencies and Hoseok practices walking.

This last part guts you more than anything else. Every morning, you watch him grip the parallel bars the physical therapist set up along the length of his room, knuckles bone-white, jaw set, legs quaking beneath him as he forces one foot in front of the other. The cannula trails behind him, the oxygen tank wheeled alongside by a patient nurse who's learned to match his agonizing pace. Ten steps the first day. Twelve the second. By the end of the first week, he makes it to the door and back.

He doesn't complain. Not once. Not about the pain, not about the exhaustion that collapses him back into bed afterward, not about the indignity of a twenty-six year old man celebrating the fact that he walked fourteen steps. When you catch him grimacing after a session, he flattens his expression the instant he notices you watching.

"Stop looking at me like that," he says one evening, breathless and sheened with sweat.

"Like what?"

"Like I'm going to break."

You hold his gaze. "Are you?"

He considers this for a moment, genuinely, then shakes his head. "Not yet."

By the second week, he can manage twenty steps with a cane. It's enough. It has to be.

Fifty kilometres away, in a penthouse suite that overlooks the city from the forty-second floor, Jeon Jungkook stands at the floor-to-ceiling window with a glass of whiskey he hasn't touched.

The city below pulses with light and arterial reds of brake lights, the gold spill of storefronts, the cold blue wash of office buildings still lit past midnight. It's beautiful in the way that expensive things are beautiful: perfectly maintained and utterly soulless.

He hears the elevator chime behind him but he doesn't turn.

"She told him," Kim Taehyung's voice carries across the marble floor, accompanied by the rhythmic tap of his cane. "Everything. The first heist, you, the money. All of it."

Jungkook's reflection stares back at him in the glass, translucent, ghostly against the cityscape. He's changed in the year since he walked away from her door. His hair is shorter, cropped close at the sides and pushed back from his forehead. The softness that once rounded his cheeks has sharpened into angles. He looks older. Not in years but in something harder to quantify.

"How did he react?" Jungkook asks. His voice is even, controlled. It’s the voice of a man who's spent twelve months learning how to discuss her without flinching.

Taehyung settles onto the leather sofa behind him, stretching his bad leg out with a wince. "Angry. He didn't know any of it. They kept him in the dark the entire time." He pauses.

Jungkook is quiet for a long time. The ice in his untouched whiskey has melted, the amber liquid diluted to pale gold.

"He's dying. Has been for a while." Taehyung's voice loses its professional edge, softening into something more human. He and Jungkook are friends before they are business associates and have been since Taehyung took a bullet in Busan five years ago that left him with a permanent limp. Jungkook paid for his rehabilitation without being asked. Loyalty between them is a currency that predates money. 

Jungkook closes his eyes. Behind his lids, he sees her. What he doesn't see is the woman who sat across from him at the dinner table, leafing through surveillance photos with trembling hands, but the woman he fell in love with ice cream on her lip, laughing at something he said. 

"I hired you to find out why she did it," he says quietly. "I hired you to get them close enough so I could look her in the eye and understand. That's all I wanted. An answer." He finally lifts the glass, taking a sip of the watered-down whiskey. It's weak and bitter, and he grimaces but drinks again anyway. "I didn't plan for this."

"For what?"

"For a reason that makes sense." He sets the glass down on the sill, harder than necessary. The sound pings across the silent penthouse. "It was supposed to be greed. Something I could be angry at.” He swallows. "Not a dying man in a hospital bed."

Taehyung watches him carefully. "Does it change anything?"

Jungkook doesn't answer immediately. He reaches into his pocket and pulls something out— a small, circular object that catches the city light. A bright blue plastic ring. The paint has faded, chipped in places, but he's kept it. This entire time, he's kept it.

He turns it between his fingers, studying it the way one studies a relic from a past life.

"It changes everything," he says finally. "And nothing. She still lied." He pockets the ring again. "But now I know she had a reason. And that might be worse."

"Worse?"

Jungkook looks at Taehyung, and for the first time, the mask slips. Underneath is not the CEO, or conglomerate head- hell, it's not even the man with his name on buildings and gala invitations. Underneath is a boy with doe eyes who fell in love with the wrong person and hasn't figured out how to fall back out.

"Because I could've helped her." The words land like a confession of their own. "If she had just told me about her friend, about the money, about any of it— I would've helped. I had the resources. I had the means. She didn't have to steal from me." His voice frays at the edges. "She chose to rob me instead of trust me. And I don't know which one hurts more."

Taehyung is silent for a long time. "The gala is in six days."

"I know."

"Namjoon's team is prepping. Your security detail has their profiles. We can intercept at any point."

"No." Jungkook turns from the window, eyes hardened with resolve. "Let them come. I need them to do this for me.” 

Taehyung nods, rising from the sofa with a lean on his cane. He studies Jungkook for a moment, then turns for the elevator. He stops halfway, speaking over his shoulder. "For what it's worth," he says, "I don’t think you’ve left her mind."

"Maybe." Jungkook's voice is barely a whisper. "But eventually she’ll have to leave mine."

The elevator doors close. Jungkook stands alone in the penthouse, the city sprawled beneath him like a circuit board, every light a connection, every dark space a severance. He thinks of a password he once set: eight digits, a date, a beginning. He wonders if endings have dates too.

The night of the gala arrives the way all inevitable things do, too quickly and not quickly enough.

You're in Hoseok's room, the emerald gown pooling around your feet as you sit on the edge of his bed, holding a tube of lipstick you can't seem to apply with steady hands. A garment bag hangs from the curtain rod, Hoseok's black suit pressed and waiting.

Namjoon arrives in a charcoal suit that fits like an apology. He hasn't said much in the days since Hoseok laid down his terms, operating with a quiet efficiency that you've come to interpret as his version of penance. He runs through the plan one final time with Yoongi over comms, voice low and clinical, stripped of the bravado that used to characterize these briefings. Something has changed in him. The desperation is still there, but it's been tempered, reined in by the leash of Hoseok's conviction.

"Comms check," Yoongi says from behind his monitors, an earpiece tucked into his right ear. He'll be stationed in a service van two blocks from the venue, running the operation remotely. "Radio silence unless absolutely necessary. _____, your frequency is channel 3. Namjoon is on standby at channel 7. If anything goes sideways—"

"It won't," Namjoon interrupts. He meets Yoongi's stare. "It can't."

Yoongi holds his gaze for a beat, then nods.

The hardest part is getting Hoseok ready.

It takes forty minutes. You help him into his shirt first, guiding his arms through the sleeves with the gentleness of handling something irreplaceable. Namjoon handles the trousers, steadying Hoseok's legs as he steps into them one at a time, both of them pretending it's not a struggle. The jacket goes last, and when Hoseok is finally dressed, standing between the two of you in his black suit, cane in one hand, cannula removed for the first time in months, you almost lose your composure entirely.

He looks beautiful. Devastatingly, impossibly beautiful. The suit hangs on his diminished frame in ways the tailor couldn't fully compensate for, the shoulders a touch too wide, the waist pinched with an extra fold of fabric. But his face– his face is alive. His eyes are bright, focused, burning with a determination that his body has no business supporting.

"How do I look?" he asks, adjusting his cuffs with fingers that only shake a little.

"Like hell," Namjoon says.

Hoseok grins fully, heart-shaped and radiant. "Perfect."

A portable oxygen concentrator has been arranged that’s small enough to fit in a bag and discreet enough to pass unnoticed. The doctor fought against this expedition with considerable force, relenting only when Hoseok signed a release form with the calm resignation of a man who's already made peace with every possible outcome. The nurse attached a pulse oximeter to his finger with a look that said everything her professionalism wouldn't allow.

The car waits at the hospital's rear exit. Namjoon drives. You sit in the back with Hoseok, his hand in yours, his cane propped between his knees. The city slides past the tinted windows in streaks of light and shadow. None of you speak. The silence is too full for words and weighted with everything you're about to do, everything you've done and everything that can't be undone.

Hoseok squeezes your hand once. You look at him.

"Whatever happens in there," he says quietly, "you just need to tell him the truth." His eyes hold yours, steady despite the exhaustion pulling at their edges. "Promise me."

You squeeze back, a nervous smile settling across your face. "I promise."

The car pulls to a stop and your heart beats louder. This is it.

Through the window, you see it, the Grand Meridian Hotel. Its façade bathed in gold light, a procession of black cars depositing glittering figures onto a red carpet that bleeds into the lobby. The building reaches into the night sky like a monolith, its upper floors disappearing into low-hanging clouds. Security lines the entrance in tailored suits, earpieces catching light.

Namjoon kills the engine. In the rearview mirror, his eyes find yours.

"Eight minutes," he says. "That's all we need."

You hold his gaze. "No," you say quietly. "That's all you need."

You step out of the car first, the autumn air biting through the silk of your gown. You turn and offer your hand to Hoseok. He takes it, rising from the car with a controlled effort that costs him more than anyone watching would ever guess. His cane clicks against the pavement. He steadies himself, lifts his chin, and for a moment, just a moment, you see the Hoseok from before. The one who lit up every room. The one who made you believe that sheer force of joy could outrun anything, even death.

The two of you stand together at the base of the steps, staring up at the golden doors. Music drifts out with a string quartet, something classical and expensive. Laughter follows, the tinkling kind that belongs to people who've never had to choose between rent and groceries.

Hoseok glances at you. "Ready?"

You think of Jungkook somewhere inside those walls. Of the love you once shared, although now one-sided. You don't know how you're holding your composure but it's now or never.

"No," you answer honestly.

He smiles. "Good. That means you care."

Together, you climb the steps. Hoseok's cane taps a steady rhythm against the stone, one, two, one, two- a metronome counting down to something neither of you can predict. Your hand stays on his arm. The doorman opens the gilded entrance without a word.

Warmth engulfs you. Light, sound, perfume, the shimmer of crystal and the murmur of a hundred conversations layered over strings. The ballroom opens before you like the throat of some magnificent, glittering beast. Chandeliers hang like frozen constellations. Men in tuxedos and women in gowns orbit each other in practiced elegance, champagne catching light in their hands. It’s the kind of wealth that you only see in the movies. 

A waiter materializes at your elbow with a tray of champagne flutes, and you take two without thinking, pressing one into Hoseok's free hand. He accepts it with a look that says he has no intention of drinking it and every intention of using it as a prop.

"Smile," he murmurs, lips barely moving. "You look like you're calculating an exit route."

"I am calculating an exit route."

"Do it while smiling."

You smile. It feels like something you're wearing, like the gown, like the earrings that are already beginning to pinch. Hoseok's arm is warm beneath your hand, and you focus on that, on the solidity of him, as you move deeper into the ballroom's current.

The room works the way these rooms always do, pulling people into its orbit through some unspoken social gravity. A couple drifts past you, trailing perfume and quiet laughter. A man in a tuxedo gestures broadly at nothing, making a point no one will remember. Somewhere to your left, a woman's necklace catches the chandelier light and throws small stars across the ceiling. You feel so out of place walking amongst the wealth like an imposter that you get caught off guard mid thought when your ear piece goes off.

Yoongi's voice arrives in your ear, low and even. “Perimeter looks clean. Security rotation is every four minutes on the east corridor. Namjoon's in position near the main stairs. You have time.”

You search the crowd of elites and suck in a breath when you see him.

Across the room, half-turned from you, a glass of something dark in his hand. His hair is shorter than you remember, pushed back from his forehead in a way that sharpens the line of his jaw. He's mid-conversation with a silver-haired man, nodding at something being said, his posture carrying the easy authority of someone who owns the room and every wall around it.

Your body responds before your brain can intervene. Heat blooms across your chest, your pulse spiking in places that have nothing to do with fear. You know this reaction, in fact you know it intimately. You know it from every time he walked into a room, every time his hand found the small of your back and every time he had you pinned underneath him with slow, deliberate drags of his– no. You can’t go there. A year of distance has done nothing to rewire it. Your body still recognizes him as something it wants, and the betrayal of that recognition makes your skin burn.

Your breath catches and your fingers tighten around Hoseok's arm.

Jungkook hasn't seen you yet. Or maybe he has. You can't tell from here whether the slight tension in his shoulders is for you or for the conversation. That is before a woman joins in. She’s breathtakingly gorgeous, a red gown ten times more luxurious than the one you’ve adorned. Her dark hair falls behind her open back in curls, and what takes you most aback is the way Jungkook lights up when he sees her- gently placing a small peck against her cheek. 

Something sharp and ugly twists in your chest. You have absolutely no right to feel it, and you feel it anyway.

Hoseok follows your gaze across the room. He studies the man who funded his heartbeat without ever knowing it. The man you robbed, loved, and lost. Or you suppose, loved, then robbed and then lost.

"He's tall," Hoseok observes quietly.

You can't bring yourself to respond. Your heart is hammering so violently, you're certain Hoseok can feel it through your arm.

And then, as if summoned by the weight of your stare, Jungkook turns.

As you loosen your grip on Hoseok’s arm, you’re met by the vibrant and bright chocolate doe eyes of Jeon Jungkook while he holds her the way he once held you. 

And the world goes quiet. The music fades. The chatter dissolves. There is only the distance between you, forty feet of marble floor, a year of silence, and every unspoken word that fills the space between.

The look he gives you isn't anger but isn't warmth either. It's the look of a man taking inventory of something he lost. His gaze traces from your eyes to your mouth, lingering there for a beat that makes your skin prickle, before dropping to the emerald neckline and back up. You feel it like a physical thing, like fingers dragging across your collarbone or how soft and careful his kisses were, and you have to remind yourself to breathe.

He doesn't move. Neither do you.

The woman in red places a hand on Jungkook's arm, saying something you can't hear. He doesn't look at her. His eyes stay on yours, and whatever she says dissolves into the noise of the room, unanswered.

"You should go," Hoseok says.

"I'm not leaving you standing alone."

"I'm not alone." He nods toward the column. "I have this very sturdy piece of architecture." A beat passes. "And Yoongi will talk my ear off if I ask him to."

“He's not wrong,” Yoongi says in your ear, and you almost laugh despite everything.

You look at Hoseok for a moment longer than you mean to. He's watching the room with those bright, tired eyes, his cane resting against the column, champagne held loosely in one hand. He has spent so much of these last months becoming smaller, quieter, reduced by increments. But here, in this borrowed hour, he has made himself enormous again through sheer will alone.

You squeeze his arm once, and he nods without looking at you, and that's enough. You turn. You begin to move through the crowd.

You catch Namjoon by the main stairs as Yoongi mentioned. He's not just standing there; he's working. You catch him mid-handshake with a man in a navy blazer, his smile sharp and practiced, and as the man turns away, you see Namjoon's left hand slip something small and flat into his inner jacket pocket. A cloned access badge. He's already halfway through his own mission, running a parallel track you can only glimpse in fragments. His eyes cut to yours for half a second with a flicker of acknowledgment, a silent status report and then he looks away. The sight of it settles something cold in your chest, the reality of it all.

Eight minutes, he'd said.

Your heels click against the marble. One step. Then another.

Jungkook watches you come.

He moves before you've fully decided to. Or perhaps you move first. Later, you won't be able to say with certainty. What you'll remember is that the distance between you simply begins to close, pulled shut by something older and more stubborn than either of your intentions. And then there are only a few feet of marble between you, and then there are none.

Up close, he is worse.

That's the only word for it. Worse. More real. The year that stretched between you like an ocean has done nothing to blunt the specific way he occupies space, the breadth of his shoulders, the slight asymmetry of his mouth, the way his eyes catch light and hold it longer than they should. He is exactly as you remember and entirely different and both of these things are devastating in their own register.

The woman in red has drifted away. You caught the movement in your periphery, some acquaintance pulling her into a separate orbit, laughing at something, her dark curls disappearing into the crowd. She doesn't know she's given you anything. She doesn't know there is anything to give.

Jungkook's glass is still in his hand. He hasn't looked away from you since you started moving.

"You’re here," he says.

It's not what you expected. You don't know what you expected, something cooler, something with more architecture to hide behind. But those two words come out slightly uneven, fractionally too quiet for the room, and you watch him register that he's said them wrong before his expression closes over it like water over a stone.

"I was invited," you say.

Something moves behind his eyes that you can't quite read. Then again, it's been a while. "You were." 

The space between those words and his next ones is too long. He fills it by dropping his gaze briefly, just a half-second, taking in the emerald gown, the earrings, the lipstick you finally managed to apply with shaking hands in the car. When he looks back up, his jaw is set in a way you recognize. It's the look he gets when he's decided to be careful.

"You look—" He stops and starts again. "It's good to see you." It isn't what he was going to say. You both know it.

The string quartet shifts into something slower. Around you, the room continues its elaborate performance of itself, glasses lifted, laughter rising and falling in practiced waves, none of it touching the two feet of charged air between you and the man you robbed. The man you loved. The man who is watching you now, like he's trying to solve something.

Your pulse is very loud and you want to ask him why he invited you but instead you call to him.

"Jungkook," you begin, because you promised Hoseok, because there is a clock somewhere running down eight minutes that has nothing to do with why you're really here, because the truth has been sitting in your chest for a year, and it is very heavy. "There are things I need to say to you."

His chin dips slightly. An acknowledgment that isn't quite permission.

"I know," he says.

Something in his tone stops you. Not the words, but the texture of them.

Your eyes search his face. "What do you know?"

He holds your gaze for a beat that lasts too long. His fingers shift around his glass. In another life, in another version of this night, you think he might have reached for your hand instead.

"That you're here," he says finally. "That's enough for now."

It's not an answer. You file that away somewhere and let it sit, because Yoongi's voice is a low murmur in your ear, reminding you of timelines. And across the room Namjoon is still performing his own careful theatre, and Hoseok is leaning against a column with a champagne glass he won't drink from, and you made a promise.

But Jungkook is looking at you the way he used to, underneath the composure, underneath whatever careful thing he's built around himself this past year. Like you are something he thought he'd finished grieving. You feel like you might break under his gaze. The onslaught of emotions hit you harder than that night he left your house. And you can’t help but crave his touch again.

You look away first. You have to.

There's a pillar to your left and you fix your gaze on it for exactly two seconds, long enough to find the floor beneath your feet again.

Then you look back at him, because you promised.

"Can we go somewhere quieter?" you ask. The ballroom feels like it's shrinking, the string quartet and the laughter and the perfume collapsing inward.

Jungkook studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he tilts his head toward a corridor beyond the grand staircase. "There's a terrace."

You nod, and he moves first, setting his glass on a passing waiter's tray without looking. You follow a half-step behind, close enough to catch the scent of his cologne. It’s different from what he used to wear– it’s something darker and woodier. You hate that you notice.

As you pass the staircase, your eyes catch Namjoon's. He's watching you move toward the corridor, his jaw tightening. You give an imperceptible shake of your head of a "not yet". His gaze holds yours for a beat too long before he turns back to his conversation, the tension in his shoulders broadcasting everything his face won't.

"She's moving to the east terrace," you hear Yoongi murmur through the earpiece, talking to Namjoon rather than you. "Timeline still holds. Let her work."

The corridor narrows, the noise of the ballroom dimming behind you like a radio being dialled down. Jungkook pushes through a glass door, and the autumn night hits you, sharp and clean against the heat of the gala. The terrace overlooks the city from a height that makes everything below look insignificant.

Jungkook walks to the stone railing and rests both hands on it, his back to you for a moment. You watch the way his shoulders rise with a breath, then drop. When he turns, he leans against the railing, arms crossed, and the posture is so deliberately casual it hurts. He's armouring himself.

"So," he says. "Talk."

The word is blunt but underneath it, you hear the thing he's actually saying: I've been waiting a year for this. You straighten your spine. You think of everything, every version of the speech you've prepared but you go off pure gut instinct.

"The night you came to my apartment," you start, your voice thin against the open air. "You showed me the photos. You asked me why." The memory is a blade. You distinctly remember his flowers, the envelope, the surveillance stills scattering across the table. "I couldn't answer you then."

"I remember." His voice is flat but his eyes aren't. There's something deep and restless moving behind them.

"I'm answering you now."

Jungkook doesn't speak. He waits the way a man waits for a verdict he's already tried to accept.

"His name is Jung Hoseok." You say it clearly, giving the name its full weight. "He's my best friend. He's been my best friend since we were fourteen years old." You take a breath that shakes more than you'd like. "He got sick two years ago, and nobody knew what it was. The doctors ran every test, every scan, and came back with nothing. Then the bills started. You can't imagine what it costs to keep someone alive when medicine doesn't even know what's killing them."

Jungkook's expression hasn't changed, but you see the shift. There’s a fractional loosening around his jaw, like a door being unlocked without being opened.

"We were drowning," you continue. "Student loans, medical debt, the cost of keeping him in a hospital that could actually help. Namjoon– you remember Namjoon?" You don't wait for an answer. "He came up with the plan. The first one. Then the second." You swallow. "The second one was you."

A muscle feathers along Jungkook's jaw. His arms stay crossed.

"I was supposed to be a distraction. Get hired as your assistant, keep your attention occupied while they handled the technical side." You force yourself to hold his gaze. "That's all it was supposed to be."

"But it wasn't." His voice is quiet. 

"No." The word catches in your throat. "It wasn't. I fell in love with you. I fell in love with the way you held doors open and remembered dates and how you loved me without condition." Your eyes are burning, but you refuse to blink. "I didn't plan on any of it. I didn't plan on you."

Jungkook uncrosses his arms. His hands find the railing behind him and grip it, knuckles whitening. The movement pulls his shirt taut across his chest, and you hate yourself for noticing and hate that even now, even mid-confession, some traitorous part of your brain is cataloguing the way his jaw catches the moonlight, the column of his throat above his loosened collar. You're telling him about the worst thing you've ever done, and your body is remembering the best things he's ever done to it.

The silence between you is different from the ballroom silence, from the hospital silence, from the silence that fell when Jungkook walked away from your apartment a year ago. This silence has oxygen in it. It has room to breathe.

"March 14th," Jungkook says, very quietly.

"March 14th," you repeat. "I typed it into your computer to steal from you, and I hated myself for knowing it." You look towards him. "He's here," you say. "Hoseok. He's inside."

Something crosses Jungkook's face that you can't fully read; surprise isn't quite it because it moves too quickly. It's quickly replaced by something more complex. Recognition, maybe. Like a piece sliding into a puzzle he's been working on in the dark.

"He signed himself out of the hospital to be here tonight. He can barely walk. He has a cane and a portable oxygen concentrator in a bag, and he's wearing a suit that doesn't fit because his body is half of what it used to be." Your voice breaks on the last part, but you keep going because you promised. "He's twenty-six years old, and he's dying, and he's standing in your ballroom right now because he thinks you deserve to know that his heartbeat is the reason I broke yours."

The wind picks up, carrying with it the faint sound of the string quartet from inside, something melancholy, something in a minor key that has no business being this appropriate. Jungkook's chest rises with a deep breath, his fingers releasing the railing.

"Where is he?" he asks.

The question shocks you into stillness. You expected him to still be angry, cold or even dismissal. You expected the same venom that lacerated you at your dinner table a year ago. You had prepped yourself to brace for impact. Instead, he's asking where Hoseok is.

"By the east columns," you manage. "Near the entrance."

Jungkook pushes off the railing. He takes a step toward the door and then stops to turn back to you. The city lights catch the silver of his cufflinks, the sharp line of his jaw, the look in his eyes that you've never seen before. 

"I would love to meet him," he says. "Not for you. For me."

He holds the terrace door open for you, and you walk through it feeling as if you've just stepped off the edge of something with no certainty of where you'll land.

As you pass him in the doorway, the space is narrow enough that your arm grazes his chest. The contact lasts less than a second. It’s silk against cotton, your bare arm against the warmth of him– and you feel it everywhere. His breath catches. Or maybe yours does too. You don’t look at him. You can’t. If you look at him right now, with your defences stripped and his chest warm against your skin, you will do something you can’t take back. You keep walking as he follows. 

Yoongi's voice returns in your ear, sharper now. "Fifteen minutes to mirror. _____, where are you? I need confirmation you're moving to the terminal."

"I need a minute," you say to both of them, though only one can hear you.

The ballroom swallows you both back into its machinery. Jungkook walks beside you but not with you, a deliberate distance maintained. You're aware of every inch of it.

You're halfway across the floor when it happens. A sharp voice cuts through the ambient noise.

"Wait– don't I know you?"

You freeze. The woman in the red dress you saw earlier with Jungkook has stepped into your path, head tilted, eyes narrowing with the specific intensity of someone rifling through their memory. She's even more beautiful up close with expensive jewellery and the kind of face that attends a lot of industry events.

"You worked at GFC, didn't you?" she says. "Jungkook's assistant?"

Your blood goes cold. Beside you, Jungkook stiffens almost imperceptibly.

"I think you're mistaken," you manage, your voice remarkably steady for someone whose heart has just relocated to her throat.

The woman squints harder. "No, I'm sure of it. The holiday party, two years ago? You were handling the guest list. I remember because you—"

"Mrs. Ahn." Jungkook's voice slides in, smooth and warm, and the interruption is so seamless. He steps forward with a smile that reaches exactly as far as it needs to. "I'm so glad you could make it tonight. Have you met the team from Hana Ventures? I believe your husband was asking about their sustainability portfolio. They're just by the bar." Oh. She’s married. You can’t help but feel relief. 

It's a redirection so elegant it borders on art. Mrs. Ahn's attention pivots to Jungkook entirely, her recognition of you dissolving into the social gravity of a CEO's full attention. She brightens, adjusts her necklace, and allows herself to be guided toward the bar with a delighted "Oh, wonderful!"

Jungkook glances back at you over his shoulder as he walks Mrs. Ahn away. The look lasts one second. In it, you read: Stay. I'll be back.

You press your back against the nearest column, heart hammering, and wait. Jungkook returns within two minutes, his composure fully restored.

"Thank you," you breathe.

"Don't thank me yet." The words carry a weight you don't fully understand. "Come on. Show me your friend."

You navigate the remaining distance to the east columns. Hoseok is where you left him, still propped against the column with his untouched champagne. His cane is hooked over his forearm while he's watching a couple dance. His expression carries a wistfulness that makes your throat close. From this distance, in this light, in that suit, you could almost forget he's sick.

Hoseok senses your approach. His gaze shifts to you, then past you to the man walking in your wake. His eyes sharpen. He straightens with a conscious effort, drawing every reserve of energy he has to meet this moment upright. He sets the champagne glass on the column's ledge, frees his cane, and faces Jungkook fully.

The two men regard each other across a narrowing distance. You step to the side, because this isn't yours anymore. This is between the man whose life was bought at another man's expense and the man who paid the price without knowing.

Jungkook stops three feet from Hoseok. He takes him in, the ill-fitting suit, the too-sharp cheekbones, the way he leans on the cane with practised subtlety. You watch Jungkook's eyes trace the details the way he used to study you. It’s as if he’s cataloguing, absorbing, trying to understand.

"Jung Hoseok," Hoseok says, extending a hand that trembles just slightly. His voice is steady despite it. "I believe you've been keeping me alive.”

You see the impact land on Jungkook's face like a wave of something cresting and breaking behind his careful composure. He looks at Hoseok's extended hand. He then takes it warmly.

"Jeon Jungkook," he replies, and his voice is thick. "I wish we'd met differently."

"So do I." Hoseok's grip tightens before releasing. "But if we'd met differently, I'd probably be dead. So I'll take this."

The bluntness catches Jungkook off guard. You watch him blink to recalibrate. Hoseok does that to people and has always done that. Even diminished, even tethered to machines and measured in borrowed months, he has a way of cutting straight to the marrow of a thing.

Hoseok shifts his weight onto his cane, glancing at you briefly before returning to Jungkook.

"You're quite handsome," he says conversationally. "No wonder she's in love with you."

The floor drops out from under you.

"Hoseok!" His name comes out strangled.

"What?" He turns to you with an expression of perfect innocence that has absolutely no business existing on a man in his condition. "It's true."

You look at Jungkook who is already looking at you. You look away with flushed cheeks and another wave of warmth spreading across the back of your neck.

"He's been on an extraordinary amount of medication," you say to no one and everyone. "Practically braindead. Medically speaking."

"Medically speaking, I have excellent observational skills," Hoseok replies, entirely unbothered. He takes a small sip of the champagne he was never going to drink and grimaces at the taste.

Jungkook lets the silence sit for exactly long enough that you feel every degree of it against your skin. Then, with a grace that costs him something you're certain of, he lets it go.

He turns to Hoseok.

"How are you feeling tonight?" The question is genuine, stripped of the social reflex that usually props up that particular phrase. He means it. You can tell he means it by the way he waits for the answer.

Hoseok glances around the ballroom, at the chandeliers, the gowns, the ancient indifferent wealth of it all. "Great. I haven't been anywhere in months, years some would say. Everywhere starts to look like a hospital ceiling after a while." His eyes return to Jungkook. "This is a very good ceiling."

Jungkook looks up despite himself. The chandelier throws fractured light across his face.

"It is," he agrees quietly.

Something passes between them that you don't entirely have access to. Two people negotiating the strange territory of a connection that has no map, no precedent and no name for what they are to each other.

"I wanted to meet you," Hoseok says. "That was the other reason I came tonight." He pauses. "She didn't know I was going to say that. She'd have talked me out of it."

"I absolutely would have," you confirm.

Jungkook's gaze moves to you then, briefly, warm in a way that undoes something small and load-bearing inside your chest, before returning to Hoseok. "I'm glad you did."

Hoseok nods slowly, as if this confirms something he suspected. He studies Jungkook for a moment with those bright, tired eyes, the same way he studied the ceiling of his hospital room on bad nights.

"You should talk," Hoseok says, looking between you both. "Really talk." His eyes flick almost imperceptibly toward your earpiece before coming back. "Because you owe it to each other."

A chill rolls through you. Time is ticking and quite frankly, you can’t think of how you’re going to pull this off. 

"I'm going to find a chair before my legs stage a mutiny," Hoseok says, straightening with effort. He gives Jungkook a final look. It’s warm with a shot of exhaustion he can no longer mask. "Thank you for meeting me. Whatever you decide…about her, about all of this, I wanted you to know that your money bought time. And I used that time to wake up." He smiles, the heart-shaped one. "That's not nothing." He turns, cane tapping a steady beat against the marble, and you watch him walk toward a chair near the far column. A waiter approaches and Hoseok waves him off politely. 

You turn back to Jungkook. He's watching Hoseok too. His expression is caught between something shattered and something mending.

"Jungkook–" you start.

"Not here." His voice is rough. He drags his gaze from Hoseok's retreating figure back to you. His eyes are wet. "Come with me."

He doesn't reach for your hand. He simply walks, and you follow.

Jungkook takes you through a service corridor that the guests don't see. It’s past stacked chairs, and folded tablecloths, and the muted clatter of the kitchen beyond a swinging door. The noise of the gala dims to a muffle. He stops in a narrow hallway lit by bare bulbs.

He turns to face you. In this light, stripped of the ballroom's gilding, he looks younger. Closer to the boy you met on March 14th. His collar is still open, and in the bare light you can see the faint sheen of sweat at the base of his throat. You wonder if its nerves, or the heat of the ballroom, or something else entirely. You force your gaze upward.

"I need to tell you something," he says. His voice is steady but his hands aren't. You see them at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling. "And you're not going to like it."

Your blood cools. "What?"

He meets your eyes. "This gala. The invitation. You being here tonight." He pauses for a moment. "It wasn't coincidence."

Your stomach folds in on itself. "What are you talking about?"

"I know about Namjoon's plan." The words drop like stones against marble flooring. "I've known for weeks. The Obsidian transfer, the eight-minute window, the biometric scan. All of it."

The corridor tilts. You feel the wall at your back before you realize you've stepped into it. "How?"

"Because I'm the one who gave it to them."

Silence. It’s the kind that has a sound with a high, ringing pitch that fills your skull.

"I hired someone," Jungkook continues, his voice measured and careful. "After that night at your apartment... I hired a private investigator. I needed to understand why. You couldn't tell me, so I went looking for the answer myself." He swallows. “He found your team. He found Namjoon."

Your mind races, tripping over itself. "Namjoon doesn't know," you say, the realization bleeding through the shock. "He thinks this job is real."

"It is real." Jungkook's jaw tightens. "The funds exist. The transfer window is genuine. Everything Yoongi built, everything Namjoon planned, it works. I just made sure I was on the other end of it."

"Why?" The word comes out shredded. "If you knew– if you've known this whole time…why let us get this far? Why let me walk in here and–" Your voice breaks. "Why let me tell you about Hoseok like you didn't already know?"

Jungkook flinches. It's the first true crack in his composure, a visible wound. "Because I needed to hear you say it." His voice drops. "I needed to know if you'd actually tell me the truth this time. Or if you'd just steal from me again."

The words land like a hand against your cheek. It’s not a violent slap per se, more devastatingly soft. Like the way he used to cup it before planting a kiss on your lips. 

You stare at him, tears sliding silently, and the worst part isn't the betrayal. The worst part is that you understand. You understand because you would have done the same thing. Maybe you already did.

"So this whole time," you say slowly, "you've been watching us. Watching me. Planning this the same way Namjoon planned the first heist." A bitter laugh escapes you, wet and fractured. "You out-heisted the heist."

"I didn't want to." The urgency in his voice surprises you. He steps closer, and the distance between you shrinks to something dangerous. You can feel the warmth of him, smell the cedar and something underneath it. It’s something that's just him, unchanged and achingly familiar. Your back is against the wall and he's close enough that if either of you breathed too deeply, you'd touch. But neither of you breathes too deeply and neither of you steps back.

"I didn't set out to trap you," he says, and his voice is low enough that you feel it more than hear it. It’s a vibration that moves through the small space between your bodies. "I set out to understand you. And then Taehyung told me about Hoseok, and how you sleep in a bed next to his almost every night." His voice wavers. "And I realized you weren't a thief. You were desperate. The same way I was desperate to know why."

His eyes drop to your mouth just for a second. It's just long enough for you to feel it like a physical touch. You press your back harder against the wall, as if the concrete can anchor you, because every nerve in your body is screaming at you to close the distance and every rational thought is screaming at you not to.

"There's more," he says, pulling his gaze back to your eyes with visible effort. "The half billion you came here to steal, it's not mine."

You blink. "What?"

"The parent fund, GFC Capital,” he starts. “My name's on it. Every press release, every letterhead. But the money inside it isn't clean." His jaw tightens with controlled fury. "Three board members have been siphoning funds through shell companies for two years. Foreign accounts, fabricated invoices, phantom subsidiaries. By the time my forensic auditors flagged it, they'd already moved close to $400 million through channels I couldn't touch without exposing the entire fund which includes the legitimate investors who'd lose everything."

"Your own board has been stealing from you."

"From everyone. Pension funds. Institutional investors. People who trusted GFC Capital with their futures." His voice is cold now, but the coldness isn't aimed at you. "And I couldn't go public because the moment I do, the fund collapses, the stock craters, and thousands of people lose their retirement savings. The corruption has to be excised without killing the patient."

The medical metaphor isn't lost on you.

"So you need someone to move the money," you say slowly, the architecture of his plan assembling itself in your mind. "Someone outside the system. Someone untraceable."

"Someone who's already proven they can get in, take what they need, and disappear." He holds your gaze. "I didn't pick your team because of our history. I picked them because they're good. Yoongi's Obsidian protocol is better than anything my security consultants could design. And Namjoon's operational planning is…" He pauses, a reluctant admission pulling at his mouth. "Annoyingly brilliant."

"So we're not robbing you."

"You're robbing the people who robbed me. And the $500 million you redirect through Obsidian doesn't vanish. It gets funnelled into a forensic trust that my legal team uses to build a case. Every transaction Yoongi routes becomes evidence, every node, every wallet, every timestamp." You realize it's a paper trail that looks invisible from the outside but reads like a confession from the inside.

You stare at him. The magnitude of it settles over you in layers. First, it’s the relief that you're not betraying him again, then the fury that he manipulated you into it, then the grudging, bone-deep recognition that it's exactly what you would have done.

The relief that floods through you is so disproportionate to the moment that it embarrasses you. You press your lips together, looking at the ceiling, and you hear him exhale.

Jungkook’s expression sobers. He reaches into his jacket pocket. His hand passes close enough to your hip that you feel the displacement of air, and what he pulls out makes your breath stop.

A bright blue plastic ring. It's faded, chipped and absolutely ridiculous that it's here in front of you. It's the one you won him at the carnival, the one he wore for the rest of the night because it matched his shirt.

He holds it between his thumb and forefinger, studying it in the bare light. You watch his hands, the same hands that held you, turn it slowly, and your throat tightens with something that isn't only grief.

"I could've helped," he says quietly. "If you had told me about him from the start, I would have helped." His voice frays. "You just had to trust me."

"I know," you whisper. Because what else is there? He's right. He's been right this entire time, and the most excruciating part is that some desperate, frightened version of you from two years ago knew it too and chose theft over trust anyway. That's what it was at the end of the day, pure desperation.

His hand rises almost involuntarily and his thumb grazes the edge of your jaw. It's featherlight and barely there, gone before you can lean into it. The touch lasts less than a second, but it sends a current through you that buckles your knees. He pulls his hand back like he's been burned, fingers curling into his palm.

"Sorry," he says. He doesn't look sorry. He looks wrecked.

"Namjoon and Yoongi," you manage, dragging yourself back from the edge. "Are you going to—"

"Nobody's getting arrested." He says it firmly. "I told you before, it was never about the money. It's still not." He exhales. "But the transfer needs to happen tonight. The way Yoongi designed it."

In your ear, Yoongi's voice returns, oblivious. "Four minutes to mirror window. _____, I need you at the east wing terminal. Where are you?"

You close your eyes.

"What do you need from me?" Jungkook asks you. He looks at you for a long time. The bare bulb flickers once, casting his face in a brief strobe of shadow.

You look down at the purse hanging off your shoulder and unclip it open. From there, you pull out the small tablet Yoongi placed earlier with the calibration screen already on display for his fingerprint. 

“Preferably your thumb or index finger.” You repeat Yoongi’s words.

As Jungkook registers his fingerprint, you stare at him. You stare at the ring still in his fingers, the boy underneath the CEO, at the man who kept a worthless piece of plastic in his pocket for over a year because it was the last honest thing you’d given him. 

"Go," he says softly, turning the tablet back to you and creating space between you as he steps back. "Clock's ticking."

You go but before you do, Jungkook grabs your wrist and spins you toward him and then his mouth is on yours and every carefully constructed thing inside you comes apart at once.

It isn't gentle. It isn't the kind of kiss that asks permission or makes apologies. It is a year of silence compressed into something urgent and graceless and completely beyond either of your better judgments. His free hand comes up to cup the side of your face with a pressure that says stay even as everything around you is screaming go. You feel the cold of his ring against your jaw and it undoes you further.

You kiss him back. Of course you do. You kiss him back like you've been holding your breath for over twelve months and he is the only available air. Your fingers twisting into the lapel of his jacket, pulling him closer.

He makes a low sound against your mouth. His hand slides from your face to the back of your neck, thumb tracing the line of your jaw on its way. It’s unhurried despite the chaos assembling itself on the other side of the ballroom. You feel the warmth of his palm against your bare skin and your brain goes briefly, completely white.

Then his forehead drops to yours. Both of you breathing, the fraction of space between your mouths charged and unbearable.

His jaw tightens. "I couldn't make myself believe you were only that."

"Jungkook–"

"Go." His voice comes out rough at the edges. He pulls back, not far, just enough to look at you, and what's on his face is the full version of everything he's been carefully not showing all evening. Raw and steady and terrifying in its patience. Like a man who has decided he can wait a little longer now that he knows there's something worth waiting for. "Come back when it's done."

It's the come back that breaks you open.

You release his lapel. You smooth the fabric with your palm out of some automatic instinct toward repair, and his hand falls from your neck slowly but his fingertips last. It's like he's reluctant to confirm the absence.

You step back. Then another step. Your heels find their purpose again.

"When it's done," you repeat. A promise shaped like an echo.

His eyes hold yours until the crowd swallows you.

The east wing terminal is exactly where Yoongi's schematics said it would be, tucked behind a service door at the end of a corridor branching off the main ballroom. Namjoon is already there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, his charcoal suit jacket unbuttoned. He straightens when he sees you.

"Where the hell have you been?" His voice is a controlled hiss. "Yoongi's been—"

"I know." You cut past him and approach the terminal. A sleek console is embedded in the wall, its screen dark waiting. "I'm here. Let's go."

Namjoon studies you and you hope he doesn’t notice the distinct flush of your cheeks. He has that look, the one that precedes an interrogation. But there isn't time.

"Yoongi," you say into the mic. "I'm at the terminal."

"Finally." His relief is audible. "Placing the tablet on the scanner now, biometric should authenticate in three… two…"

A soft chime. The screen illuminates, casting blue light across your face.

[BIOMETRIC AUTHENTICATION: ACCEPTED]

"We're in." Yoongi's voice accelerates, the flat effect giving way to focused energy. "Mirror sequence initiating. Seven minutes forty-three seconds. Starting the Obsidian routing, first tranche moving through Node Alpha." Whatever he said is all gibberish to you as you watch numbers cascade down the terminal screen too fast to comprehend. 

Your palms are slick against the console's edge. A bead of sweat tracks down the back of your neck, disappearing into the fabric of your gown. Every sound is amplified, the hum of the terminal, your own breathing and the distant echo of the ballroom.

Then you both hear footsteps in the corridor behind you. 

You spin. Namjoon's hand shoots to your arm, pulling you behind the terminal alcove. You both press flat against the wall, heartbeats competing. Through the crack in the service door, you see a security guard pass with an earpiece in, flashlight sweeping in a lazy arc. He pauses at the junction, tilts his head like he's listening to something on his radio, then continues down the opposite corridor.

You don't breathe again until his footsteps fade.

"Security sweep, east wing," Yoongi reports, his voice tight. "Routine. You're clear. Five minutes remaining."

Namjoon steps back to the terminal, eyes fixed on the screen. "It's working," he breathes. For the first time in months, you hear something in his voice you'd almost forgotten. It’s unguarded, uncalculated hope. "It's actually working."

You feel sick.

"Namjoon," you say quietly, your eyes still on the screen. The numbers keep cascading. Four minutes left.

"Not now."

"It has to be now."

Something in your tone makes him turn. His brow creases, then furrows, then drops into the expression you've come to associate with the moments before everything goes wrong.

"What did you do?" he asks.

"It's not what I did." You finally look at him. "It's what Jungkook did."

The name hits him like a slap. His eyes narrow. "What about him?"

"He knows, Joon." You say it plainly, the way Hoseok told you the truth deserved to be said without cushion. "He's known the whole time. The job, the Obsidian protocol. He's the one who set it up."

Namjoon goes very still. It’s not the calculated stillness of a strategist processing variables its the stillness of a man whose operating system has crashed.

"That's not possible," he says.

"The investigator who fed you the job, he works for Jungkook. Has been the whole time."

You watch the sequence unfold on Namjoon's face. It's disbelief, analysis, and fury. Each phase is distinct and each lasting exactly as long as it takes for the next to overwhelm it. His hands ball into fists at his sides.

"He played us." The words come through his teeth.

"He guided us." You echo Jungkook's word deliberately. "Namjoon, the money we're moving right now is not Jungkook's. It belongs to corrupt board members who've been embezzling from his fund for years. We're not robbing him. We're helping him clean house."

"I don't give a damn whose money it is!" Namjoon's voice rises, bouncing off the corridor. "He manipulated us and he used us like fucking tools—"

"The way we used me?" The question leaves you before you can measure it, and it lands with surgical precision. Namjoon's mouth snaps shut.

Two minutes left. The numbers keep falling.

"He's not pressing charges," you say. "He never was. He built this so we could do what we're good at and so the people who actually deserve to be caught get caught."

Namjoon's chest heaves. He looks at the terminal, at the cascading numbers that represent everything he's spent months planning, and you watch the terrible realization settle over him: his masterwork was never his. Every contingency he mapped, every variable he accounted for, every sleepless night spent perfecting the plan– all of it ran on tracks that Jungkook had laid first.

"Ninety seconds," Yoongi reports. "Third tranche routing clean. No flags."

Namjoon stares at the screen. His fists unclench, finger by finger.

"Does Yoongi know?" he asks quietly.

"Not yet."

He nods. Something shifts behind his eyes. "The board members," he says. "Who are they?"

"Jungkook has the details."

"Of course he does." A bitter exhale. Then, quieter: "Is the evidence actually solid? If this goes to prosecution–"

"He has a forensic team. The Obsidian routing creates the trail. Every transaction we move tonight becomes a timestamped record."

"Thirty seconds," Yoongi's voice. "Final tranche clearing now."

Namjoon watches the last numbers fall. When the screen flashes [TRANSFER COMPLETE — MIRROR SEQUENCE CLOSING], he lets out a breath that seems to carry years in it.

"So we just helped a billionaire take out his own trash," Namjoon says flatly.

"We helped a man who could've sent us to prison choose to give us a second chance instead."

Namjoon's jaw clenches. He doesn't look at you when he speaks again.

"I want to talk to him. Directly."

"He's in the ballroom."

"Fuck. Okay." Namjoon pushes off the wall, buttoning his jacket with sharp, precise movements. He pauses at the corridor entrance before half-turning to you.

"For what it's worth," he says, his voice stripped of its usual command, "I'm sorry. For putting you in the middle of this. For making you the weapon." He swallows. "You deserved better than that."

Before you can respond, he's gone.

You stand alone in the corridor. The terminal screen has gone dark. The earpiece is silent, Yoongi running post-transfer protocols in focused quiet surely.

You lean against the wall and close your eyes.

When you return to the ballroom almost thirty-five minutes later, the scene that greets you is one you couldn't have predicted.

Hoseok is seated at a table near the east columns, his cane propped against the chair beside him. Across from him sits Jungkook, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He's listening to whatever Hoseok is saying that has Jungkook's complete attention. It’s not the typical polite, half-engaged attention of a CEO at a networking event, but the focused, full-bodied attention of a person hearing something that matters.

And Hoseok is laughing.

It's not the full, room-filling laugh you remember from before. It's thinner, breathier, punctuated by pauses where his lungs catch up. But it's real. And Jungkook is smiling. An actual smile, slightly crooked, crinkling the corners of his eyes.

You stop mid-step, afraid that moving closer will break whatever fragile thing is happening between them.

Hoseok spots you first. He waves you over, and as you approach, you catch the tail end of whatever story he's been telling.

"—and she just stood there with spaghetti sauce on her face, trying to convince Namjoon that Italian cooking was her hidden talent." Hoseok wheezes slightly on the last word, pressing a hand to his chest. "She burned the garlic bread so badly the smoke detector went off twice."

Jungkook's eyes flick to you as you reach the table, and the amusement in them is so unexpected it winds you. "Sounds familiar," he says, and there's a warmth there that has no business existing tonight. "She tried to make me dinner once. I think I'm still recovering."

"Slander," you manage, sinking into the chair between them. "Both of you."

Hoseok's laughter fades into a cough but it’s just one and it's enough to remind everyone at the table of the stakes. He waves off your concern before it reaches your face.

Then Namjoon appears.

He approaches the table with the measured stride of a man who has reorganized his entire worldview in the span of a hallway walk. His eyes move from Hoseok to you to Jungkook, where they settle.

"Mr. Jeon," Namjoon says. His voice is level.

Jungkook rises from his chair. He stands a full inch shorter than Namjoon, but the height difference isn't what fills the space between them. It's everything else.

"Kim Namjoon," Jungkook says. Neither extends a hand. "I've heard a lot about you."

"Apparently not as much as you already knew."

A moment passes. Then, impossibly, the corner of Jungkook's mouth twitches. "Your operational planning is impressive. Taehyung's words, not mine."

"I'll be sure to thank the man who conned me," Namjoon replies, dry as bone. But there's no venom in it- just pure exhaustion and grudging respect.

Jungkook gestures to the chairs. "Sit down. We have a lot to discuss."

Namjoon glances at you. You nod.

He sits.

And from his chair, cane resting against his knee, oxygen concentrator humming quietly in the bag beneath the table, Hoseok watches the architect of his survival sit down across from the man whose money built it.

He reaches for his water glass, takes a slow sip, and closes his eyes.

For the first time in a very long while, he isn't counting breaths, he's just breathing.

Jungkook speaks quietly. "The board members, Park Chansik, Lee Minho, Kwon Jaesung– my legal team has everything they need as of forty minutes ago. The Obsidian routing created a clean timestamped trail. Prosecution is already in motion." He looks at Namjoon evenly. "No one at this table will be contacted by law enforcement. That was never the intended outcome."

Namjoon is quiet for a long moment. His hands are flat on the table. You watch him work through it, the last of the resistance, the pride that has kept him upright through years of operating in margins and shadows. You watch him set it down.

"You could have done this without us," Namjoon says.

"Yes."

"But you needed someone who wouldn't leave a trail back to you."

"I needed people who were good at what they do," Jungkook says. "There's a difference."

Another silence. Then Namjoon exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. "If you ever need anything," he says, each word measured, "done legitimately." He pauses. "You know where to find me."

It isn't quite gratitude. It isn't quite an apology. It is, you think, the closest Namjoon has ever come to either in a single sentence.

Jungkook nods. "I do."

Namjoon stands, straightening his jacket. He looks at you and something passes across his face that's complicated, brief and genuine.

"Take care of yourself," he says.

Then he's gone, swallowed by the ballroom's glittering current, and you think that wherever he ends up next will be somewhere worth being.

Jungkook turns to Hoseok.

He doesn't ease into it. You've come to understand this about him, that he reserves gentleness for his delivery, not his honesty.

"I'll be covering your treatment going forward," he says. "Full continuity of care. Whatever the next stage requires." He holds Hoseok's gaze. "No debt and no condition attached to it."

Hoseok is quiet. The ballroom moves around you three in almost slow motion. 

Then Hoseok slowly nods in the way you'd accept something you'd almost stopped believing was possible. His jaw works briefly and then steadies. His eyes are very bright but nothing falls.

"Okay," he says softly. The same word Jungkook gave you earlier, carrying the same impossible weight. There's no reason to say thank you. What's done is done and he can only be internally grateful.

Jungkook nods back. The matter is settled in the way that only truly important things are, in the space between two people who have decided to mean what they say.

Under the table, you find Hoseok's hand and press it once. He squeezes back and doesn't let go for a long moment. He’s going to be okay. 

You take Hoseok out through the east corridor, away from the crowds, his cane tapping its familiar rhythm against the marble. At the rear exit, where the town car is already waiting, you both stop.

The autumn air is sharper now. Hoseok tilts his face up toward the sky, eyes closing briefly, and you watch him breathe it in deliberately.

"Hoseok—"

"Don't," he says gently, eyes still closed. "Don't do the thing where you cry and then apologize for crying."

"I wasn't going to cry."

"You absolutely were." He opens his eyes and looks at you, and the smile that follows is the full radiant one, the one that has survived everything. "Go back inside. Yoongi will ride with me." As if summoned, your earpiece crackles.

“Already on my way down,” Yoongi says, flat and fond in equal measure. “Go back inside.”

You look at Hoseok for a long moment. At the ill-fitting suit and the too-sharp cheekbones and the eyes that are still, despite everything, the brightest thing in any room he enters.

"You planned this," you say quietly. "All of it. Getting me here, saying what you said to him."

"I have limited time and unlimited audacity," he replies serenely. "It seemed efficient."

A sound escapes you that is almost a laugh. You step forward and press your forehead to his, carefully, the way you handle things that matter. His free hand comes up to the back of your head and holds you there for a moment.

"Go," he murmurs. "Be happy. That's an order."

You pull back. You smooth his lapel and he lets you.

The ballroom has thinned. The late hour has winnowed the crowd to its most committed members, small clusters of people with nowhere better to be. The string quartet is replaced by something low and recorded. The chandeliers are still burning but they feel softer now.

You find him where you somehow knew you would. Not waiting dramatically or posed. He’s simply there, standing near the tall windows at the far end of the room, looking out at the city below with his jacket unbuttoned and his glass long since abandoned. Like a man who has finished the work of the evening and is simply existing in what remains of it.

He hears your heels before he sees you. You watch his shoulders shift slightly, just a fraction, the body registering something before the mind catches up.

When he turns, his eyes find yours immediately.

"Hoseok?" he asks.

"With Yoongi. And Namjoon."

His expression softens. "Good.”

He looks at you across the remaining distance, and there is nothing careful in it anymore. The composure that has been doing its careful architectural work all evening has finally, quietly, stood down.

"My suite is on the fourteenth floor," he says.

It isn't a question and it isn't quite an invitation. It is simply a fact, offered plainly, leaving the rest entirely to you.

You cross the distance between you.

"Then take me there," you say.

The elevator ascends in silence.

You're aware of everything. The warmth radiating off him where your arm almost touches his. The slight unevenness of his breathing. Your own reflection in the mirrored doors, the emerald gown and the lipstick worn down to almost nothing. It’s the evidence of a night that has taken you apart and put you back together in a different order.

His hand finds yours somewhere between the eighth and ninth floor. It’s not dramatic but it does knock some kind of breath out of you. It’s the way his fingers slide between yours like they belong there and they remember the divots.

You look down at your joined hands. You don't say anything and neither does he.

The doors open.

His suite is at the end of a quiet corridor, all muted carpet and low light. He unlocks the door and holds it open and when you step through, you hear it close behind you. The sound of the latch catching feels like the period at the end of a very long sentence yet your heartbeat quickens. You can’t believe you’re here with Jungkook. After everything, the year of inner turmoil and hospital stays. 

You turn and Jungkook is already looking at you. 

And then there is no more careful distance. No more city full of people between you and this.

He reaches you in two strides and his mouth finds yours, and it's nothing like the kiss downstairs, which was urgent, surprised and compressed. This is slower and more devastating, his hands cupping your face with a pressure that says I have been thinking about this for a very long time and his mouth moving against yours like he intends to be thorough about it.

"I've thought about this," he says against your mouth, low and rough at the edges. "More than I should have."

"Tell me," you breathe. His mouth feels so good on you.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes dark and intent. What's on his face is the unguarded version, the one with nothing between you and it.

"Every version of how it should have gone," he says. His thumb traces your jaw, slowly, deliberate. "Every version where you stayed."

Something in your chest cracks cleanly open.

You pull him back to you.

He finds the zip at the back of your gown with careful hands, drawing it down slowly, like he's unwrapping something he plans to take his time with. The silk loosens around you and he peels it from your shoulders with a patience that borders on unbearable, pressing his mouth to each inch of skin he uncovers. He starts at your shoulder then moves along the curve of your neck to the line of your collarbone.

The gown pools at your feet.

He looks at you. Really looks, in the low warm light of the suite, with an expression that makes your skin feel like it belongs to you differently than it did before.

"God," he says softly.

You reach for his shirt buttons. Your fingers are steadier than they were this morning with the lipstick and you're obscurely proud of this, working each button open while he watches you with that lustful, patient attention. His hands rest at your hips as if he's restraining them.

You push the shirt open and run your palms flat up his chest, feeling him pull in a slow breath.

"Your turn," you say.

It seems as though his patience reaches its limit as something shifts in him. 

He walks you backward to the bed, not roughly but with a decisive authority that makes your breath catch, his mouth finding your neck, your shoulder, the curve of your ear, cataloguing you the way he always did.

When the backs of your knees meet the mattress he lowers you onto it and follows, bracing above you. The weight of him bracketing you feels like the answer to a question you've been carrying for over a year. 

"I missed you," you say. The words come out unplanned. 

He goes very still above you. His doe eyes find yours in the low light.

"I know," he says. And then, quieter, his forehead dropping to yours: "I missed you every single day."

The words dissolve whatever was left of the distance. 

What follows is desperate in the way that only reunion can be, the kind of desperate that isn't frantic but deep, the satisfaction of finally filling a space that has been hollow too long. 

He starts at your throat.

His mouth drags slowly down the column of your neck, and you feel the graze of his teeth at your pulse point before he soothes it with his tongue. Your fingers go into his hair automatically, the muscle memory of a body that never forgot him even when you were trying to. He makes a low sound of approval against your skin that vibrates all the way down your spine. His hands map you like he's reclaiming territory. Palms sliding up your sides, thumbs tracing the undersides of your ribs, learning the topography of you with an unhurried thoroughness.

He cups your breasts through the thin fabric of your bra and watches your face when he does it, taking in your reaction with those dark intent eyes.

"Still the same," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, unclasping your bra and drawing it away. He looks at you in the low light of the suite for a long moment, chest rising and falling. It’s like he’s learning you back like a language he was afraid he'd forgotten. He then dips his head and takes one nipple into his mouth and you arch off the bed with a sharp inhale.

He is not merciful about it. He takes his time, his tongue circling and his teeth grazing, one hand attending to what his mouth isn't. By the time he moves lower, your hands are fisted in the sheets and you have entirely abandoned any pretense of composure.

His mouth traces down your sternum, your stomach, pausing at your hip to press a kiss to the bone that is soft enough to undo you in an entirely different way. His fingers hook into the last of your underwear and draw it down slowly. He looks up at you from where he is and the expression on his face is dark, patient and wanting. It makes your breath stall completely.

"Jungkook—"

"I've got you," he says quietly. And then his mouth finds the most sensitive part of you and every coherent thought you had evaporates.

He is meticulous. Devastatingly and deliberately meticulous, like he has all night and intends to use it. His tongue works in slow controlled strokes against your clit while his hands hold your hips with a firmness that makes it clear he'll set the pace, not you. You try anyway, your hips rolling, chasing, but he presses down until you still beneath him.

"Stay," he says against you, the word more felt than heard.

You make a sound that is almost his name.

He takes you apart with a patience that borders on cruel, bringing you to the edge twice and pulling back. He reads your body with an attention to detail that makes you feel known like he did back then. By the time he finally lets you fall over it, you've said his name so many times it's lost all meaning and found a new one.

You're still catching your breath when he kisses his way back up your body. He tastes of you when his mouth finds yours and you feel it everywhere. His weight settles over you and you reach between his legs, wrapping your hand around the thick and warm cock. You feel him shudder against your throat. 

And then you flip him.

He lands on his back with a slight exhale of surprise and you rise over him with intent. There’s a look on his face when he registers what you're doing. Surprise cedes to something darker and more interested, sending heat flooding through you all over again.

You take your time the same way he did, because you have your own year's worth of thinking about this. Your mouth traces his chest, his stomach and the deep cut of muscle below his hip until his hand fists in your hair and his breathing has gone ragged.

"_____." His voice is strained. A warning and a plea at once.

"Stay," you say against his skin, throwing his own word back at him.

He says something under his breath that might be a curse.

You take him into your mouth and his whole body goes taut, the hand in your hair tightening. A low broken sound escapes him that you feel in your chest like a struck chord. You are thorough about it in the same way he was thorough about you. You're being carefully slow and attentive. You're entirely in control. 

His grip in your hair tightens further and he pulls you up with a firmness that makes it clear the balance of power has shifted again.

He rolls you back beneath him in one fluid motion.

"Enough," he says roughly, and his voice has lost all its careful edges. He looks at you with his hair disheveled and his chest heaving and every last layer of composure completely dismantled. He truly is the most beautiful thing you have ever seen. "I need to feel you."

"Then feel me," you say.

He does.

The moment he presses into you for the first time you both go very still. His forehead drops to yours. Your hands grip his shoulders. The room is completely quiet except for both of you breathing.

"Okay?" he asks softly.

"Yes," you breathe. "Yes."

He begins to roll his hips back before thrusting forward. 

It's slow at first, deep and measured with each movement deliberate. You haven’t had sex in so long, it feels like the first time again. The uncontrollable way your skin buzzes with need makes your hands slide down his back and pull him closer. It’s urgent and he obliges, the pace building in increments that winds you tighter with every thrust. 

His mouth finds your neck, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. He says your name once, quietly, like it's something he's been holding carefully for a long time. You can’t help the onslaught of moans that bleed past your lips. Feeling him like this again is so sinfully beautiful. 

Then the slowness runs out.

What replaces it is urgent, consuming and entirely mutual. His hands grip your hips and yours grip him back, both of you chasing the same thing with equal desperation. The headboard and the low sounds he makes against your throat is everything that has been held tightly finally, completely releasing. You feel it building at the base of your spine, tightening. He must feel it too because his hand slides between you and finds exactly the right place to be. You shatter with his name in your mouth and your fingers in his hair as he drags his thumb in circles around your sensitive bud. 

He follows moments later, his whole body going rigid, your name broken apart on his lips as he buries himself deep and holds there. 

The feeling of it, of him, of this, of all the right pieces finally back in place, is so complete that your eyes sting with something that has nothing to do with sadness.

Afterward the room settles around you like an exhale.

He gathers you against his chest without a word, one hand moving slowly through your hair. Your ear is pressed to his heartbeat and you count it without meaning to. It's the way you've been counting Hoseok's breaths for months, the habit of holding onto proof of life.

His heartbeat is steady and real and yours again. 

The suite holds you both in its quiet, the city burning silently beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, all that distant light doing nothing to touch the stillness in here. His hand moves through your hair in slow, absent strokes. Your fingers trace idle patterns on his chest without deciding to.

This is the part you didn't let yourself imagine. Not the wanting, you'd lived inside that for twelve months without permission. But this. The after. The specific peace of lying in the wreckage of everything that was held too long and finding it habitable. Finding it, impossibly, like home.

"I have something to tell you," he says eventually. His voice is low and unhurried. It's the voice he uses when he's simply finding the words for it.

You tilt your head up to look at him.

"Tonight at the gala" he says, his eyes on the ceiling. "When you walked across that ballroom toward me." A pause. "I'd been planning every variable for months. Every possible outcome." His jaw shifts. "And then you were just…there. In that dress. Walking toward me like it cost you something, and I couldn't remember a single thing I'd prepared."

You're quiet for a moment. "Good," you say finally. "That means you care." Echoing Hoseok’s words. 

He looks down at you. 

He exhales something that is almost a soft laugh, and presses his lips to the top of your head. You feel him settle more completely into the mattress beneath you, some last residual tension finally locating the exit.

"I want to do this properly," he says. "Whatever comes next. I want to do it right."

You think about what right means, after everything. After the theft and the year of silence and the gala and Hoseok. After Namjoon's careful penance and Yoongi running an operation from a service van two blocks away because that's simply the kind of person he is. After all of it.

"Right doesn't look the same as it did before," you say carefully.

"No," he agrees. "It looks like this. Like whatever this is." His arm tightens around you slightly. "I just want it to be honest."

You press your palm flat against his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath it.

"Then we start there," you say.

He turns his head and finds your mouth in the dark, slow and soft. It’s the kind of kiss that isn't going anywhere because it doesn't need to.

You fall asleep before you mean to, somewhere between one breath and the next, his heartbeat counting you down into something that feels, for the first time in a very long time, like genuine rest.

Spring arrives quickly, the days in winter blurring into one giant thing.

Hoseok's new facility is twenty minutes from the city center, close enough that you can visit twice a week without rearranging your life around it. The room has a window that faces east, which he requested specifically because he has developed strong opinions about morning light now that mornings are something he's decided to keep having.

He looks different. Not restored to before but present in a way that was once uncertain. The sharpness has softened back into his face by degrees. He laughs fully now, the room-filling version, and his lungs mostly cooperate.

Today he's sitting up in the chair by the window when you arrive, a book open in his lap and Jimin cross-legged on the floor beside him, arguing about something with the comfortable ferocity of people who have known each other long enough to mean nothing by it. That’s right, Jimin is back and his hair is blond now. It came as a text on a random Tuesday to let him into your house and he never left again since.

"She's here," Jimin announces without looking up. "Tell him he's wrong about the ending."

"I'm not getting involved," you say, setting the takeout containers on the table.

"You're already involved," Hoseok says. "You brought food. That's a political statement."

Jungkook arrives twenty minutes later, still in his work shirt with the sleeves rolled up. The sight of him in this room, standing in the doorway of the place his money is keeping lit and warm and full of morning light, does something to you that nine months hasn't made ordinary.

He crosses to you first. Presses a kiss to your temple. His hand rests at the small of your back like it lives there, because it does now.

Hoseok watches this with the expression of a man who has been right about something for a very long time.

"I'm not going to say I told you so," he announces to the room.

"You absolutely are," Jimin replies.

"I told you so," Hoseok says serenely.

Yoongi arrives last, because Yoongi always arrives last, sliding into the remaining chair with a convenience store coffee and the flat affect of a man who finds this entire situation both deeply chaotic and exactly correct. He looks around the room. At Jimin on the floor. At Hoseok in the light. At you and Jungkook and the space between you that has finally, completely closed.

He takes a sip of his coffee.

"Good," he says simply.

And it is. It genuinely, completely is.

Namjoon sends a message that evening, while you're in the car going home with Jungkook's hand over yours on the console. A single line, no context, typical of him.

Started something new. Legitimate. Thought you should know.

You show it to Jungkook. He reads it and smiles.

"Good for him," he says.

You lean your head against the window. The city moves past in its familiar blur of light and shadow. Jungkook's thumb traces slow circles on the back of your hand.

Nothing was returned to its original shape. That's not how any of this works. People don't unbreak, they rebuild differently. The seams show, and that's fine. That's more than fine.

You turn your hand over from under his and lace your fingers together.

Outside the window the city burns on, brilliant and ordinary and alive.

So do you.

all rights reserved © jeongi

[A/N]" *taps mic* is this thing on??

it's been a long wait my friends but i hope it was worth the 6 year wait. i hope this closes a chapter you all have been waiting for and as always, i hope you enjoyed tmnl jungkook again (: i promised it would be a happy ending xx

You hum, twirling a straw in your iced latte, half-listening and half-focused on the couple next to you who seems to be arguing. “So sorry, Jiminie. I don’t know how you do it.”

“Thank you.” He sighs. “It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen when I inevitably walk into it. You know, when I told Tae to pursue art, I didn’t think it meant this.”

Taehyung and Jimin have the kind of love story that makes romantic comedies look documentary-level realistic. By comparison, your love life is a blooper reel that never made it to air. They’ve been disgustingly in love since senior year of university, and you’ve been their trusty little third wheel. While it’s comforting to hang out with a couple that has a dynamic as healthy as theirs, you do have to fight the pang of jealousy that hits you everytime. 

“Last week it was the sculpture made of kitchen utensils. This week, desert plants. Next week? Probably something with a blow torch,” Jimin carries on, poking at his salad mercilessly. 

You snort. “Tae doesn’t know how to work a blow torch.”

“He could, is my point. He’ll try anything once.” Jimin’s eyes light suggestively, and the gag reflex hits fast and mercilessly. “Like that one time he wanted to try out suspension and—”

“Jimin. Please. I am trying to enjoy my coffee,” you plead. 

He rolls his eyes. “Like you don’t love us.”

“I do,” you reply quickly. “But please spare a girl the details of your sex escapades.”

“Maybe you’re bitter because you need some sex escapades of your own.” Jimin shrugs. He’s not saying it to be rude—the man doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, unless someone’s rude to his fiance. 

Poor Park Jimin has been running a one-man campaign to get you laid for months. The last time you remotely showed interest in a man was a year ago, and that catastrophe ended with you sobbing on their couch for 72 hours straight while Taehyung made you soup and Jimin burned sage to ‘cleanse the toxic energy.’

You have no interest in any of it.

Sure, sex is cool and all, but the idea of the emotional turmoil that comes with the territory seems like something you can do without. 

“What did I say about bringing up this topic again?” you groan. 

“C’mon, please tell me you have something new that’ll make me feel better about my cactus situation.”

Your fingers collect the condensation on your plastic cup, pretending to be deeply engrossed by it. “I have nothing.”

“So as exciting as my cactus?” 

Your foot kicks his ankle under the table and the noise he makes in retaliation is enough to get dirty looks from the other patrons. “Jesus Christ. Aren’t you a ball of fucking sunshine?” he moans in agony. “This is why you need to have sex. You get all crabby and violent when you don’t. When’s the last time you had sex again?”

Okay—there was that guy from the marketing conference in March…. No wait. That was last year. February? No, that was the guy who ghosted you after two dates. January? You weren’t even in the country in January. December feels like a decade ago but that was... oh god, was that really eight months ago? Nine? The guy with the man bun who worked at the bookstore and couldn’t find your— 

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Yikes.” He gives you a dramatic side-eye, one that screams you are a pathetic loser, but lovingly. “You need to stop getting coffee with me and go get coffee with a man.”

You frown. “Well, you’re a man?”

He rolls his eyes. “A man who doesn’t enjoy the good ol’ cock up his ass.”

Fair play. Jimin leans back in his chair, studying you intently. Never a good sign. “You know what your problem is?”

You pick up your latte, taking a few sips. “Enlighten me, Park Jimin.”

“You’re too picky.”

Coffee snorts out of your nostrils, landing right onto the table. Jimin flings napkins at the mess, disgusted. “I’m sorry, have you met me? I’ve went out with some weirdos.”

“No, no, not the weirdos.” He waves a hand in the air. He;s about to go on one of his famous monologues, and all you can do is sit back in horror and watch. “I’m talking about the good ones. The ones you actually like. You find one tiny flaw and suddenly it's ‘oh, he chews too loud’ or ‘he uses the wrong there, their, they're.’ Like, relax. Nobody’s perfect.”

“Really? Says the guy currently plotting his fiance’s death over a home decor choice.”

“That’s different.” Jimin’s pinching the bridge of his nose between his forefinger and thumb, something he truly only does when you’ve exhausted his last nerve. “Taehyung and I are past the point of no return. We're in too deep. You, my dear sweet angel, are sabotaging perfectly good opportunities because you're scared.”

Of course, you’ve had this conversation with your therapist numerous times, and you’ll do anything to avoid the topic in your personal life.

But before you can open your mouth to argue, a voice cuts through. It’s low but polite, maybe a little uncertain. 

“Jimin-ssi?”

You don’t bother looking up to see who it is. Jimin knows everyone and their mother, their cousin, probably their dog too. Walking down the street with him is no easy feat, considering half of Seoul stops to talk to him. So, you do what you always do: focus on your phone and ignore the small talk about someone’s new job or whatever mundane life update they’re dying to share.

You scroll through Instagram, half-listening as they exchange pleasantries. Something about the gym, mutual friends, weekend plans. Standard small talk that you've heard a thousand times. 

“Yeah, bro, it’s been forever,” Jimin’s saying. He sounds happier than he normally does when he talks to these people. “I saw your LinkedIn update. How’s the new job treating you? Still insane?” 

“Better now that I’m settled in,” the mysterious voice responds, and there’s something familiar about it that tickles the back of your brain, but you’re too busy watching someone's Instagram story about their breakfast to pay attention. “The team’s chill, and I don’t have to be on call on weekends anymore.”

“You deserve it after all that overtime hell,” Jimin laughs. “Oh, hey, you should totally meet my friend [YN] here. [Y/N], this is Jeon Jungkook.”

Your head snaps up. Your phone falls to your lap. 

What. The. Fuck. 

You haven’t heard that name since high school. 

High school you, to put it mildly, was kind of a bitch.

You were a cheerleader, top of the social food chain. Naturally, you failed a few classes because you were too busy making out with Kim Mingyu behind the bleachers and planning which party to hit up on Friday night to care about things like academic integrity. 

When your GPA started looking tragic enough to threaten your spot as cheer captain, the guidance counselor assigned you a tutor. And since the universe loves to have fun with you, you were paired with Jeon Jungkook. Lanky, awkward Jeon Jungkook, with messy brown hair that looks like he cut it himself with safety scissors, thin silver glasses that slid down his nose every five seconds, and wide, innocent boba eyes. 

All that to say—you did what any mean girl would do and took advantage of him. Batted your eyelashes, laughed at his terrible jokes, and suddenly your chemistry homework was getting done without you having to lift a finger. 

Tests? He'd leave his answer sheet just visible enough for you to copy. 

Lab reports? Practically wrote themselves, if by ‘themselves’ you mean Jungkook wrote them while you filed your nails and complained about how boring science was. 

So, this? This has to be a comedic joke. This is a prank. Jimin is pranking you—it’s an elaborate one, you'll give him that. That's the only logical explanation because there is absolutely no way that the scrawny, stuttering kid who used to turn tomato red everytime you asked him to explain a chemistry problem is now standing here, towering over your table. 

The man who stands before you has a lip piercing, one that hugs the curvature of his pink lips. A sleeve of tattoos that curls down his arm in vivid ink. His hair is perfectly tousled, dark chestnut locks falling into each other. 

And most importantly, those arms. Biceps. He could probably bench press you. Why are you thinking about him bench pressing you? Stop thinking about him bench pressing you. Oh god, you're staring. You're definitely staring. Say something. Anything. Be cool.

He is—there's no other word for it—buff. Like, really buff. 

And he's looking right at you with dark eyes that definitely weren't that intense in high school, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

“[Y/N] [Y/L/N]...” His voice has a deeper timber to it, with a confidence that high school Jungkook could never have. His tone alone is enough to send a shiver down your spine. “It’s been a minute.”

“Uh, I—yeah,” you gulp down a quarter-sized lump that magically appears in your throat. “It has.”

Smooth. Incredibly smooth. Someone needs to hand you a medal for conversational excellence. 

His eyes narrow into slits, like he’s analyzing you and your pathetic life. Sizing you up to discover that you’ve lost all importance in the world, and are now just another girl in the world. 

Jimin, completely oblivious to everything, beams at the two of you. “Amazing! You two already know each other.” He claps his hands together. “Jungkook, you should sit. [Y/N] and I were just catching up on her sad little love life.”

Damn you, Park Jimin. 

Maybe ten years ago, you wouldn’t have cared if he knew about your romantic failures, but with the black shirt hugging his biceps so perfectly, you resent Jimin’s openness. 

“I was not—” you protest, but Jungkook’s already got a hand on the empty chair between you two, plopping into it. 

“Was she now?” Jungkook tuts, looking over at you expectantly. “How sad is sad?”

“Okay, not sad.” You roll your eyes. “It’s just… quiet.”

His eyes dance with amusement, and you sink into the chair. “I can’t imagine you having trouble in this department.”

If only he knew the half of it. 

You open your mouth to combat the embarrassment, maybe to come up with some elaborate lie about how you have three dates lined up tomorrow night, but a server interrupts you before you get the chance. She smiles at Jungkook, and you can't help but note how her eyes twinkle when she realizes how utterly attractive he is. You sink one inch lower into the chair. 

Please don’t order, Jungkook. Ordering means staying and your brain (or your ego, for that matter) can’t take a second more. 

She asks what he wants, pearly whites on display, and he replies smoothly, “Just a black coffee is fine. Thanks, sweetheart.” 

He turns back to you and Jimin, smiling lightly. Behind him, the server trips over her own two feet a bit before adjusting her shirt and walking off. You watch the whole exchange with a weird feeling in your chest. It's not jealousy—you have no claim to be jealous. But it's something. Maybe annoyance that she was so obvious about it. Maybe annoyance that he didn't seem to notice. 

“So, how do you two know each other?” Jimin’s smile resembles a mischievous cartoon villain who just tied someone to railroad tracks. Vibrating with joy, eyes gleaming, the whole nine yards. You don’t even need to hear him speak to know what he’s thinking. 

“High school.” 

You and Jungkook both say in unison, surprising even yourself. He glances over at you before elaborating. “I was her Chemistry tutor.”

The memory alone sends shivers of disgust down your spine. You can still picture it so clearly: high school you in your cheer uniform, sitting across from him in the library with phone in hand, texting Mingyu about whose parents were out of town that weekend while Jungkook explained electron configurations. He’d push his glasses up his nose, stumble over his words when you’d sigh and lean forward, watch him turn crimson red and stutter through the rest of the explanation. 

Evil. Pure, unadulterated evil. 

“You needed a tutor in high school?” Jimin snorts, taking a long sip of his drink. 

“Hey, that shit isn’t easy.” You push his shoulder playfully. 

Jungkook cocks an eyebrow, leaning forward in his chair. “Definitely not easy when you’re too busy with cheerleading practice to study.”

“And you were a cheerleader?” Jimin gapes.

“Okay, that’s enough reminiscing for today.”

Jimin raises his hand. “I’m not done reminiscing. I want to hear more about cheerleader [YN].”

Your face falls flat. Luckily, before Jungkook can embarrass you more with tales from a decade ago, the server comes back with his coffee, making sure to toss him the widest smile her pearly whites can muster. 

Jungkook’s lips wrap around the cup. Your eyes just so happen to fall on the movement, on the way they hug the rim. Were they always that kissable or did he get lip filler?

He meets your gaze.

Shit.

You turn back to Jimin, who’s eagerly awaiting more from Jungkook. “What else don’t I know about high school [Y/N]? She’s never told me anything.”

“Well,” Jungkook starts, and by the way his lips curve upwards, you can tell the next anecdote won’t be endearing. “She did ask me once if we could ‘skip the math parts’ of chemistry.”

Jimin bursts out in laughter. “You’re kidding me.”

“In my defense, chemistry is like, ninety percent math,” you retort. “That’s a reasonable request.”

“It really wasn’t,” Jungkook counters, and his grin widens. There’s something almost… predatory about it. Like he’s enjoying watching you squirm. “But then again, you always did think the rules didn’t apply to you.”

For a moment, you can’t do anything but stare at him. This confidence, this self-assured way he’s teasing you without a hint of anxiety that used to color every interaction, is foreign. 

The absolute worst part of it all is that if he wasn’t currently roasting you for being a shallow human being, this might be the sexiest thing you’ve ever witnessed. 

The eye contact, the slight smirk playing at his lips, the veins poking out of his biceps. All of it both excites and confuses you. 

“What do you mean?” You tilt your head, feigning innocence. 

“Nothing.” He shakes his head, laughs to himself. “Just that some things never really change.”

A pregnant pause fills the space. Jimin’s eyes dart between you two like he’s at the US Open and this is the match of the century. 

“You know, she also once asked me if atoms were contagious," Jungkook adds, turning to Jimin like you’re not even there. It’s a fucking power play—one that high school you invented—and you hate how effective it is. 

A long exhale leaves your mouth, and you have to bite back a thousand venomous words in retaliation. Jimin laughs. “Oh, don’t worry. In college, she asked me if square roots were plants.” 

Okay, so math wasn't your strongest suit. Sue a girl. 

Jungkook’s hands wrap around his cup, taking a quick sip. They’re bigger than you remember, rougher, with calluses to match. 

Truthfully, everything about him is just… more. Bigger, broader, bolder.

You shift gears, clearing your throat to interrupt whatever powwow Jungkook and Jimin have going on regarding your academic life. “What do you do now?” 

“Software development.” Jungkook almost seems surprised that you have an interest in his life. “Started at a startup, but I just moved to a bigger company.”

“What kind of software?” you ask mindlessly, happy to have the attention finally off you. 

“Mobile apps. Some web development.” Jungkook shrugs like it’s nothing, but you catch the hint of pride in his tone. “Nothing crazy.”

Jimin chimes in, eyes twinkling with mischief. “You know, [Y/N] works in marketing for a tech company. You guys probably have tons in common now.”

You want to sink through the floor. Actually—scratch that. Sinking through the floor isn’t enough. You need the floor to open up, swallow you whole, digest you, and then launch whatever remains into the sun. 

You can see exactly what's happening here. You can see the gears turning in Jimin’s pretty little head. He’s planning your wedding, probably picking out centerpieces. He thinks this whole encounter is fate, some kind of romantic star-crossed lovers nonsense where the nerd gets the girl who was too stupid to notice him the first time around. 

He’s going to be insufferable about this. Probably loop Taehyung into this delusion as well. There will be betting pools on when you finally hook up with Jungkook. 

Which—okay, fine—you wouldn’t be completely opposed to. Hypothetically. In theory. 

“How’s that going for you?” Jungkook turns to you. 

“Good. I’ve been at my current company for a few years now. I just got promoted last year.” Your chest puffs out a little. There’s nothing you need to prove to him. But it doesn’t hurt, especially as he validates your words with a slight nod in approval. 

“That’s awesome. I’m happy for you.”

Not said with even an inch of malice. 

“Thank you.” You flip your hair over your shoulder. “See, and I didn’t even need math or chemistry to be successful.”

He chuckles. “Fair enough.”

“I know how emotionally tolling it was to tutor me, so at least your efforts didn’t go to waste,” you joke, and he cracks a smile at that, bunny teeth poking out. 

“It wasn’t that emotionally tolling.” He shrugs, lifting his coffee to his lips. “It was fun. Y’know, when you weren’t texting that guy you used to date.”

He maintains eye contact with you as he takes one, two sips, and you have to clench your thighs to ignore the second heartbeat that’s beating in your vagina. 

Jimin opens his mouth—probably to ask approximately eight thousand invasive follow-up questions about your high school love life—but his phone buzzes violently against the table, the vibration loud enough to rattle his fork. 

Glancing down at his phone, his expression shifts from pure glee to actual panic. “Shit, I need to head out. Taehyung’s making dinner and if I’m late, he’s gonna put that weird purple pesto in it again.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Purple pesto?”

“You know how he is, babe.” Jimin frantically flags down the waiter, motioning for the check. 

You and Jimin always split Saturday brunch. It’s a tradition, one that you don’t plan on breaking. You reach for your wallet in your bag, prepared to pull out your trusty debit card.

But before you or Jimin can get too far, Jungkook smacks his AMEX Platinum card down like it’s nothing. 

You blink at the shiny metal. “Jimin and I always—”

“I’ve got it,” he says, all casual, like dropping 100,000 won on lunch for three people is normal for him. 

To your left, Jimin has the biggest shit-eating grin of all time. “Thanks, Jungkook. You don’t have to do that.”

“It’s my treat. It’s nice to run into old friends.” He tosses you a side glance when he says the word friends, because that’s hardly what you two ever were. 

Jimin’s phone buzzes again, and his eyes widen as they scan the new message. “Oh no. No, no, no.” 

“What?!” You lean forward, trying to peek at his phone. 

“Yeontan threw up all over the new rug. Taehyung just sent me a picture, it’s…” He makes a sour face. “I gotta go. Code red dog situation.”

“Is he okay?” you ask, because despite Jimin’s dramatics, that little ball of fur is your ray of sunshine. 

“He’s fine.” He stands, shrugging on his thin sweatshirt. “He probably ate something he should have. This was great though! We should all hang out again soon!”

And then he’s sprinting out of the cafe, leaving you all alone at the table with none other than Jeon Jungkook. 

If you didn’t know better, you’d say Jimin planned this. Although, to be fair, you do know better, and he one hundred percent planned this. You're going to kill him. You're going to actually murder your best friend.

The waiter comes by, charging Jungkook’s card while you sit there awkwardly, twiddling your fingers. You don’t know what to do with yourself, quite frankly. 

“Jimin isn’t very subtle,” Jungkook says, signing the receipt and placing it aside. 

“Jimin doesn’t do subtle.” You fidget with your napkin. “He probably planned this.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Oh, really? You think so?”

“I know so. He’s been trying to set me up with someone for months.”

Crossing his bulky arms over his chest, he leans back in his chair. “How’s that working out for him?” 

“Well,” you begin, “Considering the last attempt was one of his coworkers who turned out to be married, I would say pretty terrible.”

“Jesus.” 

“I’m not really into the whole polyamory thing,” you joke. 

Jungkook laughs and stands, and you follow suit, realizing how much taller he is than you. Not that he hasn’t always been tall, but now he has the ego to match it. 

“Want me to walk you to your car?” he asks. 

You bashfully look down at your feet. In your years of living in Seoul, you’ve never once been embarrassed about taking the bus before. The Korean bus system is efficient and better for the environment. But Jungkook, with his fancy tech job, probably has some sleek car that makes the bus system look like a clown car. 

“I took the bus, actually.”

Immediately, without so much as a second thought, he goes, “I’ll drive you home.”

“You don’t need to—”

“I know I don’t need to.” He strolls towards the exit, holding the door open for you to glide through first. “I want to.”

Wait. Is he… is he flirting? That was definitely flirting, right?

If he is very specifically flirting with you, that means he either has a terrible memory or some kind of revenge plot in the works. Both options seem likely and panic-inducing. 

When you finally get outside, the crisp afternoon air dances across your skin. The autumn leaves crunch beneath your feet. You keep a few inches for God between you and Jungkook, and he falls into a comfortable pace beside you, matching you. 

His hands are nestled into his pockets, kicking leaves as he walks. Now that you two are alone, he’s returned to some of his old habits, like being quiet around you when there’s nothing to fill the noise with. 

“How do you like your job?” he finally decides upon asking, and your head lifts to peer at him. He’s gazing at you intently, clearly waiting for an answer. 

“I like it. Most days, it’s creative, but we do a good amount of analytical work too.”

“Why did you choose marketing?” He seems genuinely interested in your answer, which sends tingles down your spine. It’s been a while since someone has cared enough to ask about your life beyond the standard two questions. 

“Well, you know I suck at math,” you start, and he laughs at that. A deep sound that reverberates in his chest and makes your insides mushy. “I also hate science, so that wasn’t an option. I like being creative, and I’m a visual person. I took an intro class and it stuck.”

He nods, soaking it in. “Was college you the same as high school you?” 

You know what he’s asking. Was college you also the biggest bitch alive, or did you grow out of that phase?

“Nah.” You shake your head. “I’m not as shallow… or annoying.”

He smiles. “Good to know.”

You reach his car—a black BMW that looks like it was ripped right off the set of Fifty Shades of Grey—and he unlocks it with a soft beep. 

“Your car is nice,” you note, and his cheeks turn a soft pink at the compliment. 

“Thanks. I figured I should probably upgrade from the bus at some point.” He opens the passenger door for you, causing you to almost trip getting in at the sheer thoughtfulness. 

You frown. “Hey! I still take the bus.” 

He raises his hands up in surrender. “Not hating on the bus. I took that bad boy for years.”

Jungkook closes your door, rounding the car to the driver's seat and hopping in. the inside of the vehicle smells like leather, mixed with the faint scent of his cologne. Your brain can’t help but go a little fuzzy—scents are your weakness. Any man who smells good deserves to get their dick sucked, period. 

“Address?” he asks, starting the engine. 

You give it to him, and he inputs it into the GPS. Fifteen minutes, it spits back. Fifteen minutes in a car alone with Jeon Jungkook, the most confusing blast from your past. 

Peeking over at him, you take his appearance in. His jaw is defined and sharp. Could probably cut glass on that thing. His nose juts out, big enough for you to wonder if he’s ever let a girl sit on his face. God, you really need to get laid. You’ve resorted to sexualizing the man you used to tease in high school like some kind of medieval man who just saw an ankle for the first time. 

The guilt of your past sits heavy in your chest, but your body doesn’t seem to care. It wants what it wants, ethics be damned. 

You don’t deserve to be this turned on by someone you treated like human furniture for two years. But here you are, wondering about the logistics of his face between your thighs, and maybe that makes you exactly as terrible as you’ve always suspected.

Your eyes wander down to his biceps, down to his arms that are cluttered with tattoos. Different designs snake down his skin, some with color, and it takes all your might not to reach out and trace them. Fuck, now you’re thinking about his hands gripping the steering wheel. The veins. Those long fingers— 

“You have a lot of tattoos,” you blurt out. 

His eyes remain on the road, but his lips curl upwards. A little bit like a smirk. “I do.”

“When did you start getting them?” you wonder aloud. 

“College. I started with one, but then I got addicted and kept going.” He glances at you for a second before turning his attention back to the road. “You disapprove?” 

“No! No, they’re… they look good. Really good.” You want to die. “But it is different from what I expected from you.”

His gaze hardens. “A lot of things are different from high school.” 

Silence fills the air as you two continue along the highway in the direction of your neighborhood. Your town is quaint, not too far outside of the main downtown area of Seoul. It’s so peaceful that your neighbors are two elderly women who treat you like their daughter. 

You wonder where Jungkook lives. If you had to guess, he probably lives in Gangnam, the upscale area  in Seoul. Fancy tech job, fancy car… he must have a fancy house to match. Or a fancy girlfriend. 

“Do you live near here?” you ask, hoping to sound as casual as possible. Although, realistically speaking, there is nothing casual about interrogating your ex-Chemistry tutor. 

“Not too far. I’m about ten minutes by car.” His grip loosens on the wheel a little. “Near Hannam-dong.”

So, you were kind of right. Hannam-dong, where all the celebrities and rich people live.

Before you can stop yourself, you say, “Do you live alone, or…?”

It’s possibly the least subtle question in the history of subtle questions, but you need to know.

Jungkook’s grip on the wheel tautens, and when you look over at him, there’s a scarlet flash creeping up his neck. “I—yeah. Alone. It’s just me.”

Is he… blushing? 

“Oh, cool.” You try not to sound too pleased by the information. “That’s really cool. I mean, not cool that you’re alone if you don’t want to be alone, but cool that you have your own space and— y’know, everything.” 

Nailed it. 

“It’s—yeah, it’s good.” He clears his throat, and suddenly, you get a glimpse of the man you remember in high school. Less like the confident, macho guy from the cafe, and more like the boy who used to stumble over his words when you asked him questions. “No one to, uh, bother me or anything. Not that having anyone would be bothering, I just meant—I live alone. No girlfriend or—”

He stops himself, like he’s just realized what he’s saying, and the flush spreads to the tip of his ears. Oh my god. He’s flustered. Jeon Jungkook, with his tattoos and lip ring and his whole sexy confident energy, is flustered because you asked if he lives alone.

The ex-mean girl in you rises to the surface, bubbles in your throat. It’s been a while since you’ve activated her. Not since college, that one time when Park Eunji threatened your spot as sorority president. That version of you knew exactly what to do: touch his arm, squeeze once, watch him stutter. Make him want you so badly it hurts, then pull away. It's muscle memory, this kind of manipulation. You hate that it's still there, your instinct to weaponize attraction.

You want him to be nervous around you. It’s a sick, twisted thought you have, and you don’t know where it comes from, but you want it. “No girlfriend,” you repeat, trying to hide your smile. Reaching out, you place a small hand on his bicep, squeeze once. His bicep is firm under your palm, and the second you make contact, you realize what you've done. That was flirting 101. High school you would’ve done that without thinking twice, but current you? Current you doesn’t have that kind of game anymore. Abort mission. Abort. 

You yank your hand back to your lap like he’s made of volcanic ash. 

“I didn’t—that’s not—” He runs a hand through his locks, messing it up even more. “I’m just giving context about my living situation.”

“No, I got it.” You keep your eyes trained on the road, even though your heart is doing somersaults in your chest. “Though, I have to admit, I’m shocked.”

He gulps thickly. He pulls up to a red light, finally looking over at you directly. There’s vulnerability in his expression, polar opposite to his earlier reactions to you. “Are you making fun of me?”

Huh. You don’t know why, but the fact that old, anxious Jungkook still lives somewhere deep within him makes your stomach backflip. “I would never,” you reply dramatically, waving your hand for emphasis. “I’m just speaking aloud.”

Jungkook hums at that, focusing his attention back onto the street. It’s quiet again, if not for the sound of the engine purring and the awkward tension that’s loitered in the car since you stepped inside. 

He doesn’t need to ask you anything else anyway, since Jimin did a good job of outing you as the most single girl in the history of single girls. He might as well have just admitted you’re a born again virgin. 

The familiar road of your neighborhood looms ahead, and a pit of despair swallows your stomach whole. You really don’t want to get out of the car that smells like him. It would be embarrassing how you’ve begun to thirst over him, but after not getting laid in a while, you’re about ready to unzip your pants and jam your fingers in there. 

“Is it the building up ahead?” he questions, pointing to the cream apartment complex that you reside in. You nod sweetly, smiling brightly. You dial up the ol’ high school charm. 

“Thanks, Jungkook. I really appreciate it.” Another quick flutter of your lashes as he puts the car in park, taking a deep breath and angling his body to look at you. 

“Of course. Anytime.” His face remains stoic, probably hoping to not look like you affect him anymore than you already have.

Your fingers land on the handle, pushing it open to let the brisk air in, replacing the suffocating tension in the car. “Well, I wish you the best. It was nice running into you today.” 

Maybe you should invite him to come up. Maybe you should invite him for a nightcap? Granted, it is midday and there’s no actual alcohol in your home, but you can think of something real quick. 

But he doesn’t move toward you, or show any other inclination of interest. In fact, you’re feeling kind of slutty right about now. He probably thinks you’re some kind of embarrassing gold digger—which like, yes, you might be. For him only. 

Quietly, he says, “You too,” and that’s the end of that. 

And just as you’re about to slam the passenger door shut and head upstairs to scream into your pillow, Jungkook abruptly speaks. “[Y/N].”

You whip around as fast as your body will let you. “Yeah?” 

His big eyes twinkle under the sunlight rays reflecting on the car, two bunny teeth poking out as he sheepishly smiles. You’re going to have fantasies about that mouth later. 

“Just so you know, today wasn’t planned. But I’m really, really happy I ran into you.”

Huh Yunjin’s birthday bash has never been an easy feat. Every year, without fail, there’s a table bought at an exclusive club, and your entire friend group blacks out within the hour. You’re not sure how she gets away with it, but your love for her and mild fear of disappointing her clearly gets her very far. 

Hence why you’re standing in a shopping mall at 3 PM, trying to decipher what makeup product she would like best. Her birthday gift needs to be top notch, because you’re up against Kim Taehyung and Park Jimin, and those two have some kind of gaydar for gift-giving. Last year, Taehyung got her a vintage Chanel bag he “just found” at a thrift store. The year before, Jimin surprised her with tickets to see Beyonce. You’re operating at a disadvantage here.

You pick up another lipstick, eyeing the two intensely. A salesperson loiters over your shoulder, waiting to pounce at any given moment. In the end, you opt for a sleek red lip gloss, one that you know will pair well with her peachy skin. The relief that washes over you at finally securing her gift is endless. 

Pushing past the doors of the shop, you blend into the rest of the mall-goers. It’s pretty packed for an afternoon, but you figure it has something to do with the sales going on. 50% off for shoes… hm. Across the way, you see a sign for 25% off scarves, and you squint to try and make out the tiny writing. Buy one, get one free—

“Oof!”

Your body collides into something firm, something warm. It’s fleeting, and you jump back several feet, immediately armoring yourself with numerous apologies. “Oh gosh, I’m so sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going—”

A deep chuckle. “I’m not mad about it.”

You know that voice. That voice has been haunting your wet dreams and your poorly-written mental fanfiction.

When you were ten, you got chosen to attend a unicorn retreat. It was a glorified horse camp, but it was five days of pure magic. Horses walking around with plastic horns on their head, offering unlimited rides to anyone who wanted one. Magical doesn’t even feel like the proper word to describe it. 

You thought that was the most enchanting moment of your life. But this… this rivals any stupid pony. This makes those ponies look like donkeys. In fact, with the luck you’ve been given, you might rent a unicorn and a castle. 

In front of you stands Jeon Jungkook, looking somehow more scrumptious than he did a few days ago. Defying the damn laws of hotness. You’d spent a good few hours tossing and turning in bed, dreaming about his lips, his eyes, his veiny hands. He looks like he stepped straight out of your wet dream, adorned in a zip-up sweatshirt and black t-shirt, fluffy hair askew. 

His eyes still carry that same twinkle from the last time you saw him, and you wonder if they’re like this all the time, or if it's just for you. 

“Hi,” you exhale breathily. 

“Hello.” He smiles at you, and it’s sweet, just a little dopey, and so decidedly adorable that you want to gnaw on his cheeks like a dog with a chew toy. “Must be my lucky day to run into you again.”

“Clearly.” He is flirting. Sure, there were doubts in your mind before this, but anyone who says those kinds of things, is someone who wants to be balls deep inside you. “I don’t normally treat pedestrians like bumper cars, though.”

Jungkook laughs at that, a melodic sound that sends vibrations from your head to your toes. “If I was a better man, I might’ve moved out of the way to make room for you.”

“Well, then I guess it’s my lucky day you’ve decided to not be a better man,” you counter, and he takes a step closer to you, allowing the people behind him to filter around. A mom of three tosses him an evil glare, but you could care less. 

“I was actually hoping to talk to you again so I could ask you a question.” His eyes bore into you, the eye contact making the walls of your vagina contract incessantly. His confidence from the cafe has returned with a vengeance, and you’re not sure what’s gotten into him, but you hope it never leaves. 

“I might have an answer,” you tease. 

His lips quirk upwards into a soft smirk, one that would normally disgust you but doesn’t whatsoever. “I was thinking you and I should get dinner sometime. Maybe catch up one-on-one.”

If this were a game of tennis, you just won match point. He served, you returned, and now the ball’s sitting in his court while he watches it roll away. Checkmate. Victory. Crowd goes berzerk. 

But you know how to play this game. Even though you’re a little out of commission, you still invented half the rules in high school. And rule number one: never let them see you sweat. Rule number two: make them work for it. 

Tilting your head, you pretend to consider it like you haven’t thought about what underwear you would wear to this hypothetical one-on-one time. “Maybe,” you say, drawing out the syllables. “I’ll have to check my calendar.” 

Your calendar is wide open. Your calendar has been wide open for months. Your calendar is begging for plans. Your calendar is weeping with joy at the possibility of having something on it besides ‘therapy 2 PM’ and ‘don’t forget your lexapro.’

But here’s the thing: if you say yes immediately, if you're too eager, too easy, he’ll figure it out. He'll realize you're still that girl who only wants things because they're shiny and new, who gets bored the second the chase is over. Except this time, the thing you want isn’t a spot on the homecoming court or the captain of the basketball team’s attention—it’s him. 

“Maybe?” He’s grinning now, full teeth, like he’s finally been let in on how the game works. “I pour my heart out and I get a maybe?” 

“You didn’t pour your heart out. You asked to get dinner.”

He scoffs, “Same thing.”

“Not even remotely close, lover boy.” You migrate an inch backwards, so miniscule he hardly notices.

Something flickers across his face at the nickname—amusement, or something darker, more interested. His eyes track your movements like a predator watching prey. 

“I feel like you’re just testing fate at this point,” he jokes. You can see the gears turning in his head, shifting and transforming to try and get to his end goal: you. 

“It’s worked once before already.” You shrug, taking a few more steps back. 

“Alright, well, can I at least get your number? Not really feeling like leaving it all up to the universe.” The color drains from his face slowly as he realizes you’re really, truly, going to walk away. His voice raises a little at the end of the sentence. 

“I’ll see you around, Jungkook.”

With that, you turn on your heel, bags in tow, and make your way towards the exit of the mall with what you hope exudes confidence, and not like someone who’s about to sprint outside and scream into the void. His eyes burn into your back the entire way. Don’t turn around. You’re doing so well. You’re a mysterious enigma. You’re unattainable. 

You trip over your own two feet and have to do some weird stumble-hop recovery move just so you don’t eat shit in the middle of the mall.  

Okay, so maybe not entirely mysterious. But you do make it outside with a goofy grin on your face, caught in some kind of daze, all because your ex-Chemistry tutor has made it abundantly clear he wants to see you again. 

The following Saturday, you and Jimin cozy up at a nearby cafe—a different one than last week’s. You suggested it over text a few days ago, after you had run into Jungkook, because there was some perverse thrill to testing fate and the universe’s weird way of working. Jimin, who could care less where he got his cup of coffee, agreed with a shrug of his shoulders. 

“So, tell me again why you didn’t give him your number,” Jimin furrows his brows, picking at his limp salad in disgust. He’s trying this new diet that only allows for 1000 calories a day, and it’s made him even more judgmental than usual. “Walk me through your thought process here.”

You sigh. “Jiminie, I told you already. I’m playing the game.”

“The game… I hate straight people.”

“Hey, you did the same thing with Tae when you guys first started out,” you frown, taking a prolonged sip of your iced latte. Senior year, Jimin refused to see Taehyung more than once a week in fear of seeming too desperate and clingy, even though he texted him every five minutes anyway. 

Jimin lets out a long-suffering sigh, pushing the soggy lettuce into the corner of his plate. “Tae and I are different. We’re homosexuals. There’s no rules when society already hates you anyway. But you are playing a dangerous game with him.”

Rolling your eyes, you scoff. “I’m not. I’m playing hard to get.”

“How do you know he won’t get bored?” It’s an innocent question that, when asked, makes you want to bash your head into a concrete wall. “I mean, you’ve seen the guy. He probably has a roster of girls throwing their phone number at him.”

You pause mid-sip, straw frozen against your lips. You… hadn’t actually thought about it like that. In your mind, this whole thing has been about you trying to regain an inch of the upper hand, about making Mr. Cocky work for it. But Jimin's right—Jungkook isn’t the same nerdy kid who would wait around forever for a crumb of your attention. You’re also not the cheerleader that everybody’s dying to get their hands on. He could have anyone, and yet his sights are set on you (or well, as far as you know).

“Then I guess we’ll just have to see how into me he is.” You shrug, but no ounce of you feels calm. 

Jimin quirks an eyebrow. “Really? Off of one conversation after ten years, he’s supposed to be magically in love with you?” 

“Okay, first of all, it was two conversations, and second of all, do you have no faith in your hot and sexy best friend?” You swish your hair for good measure, but Jimin doesn’t buy it for a second. Your charms have no effect on his gay self. 

“I do have faith in you. However, I can’t recall the last time you’ve successfully kept a guy around after the first kiss…” he trails off, pretending to count on his fingers. You gasp, appalled by the insinuation. 

“Park Jimin,” you scold. He bursts into a fit of laughter, wiping faux tears from his eyes, and you really can’t help but follow suit at the hysterics of it all. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m honest, babe,” he says through another fit of giggles. “You hate to see it.”

“Jimin? [Y/N]?” 

The laughter dies down within a millisecond. Somewhere in the distance, you swear you hear a record scratching. 

Tentatively, you crane your neck upwards. Lo and behold, Jeon Jungkook stands before your table, holding an iced coffee and looking between you and Jimin in bewilderment. He must have a tracker planted inside you, because although you had daydreamed about this scenario approximately ten times in the past few days, never did you actually think it would come to fruition. 

“Why are you here?” you blurt, and Jimin throws you a glare, facepalming. You slap a hand over your mouth. You have the sudden, embarrassing, debilitating urge to vomit. 

Jungkook laughs, and you notice the tip of his ears turning pink. “I could ask you the same thing. This is my regular spot.”

“This is—” You glance around the cafe, like the answer will appear written in invisible ink. “Since when?” 

“Since I moved to the area?” He’s donning a massive grin now, one that lights up his entire face. 

Your face falls flat. In your frantic search for a new cafe, you neglected the fact that the new spot you selected is located in Hannam-dong. Exactly where he told you he lived last week. 

Jimin’s completely forgotten his salad, jumping in to save you from the depths of shame. “Jungkook! Join us.” He’s already pulling out an empty chair before he can protest. 

Jungkook shakes his head, the hoop earrings in his ear moving with him. “I don’t want to interrupt—”

“Don’t be silly,” Jimin retorts quickly, shooting you a look that both screams: you’re an idiot and this is fate knocking at your door. “Come, sit here.”

Jungkook hesitantly sets his drink down, sitting down in the chair. “So, what were you guys laughing at before?” 

You blink a few times, utterly speechless. There’s no universe in which you admit to Jungkook what you two were discussing before his appearance. 

“Nothing crazy,” Jimin starts, and he has this glint in his eyes he only gets when he’s about to do something so diabolically crazy you’ll have to second-guess your friendship. “She was just telling me about this guy she’s playing hard to get with. Real shame, honestly. He sounds great.”

What the fuck is going on? you ask yourself silently. Your mind is shooting blanks. 

Jimin sips his water nonchalantly as if he didn’t just throw you under the bus. 

You finally muster up the courage to speak. “Jimin’s being crazy,” you say, trying to recover some dignity. “There’s no guy.”

“Really?” Jungkook’s smirk is unrattled. “At the mall, you said you had to check your calendar. It sounds like you’re pretty busy.”

Oh, he wants to play this game.  

“I am busy.” You lift your chin in defiance. 

“Doing what?” Jimin chimes in. After this lunch date, he’s lucky if you ever respond to one of his texts ever again. “You texted me yesterday saying you were bored.”

“I hope you die, Park Jimin,” you mutter.

He turns to Jungkook, a conspiratorial grin plastered on his face. “She’s playing hard to get. I told her it's a terrible strategy, but does she listen? No.”

Jungkook’s eyes don’t waver from your face. “Hard to get, huh?” 

“That is not what I’m doing,” you huff, even though that’s exactly what you’re doing, and all parties present at the table know it.

“No, it makes sense.” Jungkook nods, leaning forward in his chair. “After all, you have that busy calendar… you know, the one you need to check.”

“Exactly,” you agree. 

“And have you? Checked it, I mean?”

You stare blankly at him. 

“I’ve been meaning to.”

“Mm,” Jungkook hums, sipping his coffee. The white t-shirt and grey sweatpants combo he’s wearing today makes you feel like a rabid animal who’s been deprived of food for too long. “Who’s the lucky man?” 

“Get this,” Jimin jumps in eagerly. “She met him at the mall.”

“The mall?” Jungkook asks incredulously, dropping his chin into his open palm. 

“And she didn’t even give him her number.” Jimin continues this charade as if you’re not even sitting there. Which, you really wish you weren’t. In fact, you might just bury yourself six feet under this cafe after everything’s said and done. 

“Wow,” Jungkook tuts. “I hope that guy gets her number somehow.”

“Seems like a long shot.” You shrug, fiddling with your straw. 

“Right. I mean, we can’t forget about fate, because fate’s probably working in that guy’s favor.”

It hits you square in the chest, that Jungkook really does know exactly what he’s done, that he is perfectly aware of the effect he has on you. 

​​There's a pause. A long pause. Jimin is grinning like the Cheshire cat, and you're seriously considering faking a medical emergency.

Jungkook’s biceps strain against his shirt, tongue darting out to play with his lip ring. “You know what I think?” His voice drops several octaves, low enough for you and Jimin to hear. “I think this guy should just show up at your door. Skip all the games.”

“That would be weird,” you quip. 

“Would it?” Tilting his head, Jungkook observes you. Feels like he’s seeing right through you with x-ray goggles. “Even if you’ve been thinking about him too?” 

You’re painfully aware of how close he is, how his knee is almost touching yours under the table, how his eyes keep dropping to your lips. Your brain is short-circuiting. You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything except stare at him and wonder what would happen if you just gave in.

“There’s rules to be followed,” you finally mumble. 

“Rules for what?” Jimin snorts. 

In hindsight, that probably wasn’t the smartest excuse you could’ve conjured up. No one seems to understand the dying art of playing hard to get anymore. 

But, really, it was only a matter of time before you lost your temper and threw in the towel. You were never good at winning anything besides cheerleader championships, anyway. “The game, Jimin. The fucking game I explained to you already. Just so we’re all clear, by the way, I was trying to enjoy my lunch before you two decided to gang up on me, so thank you both very much.”

Jimin and Jungkook deadpan, eyes wide like a deer caught in headlights. 

Embarrassment courses through your veins, choking your throat. It’s not like you meant to have an outburst and openly admit you’re playing the game with Jeon Jungkook, a man who you used to ignore as if he were invisible. Sometimes a girl gets sexually frustrated and it manifests in interesting ways. 

“I’m going to the bathroom,” you grumble. You speed-walk as fast as your legs will take you, all the way to the restroom, locking yourself in one of the stalls and plopping down on the toilet. You can’t pinpoint why you’re suddenly overcome with some silly desire to win this ‘game’ you conjured up in your head, why you won’t just give in to what he so clearly wants to offer you. 

But maybe—and you don’t want to admit it—there’s a residual guilt that lives deep inside you. One that when you really face, reminds you of just how cruel you were to others in high school. There was a time in your teenage life where you thought being the queen bee of high school meant you were at the apex of the universe. Now that the tables have turned, and you’re not as big as you once were, maybe you don’t deserve what the universe is trying to offer you. 

Maybe you don't deserve what Jeon Jungkook is trying to offer you.  

It’s Sunday, but it’s hardly peaceful or restorative. Saturday night was spent partying with Yunjin and Chaewon at some club in Gangnam that served drinks comparable to battery acid, which is why you’re currently battling the worst hangover of your entire life. Your head is pounding so hard you can hear your heartbeat in your eyeballs. And you're pretty sure you're still drunk, which means the real hangover hasn't even hit yet. 

There’s no one to blame but yourself. Your brain was a broken record last night: Jungkook, high school, the game. The only way to stop the endless loop was to wash it down with copious soju shots.

Groggily, you roll over and unplug your phone from the charger. A quick scroll through your missed notifications and it’s the usual suspects: Jimin, Yunjin, Taehyung…

Wait. 

Your eyes squint into slits, trying to make sense of the unknown number that sent you one message at 8 AM. You don’t recognize it. Spam, probably. Or maybe someone from last night asking if you got home okay. You don’t remember giving your number to anyone, but then again, you don't remember much after midnight.

You unlock your phone, rub your eyes, and adjust to the bright white light of your messages. 

+823137565798 waited ten years to run into you again, [Y/N]. im not really interested in waiting another ten to see if fate brings us together a fourth time

It doesn’t take much time for you to put together the puzzle pieces. 

You gasp, nearly flinging yourself off your bed at the realization. You reread the message one, two, three times, just to confirm he really said your name in it. You try to do a little excited kick under your covers, but your legs are tangled in your sheets and you nearly fall off the bed.

After yesterday’s temper tantrum, you had exited the bathroom to see Jeon Jungkook no longer present at the table. Jimin shrugged, said ‘he was tired, so he went home,’ and that was the end of that. You were under the impression that you ruined the entire charade, that you wouldn’t have to worry about the game because you already lost anyway. 

But here he is, in your messages, contradicting your worst fears. 

you who’s this?

Squealing, you throw your phone to the side, but within a few seconds, it lights up again with a new message. 

+823137565798 wild guess?

you my amazon package?

You snort as you watch him read it and begin typing. 

+823137565798 close. even better 

An unwarranted smile sneaks its way onto your face. 

you enlighten me

+823137565798 it’s your ex chemistry tutor from high school. that weird dude 

you weird dude is how you’re choosing to introduce yourself?

+823137565798 trying to be humble 

+823137565798 so about yesterday

Your hangover creeps back into your skull, your head pounding to the beat of a drum.

you we don’t need to talk about yesterday

+823137565798 why not?

you because i embarrassed myself?

+823137565798 you didn’t. thought it was cute

+823137565798 may have also told your best friend i needed your number in the name of saving you from your drought, so you’re not the one who embarrassed themselves 

Staring at the message, your alcohol-riddled brain struggles to make sense of the words in front of you. Heat spreads from your chest to your neck to your cheeks. The guilt tries to claw its way up—you don’t get to feel this giddy, not about him—but your body overrules it with a decisive vote. Your hangover is completely forgotten now, replaced by a warm flutter in your stomach that has nothing to do with last night's tequila.

It’s so unlike him, the polar opposite of what Jeon Jungkook used to evoke in you, but the mere thought of him ending your sex drought sends a tingle down your spine. 

You’re grinning like a foolish schoolgirl now, dignity be damned. You save his number to your contacts, makes it official in your brain. 

you are you offering to get me out of my drought? 

You fling your phone to the opposite side of the bed, and scream into your pillow. 

The buzz causes you to shoot back up, heart thumping in your throat as you read his response. 

jungkook possibly 

Somewhere in the sky, your guardian angel is doing backflips. 

Hands shaking, heart pumping blood erratically, you type back:

you take a girl to dinner first

The three dots pop up almost immediately, and then: 

jungkook tried that already. the girl ran away from me :/ 

Technically, he’s right. You did run away. And now he’s resorted to joking about it, like it doesn’t bother him. But it should bother him. Should annoy him that the girl who didn’t acknowledge his existence in high school is now playing games with him like she has any right to. 

You don’t know how to let him be nice to you, how to let him want you, when all you can remember is a younger you rolling your eyes while he patiently explained molecular bonds. You were cruel. Mostly in small ways that probably hurt more than massive shows of dismissiveness, but harsh nonetheless. 

Guilt sits burdensome in your chest, a thorn in your side. Deep down, you’re terrified that when he finally sees you clearly—really sees you, not the filtered version you're trying to present—he’ll realize what you already know. That you were never worth the wait.

Your fingers loom over the keyboard, twiddling. The guilt is there, always there, always a dark cloud hanging. You were cruel to him. Casual about it, even. Used him like a tool and never once considered that he was a person with feelings that could be hurt.

But maybe—and this is the thought that's been needling at you since the cafe—maybe the worst thing you could do now is waste his second chance on you by playing games. Maybe the cruelest thing would be pretending you don’t want this when you so obviously, desperately do.

On the one hand, honesty is terrifying and vulnerability makes you nauseous. 

But, on the other hand…

you well maybe the girl wants to see if you’re full of shit or not 

Your heart speeds up behind the confines of your ribs. 

jungkook i’m not the same guy from high school. i don’t play about what i want 

With bated breath, you type your response. It’s a question that you know the answer to, and you don’t know why you need him to say it, but he will anyway. 

you and what is it that you want?

jungkook you. 

The night of Huh Yunjin’s birthday creeps up slowly on you, amidst a week busied with work, adult errands, and most stupidly, thoughts of Jungkook. The thoughts of him play, pause, tape spooling, and then rewind on a constant loop, unrelenting in their nature. 

You hadn’t spoken to him much after your last exchange, minus some ‘good morning’ texts from him that you responded to politely. It’s foreplay, if nothing else, because even a few words from him are enough to leave you giddy for days to come. 

You fully intend to take him up on his offer, you just don’t know when. . 

Sinkhole is packed to the brim, sweaty bodies colliding in an attempt to feel human intimacy. A disco ball hangs loosely from the ceiling, transmitting silver light across the dance floor. The DJ is spinning up cringy Top 40 hits you haven’t heard since college, but the amount of soju shots you’ve consumed within the past hour masks the embarrassment you feel. 

“Cheers to my 28th!” Yunjin yells in your ear, raising her shot glass in the air. Jimin abandons making out with Taehyung in favor of lifting his shot glass with hers, and you can’t help but join in on the festivities. 

Yunjin keeps toasting to things that get progressively more unhinged. ‘To being 28! then ‘To my IUD!’ then ‘To tax evasion!’ 

You're not sure she's even joking on that last one. 

You’ve lost count of how many you’ve taken, but the liquor burns less with each passing shot. 

“Happy birthday, baby!” Jimin leans over the table you’re all perched at, pressing a chaste kiss to Yunjin’s cheek. She giggles in delight, smiling brightly in the way only a drunk person could. 

“Oh, why thank you, Jiminie,” she laughs. “And thank you, Tae and [Y/N] for buying the table!”

It was 75% Taehyung and 25% you, but you’ll accept her gratitude. Buying a table at the club with unlimited alcohol was also part of your master plan to get absolutely obliterated and halt all thoughts of Jungkook, at least for the night. 

“[Y/N], we need to find you a hot guy tonight. That dress is doing insane things to your legs,” Yunjin whines, pushing your shoulder. “There’s soooo many boys here.”

Jimin and Taehyung share a meaningful look, one that you don’t miss. Rolling your eyes, you say, “I’m not looking for anyone tonight. I want to spend it with you.”

“Booooring.” She pokes your side, raising her voice to be heard over the sound of Usher. “If you ditch me on my birthday to fuck a hot dude, I won’t be mad.”

“But I don’t want to fuck a hot dude—”

Jimin clears his throat. “Well, actually, you do. He’s just not here right now.”

There goes your vow to ignore all Jungkook thoughts this evening. 

“Jimin.”

“What? It’s true,” he giggles, cozying up into Taehyung’s side. “The guy practically sexted you last weekend.”

Feeling caught, you busy yourself with the hem of your black bodycon dress. “Whether I fuck him or not is nobody’s business but my own,” you mumble. 

“Oh, please,” Taehyung rolls his eyes. “You’ve been needing to get laid for months. We’re your best friends, which makes it our business.”

“She’s just upset that she ignored him in high school and now he’s this big, hunky guy,” Jimin snickers. 

Taehyung frowns. “Bigger than me?” 

“Okay, enough,” you snap, pouring more soju into the empty shot glasses. “I just wanna get drunk and enjoy my night.”

“I’m sure you would enjoy your night more if you had a big, sexy man to take care of you. I know I would,” Jimin chuckles. Not in a mean way, but your heart does sink a little as you watch him give Taehyung an open-mouthed kiss. 

Yunjin turns to you. “Why haven’t you fucked him?” 

You don’t know when this became an intervention, but everyone seems arduously interested on whether or not you fuck Jeon Jungkook. 

You shrug. “I don’t know. It’s not that I don’t want to—trust me, I do—I just… feel a little bad about how I treated him in high school.”

Your friend snorts, rolling her eyes with an affectionate smile playing upon her lips. “If he felt bad about how you treated him, he wouldn’t be pursuing you.”

“She’s right,” Jimin jumps back in, and you fight the urge to slam his head into the table. He picks up a soju shot. “It’s kinda cute how desperate he seems for your attention. That’s a guy who’s gonna eat you out like his life depends on it.”

The mental image of his moist, plump lips wrapping around your clit has your thighs trembling under the table, but you clamp them before anyone can notice. 

“I’m gonna fuck him,” you promise. “I swear.”

Taehyung raises an eyebrow. “I hope you do, before someone else snatches you up.” He tilts his head in the direction of a man eye-fucking you, and your stomach queases. 

“He’s cute,” Jimin takes his shot, and you follow suit. There’s no way you’re getting through this night without getting absolutely obliterated. 

“Oooo, there’s a really cute guy over there. 12:00,” Yunjin leans into the group, whispering as lowly as she can over the sound of Kesha. 

You refuse the desire to look. Taehyung, however, lets his eyes wander to who she’s talking about. Luckily, Jimin is too entranced by pouring himself another soju shot to care. “Oh fuck me. He’s fucking sexy. I would let that man give me a rimjob.” 

You slump into the chair. Somehow you have a feeling you’re about to undergo the world’s least subtle setup. 

Jimin’s eyes nearly roll into the back of his skull. Slowly, he angles his body to see who his boyfriend is talking about. “He can’t possibly be that hot—oh my god. Oh my god.”

“What?” you and Yunjin say in unison. If you had to guess, based on Jimin’s track record and the specific tone of that ‘oh my god,’ he’s either spotted a celebrity, a firefighter in uniform, or someone from his legendary whore phase. And given that you’re at a nightclub, you're betting on option three. Jimin’s whore phase is the stuff of legend—a six-month period during sophomore year where he worked his way through half of Seoul's gay club scene. He doesn't talk about it often, mostly because Taehyung gets a very specific look on his face when it comes up, but every once in a while someone from that era will resurface and Jimin will make that exact noise.

“Who is it?” you press on, heart thumping in excitement. 

Jimin’s blonde hair sways as he turns to look back at you. “Okay, don’t panic.” 

Furrowing your brows, you start, “Don’t—”

“That’s Jungkook, you idiots. The fucking guy from [Y/N]’s high school we’ve been talking about,” he says in a hushed tone, punching Taehyung’s shoulder. 

There’s a warm feeling hugging your chest, your body feeling as though it’s been lit on fire. It might be the alcohol, or the sheer joke of it all. Out of all the scenarios you’ve conjured up in your daydreams, this wasn’t one of them. 

You turn your body to track where your friend’s eyes were just a minute ago. Even though Jimin already confirmed it, there’s a tiny part of you hoping his eyes deceive him. But there he is, Jeon Jungkook, in the flesh, talking to one of his equally attractive friends. He’s wearing all black—black t-shirt that sculpts his biceps, black baggy jeans that sit tightly on his slim waist. His hair is ruffled, hoop earrings dangling from the holes in his ear. And really, the most sickening part of it all: he has two lip rings instead of the usual one. You’re gonna be sick.

“Earth to [Y/N]...” Yunjin waves a shot in front of your face, and without preamble, you take it from her, swallowing it in one easy sip. The alcohol travels down your throat, but you barely feel the burn. 

“You good?” Taehyung raises an eyebrow. 

“Just peachy,” you lie. You smile at your friends, but they don’t seem convinced. 

Jimin guffaws, leaning back in his chair with an evil grin. “Is that why you just downed another shot?”

“I’m thirsty.”

“For alcohol or for Jungkook?” Yunjin bursts into a fit of giggles, high-fiving Jimin across the table. 

Groaning, you let your head fall into your hands. “I hope all of you die a slow and painful death.”

“He’s gotten even hotter since the last time I saw him,” Jimin notes, sipping his untouched margarita. “How is that possible?”

“Can we please talk about anything else?” You reach for the soju bottle, pouring the last of the clear liquid into your glass. Your second in thirty seconds. A new personal record.

“We will do no such thing,” Jimin’s eyes are gleaming with elation. “You need to go talk to him.”

You nearly choke on the liquor. “I’m sorry, what?” 

“Go. Talk. To. Him.” Jimin enunciates each word like you’re a toddler. 

“Are you insane?” you deadpan. “Like, actually stupid? Have you suffered a brain injury I don’t know about?”

Both Jimin and Taehyung share another unspoken look. “I’m trying to help you.” 

“But I don’t want help—”

“[Y/N].” Jimin doesn’t often get very serious, but the expression on his face makes you squirm. “I’m not letting you fuck this up.”

“I;m not fucking anything up by staying exactly where I am.” You cross your arms over your chest. Realistically, you know he’s right. If you were more drunk, maybe you would bite the bullet, march over there, and plant a kiss right on those lips you haven’t stopped thinking about. But you’re not, so at the table you will stay. 

“This is fate. This is the universe putting him a few feet away.” Jimin gestures vaguely at Jungkook. 

“The universe can fuck off, honestly.”

He sighs, “I’m doing this for your own good.”

And before you can process his movements, a lag in your brain, Jimin turns in his seat, arm raising in a wave, mouth opening to call out his name. 

“No!” You lunge across the table, knocking over Taehyung’s drink, causing him to groan. You latch onto Jimin’s arm, yanking it down forcefully. “Don’t you fucking dare, Park Jimin—”

It’s too late. 

Because in your desperate scramble to stop Jimin from committing social suicide on your behalf, you've made a scene. Swiveling your head slowly, you see Jungkook staring directly at you. 

His eyebrows are raised, a hint of a smirk playing upon his lips. His tattooed fingers toy with the straw in his drink. It feels as though time drags on for hours, as if the hands of a clock are being lugged through molasses. 

You slowly extract yourself from on top of the table, slinking into your chair with as much dignity as you can muster. Your hand comes up in the world’s most awkward, tentative wave. The tiniest flutter of your fingers. 

Jungkook’s lips stretch wider, raising his hand in return. It’s a proper wave, filled with that newfound confidence of his. Then he turns back to his friend, resuming their conversation. It’s not like you expected him to drop everything for you—or well, you kind of did.  You exhale a deep breath. “Oh my god.” You slump in your chair. “That was horrible.”

“That was… bad,” Jimin tiptoes around the word, twiddling his thumbs. 

“I’m going to have to fake my death and move to a different country—”

“Stop being a drama queen,” Yunjin cuts in, sliding a shot towards you. You don’t even know or care where it spawned from, but all you know is you need it. “He waved back. He probably thought it was cute.”

Sighing, you shake your head. “There is nothing cute about what just happened.” You down the shot, and you’ve completely lost count at this point of how many you’ve ingested. 

“Okay, new plan,” you announce, slamming the glass down. “None of that happened. We enjoy Yunjin’s birthday. We do not make eye contact with Jungkook, we do not speak about Jungkook.”

“Yeah, about that,” Jimin trails off, eyes glued to somewhere behind your shoulder. “It’s too late.”

“Too late for what?” 

“He’s coming over here.”

Your entire body halts all movement, rigid like a statue. “What?”

“He’s coming here. Right now,” Taehyung repeats, and your heart drops to your feet. A hornet’s nest of anxiety swarms your stomach, filling your body with buzzing fear. 

You shake your head frantically. “Please say you’re messing with me.”

Yunjin turns to see where Jimin and Taehyung are staring, and the moment she touches your arm, you realize you’re trapped. There’s no way out but through. 

“[Y/N]. It’s nice to see you here.” 

His voice is deeper, a low timbre that makes your brain go all fuzzy around the edges. He stands in front of the table, and you peer through your eyelashes to look up at him. 

Fuck. Fuck, he looks even better up close. 

The two lip rings catch the light of the disco ball. A silver chain dangles from around his neck and you briefly wonder what it’ll look like hanging over you while he pounds into…God, get a grip. You can catch a whiff of his cologne, something citrusy and woodsy that causes a pool of arousal in your underwear.

“Hi,” you manage a smile, struggling to hold the intense gaze he’s sporting. 

He breaks it for a moment, turning to your best friend, nodding. “Jimin, good to see you again.”

“You too, Kook. You should join us!” He scooches closer to Taehyung, patting the minimal space beside him. Jungkook stares at it, then looks back at you with a hunger in his eyes that almost has you keeling over. 

“Actually,” Jungkook begins, “I was hoping I could steal [Y/N] for a drink. If that’s okay with you all?”

He wants to... what? Steal you? For a drink? Alone? You turn to Yunjin, eyes pleading. Help me. Save me. Make up an excuse. But she was never going to let you escape where he’s involved. She looks you dead in the eye, smiles sweetly, and says, “No, she’s all yours.”

You’re going to remember this. You’re going to bring this up at every possible opportunity for the rest of her natural life.

Jungkook’s hand extends towards you, palm up, awaiting yours. For a brief second, you stare at it, at his long fingers, at the veins running down his forearm, at the silver rings stacked on his nimble fingers. The hand that's now being offered to you, in public, in front of all your friends.

You can either take his hand and let whatever this is happen, or you can make up some excuse and run away for the fourth time.

Your heart starts cartwheeling in your chest. You can’t look away from his hand, the one you desperately want to take. Jungkook watches patiently, confidently, like he knows just what you’re deciding between. 

Fuck it. 

You place your hand in his, let your fingers intertwine with his warm ones. It’s secure, and his fingers tighten around yours as if to remind you he has you. Jungkook pulls you to your feet gently. He doesn’t let go as he guides you through the crowd toward the bar, and you’re trying very hard not to think about how right it feels, how you never want him to let you go. 

He parks you at the bartop, where a woman who looks like she’d rather be anywhere else is serving alcohol to a group of minors. Jungkook pats the stool beside him, and you’re more than grateful to take the chair. Your heels have been hurting like a bitch all night. When you sink into the chair, his eyes follow the way your dress hugs your thighs, revealing more skin than your old cheer uniforms. You debate tugging it down, but a warm feeling is flooding your insides at the thought of him wanting to see more of you.  He towers above you, his AMEX hanging loosely from his deft fingers. 

“What do you like to drink?” He leans down, whispers it directly in your ear. The heat of his breath makes your entire body feel like molten lava. 

The bartender begins to make her way over, eyes gleaming when she spots Jungkook. If you were less tipsy, you might come up with a witty response, but your current state only allows you to say, “A dirty shirley, please.” 

He doesn’t make a face at the girly drink, nor bats an eyelash when the bartender touches his arm four times while he recites his order. You can only watch in awe as he hands over his card and turns his attention back to you, body angling toward you as if to shield you from every other patron who might be able to see you. The slight possessiveness he’s exhibiting would normally make you hurl, but he’s so unapologetic about it that you could care less. You hope he puts his mark on you so no man will ever speak to you again. 

Jungkook fiddles with his fingers on the counter, unsure where to put them. The only glimpse of high school Jungkook you’ve seen in days. His hand hovers near your thigh, then his jeans pocket, then back to the counter. For all his cockiness over text and possessiveness, still lies a man who’s intimidated by the thought of truly having you. 

The soju in your body hums through your veins, making everything feel hazy and like a really good idea. Liquid courage, Yunjin calls it. Liquid stupidity, sounds more precise. 

But right now… you’re thinking liquid courage might be onto something. 

Because he’s standing so close you can smell his cologne, something that smells like grapefruit and lemon. Because he angled his body to block out the rest of the bar like you’re the only person here. Because his hand is right there, inches from you, and looks like he wants to touch you so badly it’s causing him physical pain. 

And you’re tipsy enough to think: yeah, liquid courage is real. 

Before the sober, anxious part of your brain can intervene with a thousand reasons why this is a horrible idea, you reach out. Your fingers wrap around his wrist, and his eyes snap to yours, surprise written across his features. 

You don’t utter a word, just simply guide his hand until his palm settles at the small of your back. Every place where his skin connects with yours seems to tingle. 

“Is this okay?” he asks, voice low and chest rumbling with the sound. Again, his mouth is right by your ear, and you can’t think, can’t breathe, can't hear anything but him. 

“Would I have moved it there if I wasn’t?” 

His thumb strokes once against your side. “Just making sure.” 

“I’m tipsy, not drunk,” you clarify, only because you need him to know this is a choice. This is something you tried to talk yourself out of over and over again, but you want this. Liquid courage is making you brave enough to admit out loud what you only ever thought to yourself sober. “I know what I’m doing.” 

“And what are you doing?” His breath hits your cheek, the side of your mouth, and it’s laced with peppermint and whiskey, and you’re dizzy with need. 

“Giving you the green light,” you say, tilting your head to meet his gaze. His eyes are hooded, trained on your lips that are coated in shiny gloss. “That okay with you?” 

His hand tightens on your waist, pulling you incrementally closer. He doesn’t need to say anything. 

“Very okay,” he murmurs into your hair. 

The bartender returns with your drinks, but Jungkook doesn’t move his hand. He takes your dirty shirley with his free hand, passing it off to you. His grip becomes more secure, more selfish, like now that you’ve given him permission, he’s never planning on letting go. 

Good, you think. You don’t want him to. 

Jungkook’s hand wraps around the glass of whiskey, taking a slow sip. “Seems like fate was on my side tonight.” 

You take a gulp of your dirty shirley, the sweetness coating your tongue. “I’m starting to think you might be stalking me.” 

His eyebrows raise, a tiny upward twitch in his mouth. “How do I know you’re not stalking me?” 

“Oh, you would know.”

“Really?” He leans in, brown eyes sparking like pools of chocolate. “And how’s that?” 

“Because I’d be better at it,” you proclaim, emboldened by the alcohol. “You wouldn’t catch me three times in two weeks. I’d have a whole system. Disguises, a wig collection..”

He laughs loudly. You notice that his dimples pop when he does so, eyes crinkling. “A wig collection.” 

“At minimum. Maybe some fake glasses and a trench coat.” 

“Clearly, you’ve thought about this,” he hums. 

You raise your hands in defense. “I’m just saying, if I were stalking you, you’d never know it unless I wanted you to know.” 

“Should I be concerned?” he questions, but he’s grinning. 

“Depends,” you tilt your head. “Are you worth stalking?” 

His fingers spread across the expanse of your spine. “I’d like to think so.” 

“Confident.” Another sip of your dirty shirley snakes down your throat, your lips toying with the straw as you peer up at him. 

His gaze never leaves yours. “Besides, you’re the one who guided my hand to your back. If anyone's being forward here…” 

That almost makes you choke on your sugary drink. “I was just—”

“Giving me the green light,” he finishes. “I remember. Trust me, I remember.” 

Your mind stumbles, then short-circuits. 

You resort to drinking more alcohol, needing something to do with your hands that’s not touching him. “This is crazy, right? Us, here?” 

“Crazy how?” 

“You know how. I mean, ten years ago, I was copying your chemistry homework, and now you’re so… you’re…”

There’s not a single English word that properly describes what present day Jeon Jungkook does to you, with his tattoos and lip rings and expensive cologne and platinum credit card and… fuck. 

“I’m what?” He leans closer, waiting, expecting. 

“This.” you say helplessly. “All of this.” 

“Is there something wrong with.” he uses his free hand to motion over his toned body, “this?”

“No. Nothing. That’s the problem.” It slips out before you can stop it. “It would be easier if something was wrong with it.” 

The hand not looped around your waist moves from the bartop to your dress, fingers finding the hem where it’s ridden up on your thigh. He plays with the fabric absentmindedly, rolling it between the pads of his fingers. “If no one’s told you, by the way,” he mutters just loud enough for you to hear him over the music, “this dress looks insane on you.” 

The wind is knocked out of your chest, a jolt of electricity flashing through your core. “No one’s told me yet. You’re the first.” 

His eyes drag up from where his fingers are flirting with your dress, traveling up your body until they meet yours. “You look fucking gorgeous,” he says. “There. Now I'm the second to say it.” 

It’s hard to breathe, hard to swallow. Even harder to find words, or form a coherent sentence. 

“You—I—you can’t—”

“Can’t..?” His hands don’t dare move from your dress, knuckles occasionally brushing against your thigh. “Can’t tell you the truth?”

“You know what you’re doing, Jungkook.” 

“I do,” he agrees. “Is it working?” 

You want to lie. Want to play it cool. Want to maintain some semblance of the upper hand. 

But your downfall was inevitable, right from the moment you saw him standing in the cafe. Like a champagne bottle that someone shook a little too hard, a balloon pressed against a thumbtack. It was always meant to explode. 

“Yes,” you admit. 

“Good.” Both of his hands move to grip the side of your barstool. In one smooth movement, he turns you to face him completely. His legs spread, creating space, and he guides the stool forward with his toe until your thighs slot between his.  He’s caging you in, hands landing atop your thighs, palms warm against your bare skin. 

You’re practically pressed against him, his face level with yours, “Is this okay?” he asks again, fingers digging into the flesh. 

Suddenly, it’s like you’re painfully aware of all the places where he isn’t touching you. Your faces, your chests. You want more, need more. 

“Stop asking me that,” you mumble, looking away, but he guides your gaze back with a finger under your chin. 

“I need to know, princess.” His tone is serious, but you want to smile from the pet name. “Tell me if it’s too much.” 

“It’s not,” you whisper. “It’s not too much.” 

“No?”

“No.” 

His hands slide up your thighs, hiding underneath the fabric, pushing a boundary that hasn't been tested in a long time. “What about now?’ 

You’re going to combust. Right here, in the middle of  Sinkhole, surrounded by people, you're going to burst into flames.

“Still okay,” you exhale. 

For one exhilarating second, his eyes drop to your lips, and you think you’ll get what you’ve been seeing in your dreams the past few nights. You need to get out of here. Away from the crowd, away from the noise, somewhere you can actually hear yourself think—or not think. Preferably not think.

“Do you want to…” you start, then hesitate. The words die on your tongue. 

He cocks his head, hair flopping into his eyes. “Do I want to…” 

Your heartbeat reverberates in your throat. “Talk somewhere more private? It’s loud here.” 

His composure shifts, and you watch the realization hit him. What you're suggesting. What that implies.

“Private,” he repeats. “To talk.” 

“Yes.” 

“About?” 

You deadpan, brain racking for a subject, any subject. “Stuff,” is what you come up with.

A dry laugh escapes him. “And maybe things as well?” 

You pout. “Important stuff.” 

“I’m sure.” His smile is lopsided, goofy and full of light.  He pulls you up from the barstool until your feet touch the ground again. His hand finds your fingers, easily lacing them. “Whatever you want, princess.” 

Where the fuck did that come from? When did he become the type of person to use pet names? And why is it working? Why is that single word making your entire nervous system light up like a Christmas tree?

Tugging you through the crowd, he peers behind him every few seconds to make sure you haven’t floated away. His hand is firm around yours, guiding you through the mass of bodies, and you try and catch a glimpse of any of your friends. 

Unfortunately, you do spot Jimin and Taehyung, pressed against a wall, entranced in a makeout session so intense that they’re definitely not coming up for air soon. At least you won’t have to explain to them where you went. Yunjin is nowhere to be found, probably on the dance floor or already home with one of her many flings. 

Jungkook pulls you through another section of the crowd, leading you down a side hallway that’s mercifully empty. The music is muffled, bass still thumping through the walls but not deafening anymore. You lean back against the cold concrete, the chill a shock against your overheated skin. The wall vibrates with each bass drop, humming in your chest. 

Jungkook stops in front of you, and you have to tilt your head back to see his face. “What did you want to talk about?”  

Your mind shoots blanks. In this dim hallway, you’ve become aware of how completely the tables have turned. Ten years ago, you held all the cards. You were the girl who made him nervous, who had him stumbling over words, who could get him to do anything with a smile and a flutter of your eyelashes. But now you’re the one who’s heart is racing, who feels like you might explode from a single touch. He has the upper hand, utterly, entirely. And you handed it to him willingly. Put his hand on your waist, guided him here, and now you’re putty in his hands and he knows it. 

“You make me nervous,” you blurt out. 

The silence that engulfs you feels like punishment. Your mouth goes dry, palms sweating under the guise of his stare. 

He takes a step closer. There’s little to no space between you. “That’s interesting.” 

“Why is that interesting?” Your back is pressed against the wall. Nowhere to go. 

“You used to make me nervous,” he says, bracing his hand on the wall. His bicep strains and you have to fight the urge to ogle at them. “For years.” 

“That was different, Jungkook.” 

“Was it?” He studies you. “In what way?” 

“Well, because now you’re you, and I’m—“

“I’m me?” His eyebrows raise an inch, lips curling upwards in a smirk. “What does that mean?” 

Why did you drink so much alcohol? Why, why, why? Maybe if you hadn’t, your lips wouldn’t be so goddamn loose. Your filter would still be in tact. You wouldn’t be staring at him like you want to devour him whole. 

You peer up at him, eyelashes fluttering. His cheeks are flushed from the amount of drinks he’s consumed, and he’s close enough that you can see the moles that litter his face. The one under his lip. The one on his nose. You want to kiss each and every single one of them. Map them out with your lips until you have them memorized. 

You give up on any pretense of playing it cool. “You know you’re hot, Jungkook.” 

“Do I know?” The smirk on his face grows tenfold, and god, you want to kiss it off him. “You’ve never told me this before.” 

“High school was different.” 

“You’ve said that a lot, but it’s actually not that different,” he murmurs. 

“Hm?”

His gaze drops to your lips for the hundredth time tonight. “Because I’m still so fucking unbelievably, out of my mind, attracted to you.”

Your brain struggles to process it—that he’s felt this way for years. That it never went away. That all the confidence and cockiness is built on top of the same desire that made teenage Jungkook stutter around you.

“You’re just saying things,” you whisper. But you’ve known. You’ve always known. 

His hand falls from the wall to cup your jaw. “You think I begged Jimin for your number because I was just being polite? You think I showed up at three different cafes hoping fate would bring us together because I’m casual about this?”

“But you said that cafe was your regular spot—”

He fights to hide the smile creeping onto his face. “I’ve wanted you since I was a teenager.” His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. “Somehow, impossibly, I want you even more now.” 

Your heart is trying to break out of the confines of your ribcage. “Jungkook.” 

His forehead is almost touching yours. “What’s different is that now I’m not terrified to tell you.”

You don’t know what else to say to him, so you smile as brightly as you can, letting your happiness live on your face. 

“How many drinks have you had tonight?” he asks. 

You scrunch your brows together. “A lot of soju. That dirty shirley. Why?” 

Bluntly, he says, “Because I want to kiss you. But not if you’re too drunk to remember it tomorrow.” 

You squeak, back slightly arching off the wall. You’ve never wanted anything more, never ached to feel someone the way you do him. Heat travels through your veins, burning you to your core. 

“I told you, I’m tipsy,” you rush to protest. “I’ll remember this tomorrow.” 

It should be embarrassing how quickly you reassure him, how the words tumble out of your mouth. 

His forehead presses against yours, and it’s a miracle you don’t dissolve into a puddle. “Then can I—”

“Yes,” you interrupt. If he doesn’t kiss you in the next five seconds, you might actually die. 

“I didn’t finish the question.” His lips ghost over yours, a gentle taste of what you yearn for. 

“I don’t care what the question is,” you exhale. “The answer is yes.” 

And then his lips are on yours. 

Never in your high school years did you imagine how Jeon Jungkook kissed. Never thought about how his lips would feel against your own. Never cared to think about it. 

This past week, however, you’ve spent more time imagining this exact scenario than you’ve spent breathing. But reality is superior to whatever your brain could conjure up. Your imagination could never describe Jungkook’s demanding kiss, or the way his lips melt into yours with utmost certainty. His hand slides from your jaw to your cheek, cradling it. The other hand finds your waist, pulling you flush against him. 

A mix of a gasp and a moan falls from your lips, and he swallows it wholly. Your fists find his shirt, tugging on the fabric, pulling him closer even though there’s no space between you. His lip rings are cold against your mouth, a contrast to the heat of his lips and the heat between your thighs. Parting your lips, his tongue sweeps in, tastes just like you smelled earlier—whiskey and peppermint. Your lip gloss is definitely everywhere at this point—on him, on you, probably on the wall behind you—but you couldn’t care less.

His strong hand travels from your cheek down, down, fingers wrapping loosely around your throat. Claiming, holding. The possessiveness of the gesture sends heat pooling low into your stomach. Jungkook’s thumb presses into your pulse point, feeling how your heart is racing. 

And when you do finally pull away, your heart is still going berzerk. His lips are shiny with your gloss, pink and swollen and thoroughly kissed. You can't help but giggle at the sight. 

“What?” he asks, breathless. The tips of his ears are tickled pink.

“You’re wearing my lip gloss,” you giggle again, reaching up to wipe it with your thumb. But he doesn’t let you get far, catches your wrist and presses a kiss right where your flowery perfume is sprayed. He takes a deep inhale and smiles back at you like you hung the moon and stars. Your heart is pumping so wildly you’re worried it might actually burst out of your chest.

Then his lips are on your neck, trailing down to your exposed collarbone, finding every sensitive spot with ease like he already knows you, like he holds the map to your body. He holds you tight to him, grounding—and thank god because your legs are shaking so badly that you're not sure you could stand without him holding you up.

“Jungkook,” you gasp, and he hums against your skin. His mouth finds your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses, and you’re pretty sure you’re going to pass out. Your fingers thread through his unruly dark brown locks, tugging slightly at the nape. 

And you can’t really help the intrusive thoughts that leap in your mind, the tidal wave of desire that keeps lapping at your core. He’s insatiable, and you feel gluttonous. “Do you wanna—” you start, but his teeth graze your pulse point and your brain turns to mush. “maybe—ahh—go to mine?”

He halts, pulls back enough to look at you. “Is that what you want?” His voice is strained, the thread of self-control growing weaker and weaker. 

Your brain is fuzzy from alcohol and kissing and the feeling of his hands on your waist, but you know what you're saying. You know what you're offering. You’re done fighting whatever decade-old guilt lives inside you, because you deserve him. Maybe you’re finally ready to accept it. To trust that you’ve grown, that you’re growing, that you’re not done growing and thats okay. You deserve all the good that Jeon Jungkook has to offer. “Yes,” you breathe, “I want—I want you.”

His eyes search for hesitation. “You’ve been drinking, and I don't want you to feel like you need to—”

“I’m sure.” Cupping his face in your hands, you cut his sentence in half. Don’t even let it slip between you. “I know what I want.”

Somehow, his eyes have gone darker, fingers tightening for purchase. “Say it again,” he murmurs. 

“I want you, Jungkook.” Your thumb brushes against his bottom lip, catching on his lip rings. “Take me home.”

“Fucking hell,” he practically moans, and then his lips are on you again with an urgency that wasn’t there before. “We should probably tell your friends we’re leaving.”

“Jimin’s busy.” If you had to guess, he’s on his knees at home, getting topped by Kim Taehyung. “And Yunjin will understand. Your friends?”

“They know who you are.”

A swarm of butterflies kick up in your stomach. 

You tug on his shirt. “Now can we please go before I lose my mind?” 

His answer to that is another quick kiss—but still thorough, because who is he if not a man starved—and he pulls you through the hallway, back into the club, into the thick of the chaos still lingering this late in the night. You hardly register any of it. The lights, the bass of the music, the bodies pressing against you as you squeeze by. None of it matters. 

You feel like you’re floating, like your feet are moving but you can’t feel the ground, like you’re walking on clouds. His hand is wrapped around yours, pulling you forward, and you’d follow him anywhere right now. To the ends of the earth. Off a cliff. 

Once the crisp night air hits your skin, Jungkook is already scanning the street, hand raised to hail a taxi. One pulls up within seconds—it’s got to be fate, or the universe supporting your agenda to get laid—and he opens the door, ushering you inside with a hand on the small of your back. 

Jungkook shuts the door forcefully, immediately snuggling into your side, leaving little to no room for you to create space between you two. Not that you wanted to, but you want to giggle at how utterly fearful he seems of distance from you. 

“Where to?” the driver asks, eyeing Jungkook in the rearview. 

You rattle off your address, and the cab pulls off into traffic. Seoul at this hour is never quiet—in fact, it’s usually more lively, since clubs stay open until the wee hours of the morning. But all you can really focus on is Jungkook beside you, his thigh pressed against yours in the cramped backseat. His fingers lace through yours. An innocent, sweet gesture, a complete contrast from what was happening ten minutes ago against that hallway wall.  

You look down at your intertwined hands—his so much larger than yours, rings cool against your skin. A smile bestows upon your lips. When you glance up at him, he’s staring at you with this fond expression that makes your heart stutter.

“What?” you ask, giddy. 

“Nothing,” he replies, but the smile on his face doesn’t disappear. “I just can’t believe this is happening.” 

“Me neither,” you admit sheepishly. 

His hand reaches over, tugging the hem of your dress down where it’s ridden up your thigh. The action would be chivalrous, if not for the way his fingers linger, if not for the way his jaw clenches, if not for the way his fond expression darkens into something sinister. 

“You need to stop moving,” he says, a deep exhale following his words. 

You roll your eyes. “I’m not even moving.”

“Your… dress is moving.” His hand remains on your thigh, holding the fabric down. “I can’t hold it together if this dress rides up any more.” 

“Oh.” 

He shifts in his jeans, clearly uncomfortable. You have to fight not to avert your eyes to his crotch. 

“Do you know how long it’ll take to get to her apartment?” Jungkook asks the driver. You snort loudly. 

He shrugs. Clearly, the man has never shared Jungkook’s predicament, because he looks unbothered by the urgency in his voice. “About twenty minutes.” 

Jungkook groans, leaning back into the seat, closing his eyes for a second. When he opens them again and catches your gaze, he has to close them to calm his friend down there. And it does make you giggle again, but what you want more than anything is to feel him. For him to give you a part of him that you didn’t know you needed until now. 

You whisper in his ear. “I don’t want you to hold it together.”

His eyes fly open, and you watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “Don’t tempt me right now, [Y/N].”

“Why not?” And you pull out your tricks—you bat your eyelashes, tilt your head down, lick your lips to wet them. His face grows pale. 

“Because we’re in a cab,” he murmurs, staring at your lips. “And I’m trying to be respectful.”

“Maybe I want you to disrespect me right now.”

The words are barely out of your mouth before he's kissing you again. His hand leaves your dress to cup your face, angling your head so he can kiss you deeper. 

The cab driver clears his throat. You both ignore him, too hypnotized by the other to think about stopping. He pulls you as close as he can, and a frustrated noise escapes from your lips. There’s too many layers, too much distance, and he smiles knowingly against your lips. 

He seems to know just what you need. 

Jungkook’s large hand lands on your knee, caressing the supple skin. 

“You know how to be quiet, baby?” 

You nod meekly. 

His voice brushes against the shell of your ear, hand traveling up your thigh to mask itself under the fabric of your dress.  “Good girl. Spread your legs for me.”

Eyes widening, you stare up at him blankly. There is no way on this planet, Jeon Jungkook, the man who you were sure—up until now—never had his first kiss, is about to finger you in a taxi. But his hand moving near your lace panties says otherwise. You jolt forward at the feeling of his deft fingers swiping at the fabric as discreetly as possible. You gasp, and he tosses you a look before you slap your hand over your mouth. Luckily, the taxi driver seems more focused on the fastest route to your apartment than whatever debauchery is occurring in his backseat. It’s also dark in the car, impossible for the naked eye to see Jungkook’s movements. 

He presses against the wet spot on your underwear, and heat creeps up your neck at the realization of just how turned on he’s had you since the hallway. Maybe even before then, if you’re being honest. He smiles at the revelation. 

Your nails dig into the leather seat of the cab. Jungkook’s tattooed fingers push aside your underwear, his pointer finger collecting the arousal. A whimper escapes you, and when you look at him, the look on his face sends another round of wetness dripping down his finger. “God, baby, you’re so fucking wet,” he whispers into your ear, letting two fingers ghost over your clit, gently pushing the bundle of nerves. “Didn’t know public sex turned you on so much.” 

You bite back a moan. The teasing pace he’s set over your clit would be fun, if you had a constant stream of sexual endeavors, but unfortunately, you’re as desperate as a raccoon sifting through trash. Gripping onto his wrist, you push him onto you fiercely. “Needy, aren’t we?” he mutters. 

All you can reply with is a quick nod. He chuckles softly, rubbing circles on your clit with the pad of his pointer and middle finger. Your head falls back on the headrest, eyes squeezed tight, tight, tight as you try to calculate how he found your clit so fast. It’s so wet, dripping onto the seat, his hands, that you could cum just from the stimulation of it all. 

“What do you want, princess? Hm?” Somehow, it sounds like he’s far away from you, like you’re caught on your own cloud of bliss. You want to ask for more, need more like it’s oxygen. His rhythm slows just a tad, enough to have your eyes flying open. “I asked you a question.”

Oh. Oh. So he’s that kind of guy. 

“I want—I want your fingers,” you whisper feebly. 

“Yeah? Where, princess? I’ll give you whatever you want.” he kisses your shoulder, your jaw, and it makes your brain fuzzy around the edges. 

The tantalizing pace he’s set on your clit makes it hard to speak. “W-want you to fuck me with them.”

His lips curl upwards, eyes blazing. “You like my fingers?” Another nod. He removes his fingers from your clit, slipping back out underneath your dress. You’re about to protest, maybe even kick him out of the car, until you watch him make direct eye contact with you, and place his fingers in his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around the digits. You blink. What the actual fuck have you gotten yourself into?

“Please, Jungkook,” you beg, your nails scrambling to dig in his clothed thigh. He chastises you, laughs at you, before slithering under your dress again, plunging his fingers directly into your sopping entrance. You gasp, loud enough to make the driver look in the rearview, but you bite your bottom lip before any more can escape. “I know you can take it. If you can take that douchebag Kim Mingyu, you can handle me. Although, after I’m done with you, my name might be the only name you moan for the rest of your life.” 

You should hate that. You really, really should. But clearly, your dignity has taken the night off, and in its place is a woman who is so endeared over being degraded by Jeon Jungkook. 

His fingers pump in and out, achingly slow, making you feel every inch. You’re gripping his thigh so tightly you swear there’ll be claw marks. Your head rests on the back of your seat, chest heaving. If not for the sound of traffic outside, the driver might be able to hear the way your pussy squelches with each movement. 

Jungkook’s lips press against your jaw, litter around your neck. “More,” you mumble, sounding drunker than you did in the club. 

“God, you’re so fucking wet. I can’t wait to be inside you. Gonna fuck you all night.” Lewd words continue to spill from his lips. Sending waves of arousal onto his fingers, more for him to play with as he picks up his pace. He curls his fingers upwards, reaching that sensitive spot that far and few men have ever found. Your body trembles, thighs shaking, and Jungkook’s hand lands on them to try and steady you. 

His thumb finds your clit, rubbing sloppy circles as he brings you to the brink of your orgasm. Your eyes fight to stay open, looking over at Jungkook—and holy hell. His arm veins are popping out, mostly from the amount of effort he’s putting into fucking into you to completion, his dark hair flopping over his face. His silver chain bounces off his chest, reflecting on the city lights outside. 

And you don’t even realize how quickly you’re about to cum, tears brimming your eyes from the way his fingers pump in and out you wildly, thumb matching his pace over your clit. “So tight around my fingers, princess. You gonna cum?” 

There’s no way you can be quiet about this. Not with how fucking good he looks, not with how easily his fingers slip in and out you, hitting your sweet spot. You bury your head in his neck, moaning into his warm skin, trying to muffle the sound as much as possible. “Fuck, Jungkook.” 

“Want you to cum on my fingers, princess. Can you do that for me?” You nod into his neck. 

Your walls clench around his fingers one last time, to the point where he can hardly move them, his thumb working you through the orgasm that ripples through your body. Your fingers claw at his arm, teeth biting at his neck. You can feel yourself lose control, heart beating erratically in your chest. 

Jungkook’s fingers halt inside you, thumb coaxing you through the rest of your orgasm. “It’s okay, princess. I’ve got you.” 

Your body completely slumps into him, still feeling full with his two fingers inside you. 

Finally, after he allows you a moment to catch your breath, he pulls them out of your pussy, soaked with your creamy arousal. “Open,” he says gently, but when you look up at him, his gaze is hardly sympathetic. Your lips part for him, and he places his fingers on your tongue. You swirl it around, tasting yourself, sweet and salty and warm, foreign to you. Jungkook’s eyes never leave yours. 

“Good job, baby,” he says as he removes his fingers, pressing one, two chaste kisses on your lips. 

All things considered, you’re in absolute shock. Somewhere between high school and now, Jeon Jungkook learned how to kiss like he’s trying to ruin you for all other men. Where did he learn all this? Who taught him to do that thing with his fingers? How does he know exactly where to put his hands, exactly how much pressure to use to make you lose your mind?

The thought of him practicing on other people—other girls—makes something ugly twist in your stomach. 

You’re an evil, evil girl. “Where’d you learn all that?” 

He raises an eyebrow, tucking a strand of your loose hair behind your ear. “Are you asking about my sexual history now?” 

“No.”

“You are,” he teases. “You’re not jealous, right?”

If only he knew how ill you felt at the idea of another girl knowing how his fingers can easily find their g-spot. 

“I am not jealous.” You feign indifference, but your voice comes out all defensive and petulant, which kind of ruins it all. “Just asking a question.” 

“You want to know who I've been with?” he asks, clearly trying not to laugh. 

“Never said that.” 

He presses another soft kiss against your lips. “There’s been other people. I’m not going to lie about that. But that’s not a big deal.” 

You furrow your brows. “Why?” 

His thumb traces circles on your thigh. “Because I thought about you during all of it. I wondered what you’d feel like, wondered what sounds you would make. So, yeah,” he continues. “I learned some things. But I only ever wanted to use them on you.” 

You kiss him again because you don’t know what else to do with the feeling expanding in your chest. Because he’s looking at you like that and saying things like that and your heart is fluttering out of your body. God, if that doesn’t make you want to drag him upstairs immediately.

The cab pulls up to your building and Jungkook is already pulling out his wallet, throwing bills at the driver without checking the amount. "Keep the change," he says, and then he's out of the cab, pulling you with him.

Your legs are unsteady when you stand—from the alcohol, from the kissing, from everything—and his arm wraps around your waist, steadying you. “I’m not done with you yet, princess.” 

And, really, he’s not joking because he’s on you the second you step through the door to your apartment. Barely even crosses the threshold before his lips are colliding with yours passionately, slamming your spine into the wall by your entryway. His hands cup your cheeks entirely. He can’t get enough of you, like opposite poles of a magnet attracting. Shortly after his affair with the entryway, Jungkook moves a little more down your hallway, but you’re too focused on kissing him to direct him. Your shoes are discarded, purse on the floor, and then your back finds another cool wall to rest against. 

Jungkook assaults your neck, leaving a trail of bruises that are going to take a hell of a lot of explaining tomorrow. Your apartment probably sounds like the set of some cheap porno, what with Jungkook’s whimpers and your moans, and neither of you are even naked yet. Your hands run over the front of his chest, feeling his sculpted body underneath his shirt. 

“Fuck, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs into your collarbone, where he’s leaving hickeys in his wake. His hands wander over your chest, cupping them over your dress. Without another word or warning, he yanks down the top of your dress, your breasts spilling out. You can’t help the gasp that escapes you as he manhandles you, his lips coming to wrap around your hardened nipple. His tongue swipes over the sensitive nub, eyes peering up expectantly, watching every facial expression that contorts on your face. 

Your eyes squeeze tightly, a kaleidoscope of color blooming behind your vision. “Jungkook,” you moan, carding your fingers through his unruly hair. 

Without preamble, Jungkook kisses your nipples one last time before dropping to his knees on your hardwood floor with a resounding thump. 

You open your eyes. The sight in front of you is fucking ungodly. If you look closely, you can see Jungkook from high school, expectantly looking up at you with puppy dog eyes, pushing your dress up to hang around your waist. 

“W-what are you doing?’ you ask. 

He looks drunk. “Need to eat you out. I want to taste you, princess.”

You don’t remember the last time a man has looked so needy to feel you, to taste you. Actually, you can’t remember a time this even occurred. 

You exhale. “Yes. Yes, please.” 

That’s all he really needs. Jungkook doesn’t waste a moment more in burying his face between your folds as though it’s his last meal on earth. His fingers come to spread your lips open for him as he flicks his tongue over your nub, sending you bent over as you scramble for purchase in his hair, his shoulders, anything. “Oh, fuck, Jungkook, right there.” 

He notices your struggle to stand upright, and then he’s guiding your leg over his shoulder, toes dangling. He moans into your pussy, a breathy little exhale that sends fire shooting through your veins. Jungkook’s strong arm holds your leg in place over his shoulder. His tongue fucks inside of you shallowly, your eyes rolling backwards. “Tastes so sweet, so fucking heavenly, baby,” he mutters but it barely makes its way into your ears. You can feel his lip rings swiping over your arousal, the cool metal causing your thighs to quake uncontrollably. 

And then you’re just babbling profanities, a mantra of his name, curse words. A litany of praise. Some other embarrassing things you hope he never remembers. 

“I feel g-guilty. For the way I treated y-you in high school,” you stammer, quivering against his face as he licks another stripe up your slit. 

You don’t know why it’s all coming out now, but it is. God, you were such a bitch in high school. Such an egotistical brat who was too caught in her own ways to ever see that there was more to life than social status and cheerleading. 

His tongue encircles your clit, one of your hands flying to his hair to tug. “Don’t feel guilty,” he murmurs. “That’s not what I want you to feel right now. I want to make you feel good.” 

His tongue travels from your hole to your clit, and normally the rhythm would throw you off, but he’s so skillful about the whole thing that you’re teetering on the brink of an orgasm. And he must know, must be able to read your body like it’s something he spent years studying, because he’s sucking on your clit, letting his tongue flick over it repeatedly, maintaining a rhythm that has you screaming, “Oh fuck, oh shit, I’m gonna—Jungkook, I’m gonna cum.” 

That doesn’t deter him the slightest. Spurs him on like he’s entered in some kind of pussy-eating competition. You’ll spend years talking about this experience, you think. 

Your fingers tighten in his hair, tangling, tugging, and your entire body vibrates as your orgasm crashes over you in waves. He fucks you through it, keeps going until you’re pushing him away with your toe forcefully. When he finally gives up, he says from between your legs, “Better than Kim Mingyu?” 

Maybe you shouldn’t care about high school anymore, but you can’t help but laugh, smile at him. “He never even ate me out, Koo.” 

His face softens— whether that’s because of the nickname you adorned him with or the fact that Mingyu was an asshole, you’ll never know—and he’s standing up, pressing a dirty kiss to your lips. It’s messy, sloppy, tongue over teeth, but so undeniably him that you cling to him like a koala. “He’s the biggest idiot of all time to miss out on that.” 

“Hmm,” you hum against his lips. They taste just like you, and it sends another gush of arousal pouring out of you. His hands slide down your sides, gripping your waist, your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. You’re drowning in him—his taste, his smell, the way he’s kissing you like he’s been starving for it. You can feel his length poking against your thigh, and your heart skips at just how large it al;ready feels through his jeans. 

Your hands roam down his chest, feeling the firm muscle beneath his shirt, tracing lower until your fingers find his belt. You fumble with the buckle, fingers clumsy with desire. Jungkook looks down at your manicured fingers, easily working, speaking to how much experience you have. His cock throbs at the thought. 

You’re about to get on your knees, return the favor, but he stops you as soon as you lower an inch. 

Jungkook simply says, “The next time I want you to cum, is going to be on my cock.” 

Okay, yes sir. He’s all dominating and commanding and it makes your pussy clench around nothing. 

His forehead drops against yours, breath punching out of him. “Fuck, I need to be inside you.” 

The metal clinks as his pants drop to the floor, his Calvin Klein boxers doing little to hide how big he is. Jungkook kicks them off, eager to remove as many layers as possible. Your mouth salivates, and you’re positive a sliver of drool is slithering out of your mouth. His hands tighten on your hips, bruising the skin. 

You kiss him again, but this time, it’s rougher, faster, hand slipping beneath the waistband of his boxers, and he makes a sound between a groan and a whimper that makes you feel powerful.  Your hands roam, searching, until—

Holy shit. You gasp into his mouth, feeling his length. He’s big, no doubt about that. But it’s the fucking girth of it that has your mouth watering. He’s thick, and you can feel the veins that decorate his cock. 

Jesus Christ. This is what your Chemistry tutor was hiding under his pants. A fucking anaconda. 

But you’re not about to admit that. 

No shot in hell. 

“Mhmm, I feel like you’re kinda small,” you tease, battling your eyelashes at him as you stroke his hardened length dangerously slow. 

His nostrils flare. “Yeah? Think I’m small, baby?” 

“Tiny.”

Your thumb drags over his tip, and then you feel it. A piece of metal. Jeon Jungkook has a fucking dick piercing. 

His eyes set ablaze as he realizes that you know. “Fucking hell, you’re still the same brat you’ve always been.”

Jungkook’s lips collide with yours, and he kicks off his boxers urgently. “Fuck,” he breathes against your mouth. Suddenly his hands are gripping the backs of your thighs, lifting you up like you weigh nothing. You gasp, legs wrapping around his waist as your back hits the wall harder. The new position puts you at eye level with him, head spinning. He reaches down between your bodies to let his cock sit in between your wet folds, ever so teasing. 

Your fingernails dig into the nape of his neck, head lolling back against the wall. “Please fuck me, Koo. Wanna feel you inside me.”

“Oh, now you want to beg? After you called me tiny?” He hisses as he swirls the tip over your clit, the cool metal of his piercing sending shockwaves down your spine. 

“Please,” you beg. “Pleasepleaseplease.” It’s slurred when it leaves your mouth, breath catching when you look down and see the way the metal reflects off his soaking tip, encased in your juices. “I need it.” 

With that, he pushes into you, all inches of his length, squirming in his arms. You scramble to hold onto something, opting for his biceps that are straining with the weight of holding you up. A moan leaves both of your mouths. He waits until you’re fully adjusted, taking every inch of him. “Feels so good, princess. So tight and warm, holy shit.” 

“Jungkook,” you pant. You’re so full of him, he’s everywhere. Stopping is the last thing on your mind. You’re a woman made of greed. “You’re so—fuck—big.” 

He smiles triumphantly and takes that as his sign to move. He uses his arms to slide you up and down his cock, slamming you onto him, your clit meeting his pubic bone. The piercing drags against your walls with each thrust, hitting the sweet spot inside you that has you screaming a litany of crude words that’ll have your neighbors knocking your door down tomorrow morning. His head falls to the crook of your shoulder, burying himself in your scent. 

It’s more than you’ve ever taken, beyond any sex you’ve ever had in your life. You’re going to be ruined for all other men and you haven’t even made it to the bedroom yet. Your past lovers are about to become a footnote. A distant memory. Ancient fucking history.

The sound of your pussy squelching with each rough thrust fills the room, Jungkook’s hairline beading with sweat as he furiously pounds into you, tits bouncing in his face. He begins to babble, “Used to cum so hard thinking about you, baby. You in that—fuck—cheer uniform, with your nipples hard. I wanted to push it to the side and fuck you.”

You moan at the thought. “Yeah, why didn’t you? I would’ve rode your face with your glasses on.” 

He presses a sloppy kiss on the side of your mouth. “Bet you would’ve loved that, huh? Deflowering the nerd?”

The mental image flashes through your mind—seventeen-year-old Jungkook, all awkward limbs and nervous stammering, those thick-framed glasses sliding down his nose while you sat on his face in the library after hours. You would’ve been so mean about it too. Would’ve made him beg, would’ve had him so desperate and eager to please that he would’ve done anything you asked. Would’ve probably given him the best night of his teenage life and then ignored him in the hallway the next day because you were dating Mingyu and had a reputation to maintain.

“I would’ve made you cum—ahh, shit—so hard.” You try your hardest to maintain eye contact, but everytime you do, your walls flutter around his cock. “You would’ve been obsessed.”

“I was already obsessed,” he groans, nipping at your jaw. His balls slap against your ass, adding to the horrific amount of sounds eliciting from your apartment. “It couldn’t have gotten much worse.”

He has a very fair point. 

You thread your fingers through his hair, already on the brink of another orgasm. Everything about him—his scent, the way his tattoos glisten with sweat, how his bottom lip is tugged underneath his front teeth—sends your mind into delirium. He’s fucking you with enough force to have your head bouncing off the wall every few thrusts, that you feel it resound along your bones. 

“Fuck, I don’t wanna cum yet,” he whimpers into your skin. “But god, I don’t think I’ll be able to last.”

Neither will you, but an idea sparks in your pretty little head. You crook a finger under his jaw, making him look at you. His expression is completely fucked out, lips swollen, cheeks ruddy. His thrusts slow, enough so that he can pay attention to your words. “I want to get on top. Let me fuck you, Jungkook.” 

He nods, and then he’s readjusting you in his arms, with you clinging to him like a newborn baby. You giggle as he frantically tries to find your bedroom, pausing every few moments to press a few kisses to your cheeks and lips. 

Finally, he locates your room, plopping you down on the bed, and you moan at the sudden emptiness you feel with his cock gone. He tosses his t-shirt over his head. 

Jungkook sits up against the headboard, gently stroking his length as he watches you move to bracket his thighs, settling over his tip. “Ready for me, princess?” 

Eagerly, you shake your head in approval, and you sink down inch by inch onto his length. For some reason, in this position, it feels like he’s stretching you out more, your walls sucking him in greedily. Your hands come to rest on his beefy chest, nails digging into the skin. 

There’s not many things you're good at, but one thing you are insanely talented at? Riding cock like it’s your god given right. Your hips undulate wildly, bouncing up and down to accommodate his full length. Jungkook watches in awe, in a trance, as you cream his cock. His hands come to sit at your hips, guiding you the best he can. His head rests against the headboard, lazily watching as you play with your tits. “Ride my cock,” he groans, “just like that, princess.”  

“You stretch me out so good, Jungkook,” you moan, thighs trembling with each movement. He can feel you getting closer to the edge, already riled up from the previous position. Your walls clench around him, sucking him in. His thumb falls to your clit again, finding it so easily after so many rounds. “Right there, baby,” you chant, eyes closed. “Right fucking there.”

“Jesus, I'm so close,” he grunts, beginning to thrust upwards into you as your own pace slows. The sounds are beyond obscene—his cock plunging into your wetness, headboard slamming against the wall. You don’t care about any of it, not one bit, as long he keeps fucking into you. 

It was always obvious from the moment he kissed you at the club that neither of you were going to last long, anyway. 

“Fuck, I’m cumming,” you practically scream, which would have you embarrassed, but he seems just as ruined as you. 

Your orgasm washes over you, legs shaking as your mouth tears open around a sound that might be his name, might be something else entirely. Your walls flutter around him, and Jungkook can’t help himself anymore. “Fuck, baby, I’m gonna cum too. Can I—fuck—can I cum inside?” 

You nod like a broken bobblehead. Thank god for modern medicine. 

He empties into you, bruising your hips with his hold. He’s so attractive when he finishes that you almost orgasm again from the sight. His bare chest heaves, a slight sheen of sweat layered on the skin. 

For a few moments, you two catch your breath, letting his cock soften entirely inside you. He looks worn, eyes drooping. 

But after an eternity, you finally roll off him. You’re not sure what you were expecting in terms of aftercare, but your heart flutters when he lazily wraps his arms around you, tugging you into his side to rest your cheek on his chest. It’s comforting, with his hands playing with your hair, his own heart thumping along in his chest. Reminding you that you’re here with him, and this is real. 

Silence has never been so peaceful. 

You think you’ll fall asleep like this, but then he says, “I want to see you again.” 

Your heart softens around the edges, at the notion that he believes you’ll never speak to him again after this. You can’t blame him for it. It’s exactly what high school you would’ve done. 

But you’re not 17 anymore, and you deserve all the good he has to offer you. No more silly little games. 

“I would really like that,” you whisper back. 

He presses a kiss to the top of your head. “Mind checking your calendar for me?” 

You grin like a lovesick idiot. “Yup. Checking right now. And it looks like I’m free this whole week.” 

“Thursday, then. Dinner at 7,” he confirms. “You’re not going to, like, make me beg for a real answer this time, are you?”

Giggling, you respond, “Maybe I should check that calendar again…”

He sits up, pouting. “Don’t. Don’t you dare,” he warns, and then his hands are moving to tickle your sides. 

You squeal, squirming away, but he just pulls you back against him. The laughs that escape you are so full of sunshine that you hardly recognize them. You’ve been living under a fog for so long that when it lifted, you forgot how bright life could be. 

“Okay, okay!” you gasp, and his fingers still. “Thursday. 7 o’clock.”

“There we go.” He kisses your forehead. “Was that so hard?”

“Hardest thing I’ve ever done,” you say dramatically, resuming your post, nestled into his side. 

“Liar.” His fingers resume playing with your hair. “You like me.”

You feel like a kid in kindergarten, caught passing a note in class with “do you like me? check yes or no” scrawled in messy handwriting. Like you’re on the playground at recess, heart racing because your crush smiled at you across the monkey bars. But it’s got you just as giddy. “I guess I do.” 

Jungkook reaches over to pull the blanket over you two. “So what happens now?” you wonder aloud. It’s an innocent question, but somehow loaded with more intent than you realize. 

“Now?” he yawns. “Now you let me stay the night. Then tomorrow I’m gonna make you the most fire breakfast of all time. Then Thursday, I’ll take you to the best dinner of your life. And then—”

“There’s more?” Your eyes widen in sarcasm. 

“And then I keep taking you out until you realize you’re in love with me too.”

Your heartbeat is quick but steady in your chest. “Pretty confident about that, hm?”

“Extremely so.” Jungkook yawns again, voice getting drowsy. “I’ve got years of romcom knowledge. I’ve read those Tumblr fanfics. You don’t stand a chance.”

He’s probably right. You don’t stand a chance. In fact, you didn’t from the moment he stood in front of you at that cafe. 

Before you close your eyes and float off into sleep, you mumble out, “God, when did you get so hot?” 

The entire university is pulsating with the energy of drunk frat boys in capes, girls dressed in skimpy lingerie calling it their costume, and at least three professors who are far too old to be dressed up amongst the students. You, however, are in your true element: large hoodie, fuzzy socks, a half-eaten Snickers bar on your nightstand, and a thick law textbook open in front of you.

Parties aren't your thing. You'd rather be sued than make small talk with a guy dressed as a ketchup bottle. While your roommate, Jieun, spent hours hot-gluing rhinestones onto her platform space boots for her "sexy astronaut" outfit, you politely declined all invitations and instead declared war on your midterm readings. The only spooky thing in your life right now is the growing realisation that you don't actually want to be a lawyer, the thought that you'll probably die single, and knowing you'll be buried in student debt by the time you graduate.

And honestly? That's still more appealing than the campus party.

You take a break from studying around 2am and finally decide to turn off the light and get some rest. Until the door of your dorm room creaks open.

You pause, blinking your eyes open in the darkness of your room. Maybe Jieun forgot her phone. Maybe she brought back a stray alien from the party. Either way, you don't move, not until the unmistakable dip of the mattress under your legs almost sends your soul flying from your body.

Someone just climbed into your bed.

Your eyes widen to the size of saucers, your heart racing in your chest. It's pitch black, the only light coming from the little slit under the door.

"Jieunieee," the voice whispers, smooth and far too seductive. "Are you ready for the best dick of your life?"

That's it.

You scream as loud as you can, springing straight up. You grab the bottle of Chanel perfume on your nightstand and spray it directly into his eyes.

"AHHH—WHAT THE F—!"

The stranger falls out of your bed with a loud thud, hitting the floor dramatically like he's been shot in a Western.

"What the hell?!" he groans, writhing on the floor with a hand covering his eyes and the other holding his head. "You maced me!"

"That was perfume!" you yell, feeling your heart in your throat, the perfume clutched tightly in your hand, holding it out in case you have to spray him again. "And why are you in my bed, you psychopath?!"

"I was looking for Jieun!"

"You can't just crawl into beds like a raccoon in the night!"

"I thought this was her bed!"

"Do I sound like Jieun?!"

He blinks rapidly on the floor, his voice strained through his agony. "I don't know, it's dark and I was promised a sexy astronaut!"

You switch on the bedside lamp with the force of a woman ready to kill.

And there he is.

Black leather pants. Tight black shirt. Fake bruises and cuts on his face, presumably made with makeup. An eyebrow piercing. Tousled hair. Ridiculously attractive even while clutching at his eyes like he's just been gassed in battle.

Your brain fills in the blanks before he even says it.

"You're Jeon Jungkook, aren't you?"

He lowers his hand just enough to smirk at you. "And you're ___. The infamous roommate I've heard so much about."

You sigh, flopping back against your headboard in disbelief. "Of course she's hooking up with you of all people."

Jungkook is a campus legend. The boy whose reputation includes at least two streaking incidents, three girls who dropped out of the university due to their heartbreak, and a tongue that's done unspeakable things according to the word on the street.

And now he's on your floor, still very much looking like the kind of man your mother warned you about even after being sprayed in the eyes with perfume.

He sits up, rubbing his eyes. "For the record, I've had a lot of entrances, but that was definitely my worst."

"You scared the crap out of me!" you exclaim, tossing your pillow at him. "Who just walks into a dorm and climbs into an unfamiliar bed?!"

"I didn't walk," he scoffs, catching the pillow with an insufferable grin. "I strode."

You glare at him.

He grins wider. "Come on, that was funny!"

"You have a concussion, don't you?"

He wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms, settling on the edge of your bed. "Honestly? If you weren't so terrifying, I'd be impressed."

"Excuse me?"

"You're terrifying," he deadpans. "You sprayed me in the eyes and insulted me all within five minutes. That's worse than most of my Tinder dates. Not by much, but still."

You fold your arms over your chest, raising an eyebrow at him. "Maybe don't go crawling into beds with strangers."

"Technically, you're the stranger," he quips, pointing a finger at you. "And you've maced and verbally abused me. That's a lot for a first impression."

You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Unbelievable. Are you always this irritating?"

"I like to think of myself as…persistently charming," he smiles.

You give him a dry look, your eyes narrowing. "You're the human equivalent of an unsolicited dick pic."

"Oof," he winces, placing his hand over his heart. "Okay, that one hurt. But also...kinda hot that you're this mean."

You blink at him. "Do girls actually fall for this crap?"

"Usually," he shrugs.

"Well, congratulations," you scoff. "You've officially found the girl who's immune to your bullshit."

He holds up his hands in surrender, laughing softly. "Okay, you've made your point. I'm sorry I invaded your bed. I didn't mean to scare you like that. I apologise."

Your face softens ever so slightly, giving him a curt nod. "Thank you."

"But also," he adds, leaning back on his hands, "you're hilarious. And clearly not afraid to defend your space. We should be friends."

You stare at him. "What?"

"Friends," he repeats, like it's the most natural thing in the world. "You and me. I'm serious."

You narrow your eyes once more. "You literally came here to hook up with my roommate."

"Which clearly isn't happening anymore," he sighs, lounging on your bed like he's at a beach club. "But now I've met you. And I like you."

You scoff. "You don't know me."

"I know you don't care about going to a hot party and hooking up on Halloween night, and would absolutely tase someone if you had the chance. Right?"

You pause. That…is not incorrect.

"I also know that girls like you usually avoid guys like me. Which is fair. But still…" He swings his legs off the bed, standing up. "I want to be friends."

"Why would we do that?" you ask, genuinely curious.

He grins. "Because you're the first girl who's actually told me I'm full of shit to my face."

You open your mouth, then close it again, and he takes that as a win.

"Anyway, I'll see you around," he smiles, walking toward the door. "If Jieun asks, tell her I tested positive for an STD or something."

You roll your eyes. "Get out!"

He's halfway out when he turns back and winks. "Nice meeting you, ___."

"Likewise, Satan," you grumble, gesturing for him to shut the door.

He laughs, loud and boyish, and disappears down the hall. And just like that, your quiet Halloween night turned into something totally unexpected.

You met Jeon Jungkook. And he wants to be your friend.

God help you.

The library is dead silent, but your soul is screaming.

You've been staring at the same paragraph in your property law textbook for the past eleven minutes and it's starting to feel unbearable. You've underlined the phrase "freehold estates" three times in three different colours, and it still means absolutely nothing to you. Your highlighter is on life support, your brain is fried, and you'd sell your soul for caffeine.

But instead of caffeine, you get Jungkook. Perfect.

"Hey, bestie."

You flinch so hard your pen skitters off the desk.

He slides into the seat across from you like he owns it, as if you invited him. As if this is a casual meet-up instead of a sacred study bubble you built with blood, sweat, and overpriced stationery.

"Why," you whisper, your eyes narrowing, "are you here?"

He blinks innocently, shrugging. "Checking on my friend. You did say we'd be friends."

You raise a skeptical brow.

He leans in closer, his voice mock-offended and far too loud for the library. "Which is interesting, because I've texted you three times this week and you haven't replied once."

You open your mouth, then close it, unable to come up with a valid excuse.

"I had to force you to give me your number last week when we ran into each other in the cafeteria," he continues, his arms crossed over his chest. "Do you always ghost your friends, or am I just special?"

You groan, rubbing your temples. "I've been busy, Jungkook."

"You probably didn't even save my contact," he mumbles dramatically. "I'm still just a number. I feel so objectified."

You blink at him, fighting the chuckle threatening to bubble up your throat. "You're so dramatic."

"And you're so avoidant. Classic enemies-to-friends arc," he muses. "We're already ahead of schedule."

You roll your eyes, glancing back down at your textbook. You really don't have time for this, but Jungkook props his chin on his hand and looks at you with that annoyingly charming smile of his, like he's got nowhere else to be. Like being here, distracting you, is the most important thing in the world.

You hate how disarming it is.

"You done soon?" he asks.

"I have a property law test tomorrow," you mutter dryly. "So, no. I will never be done. I will die in this library and haunt the footnotes of this stupid textbook."

He laughs loudly, earning a 'shhhh!' from a student two tables away. "What if I bribe you with coffee?"

You look up, contemplating it for a second before going back to the dreaded textbook.

"Not interested," you mutter lowly, though it's not even convincing to your own ears.

"You're clearly tired," he scoffs, raising an eyebrow. "And cranky. And there's a weird twitch in your left eye. Come on, ___. Take a break with me."

You purse your lips, letting out a deep sigh. The twitch is real. And your head is pounding. And caffeine does sound like heaven right now.

"You're really annoying," you mutter. "I mean it."

"I've been told," he grins, rising from the chair like he's already won. "Come on. Twenty-minute coffee break. Your brain cells will thank me."

Against your better judgment, and possibly because you might actually fall asleep in your chair, you shut your textbook and drag yourself to your feet, slinging your bag over your shoulder.

"Fifteen minutes," you grumble. "If I fail this test, I'm blaming you."

"Fair," he shrugs, grinning as he holds the library's door open for you. "But at least you'll have had the best coffee of your life, so it'll be worth it."

The café is warm and noisy, filled with the comforting smell of espresso and baked goods. Students sit hunched over laptops. A barista is arguing with the espresso machine. Someone's crying in the corner over what sounds like an econ midterm.

You're halfway through the line when Jungkook turns to you, holding two fingers in front of the glass display.

"Okay," he huffs dramatically. "Crucial decision. Strawberry muffin or banana cinnamon walnut?"

You blink up at him, your eyes narrowing. "What?"

"I can't decide," he confesses, peering at them like they're ancient artefacts. "I want both but I can't get both. That's too much sugar and fat and I'll lose my abs. A girl licked whipped cream off my abs two days ago. I need them."

You snort, taking a step forward as the line starts moving again. "You're ridiculous."

"I'm serious," he whines. "Pick one for me. I trust your judgment for some reason."

You sigh in resignation. "Do you want nuts?"

"I don't like nuts," he mutters with a grimace. "But I also don't like not liking things. Feels like I'm limiting my potential."

You stare at him like he's actually insane.

He stares at the muffins.

"Banana walnut it is," you nod.

He looks at you like you just sentenced him to death. "Really? I was kinda hoping for strawberry."

"You said you don't like not liking things. Expand your horizons. Live a little. Face your fears. Eat the nut muffin."

He lets out a groan like he's being tortured. "If I hate it, this is on you."

"Oh relax, you'll live," you scoff, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth.

"What if I die?"

"If you die, I get that expensive laptop of yours."

He nods solemnly. "Deal."

After a long wait that's most definitely over fifteen minutes, you sit down at a corner table by the window, both of you nursing warm drinks. He watches you take the first sip of your mocha like you're some sort of science experiment.

"You were desperate for this, huh?" he chuckles.

"Don't judge me."

He laughs and takes a bite of the banana walnut muffin. He chews slowly, his face unreadable.

You watch him, waiting for the verdict.

He swallows, licks a crumb off his thumb, and looks pleasantly surprised. "…Woah. This is amazing."

You smile, sipping your coffee. "Told you."

"Who knew I liked nuts?"

"I did. You're welcome."

He leans back in his chair and smiles over at you. It's soft, genuine, not the usual grin he uses when he's being annoying.

"I'm starting to think we're meant to be," he quips.

You nearly choke. "Over a muffin?"

"Yeah. You just made a decision that changed my life. This is fate."

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks heat up nonetheless.

He nudges your foot gently under the table, slowly sliding the muffin over to you to taste.

"Thanks for coming with me."

You take a little bite of the muffin, nodding at the taste. "Thanks for the invitation."

And just like that, it starts. A small, insignificant tradition that might mean more some day, but for now, it's just comfortable and easy.

Just…friendship.

—

The kitchen is a mess. There's flour on your cheeks, frosting on your elbow, and a criminal amount of cupcake batter missing from the mixing bowl. Your cousin asked you to bake a batch of vanilla cupcakes for her bridal shower and of course, the new pain in your ass decided to come over to your dorm to 'help'.

"Jungkook," you warn, pointing your spatula at him, "if you eat one more spoon of raw batter, I will throw you out. And no, that's not a threat, it's a promise."

"I'm not eating it," he mumbles, his mouth full. "I'm...quality testing."

"You're gonna get salmonella and die."

"I'll die a happy man because this batter's really good," he grins.

You sigh, scraping the last of the creamy batter into the cupcake liners while Jungkook leans against the counter, licking the spoon you gave him to keep him busy. He has cake batter on the corner of his mouth, and somehow he still looks good. Ridiculously good. Stupidly, unfairly rude levels of good. You pretend not to notice.

"You're supposed to be helping," you sigh.

"I am helping," he says proudly. "You said these are for your cousin's bridal shower. What better way to show my support of the union than selflessly sacrificing my digestive system?"

"You don't have a logical bone in your body."

He grins, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "And yet, here I am, in your kitchen, helping a friend who desperately needed me."

"You invited yourself," you deadpan. "As usual."

He shrugs. "You didn't say no."

You sigh and slide the tray of cupcakes into the oven before setting the timer. The warmth of the kitchen hums around you. It smells like vanilla and feels like a comforting hug in the midst of exams and stress and the impending doom of early adulthood.

Jungkook hops onto the counter, swinging his legs to entertain himself now that the fun part—eating raw batter and watching you stress over quantities of baking powder—is over.

"I still can't believe you made all this from scratch," he murmurs, looking genuinely impressed. "These are, like…actual, professional cupcakes."

You wipe your hands on a dish towel, chuckling. "My cousin's paying me, so that's kinda the point."

He tilts his head, watching you intently. "You're really good at this."

Something in you blossoms at the compliment. He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like it's a fact. It feels good, something you're not sure you've felt before.

You smile faintly and sit down at the little table in the middle of the kitchen, staring at the mess around you; edible flowers, mixing bowls, an empty packet of cupcake liners.

"It's what I love," you murmur softly, a look of tenderness blooming in your gaze.

He raises a brow. "Baking?"

"Yeah," you nod. "Always have. Even when I was a kid. I used to make these terrible little chocolate chip cookies that were more like…burnt rocks...but I'd still force everyone in my family to eat them."

He laughs.

You don't.

"I used to dream about owning a bakery," you add, your voice a little softer, more vulnerable. "Still do, I guess."

There's a pause. He watches you, remaining quiet, waiting for you to elaborate without making a silly comment. You don't look at him, but you can feel it, the shift, his attention going from teasing to genuinely trying to understand you a little deeper.

"But…" you sigh, leaning your chin on your palm. "My parents want me to be a lawyer. That was always the plan. It's respectable. Stable. It makes sense."

"Do you want to be a lawyer?" he asks, his eyebrows knitting together.

You hesitate, letting out a deep sigh. It's as if a gate has opened inside your chest because you don't seem to hold anything back.

"No," you scoff. "Not even a little."

The confession feels heavier than you expected. It feels like you're finally being honest with yourself, which is far scarier than being honest with him. You can ignore his teasing remarks, but you can't ignore that little mocking voice in your head that tells you your dreams probably won't work out anyway.

Jungkook doesn't say anything right away. He just keeps swinging his legs slowly, tapping his fingers against the edge of the counter.

Finally, he asks, "Then why are you doing it?"

You roll your eyes, looking anywhere but his eyes. "Because…I'm good at it apparently...and they expect it. I don't want to disappoint them."

He nods slowly, his eyes downcast.

"You know what would be more disappointing?" he murmurs, his smile barely reaching his eyes.

You tilt your head, looking over at him.

"Waking up ten years from now and hating your life," he deadpans. "And never even trying."

Your chest tightens, your head racing with endless possibilities of a future you thought was already set out for you.

"You're so good at this, ___," he smiles, gesturing to the cupcakes in the oven, the kitchen, the part of you he wants to explore further. "Like, actually good. Not just hobby-good. This is your thing."

You swallow thickly, remaining silent. You don't usually tell people this stuff. You don't usually let yourself say it out loud because then it feels too real. Too scary. But for some reason…with him, it doesn't. You've come to realise he makes you feel seen, which is weird, considering he usually forgets girls' names and faces after a single encounter. This is different, though. You're not a girl he wants to sleep with. You're ___, the girl he wants to hang out with at 2am just because. You're the girl he genuinely wants to spend time with because he enjoys your company, your friendship. You like that. It makes this all feel more genuine.

There's a long beat of silence before you begrudgingly admit the thoughts plaguing you. "You can be really sweet when you're not being an idiot."

He laughs, his nose scrunching up in that way that makes your stomach feel tingly and fluttery. "Don't spread that around. I have a specific brand to maintain."

You laugh, loud and sincere.

"I think you'd make a great bakery owner," he murmurs softly, flicking some leftover flour in your direction.

You wave him off like it's nothing and check your cupcakes, but for the first time since you started studying law, you finally believe you're capable of more than settling, all thanks to the boy on your counter with flour in his hair and sincerity in his eyes.

—

It's almost midnight when Jungkook's phone buzzes on the nightstand. He's half-asleep, sprawled out on his bed, wearing nothing but his boxers, one sock missing. He squints at the screen through bleary eyes, seeing your contact name.

He's awake in an instant.

"Hello?" he croaks, already sitting up, his hair sticking up in all directions. He hears the catch in your voice before you even say a word.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, sniffling. "Did I wake you?"

His heart drops. "Are you okay?"

"...Seungcheol...he cheated on me."

Jungkook is already pulling on sweatpants before the word 'cheated' leaves your lips.

Of course. Fucking Seungcheol. You weren't even really looking for love when you met him. He was just a friend of a friend in one of your classes—a smooth talker who carried around a leather briefcase like he was already a full-time lawyer instead of a sleep-deprived undergrad. Jungkook never liked him, always thought he was a bit pretentious, but of course he wouldn't burst your bubble. Looks like he was right about the dick after all.

"I'll be there in ten."

You open your dorm door in your pajamas, eyes red, nose pink. Your expression crumples the moment you see him, and he doesn't hesitate, just wraps you up in his arms, no questions asked.

Even after just seven months of friendship, you cling to Jungkook like a lifeline, like he'll put all your broken pieces together again. Sure, your relationship with Seungcheol only lasted two months but that means a lot to an eighteen-year-old, so there are still a lot of broken pieces nonetheless.

"He said he didn't mean to," you mumble against his chest while you lie in bed together, willingly this time. "Like that makes it better. Like I should be grateful that it only happened once."

Jungkook exhales hard, like he's trying not to yell. "He's a fucking idiot."

"He said I made him feel…small. That I was trying to outsmart him. That I was too independent. That I...made him feel like he couldn't 'be the man', whatever that means."

Jungkook pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes fierce, his hands cupping your face.

"You are smart. And independent. And so beautiful. And funny. And you make the best desserts in this entire goddamn city. If he couldn't handle that, it's not because you were too much. It's because he just wasn't enough."

Your eyes well up again, tears silently slipping down your cheeks.

"He cheated with a really pretty girl. Blonde. Really big boobs," you grumble.

Jungkook's voice softens, his thumbs stroking your wet cheeks. "Don't compare yourself to some other girl. You are...so fucking gorgeous, by the way."

You snort, shaking your head. "Shut up."

"I'm serious." His thumb brushes away another tear. "You walk around like you're not insanely beautiful, and you think no one notices. But I do, ___."

You stare at him, stunned into silence.

He shrugs, pulling you closer to rest your head against his chest. "Just saying. Don't cry over some knock-off loser when you're literally you."

He stays wrapped around you for as long as you need, one hand gently running through your hair. You sniffle into his neck, your eyes eventually fluttering shut from the warmth and safety of it all.

Eventually, you fall asleep against his chest, breathing steady, a hand loosely clutching his hoodie.

Jungkook remains still, simply looking at you, admiring you in all your glory. Memorising the curve of your cheek against his collarbone. The way your lips part ever so slightly when you dream. The way your fingers curl, even in your sleep, like you're afraid to let go.

He's not the guy who stays for too long. Not the guy who commits. He's built his whole identity around not being that guy, but holding you like this, he kinda wishes he was.

He stares up at the ceiling and sighs, a quiet, hopeless sound.

"I wish I could be the man you need," he whispers into the dark. "But I'm not there yet. I don't know if I ever will be."

And even though you're fast asleep, you still mumble something soft and unintelligible into his chest. You still hold on, and so does he.

—

Your dorm room is lit by a single lamp, the soft yellow glow contrasting violently with the hyper-pink DVD menu of Legally Blonde looping on your laptop. You've watched it a million times before but it's a Friday night and you're having a movie night with Jungkook, so naturally, you're introducing him to one of the classics.

Jungkook is sprawled across your bed, legs crossed at the ankles, one hand buried in a bowl of popcorn and the other dramatically thrown over his forehead as if he's on his deathbed.

"I swear I don't deserve this," he groans. "I mean...I know I call her Number Three but she didn't have to ghost me just because I wouldn't be exclusive with her. I was actually planning on seeing her again and then calling it off, like a gentleman."

You blink, glancing over at him. "Number Three?"

He sighs. "We've been over this, remember? The girl from the accounting party. Short. Cute. Gave me a hickey shaped like a continent. I think South America?"

You stare at him, slowly shaking your head. "You're insufferable."

He brightens. "Thank you."

"That wasn't a compliment."

"You say that," he grins, grabbing another handful of popcorn, "but I feel like you secretly admire my dedication to the craft."

"What craft?" you deadpan. "Being a man-whore?"

He gasps, clutching his chest. "You wound me."

"And you wound women," you chuckle.

"Wow. That hurt, ___."

You toss a pillow at him but he dodges like an athlete. Of course he does. Jackass.

Eventually, when the popcorn is half finished and your patience is half gone, you nod toward the laptop screen. "I'm honestly surprised you're not out tonight."

He blinks. "What do you mean?"

"It's Friday," you deadpan. "Your natural habitat is...I don't know...bars, random beds, broom closets. Anywhere but here watching Legally Blonde with me."

He pouts, actually pouts.

"Hey, I like hanging out with you. I cancelled plans to hang out with you."

You scoff, visibly unconvinced. You secretly feel very special and quite flattered, but that has to be too good to be true, right?

He continues casually, "I'm not completely heartless, you know. I have layers. I'm like an onion. A sexy onion."

You snort. "Please never say 'sexy onion' again."

"But it's true!" he insists, nudging your calf with his foot. "I really like hanging out with you. You're fun, easy to talk to, and you don't pretend to be someone else around me."

"And your other girls do?"

"They pretend to like whatever I like, dislike whatever I dislike. It gets boring listening to them just agree with whatever I say."

You roll your eyes. "Poor baby."

He rolls his eyes right back, as if you don't understand how hard it all is for him.

"You know what your problem is?" you ask, adjusting the laptop and pressing play.

"Oh, here we go."

"You don't believe in romance. Or in actual relationships. Or in…anything that requires feelings."

That's not entirely true, but he shrugs anyway. "Feelings are messy. Hookups are simple. Everyone wins."

"Not everyone," you mumble under your breath, your eyes trained on the laptop screen.

He tilts his head, his mouth stuffed with more popcorn. "What's that supposed to mean?"

You ignore his question and push on. "I just…I don't get it. How can you have meaningless sex with someone? Doesn't it feel empty?"

"Actually when I do it, they usually feel very full," he smirks.

You throw a balled-up pair of socks at his face and he catches it one-handed. What a show-off.

"Look," you clarify, sighing, "I'm just saying, I personally...want something real. Someday. Something that actually matters. A person who actually matters."

"Happily ever after, huh?" he teases.

"Maybe," you mutter, growing defensive. "Why not?"

He makes a face as if you just told him the Earth is flat. "Uhmmm...because that doesn't exist."

"You're so dramatic, yes it does."

"You're the dramatic one!" he argues. "You act like the universe is going to drop Prince Charming out of the sky."

"Maybe it will."

"It won't," he laughs.

You sigh, your eyebrows furrowing in annoyance. "You don't know that."

"I do. I know love ends in heartbreak ninety-nine percent of the time."

"So what? You avoid the one percent just in case it hurts?" you challenge.

"Yes," he chuckles carelessly. "And I'm thriving."

You stare at him for a long moment—this beautiful, aggravating, confusing man who can make you laugh until your ribs hurt and then say something that makes you want to shake him.

He has no idea what he does to people.

Especially you.

Especially because lately you've been catching yourself staring at his hands more when he gestures, or the way his hair falls into his eyes while he plays video games, or the sweet, sincere smile he gives you right before he ruins the moment and says something stupid.

You refuse to acknowledge any of it. Crushes on Jungkook are a disease, and you are absolutely vaccinated.

You distract yourself with the movie. Elle Woods is about to confront Warner. Great scene. Then—

His phone buzzes on the bed. Just once.

You don't mean to look but your eyes flick down instinctively while he rambles absentmindedly about the scene playing out on screen.

There's an unanswered text still waiting on the screen from his friend, Seokjin, asking about some business admin assignment. He didn't bother to respond yet. You're sure Seokjin is used to him taking forever to respond to texts, considering they've known each other since high school and now share a few classes together, which you found out on a tipsy Wednesday night when Jungkook decided to share his whole life story with you.

That's not the text that matters right now. The second text is the one that really catches your eye. The number isn't saved, but you don't have to be a genius to know that it's one of his hookups.

xx - xxx [10:32pm]: i had a lot of fun tonight. same time tomorrow ??

He slept with someone. He had sex with some girl literally right before coming over.

Your stomach drops. It shouldn't—not when you've known him for almost a year and you know him to be this way—but it does anyway. It drops because he said he cancelled plans to be with you, but it turns out you're just leftovers.

And now he's here, laughing with you, acting like you're such good company, when in reality you were the afterthought once again. The backup plan. The safe, comfortable option when he's done with whatever girl came before.

You clear your throat. "Your, uhm...your phone buzzed."

"Oh?" he mutters lazily, not even reaching for it. "Probably Jin. He's obsessed with me," he jokes.

You look back at the laptop screen before he can see your face. Your voice is neutral when you murmur, "You should probably respond. Maybe it's important."

"Nah," he shrugs. "I'm here. I'm hanging out with you."

You nod, forcing a smile.

Something inside you clicks—a silent, sharp realisation. This is who Jungkook is. This is who Jungkook will always be. He's funny, and charming, and a little bit addictive, if you're being completely honest.

But Jungkook will never be yours.

He will never be the perfect man for you. He will never be your one percent. So, you bury the tiny, blooming crush before it can grow roots, and you decide firmly, painfully, that a friend is all he'll ever be to you.

And you're sure you can live with that.

Ten years later...

If someone had told you back in university that the chaotic intruder you maced with Chanel perfume would become your favourite person, you would've recommended they seek help urgently.

And yet, ten years later, here you are.

Somehow, despite Jungkook's questionable life choices, endless line of women, and the fact that he once tried to microwave ramen without water, the two of you grew into something solid. Something constant. Something quietly threaded into every part of your adult life.

You grew up together.

Late-night study sessions turned into late-night grocery runs. His hangovers turned into your "you have to stop being so irresponsible" lectures. Your heartbreaks turned into his "give me his address" threats. You were there to celebrate with him when he landed his first high-paying corporate job and he was there to support you when you were grieving your dad's passing.

You became inseparable. A matched set. A pair of platonic soulmates. And in the past ten years, your life took a path younger you would've fainted over.

Sure, you graduated with your law degree and your family was proud, your grandmother bragged to her knitting group, and you spent several months pretending you were totally thrilled to be entering a profession that slowly devoured human souls.

But the truth? You hated it. The corporate offices. The endless contracts. The panic attacks you had in bathroom stalls pretending everything was fine. Law was stable and respectable, but it sucked the life out of you.

Your dream had always smelled like sugar, butter, and rising dough, so one day, with the determination your professors once called "excessive," you quit your job, emptied your savings, fought with your mom for a full year about your life choices, and opened the bakery you always wanted.

Honey & Hearth Bakery; your pride and joy, your entire heart with an overpriced oven attached. The tiny cake shop that eventually grew into a beloved neighbourhood spot with warm lighting, mismatched mugs, cozy booths, and the smell of fresh bread always lingering in the air.

And Jungkook? Well, he painted the walls baby-pink with you at 1am and drilled shelves with no prior experience. He showed up to your grand opening with an extravagant flower bouquet, three balloons that were far too big and dramatic for a bakery opening, and a promise to always support you and your happiness.

He's been your most loyal customer ever since.

Which brings you to now.

The bell above the front door jingles at 8 on a Thursday morning and you don't have to look up to know who it is.

"Morning, superstar," Jungkook calls out, his voice warm and annoyingly bright for a man who has a meeting to attend in an hour. Working in the corporate world isn't the most thrilling profession in life, but he earns the big bucks and he looks hot wearing a suit, and that's enough for him.

You grin without turning around, already whipping up his coffee. "You're late."

"It's 8," he scoffs, winking at a random woman that walks past him.

"Your usual time is 7:20."

"Sorry. Morning sex happened," he sighs, sliding onto his usual stool at the front counter. "That girl from the bar stayed the night and don't get me wrong, she's hot, but I had to explain the whole 'no overstaying your welcome' rule."

"Is that a part of your 'no back-to-back sex' rule?"

"Yes, exactly," he sighs.

"Isn't that basically the same thing as your 'no more than once a week' rule?"

"No, the 'no more than once a week' rule specifically only works from Monday to Friday."

You scoff. "Oh, so theoretically you could sleep with someone on Sunday night and it wouldn't break the rule if you slept with them again on Monday morning?"

"Now you're getting it," he nods.

You finally glance over your shoulder, listening to him go on a long tangent about his recent sexual endeavours. He's completely different from the mischievous boy who crawled into your bed a decade ago…yet somehow exactly the same. Older now, bigger, broader, jaw sharper, hair perfectly styled. Still stupidly handsome in that infuriating, effortless way.

"Pick one for me," he grins, looking over at the pastry case.

That little tradition certainly didn't end in university. In fact, it's become an every-morning thing. He comes in before work and insists you surprise him with a new pastry to try. Apparently it keeps him on his toes, which he believes is very important in life.

You lean against the counter, your arms crossed. "Hmm. What's your vibe today?"

"I don't know," he sighs, pretending to think. "Handsome. Dashing. Maybe a little mysterious."

"Delusional," you chuckle.

"See? This is why this works," he smiles. "You keep me humble."

"What about a slice of apple and cherry crumble?"

"Nah, I had that one last week," he shakes his head.

"Lemon butter cream cup maybe?"

"Not really feeling a cream cup today," he shrugs.

"Hmmm..." You scan the display of desserts, pursing your lips. "Pistachio croissant?"

"___, come on. You're losing your touch," he teases.

"Okay, okay, uhmmm..." You scan the display once more, picking a popular new item on the menu. "Okay, today you're getting the honeycomb and lavender custard tart."

He lights up instantly, like a puppy being offered a treat. "Yes. Excellent choice. I knew you'd pick that."

"You didn't know anything," you scoff, plating it for him.

"I had a feeling."

"You always have a feeling."

"And it's always right," he grins.

The bell rings at the front door and you quickly turn your attention to the cash register to serve one of your regular customers, Mrs. Park—an elderly woman who always makes pleasant conversation and compares you to her granddaughter. She's incredibly nice and always compliments you on the frilly dresses you wear.

"What will it be today, Mrs. Park?" you smile sweetly.

"My usual, dear," she chuckles warmly. "One of those lovely chocolate eclairs of yours. My daughter tells me I should stop eating them so much because of my blood sugar but what she doesn't know won't hurt her."

You chuckle, wrapping one up for her in a little pastel-pink box, taking her cash with a polite bow of your head. "My lips are sealed," you wink.

She laughs and takes the box before walking off with a little wave of her wrinkled hand.

That brings you back to the man waiting for his breakfast.

"Here," you murmur, sliding the plate and mug of coffee toward him. "Eat and try not to break anything. You already broke two mugs last month and I'm seriously going to start charging you for them."

He takes a big bite of the mini tart and groans in delight. "God, marry me."

"You literally just told me about how you were balls deep in some girl from the bar," you scoff, rolling your eyes. "Besides, you fake-propose to me every morning."

"And I mean it every morning."

You snort. "Please. You'd never."

He leans an elbow on the counter. "Only because you'd divorce me for eating in bed and getting crumbs on the sheets," he sighs, taking a sip of his coffee.

"Correct," you nod, wiping down the counter. "I have standards."

He sets down his mug and straightens up, getting to what he's been meaning to discuss this morning. "So, you busy this Saturday?"

You shrug, mentally checking your schedule. "Not that I know of. Why?"

"Because I need you."

You pause. "You do?"

"It's an invitation actually."

"Okay…" you murmur sceptically, narrowing your eyes at him. "To what?"

"My father's engagement party. Shocker."

Your rag pauses mid-swipe across the counter. "Which one?"

"Engagement or father?" he grins.

"Both."

"Engagement number ten. Father number one."

You blink. "Ten?"

"Ten," he repeats, like it physically pains him. "She's twenty-three, gorgeous, has a skincare routine that could bankrupt nations. I think she was in diapers when my dad got married the third time."

You gape. "Wait, who's the one that sold protein powder on Instagram?"

"That was number eight." He takes another sip of his coffee. "This one does yoga retreats in Bali and says things like 'alignment is a mindset'. Ridiculous, I know. And she only wears bags that are made from real baby alligator, allegedly."

"That's disgusting and inhumane," you grimace. "So...why do you need me?"

"Because," he groans, "he's having some fancy dinner-slash-engagement party and he wants me there, and I am not suffering through that circus alone. And my dad likes you. And you make me look balanced and emotionally stable."

"That's a lot of responsibility for one woman," you tease.

He shrugs. "You used to handle lawsuits for fun."

"Yeah but I don't do law anymore," you deadpan.

"You still look like you could send someone to jail," he grins, taking another bite of his dessert. "Anyway, you know how these things go. Everyone's going to ask why I'm still single, and I'll end up getting irritated because my dad's fiancée—who's younger than me—insists on calling me 'sweetie'. I need backup. Please come, ___. I'll owe you forever."

You laugh softly, leaning across the counter. "You already owe me forever, Jeon."

"Yeah, but this time I'll actually admit it," Jungkook mumbles, meeting your eyes with that boyish half-smile that hasn't changed in a decade.

"Fine. I'll go," you sigh, tossing the rag into the sink.

Jungkook beams, and you pretend your stomach doesn't flip.

"You're amazing," he grins and claps once, pushing off the counter with a mouth full of custard tart. "I'll pick you up at seven on Saturday. Wear something fancy. And also maybe emotionally prepare yourself."

"For what?" You chuckle.

He grimaces. "Stepmom Number Ten is…a handful."

You chuckle. "Aren't they always?"

He points at you as he backs toward the door. "Exactly why you're coming with me."

The bell jingles again as he leaves, and your day continues with familiar customers while he rushes through the morning traffic.

Jungkook's father's estate is something you would never be able to afford even if you opened ten more bakeries. Calling it a house would be like calling the Titanic a canoe. There are fountains—yes, plural. There is a driveway long enough to train for a marathon. There's valet parking and a floral arch made of white roses that look like they cost more than your entire bakery.

And there are people. A lot of people. Champagne clinks in the air, soft jazz plays somewhere in the distance, and laughter rolls in every direction.

You exhale, adjusting the strap on your dress. "I always feel very commoner-in-the-palace when I'm here."

Jungkook tucks your hand into the crook of his arm, pulling you closer as he leans in, looking dapper in his black tux. "Relax. You're one of the only sane people here. That automatically makes you royalty."

"Does it?"

"Yes," he smiles confidently. "And when my father inevitably lets me inherit this place, which I'll force him to do, then I'll make you queen of the fountains."

You snort. "I don't want to be queen of the fountains."

"Too late. You've been coronated." He taps your forehead with his finger. "Boop."

You roll your eyes, but your chest warms. He always does that; makes you feel like you belong wherever he is.

Inside, the party is in full swing. There are waiters weaving between people, guests mingling in glitter and silk, the future bride squealing in a voice that sounds like it's powered by helium and Mr. Jeon himself proudly showing off the engagement ring on her finger that could double as a murder weapon. There's even a towering cake on display, five tiers of gold-trimmed extravagance that you can't wait to recreate in your free time.

Jungkook grabs two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter and hands you one, taking a big gulp.

The moment his father spots the two of you, his entire face lights up.

"There's my favourite duo!" Jeon Jaehyun sweeps you both into a hug—more you than Jungkook. Jungkook gets a pat on the back like a border collie. You get an affectionate double cheek kiss and a squeeze.

"Mr. Jeon," you greet with a polite bow and a soft smile. You've always liked him. He makes questionable choices when it comes to women, but he's nice and he always treats you like you're a part of the family. It's also clear where Jungkook gets his good looks from, not that you ever look for too long or else he'd make you Wife Number Eleven.

"You look stunning tonight, sweetheart," he beams. "I tell you, if I were thirty years younger—"

"You'd still be making terrible decisions, dad," Jungkook cuts in, unamused.

Jaehyun clicks his tongue. "I'll have you know, son, that marriage is an unpredictable thing."

You glance at the fiancée across the room, who is taking a selfie with the champagne tower, not noticing that she's flashing half the guests.

"Unpredictable, huh?" you echo with a soft smile. Sure.

The fiancée, Seulgi—with a gorgeous face, waist-length extensions and breasts that defy gravity—bounces over.

"Kookieee," she sings. Her voice is airy, like her brain has never had to carry anything heavier than a single thought.

"Kookie?" you whisper.

He grimaces. "Don't."

"Oh my gosh, is this your girlfriend?" she asks, looking you up and down like you're a lost child she found at the mall. "I didn't know my future stepson has a special lady!"

"This is ___," he sighs. "My best friend. Strictly platonic."

Seulgi nods, smiling like she understands exactly none of those words, before turning her attention to her future husband. "Love-muffin," she coos, kissing Jungkook's father on the cheek. "The guests are asking when we're cutting the cake."

Jungkook leans toward you, whispering, "My dad's nickname for her is Sugarpuss."

You almost choke on your champagne. "No."

"Yes," he grins sarcastically.

His father pats her waist affectionately, grabbing your attention. "Isn't she wonderful?"

She smiles. "I got my nails done for today."

She wiggles her fingers in front of your face. They're pink and sparkly and probably cost more than your monthly grocery bill.

You smile, nodding. "Very pretty."

"Thank you!" she squeals. "I got them done at—oh look, champagne!" She wanders away mid-sentence.

Jungkook closes his eyes, groaning. "My latest stepmother, ladies and gentlemen."

Jaehyun gives you both an apologetic smile. "Listen, she's...youthful. Nothing wrong with that."

"She probably can't even spell 'youthful', dad," Jungkook deadpans.

Before Jaehyun can respond, another round of shrieking laughter erupts from Seulgi's direction. Jaehyun sighs deeply, chuckling.

You squeeze his arm, a soft smile settling on your face. "Congratulations. I really hope you're happy, Mr. Jeon."

He softens at that, looking between you and Jungkook. "With people like the two of you around? Hard not to be."

Jungkook, knowing how much of a sap you are, drags you away before you can tear up, but that doesn't stop you from clutching your chest like your heart might physically burst right through it.

The buffet tables are the size of actual battle stations. You and Jungkook each grab cake slices and slip outside, where fairy lights glow over small round tables. You sit at one, kicking off your heels with a relieved sigh.

"Vanilla for you," Jungkook says, sliding your plate over. "Chocolate for me."

"And we share," you remind him.

"We always share."

You scoop a bite of chocolate from his plate. He steals some vanilla from yours. It's instinctual.

While you eat, you glance out at the dance floor. Couples are slow dancing under the lights, chins tucked against shoulders, fingers intertwined, faces soft with something that makes your chest ache a little.

"I love that," you murmur softly.

Jungkook follows your gaze. "What? Dancing?"

"No," you scoff, taking a small bite of the vanilla cake. "The...closeness. The comfort. You know, two people who actually like being around each other."

He snorts, stuffing his mouth with cake. "Boring."

"You literally treat dating like a casual sport," you mutter, rolling your eyes. "You can't even do something as simple as cuddling."

"I could cuddle if I really wanted to," he mumbles defensively, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Jungkook, you once pushed a girl off your chest because she said your heartbeat sounded like a lullaby."

He points his fork at you. "Okay, but after I pushed her off of me, I played her an actual lullaby on Spotify, so..."

You laugh so loudly someone glances over at your table.

He leans back in his chair, studying you. "You should be more spontaneous. You fall in love too quickly and you assume every boyfriend is the one. You ever think maybe you'd have more fun if you didn't plan out every part of your life?"

"I'm not planning," you argue, eating a forkful of the chocolate cake. "I just...I like security and stability in life."

"Or," he counters, "you're waiting for this perfect man who doesn't exist."

You shrug, absentmindedly poking the cake with your fork. "I'm not looking for perfect; I'm looking for someone who sees a future with me, not a guy who 'goes with the flow' because he doesn't know how to commit. Someone I can build a life with."

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes at you. "One; that's kinda delusional. Two; you're twenty-eight, you still have time for all that later in life."

"Not according to my mom. She believes I should have been married and had babies by now."

"That's insane," he scoffs. "I'm thirty and I'm perfectly fine the way I am."

"We're very different people with very opposing views on relationships, Jungkook," you murmur gently. "And besides, I do kinda agree with her to a certain extent. I want to build something soon and not waste time dating men who only want a weekend. I'll die alone if I don't get a move on."

He softens, almost imperceptibly. "You don't have to rush. It'll happen with the right person when it's meant to be."

You nod down at your plate, dragging your fork through some frosting. "Yeah. I guess."

"Besides, do you want to get married just for the sake of being married? Look at my father who's on his tenth marriage and soon, his tenth divorce."

"Don't be so negative," you murmur with a faint smile. "Maybe this one will be his person."

"My mom was supposed to be his person," he grumbles, picking at the vanilla cake. "This one is just another mistake to add to the list."

"Jungkook," you smile. "Even if you know it's a mistake but it's not your place to intervene, you simply say, 'I'm happy you're happy' and move along."

"Yeah, yeah," he scoffs, bringing his fork up to his lips. "You're always right. I hate that."

You chuckle, taking another bite of his slice of cake. The moment settles between you, and you take it as an opportunity to share something with him that's been on your mind lately.

"Speaking of being spontaneous…"

"Oh no," he teases. "That tone is never good."

You chuckle, rolling your eyes. "No, it's not anything crazy, it's just...I've kinda been thinking about going to London for the summer."

His fork freezes halfway to his mouth, his eyes growing double its size. "London?"

"Mhm. For a short pastry course," you explain. "Three months at this prestigious culinary institute. It's kinda a dream opportunity."

Jungkook is silent, his fork gently clinking against the plate as he sets it down.

"When were you gonna tell me?" he asks softly. He's not upset, just very caught off guard.

"Just now," you shrug. "I was on the fence about it for a while."

"Wow," he swallows thickly. "Three months?"

You nod.

He forces a small smile, the kind of smile he uses when he doesn't like something but refuses to ruin things for you. It's a smile that tells you he doesn't know how to live without you for that long, but he'll pretend like he's totally fine.

"That's…wow, that's amazing, ___."

"Yeah." You pick at your cake some more. "But I don't know. It's expensive and I'd be away from the bakery for months, and I've never been out of the country alone before, and—"

"Hey," he smiles, softly nudging your knee under the table. "You can do it."

"I don't know," you mumble. "It feels like…a big jump."

"You like big jumps."

"No, you like big jumps. I like stable ground, a clear path and preferably a railing."

He grins. "I'll install a railing in London."

You glare at him but your laughter slips out effortlessly.

His smile softens even more. "Seriously. If you want it, go for it. The bakery will survive. The other staff can run it. And you should do things for yourself for once. You're always taking care of everyone else."

You open your mouth to argue, then shut it when you realise you don't have an argument. You hate that he's not wrong.

"I'll miss home," you mutter quietly.

"Home will always be here, ___, it isn't going anywhere," he shrugs. "Seoul will always be your home. Three months in London won't magically change that."

You want to tell him that you'll miss him as well, but saying that you'll miss home is close enough. It's one in the same anyway.

"And," he adds, "if you get lost, I'll fly over and find you."

You roll your eyes. "Right, because you're definitely responsible enough for that."

"Hey, I'd bring a GPS."

You chuckle, leaning back in your chair as warm air settles around you, the fairy lights flickering overhead and Jungkook licking frosting off his fork like it's nothing.

"You think I'll do well?"

"Of course," he smiles, nudging your shoulder. "It's you. You're gonna shine. And I'll visit, or we'll video call...or I'll just break into the institute and steal you back."

You laugh, but your chest tightens. He's trying so hard to be happy for you. You can tell.

"You sure you'll survive without me?"

He scoffs dramatically. "If anything, I'll thrive. I'll become stronger, faster, a new man."

"Right," you chuckle. "You'll last three days before you start texting me pictures of pastries and asking which one to buy."

"I give it two," he admits in defeat.

You laugh, the last of the tension easing as the music swells in the distance. Your face slowly melts into a tender smile, your eyes softening ever so gently. It all feels so warm and intimate, and strangely bittersweet.

"Thank you for always supporting me," you murmur quietly.

"Always," he smiles before feeding you a piece of cake on his fork.

You're mid-bite into your cake when Jungkook's entire face suddenly drains of colour.

"Oh no," he whispers.

You pause, your eyebrows furrowing in confusion. "What?"

He doesn't answer in words. Instead, he subtly tilts his head toward the patio doors.

You follow his gaze. A woman in a tight pencil skirt and glasses, hair in a too-tight bun, is clutching a binder to her chest like it's a bible and she's about to testify. Her eyes scan the place with an intensity that could cut steel.

"Uhm…who is that?" you whisper.

"One of my dad's senior analysts." He swallows, setting down his fork. "Her name's Yuri."

"She looks...friendly," you tease.

"She made a blog about me," he hisses.

Your eyebrows shoot up. "What?"

"A blog. It's called 'All Things Jungkook'. Can you believe that?"

You snicker, covering your mouth so you don't get cake everywhere. "You're kidding."

"I wish."

You laugh too loudly and Jungkook shushes you frantically before it can catch Yuri's attention.

"She wrote an entire essay analysing my facial structure," he whispers. "Like, paragraphs. There were diagrams."

You bite your bottom lip to keep from cackling, your face contorting with amusement. "Diagrams?"

"She compared my jawline to Renaissance sculptures," he mutters miserably. "Sculptures, ___."

You wheeze.

"At least she doesn't think my nose is too big or my arms are too scrawny," he adds under his breath, pouting.

You stop laughing, your smile fading.

"Who said that?"

He stares at you.

"You did," he scoffs. "Back in university."

You gasp. "I did not say that!"

"You did," he nods solemnly. "You also said my top lip is too thin."

You slap a hand over your mouth, horrified and amused all at once. "Okay, to be fair, I was an extremely critical eighteen-year-old who was drowning in law textbooks, so I didn't really have a nice thing to say about anyone."

He looks in Yuri's direction, who is still scanning the crowd like a Terminator. "She's gonna see me. She's gonna corner me and ask if I read her four-page analysis about my eyebrows."

You're already laughing again.

"___," he begs, grabbing your wrist. "Dance with me."

"Wait, what?"

"Please," he hisses. "If I'm on the dance floor with someone, she won't approach me."

You arch a brow. "You want me to publicly claim you as occupied?"

"Yes."

You chuckle faintly but stand anyway. "You so owe me."

The music has shifted to something smooth and slow—a romantic melody playing that makes older couples sway like they're reliving their youth. Jungkook places a hand lightly on your waist as you join the crowd. It's familiar but warmer than usual. Or maybe it's the champagne going to your head.

You rest your left hand on his shoulder and your right hand in his palm as you both begin to sway, your faces a lot closer together than they usually are.

"Okay," you smile, "which part of your face did she analyse the hardest?"

"My jaw," he mutters. "Apparently it has a 'mathematically perfect slope', or something like that."

You smile, letting him sway you to the music. "Well, she's not wrong."

He does a double take, staring at you like you said something completely crazy.

"What?" you chuckle.

"What did you just say?" he asks, leaning in closer.

"I said she's not wrong," you shrug.

He squints at you. "You used to call me a pretentious dick."

"That was also true."

He shakes his head. "You're unbelievable."

You grin, then hesitate just a fraction, but he notices.

"What is it?" he asks softly.

You shouldn't say it. You really shouldn't say it, but the music is soft, and the lights are warm, and you're pressed just a bit too close to a man you trust more than anyone in the world, so you blurt it out before you can stop yourself.

"I always thought you were...cute. You know, back in the day. I might've...had a little crush on you..."

His entire body goes still, his eyes growing wide.

"You what?"

"It was a teeny tiny...stupid crush," you clarify. "Very small and insignificant. Microscopic, actually."

Jungkook continues to stare at you, his lips parting in disbelief. "You're kidding."

"I'm not."

"You..." he scoffs, smiling. "You had a crush on me?"

"Don't say it like that," you chuckle, growing flustered.

"No, I'm just..." He searches your face, bewildered and—although he tries to hide it—quite pleased. "I thought you hated me in university."

"Oh, please. If I hated you, I wouldn't have wasted my time insulting you."

He laughs, loud and delighted.

"So, all those insults were, what? You flirting?"

You sigh, rolling your eyes. "Calm down, Jeon."

"You secretly pined for me," he grins smugly, gently twirling you around until you're facing him again.

"Pined? Relax. It lasted, like, two weeks."

"Mhm, sure," he teases. "I bet you were doodling my name in all your notebooks and imagining what our children would look like."

You give him a deadpan stare. "Don't push it. That ship sailed a long time ago."

His smile falters just enough for you to notice if you're really paying attention, but he recovers quickly, tugging you a little closer as the music swells.

"Right, of course," he mumbles softly, looking past you while you sway to the music.

You clear your throat, feeling desperate to redirect the conversation before the air gets heavy.

"So…London," you murmur softly.

He hums, twirling you around once more before pulling you in close. "London."

"I think it'll be good for me," you admit. "A break. Something new."

He studies you—the bright excitement in your eyes, the uncertainty underneath, the hope, and something flashes in his expression that you don't catch, something soft and affectionate.

"Well," he smiles, his voice quieter than before, "I guess I'll have to see you off at the airport, huh?"

You smile, resting your cheek against his shoulder.

He closes his eyes, savouring the moment, his voice coming out just a tad louder than a whisper. "Fuck, I'm gonna miss you."

You roll your eyes, feeling a warmth bloom deep within your ribs. "You're a sap like me now."

He smirks, the earlier tension slipping away. "Don't tell anyone."

"Your secret's safe with me."

He dips you playfully, the two of you laughing, brushing shoulders, standing closer than friends should—close enough that the air between you buzzes with something you both feel.

Outside the dance floor, Yuri is still circling like a shark, but Jungkook doesn't look her way once. Not when he's looking at you.

Incheon Airport buzzes with summer chaos; children dragging suitcases bigger than their bodies, couples taking teary selfies, businessmen speed-walking like their lives depend on it. In the middle of it all, you stand with your luggage, passport, and a rapidly beating heart.

Jungkook is beside you, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans.

"So…" he mumbles, rocking back on his heels, "I guess this is it."

You nod, clutching the handle of your suitcase. "Three months."

"Three months," he echoes.

There's a brief moment where the airport noise fades and it's just you and him and ten years of friendship sitting between you.

He reaches out and flicks a piece of fluff from your sweater, even though you're ninety percent sure there never was any fluff to begin with. "You'll text me when you land?"

"I'll text you as soon as I get WiFi," you nod.

"And you'll video call me?"

"Only if you don't answer while you're at the gym and make me look at your sweaty forehead again."

"That was one time," he chuckles.

You grin. He grins back, but his fades first.

"Go be brilliant, okay?" he murmurs softly. "London's waiting for you."

Your chest warms. "I'll miss you."

Something flickers in his eyes but he blinks fast before you can question it.

"Yeah," he sighs. "Me too."

You smile, lightly punching his arm. "I love you, idiot."

He rolls his eyes, his lips twitching at the corners. "Yeah, yeah, I love you too. Now go."

When you finally walk toward the gate, you don't turn around, but Jungkook stays in place, watching until you disappear. When he finally walks out of the airport, he tells himself the heaviness in his chest is pride, not anything else.

Definitely not. It couldn't be.

—

London greets you with fresh summer air, the faint smell of rain, and immediate sensory overload. The taxis are louder, the buildings older, and everyone talks like they're narrating a BBC documentary.

And you feel more alive than ever.

Your first day at the culinary institute feels like stepping into a whole new world. The kitchens gleam like they've been polished a thousand times. The finest plates await your creations. The ovens are fancier than anything you could ever dream of using.

You learn laminated dough, the perfect method for chocolate tempering, advanced patisserie techniques, all things you used to watch on YouTube while telling yourself you'd perfect someday.

Now 'someday' is here and it's better than you anticipated.

You snap pictures of everything—your flaky pastries, your fancy meringues, your messy apron—and send each and every one of them to Jungkook, even if he responds hours later because of the time difference or his busy schedule.

Between classes, you make the most of your London summer. You buy dresses and blouses that make you feel like a character in a Bridget Jones movie, you carry around flowers wrapped in brown paper that will sit in the middle of the coffee table in your hotel room, you sip tea at cute cafés and buy souvenirs for Jungkook every chance you get.

A vintage Beatles t-shirt.

A Big Ben keychain.

A tiny corgi plush.

Your classmates take you in immediately and within your first month, your nights are filled with dinners at pubs where everything is fried, rooftop wine with the funny Brazilian girl from your pastry group and late-night tube rides where you and the others fall asleep leaning on each other. You make memories that will last a lifetime, and at one point, you don't even think about everything waiting for you back in Seoul.

It's a quiet Saturday afternoon when you find yourself wandering through the sculpture gallery of the Victoria and Albert Museum. There's a hush in the air, as if the marble statues are asleep and everyone else is just trying not to disturb them.

You stop in front of Canova's "Psyche Revived by Cupid's Kiss."

It's breathtaking. It's delicate and romantic and heartbreakingly intimate, like stone brought to life. Cupid leans over Psyche, gently cradling her as if she might shatter. You've seen it in pictures before, but seeing it in person makes it that much better.

You step closer, completely mesmerised, but a shutter clicks beside you, catching you off guard and pulling you from your daze.

There's a man standing next to you, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a dark cardigan and round glasses that slide slightly down his nose. His hair is dark and frames his face, and a film camera hangs from a strap around his neck. He's just taken a photo of the sculpture, and when he notices you looking, he offers a warm, slightly sheepish smile.

"Sorry," he murmurs in a low, honey-smooth voice, the British accent doing something tingly to your insides. "Didn't mean to interrupt your moment."

You smile politely. "You didn't, don't worry about it."

He turns to look at the sculpture again, tilting his head. "It's beautiful, isn't it? There's something timeless about it." He glances back at you. "Makes you believe that it's worth it to wait for a love like that."

Your eyebrows raise, feeling a bit taken aback by the rather romantic stranger.

He laughs softly. "Sorry. That was…dramatic."

"No," you shake your head, smiling wider. "It was really nice...and true."

"I guess that means I'm not being overly sentimental."

"Or we both are," you smile.

"Could be worse," he shrugs. "I'd rather be overly sentimental than chronically indifferent."

You let out a soft laugh. "That's a good line."

"Thank you, I read it in a book once," he smiles down at the ground, fidgeting with his camera.

You both turn back toward the statue, standing in comfortable silence for a beat, watching how the late afternoon light casts golden shadows on the white stone.

"I'm Kim Namjoon, by the way," he says after a moment, holding out a hand.

"___," you smile, shaking it.

"You're not from here, are you?"

You shake your head. "Seoul, South Korea."

His eyes light up. "Really? Me too...well, kinda. My parents are Korean but they met here in England while they were both studying at Oxford. They moved back to Korea after getting married. That's where I was born, but we moved back to England when I was about five. I haven't been back in a while."

You nod, your interest piqued. "And now you…take pictures of sculptures for a living?"

He chuckles. "Not exclusively. I'm a photographer, mostly travel and editorial, but I come here a lot on my days off. It grounds me."

"I get that," you murmur. "Bakeries do that for me."

He looks over at you, his eyebrows raising. "You're a baker?"

You nod. "I own a small bakery back in Seoul. It's kinda why I'm here, actually. I'm doing a summer course at a culinary institute nearby to brush up on my skills. I'm only here for three months."

"That's incredible." His smile is genuine, his eyes shining under the museum lights. "Honestly, I think bakers are like magicians. You turn flour and cocoa into happiness. It's very impressive."

You laugh, nodding along. "That's very nice of you to say, thank you."

"You're very welcome, Miss ___."

He looks back at the sculpture for a moment, then turns back to you, a little more tentative this time.

"I know this is a bit forward, but…do you perhaps have plans after this?"

You feel your heart pound harder, your head shaking almost too excitedly. "No, not really."

He smiles, clearly a little nervous, like he's not used to doing this. "Would you maybe want to grab a coffee with me? I could show you around London if you'd like. There's a place just down the road; very tiny and unassuming but the coffee's good and they have these absurdly large cinnamon buns that are to die for."

He's handsome, has an accent that makes your thighs clench, and he wants to take you to a café. You don't even have to think about it.

"I'd love to."

His face softens, looking like he didn't quite expect you to say yes.

You chat while you walk out together, side by side, stealing one last look at Cupid and Psyche, and somewhere deep in your chest, you wonder if he is a part of the fresh start you've been craving.

—

It all starts with a simple coffee date.

After the museum, you and Namjoon tuck yourselves into a quiet corner of a café near Hyde Park, where he stirs his cappuccino with one hand and nervously fidgets with the strap of his camera with the other. He asks thoughtful questions, listens like he genuinely cares and laughs with the cutest expression that makes your cheeks flush every single time. He walks you home that night—hands brushing, hearts pounding—and from there, it all blossoms at the speed of light.

Your second date is dinner at a tiny Italian restaurant where you end up talking for hours, sharing pasta and trading childhood stories. He shyly admits he once cried when his favourite bakery shut down, and you know then and there that he's your type of person.

On the third date, you sit beside the Thames at sunset, barely an inch between you, and when your head falls against his shoulder, neither of you move. Your first kiss happens in the rain after a trip to a vintage bookshop, hesitant at first—until it isn't. Until his hands are warm on your waist and yours are in his hair, time melting into the taste of his mouth.

You start to crave his presence, his voice, his intellect wrapped in a British accent and kind eyes.

One night, after too much wine and too many loaded glances, you kiss him breathlessly in his hallway and let him lead you to his bed. It's slow and sweet, and he makes you feel like the most beautiful woman he's ever laid his eyes upon. That happens quite often after the first time. You have sex in the shower, the backseat of his car, on the floor of your hotel room, and it's always better than the last.

By the start of August, Namjoon is a fixture in your London summer. He waits for you after class. He carries your shopping bags without a complaint. He reads books aloud when you can't sleep, chuckles at your terrible attempt at a British accent, and takes endless sneaky photos of you mid-laugh just because he loves the way you look when you're at your happiest. He even drives you out to the English countryside to have dinner with his parents.

Somewhere between the late-night talks and stolen kisses, you fall for him harder than you ever meant to. And the scariest part isn't how fast it happens…it's how disappointed you are that it's all temporary.

—

Namjoon unlocks the door to his flat, stepping inside with the same subtle confidence you've come to love. He holds the door open for you—always a gentleman, even when his fingers were just threaded through yours all the way home from the pub, even when his lips were pressed against your neck as you waited for your Uber, even when his voice had dropped into that low, breathy register that made your knees weak.

You step into the warmth of his space. It smells like him, which you've come to love as well. The lights are dim, a large bookshelf lines the wall, vinyl records stacked neatly near a player and a blooming houseplant stands tall in the corner.

He toes off his shoes and reaches for your jacket. "Here," he murmurs softly, pressing a kiss to your cheek from behind.

You slip your jacket off your shoulders, your pulse jumping as he hangs it up with care. He rests his hands in his pants pockets, watching you as you turn to face him. His eyes flick over your lips, your neckline, the way you tuck your hair behind your ear like you're totally not still nervous around him.

"Wanna watch a movie?" he offers.

You shake your head, smiling.

He nods slowly and takes the hint, cupping your face in his large hands. The kiss that follows comes easily, mouths moving languidly, your fingers pressing into the fabric of his shirt. You've kissed Namjoon a million times over the past three months—on couches, in doorways, on sidewalks lit by streetlights—but this time it feels far more gentle and intimate.

By the time he breaks away, you're breathing in shallow little waves.

"C'mon," he murmurs softly, taking your hand in his. He leads you down the hall, into his bedroom. It's minimalistic, very clean. There's no pretence, just him.

He doesn't pull you into bed. Not yet, at least.

He stands beside the low bookshelf near the window, arms folded loosely, watching you run a hand through your hair.

"Is this really just for three months?" he asks softly. "You being in London? You're really going back to Seoul?"

You sigh, realising you'd have to have this conversation eventually. "Yeah. I mean…that's always been the plan, Joon."

He nods slowly. He just needed to hear you confirm it. "Right. Just…three months."

You sit down on the edge of his bed, your hands resting in your lap. "I just...didn't think I'd actually…meet someone here. I just came to bake things and buy overpriced souvenirs for my best friend."

He smiles at that, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

You tilt your head, your eyebrows furrowing. "Why do you ask?"

Namjoon exhales and smiles. "I guess I've just been thinking about it a lot more than I expected to."

He walks toward you slowly, kneeling down so he's at eye level, his hands resting on your knees with the utmost tenderness.

"___, I know we've only known each other for a short while," he murmurs, keeping his voice steady. "But..."

You swallow thickly, sensing a shift in the air.

Namjoon pulls out a small velvet box from his pants pocket.

You freeze, completely at a loss for words. "Wait. Namjoon, is that...?"

He nods and opens it, his eyes moving from the little box to your face. Inside is a simple, vintage ring; an oval-cut diamond set in an antique band. It's timeless and stunning.

"Kim Namjoon, you're insane," you whisper, letting out a soft, breathless chuckle. "You actually bought a ring?"

He smiles up at you, shaking his head. "I didn't buy it."

Your head tilts in confusion.

"It was my grandmother's," he explains. "She wore it for over fifty years. My mum kept it after my granny passed…and last week...I asked her for it."

Your throat tightens, your eyes widening. "You…asked for it?"

He nods, glancing down at the ring. "I called her and told her that I'm serious about you. I told her that you make me feel like I'm a better version of myself just by existing next to me."

You press a hand to your mouth, feeling overwhelmed with a whole mixture of emotions.

"She told me I was a little nuts," he adds with a chuckle. "That no sane man proposes to someone he's only known for three months."

You laugh, nodding. "Your mom's smart."

"She is." His smile melts into something softer, more serious. "But I'm in love with you. And I don't want to wait."

There's a beat of silence, just the sound of your heartbeat roaring in your ears, the hustle and bustle of the city outside his window, and the impossible weight of the moment sitting in your chest.

"I know it's really fast," he says gently, "but when I look at you, it doesn't feel fast or crazy. It feels like I've been waiting for you my whole life without even knowing I was waiting."

You don't say anything right away.

This man wants to marry you. This man who instantly took a liking to you when he met you. This man who's intelligent and kind and effortlessly elegant. This man who just presented you with his grandmother's wedding ring like it was meant to be yours all along.

Namjoon watches your expression carefully, waiting patiently.

Then, cautiously, he smiles.

"Will you marry me?"

—

At first, it all just feels like a mild inconvenience for Jungkook.

You're in a different country, in a different time zone, and of course it's normal that your texts come through while he's asleep or his calls are missed because you're stuck in class. Days pass where your voices never reach each other, just fragments—missed calls, unread messages, half-finished voice notes.

At first, he tells himself it's normal, maybe even healthy. You're living your best life halfway across the world, and he refuses to be the needy friend who holds your back. Still, he finds himself reaching for his phone too often, typing things and deleting them, falling asleep with your chat left open like maybe, somehow, it will make you feel closer.

He goes out a lot in June.

He texts you at 2am after coming home from drinks with Jin and two girls he doesn't remember the names of. The text says, "Miss your dumb face," followed by a blurry selfie. You don't answer until seven hours later with a laughing emoji because you just finished rolling a million croissants and you're too tired to ask how his night went.

He smiles at his phone like an idiot every time your name pops up on his screen, but the more time passes, the more the silence starts to hurt.

In July, he hooks up with a girl he met at a rooftop restaurant. She's beautiful, super tall, wears a silk dress that shows off just enough to have him on edge. She calls him "handsome" and laughs at all the right moments. Her perfume is strong, her lip gloss sticky. He pulls her into his apartment and they undress in a haze of clumsy heat, getting straight to the point of the evening—sex.

Jungkook grunts and squeezes his eyes shut as he thrusts into her in missionary, his head spinning as he desperately tries to focus on the task at hand and not the text he sent you a few hours ago that still hasn't been answered.

When he opens his eyes again to kiss her, he's completely thrown off his game when it's not her face he sees contorting in pleasure—it's yours.

It's the familiar curve of your smile.

It's the sparkle in your eyes when the two of you slow danced at his father's engagement party.

It's the look of longing you had on your face when you said goodbye at the airport.

Jungkook stops moving, his hips halting mid-stroke. The girl moans something but he doesn't hear it, far too distracted by your eyes fluttering in his head. He closes his eyes once more, his breathing ragged, his heart hammering. Once he finally gets it together, he forces himself to finish but it just feels hollow now.

When August arrives, Jungkook decides to soldier on until you eventually get back to Seoul.

He meets up with a different woman on a random Monday afternoon—a friend of a friend. They get coffee, then lunch, then dinner a week later. She's cute and easy company. She asks about the meanings of all his tattoos, kisses slow and rides him fast.

She seems genuinely interested in him, so on their fourth hangout—which he insists on calling it instead of a date because he doesn't want her to get the idea that he's serious about her—he takes her to your bakery.

It's his safe place and it smells like you. It's comforting, and warm, and always welcoming. And maybe he takes her there because some part of him just misses home.

The display case is full of your signature work; dainty cupcakes decorated with edible flowers, fluffy cinnamon donuts rolled into perfect spheres, sticky toffee buns that always taste better each time he eats them.

Jungkook stares at the options, his hands in his pockets. "I can't decide what to get," he sighs, testing the waters. "Pick one for me."

She blinks, her pretty doe eyes filled with confusion. "Why?"

"I don't know, it's kinda fun," he smiles. "Just choose something for me."

She raises a brow, looking at the array of desserts. "Okay…a cookie."

He pauses, glancing at her. "No, like...be specific."

"Okay." She stares at the case, then smiles over at him. "A really big cookie?"

He smiles, but it's so fake it almost physically hurts. "Right. Sure."

She doesn't get it, of course she wouldn't. It's not about the dessert. It's so much more than that.

They end up leaving with one cookie for her and nothing but disappointment for him.

—

The days blur and the nights stretch endlessly.

He scrolls through your texts again and again, reading old ones just to be reminded of how funny you are. He reads the ones where you got into a debate about 'sex weather', in which you insisted that rainy weather is always the best time for sex, or rather "making love" as you put it, because you hate being sweaty while trying to be romantic. He listens to the voice note where you tried to explain a French baking term and got so flustered when you lost your train of thought that you ended it with, "Anyway, I'm a fraud, bye."

He plays that one three times, chuckling to himself in bed like a crazy person.

He wants to call you, to hear your voice and listen to you ramble about oven temperature settings and undercooked soufflé.

He wants to say...well, he doesn't really know what he wants to say. He just knows that no one else makes him feel whole the way you do.

That everyone else feels like a filler. Like static. Never you, though. You feel like home.

He tosses his phone aside and stares up at his bedroom ceiling, running a hand through his hair with a huff. It hits him gently, like a slow wave that unexpectedly knocks him off his feet and drowns him in an instant:

You're not just his best friend or the girl he jokingly flirts with out of habit. You're more than just someone who knows how he likes his coffee or which songs make him cry or why he hates sleeping in certain positions because it hurts his back.

You're it.

You're the one he'll always look for in a crowd of people, the one he still wants to talk to at the end of every stressful, shitty day. The one he hasn't stopped thinking about since the moment you walked through that departure gate—hell, since the moment he accidentally stumbled into your bed ten years ago.

And he doesn't know what the hell he's supposed to do with that.

The thud of the basketball echoes through the gym as Jungkook dribbles, sweat clinging to his skin, his heart pounding from exertion. Seokjin's guarding him—kinda lazily—and Wonwoo's near the free-throw line, his sleeves rolled up and jaw set with focus. Mingyu's off to the side, taking his sweet time sipping water and pretending like he doesn't play the most aggressively of all four of them.

Jungkook fakes left, cuts right, and lands the shot. It bounces once, then rolls in.

"Still got it," he grins, jogging back as Mingyu throws him a towel.

"You've got cardio," Wonwoo pants. "Not game."

"Don't need game when I'm playing against geriatrics," Jungkook shoots back.

"Hey!" Seokjin wipes his forehead. "I may be a father now, but I could still outrun you with one baby strapped to my chest and another in the oven."

"You're not even the one with the oven," Mingyu snorts.

"My point still stands," Seokjin shrugs.

They keep playing—passes, dodges, light-hearted trash talk—but somewhere between defence drills and free throws, Jungkook finds himself zoning out. He leans against the padded wall, bouncing the ball absentmindedly, his thoughts far from the gym.

Seokjin notices first.

"You good?" he asks, tossing his friend a water bottle.

Jungkook catches it, hesitates, then nods. "Yeah. Just thinking."

"That's suspicious," Mingyu scoffs. "When you think too much, you start texting your exes."

"No," Jungkook mutters quietly, shaking his head. "Not this time."

Wonwoo raises an eyebrow, walking over. "What's going on?"

Jungkook rolls the ball along the floor with his foot, sighing. "I think I'm in love with ___."

There's a silence that stretches just a second too long, the guys all shooting each other a look.

Seokjin's eyebrows furrow, his hands resting on his hips. "Wait, what?"

Mingyu whistles, patting Jungkook on the back. "Holy shit. That's not what I was expecting."

Wonwoo just leans against the wall and crosses his arms, his expression unreadable.

Jungkook shifts, scratching the back of his neck. "I don't know. It just hit me all at once. I've been trying to date, distract myself. I took a girl to the bakery the other day and asked her to pick something for me like ___ always does…and she picked a fucking cookie. Just said 'a big one'," he snorts humourlessly. "Didn't even get the point."

"You do realize she's not ___, right?" Seokjin chuckles. "How would she know what you meant?"

"Exactly. That's my point," Jungkook groans. "No one's her, dude. I've been around her for ten years, and I think I convinced myself I'd always have time to figure it out, but now she's in London, living her dream, probably flirting with a bunch of British guys."

"Let's not spiral," Wonwoo mutters.

"I just…" Jungkook exhales sharply. "I don't want anyone else. I want her. And...I actually want to do something about it."

The guys pause before Seokjin grabs his shoulder, smiling. "Well, shit! That's called growing up."

"You're not wrong," Mingyu mutters, grabbing the ball to dribble again. "But don't ask me to relate. I'm good with casual sex and no one touching my closet space."

"You say that now," Seokjin scoffs. "Then one day you're holding a baby while your wife cries watching dog rescue videos and suddenly it's the best moment of your life."

"Wow," Wonwoo deadpans. "That got oddly specific."

Jungkook laughs quietly, glancing down at the floor. "I never thought I'd want that. Not the marriage thing or the kids. I thought I'd stay the way I was forever. Just…you know, vibing."

Seokjin smiles, fond and a little smug. "Now 'just vibing' feels kinda empty, huh?"

Jungkook nods.

"She's different," he murmurs softly. "She makes everything feel like it matters. Without her, everything feels off."

Mingyu makes a dramatic gagging noise. "Can we go back to basketball now? This sappy talk is giving me indigestion."

Seokjin chuckles, giving Jungkook a hard pat on the back. "Tell her when she gets back. Don't wait."

Jungkook nods, determination setting in as he jogs over to play another round.

He's not sure how you'll react to all this, but he's done running from his feelings. He's finally ready. He just hopes you are too.

—

Jungkook listens to your voicemail multiple times when he gets home from work Friday evening.

"Hey…I'm back in Seoul! I've missed you so much. Can we have dinner tonight around 7? I was thinking of going to our usual restaurant. I have so much to tell you. It feels like I've been gone forever. Let me know, okay? Okay, I love you, bye!"

Your voice is bubbly, laced with excitement. You sound like you dialed his number as soon as you got off the plane, the airport noise in the background a clear giveaway.

Jungkook doesn't waste a second. He showers, sprays himself with his most expensive cologne and pulls out a navy suit he usually reserves for weddings and important meetings. He doesn't usually go out of his way to look good for a woman because he's him—he doesn't have to try, but this is you and he wants to leave a lasting impression when he tells you his feelings. Tonight is different. It's significant, and he doesn't want to screw it up.

On his way to the restaurant, he stops at a street vendor and buys a bouquet of peonies—your favourite. He might not be the most conventionally romantic guy on the planet, but he knows you hate roses because you think they're cliché and typical. He knows that you prefer fish over red meat, and that you hate big gatherings because they make you anxious. He knows you better than anyone else on Earth, and he loves you.

The restaurant is buzzing when he walks in—dim lights, quiet chatter, the smell of red wine and garlic butter thick in the air. He spots you immediately, perched at the bar at the far end of the restaurant, laughing at something.

His breath catches at the sight of you.

You look like London. That's the only way he can describe it. You're glowing, your cheeks rosy, your lips stained red. It's different but still you, like something bloomed while he wasn't looking.

He starts walking toward you, a smile pulling at his lips.

But then he sees him.

A tall man standing beside you, dimples on full display like someone's paying him to smile that brightly. He leans in close, says something in your ear, and presses a quick kiss to your lips. It's all a bit too casual, too familiar.

It stops Jungkook in his tracks. When he starts walking again it's fast and panicked. So much so that he doesn't see the waiter passing by until it's too late.

"Sir, excuse m—"

There's a loud crash, a blur of limbs flying about as Jungkook collides into the poor guy carrying a full tray of glasses. Water, wine, forks, the tray itself, it all goes flying as both men go down in a heap right in the middle of the restaurant.

"Shit—!"

"Oh my goodness—Jungkook?!"

You're off your stool in a second, rushing over with wide eyes. The man beside you joins you just as quickly, crouching down to help both Jungkook and the waiter up.

Jungkook winces, pushing himself up to sit.

You're already reaching for him, pulling him up to his feet. "Are you okay? Are you hurt? You just...you slammed into that guy—"

"I'm fine," Jungkook mutters, straightening up, brushing water off his sleeves. He glances down at the scattered bouquet now lying halfway under the barstools.

You crouch to pick it up, glancing up at him.

"And you bought flowers?" you ask with a hopeful glint in your eyes.

Jungkook freezes, glancing at the flowers. He clears his throat, then grabs the bouquet and abruptly shoves it into the startled waiter's hands. "No. These are his."

The waiter is taken aback, and so are you.

Jungkook claps the poor guy on the back, offering him a fake smile. "Congratulations on your...anniversary or whatever."

You raise an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Mhm," Jungkook nods, his voice tight. "Just clumsy, I guess. Classic me."

You exchange a look with the man Jungkook is still unsure of, who offers your best friend a faint smile. The three of you start walking toward the table—your table, the one you and Jungkook always request when it's just the two of you.

Jungkook doesn't say anything. He sits across from you and watches as the other man pulls out your chair like he's done it a dozen times before, which makes Jungkook's jaw twitch.

And he waits.

Waits for you to explain.

Waits to figure out why he suddenly feels like the only person in the room who didn't get the memo.

You smile and gesture toward the man beside you, your face lighting up at you look at him, a look Jungkook hasn't seen on your face in a really long time.

"Jungkook, this is Kim Namjoon. Namjoon, this is Jeon Jungkook; my best friend I've been telling you all about."

Namjoon leans over with a warm smile and extends his hand to Jungkook. "It's really nice to finally meet you, Jungkook. I've heard so much about you from this lovely lady."

Jungkook forces a smile, reaches out, and shakes it. "Yeah. Nice to meet you too."

His voice sounds normal but his chest feels hollow.

"I've been trying to picture you this whole time," Namjoon continues in that British accent that makes Jungkook's bile rise in his throat. "___'s mentioned you in almost every story she's told me."

You laugh, your cheeks turning pink. "I might've overdone it."

"No," Namjoon murmurs softly, gazing at you like the rest of the world has vanished. "I loved it. Felt like I already knew him."

Jungkook looks down at the table, wishing he could gouge out his eyes with the silverware. "So…what's the deal with you two? You met in London?"

Your smile widens as you nod. "It was so random! I was at a museum, just minding my business, and I was standing in front of this gorgeous sculpture, and then Namjoon just appeared next to me with a camera."

Namjoon chuckles. "She was so focused on the piece, I wasn't even sure if I should say anything."

"But he did," you grin. "He struck up a conversation, and we ended up at a little café for cinnamon buns and coffee, which was amazing, by the way."

"You had cinnamon buns with a stranger?" Jungkook murmurs, trying to sound amused, not crushed.

You wave him off. "Oh please. It just felt so natural. And after that, we just kept seeing each other. Museum dates, dinners, exploring the city. We couldn't stay away from each other."

Namjoon affectionately rubs your back with his palm. "I couldn't help myself, she's irresistible."

Jungkook watches the gesture, taking note of how you lean into it like muscle memory. "Sounds like it all happened fast."

"It did," you admit, your smile softening. "But it felt so right."

He nods, staring at the breadbasket in the middle of the table, and wishes he could crawl into it and disappear.

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" he asks, his voice quieter than before. "I mean…I know we missed a lot of calls but I would've wanted to hear about this."

You shift in your seat, your expression falling slightly. "I wanted to, I really did. But things just got so hectic. Classes ran late, we were always on the move, and then the time difference made everything harder. I drafted messages and forget to send them, and after a while, I figured…I'd tell you everything properly when I got back."

You look at him with so much honesty that it only hurts him more.

"I'm sorry for not telling you sooner."

He nods, offering you a faint smile. "It's okay."

It's anything but okay, but he'll suck it up and bite his tongue for you.

Namjoon clears his throat, shifting forward. "I know it's probably a lot to take in all at once, but I wanted to tell you myself. I asked ___ to marry me."

Jungkook's eyes flick up to meet his, his face unreadable.

"And I said yes!" You smile and lift your left hand, showing him your ring. It glints under the restaurant lights, sitting delicately on your finger, mocking him.

Jungkook swallows thickly, a pleasant mask glued to his face. "Wow. It's…beautiful."

You beam. "Isn't it? It was Namjoon's grandmother's."

Namjoon takes your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. "I figured it could be lucky for us."

Jungkook lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, glancing between you and Namjoon. "Yeah. Guess so."

He smiles at all the right moments, pretends like his chest isn't caving in, nods as if he's really listening when you tell him all about your summer with Namjoon, but all he feels is regret and bitterness that some other guy gets to take you home tonight instead of him.

You're in love. You're engaged. You're sitting across from him glowing like a woman who's found her forever. And Jungkook is just the best friend—the one who waited too long to be ready for you.

"So…" you begin, your voice light but a little nervous, glancing at Namjoon. "We've actually already started planning the wedding."

Jungkook looks startled, looking between you two. "Already?"

Namjoon nods, smiling. "We figured there's no reason to wait."

Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, looking back at you. "But…you just got back."

"I know," you murmur. "But we're getting married in England in a church Namjoon's dad helped build. It's near their home in the countryside. It's perfect, Jungkook."

"Mm, it's right across from the distillery," Namjoon nods.

Jungkook looks between the two of you, trying to process. "Distillery?"

"Yeah," you say, brightening. "Namjoon's parents own a whiskey distillery."

Of course they do. Of course his parents own a distillery and build churches and probably rescue injured animals in their free time.

"And the wedding is in a month," Namjoon adds.

Jungkook's eyebrows shoot up, his eyes practically popping out of their sockets. "A month?"

You nod, resting your head against Namjoon's shoulder. "We didn't wanna drag it out. It just makes sense, you know? Why wait when we're sure?"

He doesn't answer. He's too busy trying to remember how to breathe. And then, as if the conversation hasn't already taken a sledgehammer to his heart, you turn to him with a hopeful smile that just about finishes him.

"Anyway, I wanted to ask you something," you murmur. "I know it's sudden, and maybe kinda weird, but…Jungkook...would you be my maid of honor?"

His brain flatlines, his mouth opening and closing as he tries to find something to say that won't be totally offensive right now.

"I mean," you add quickly, laughing, "knowing our relationship, you'd probably want me to be your best man someday, right? So, it's only fair."

Namjoon laughs softly, clearly charmed by the idea. "I think it'd be perfect, actually. You two clearly have such a strong bond."

Jungkook opens his mouth to say something, anything, but nothing comes out. Instead, he stands too fast, knocking his thigh into the edge of the table and spinning sideways just in time to collide for the second time that evening with the same poor waiter from earlier.

The tray clatters to the ground once again. The waiter lets out a yelp of disbelief, flat on his back. Jungkook stumbles, caught between horror and absolute emotional overload.

"Dude, are you serious?!" the waiter yells, throwing a dish towel at his chest.

Jungkook mumbles something that might be an apology, but you're already scrambling to help, wide-eyed and flustered.

"Again?! Jungkook, what is wrong with you tonight?"

Everything is wrong.

Everything has gone so terribly wrong.

—

It's a sunny Monday afternoon in the middle of Seoul and the park is alive with movement—joggers passing through, street vendors preparing fresh teokkbokki, and office workers on their lunch break scattered across benches in a sea of undone ties and styrofoam containers.

Jungkook is sitting on a bench with a hotdog in one hand and a death grip on his dignity in the other.

Seokjin takes a massive bite of his chilli dog, glances over at him, and swipes ketchup off his cheek with a napkin as he prepares to tackle the shipwreck sitting next to him.

"So…" Seokjin mumbles, his mouth full. "You gonna tell me why you've looked constipated since we sat down? I only have ten more minutes left of my break and my boss is already on my ass."

Jungkook stares down at his hotdog, his appetite barely there. "___ asked me to be her maid of honor."

There's a short pause before Seokjin chokes on a laugh, quickly covering his mouth to avoid spraying onions all over the bench. "I'm sorry, her what?!"

"Maid of honor."

Jin is full-on wheezing now. "God, I hope the dress makes your ass look good. You've been squatting for this moment your whole life."

Jungkook slumps further in his seat. "This isn't funny, Jin."

"It's hilarious, dude," Seokjin laughs.

"I'm dying, hyung. She gets back from London and all of a sudden she's getting married."

Seokjin finally reins in the laughter, wiping the corners of his eyes. "Okay, okay. Sorry. It's just...you gotta admit, that's a hell of a plot twist."

"I was going to confess," Jungkook mutters flatly, his voice low. "I showed up in a suit. With her favourite flowers. And then I walked in and watched her get kissed by her fiancé and knocked over a waiter in the process."

Seokjin winces. "Yikes."

"She's getting married at a church across from her new fiancé's family whiskey distillery, in a month." Jungkook groans and drops his head back against the bench. "She even showed me the ring. It was his grandmother's."

Seokjin lets out a soft whistle, nodding. "Yeah, that's a lot."

"I feel like I missed the entire movie and just showed up for the credits."

They sit in silence for a moment, birds chirping merrily around them like little assholes.

Then Seokjin finishes his hotdog, balls up the wrapper, and leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "Listen, it sucks, I'm not gonna lie. But this doesn't have to be the end."

Jungkook gives him a side glance. "You realise she's engaged."

"And you're the maid of honor." Seokjin grins. "Which means you're right there, centre stage. You're planning the whole thing, hearing every detail. You're literally the man behind the scenes."

"You make it sound like I'm in a heist movie."

"You are," Seokjin shrugs. "Except instead of robbing a bank, you're trying to steal a bride."

Jungkook snorts despite himself. "That's so dumb."

"Love is dumb, man," Seokjin scoffs. "I proposed to my wife in a Pikachu onesie, and now we have a kid who chews on HDMI cables. But I wouldn't trade it for anything."

Jungkook stares at the sky, feeling unsure. "You really think I should stay close? Not back off?"

"I think," Seokjin says, "if you're really in love with her and not just having a meltdown because someone else got there first, then don't give up on this. You be her best friend. You support her. And if there's even the tiniest crack in her heart, she'll know you were there the whole time, waiting."

Jungkook lets that settle for a moment. He takes a slow bite of his hotdog, chewing thoughtfully. "Okay," he sighs. "But I'm not wearing a dress."

"I will pay you money to wear a dress," Seokjin laughs. "Like, real money. I want full lace. And cleavage."

Jungkook stuffs his mouth with the hotdog to avoid swearing at his friend, but when he leans back again, squinting up at the sky, the weight in his chest feels just a little bit lighter at the reminder that this isn't over yet.

When Jungkook arrives at your apartment Saturday morning, he's met with the familiar comfort of your sweet scent, frilly pillows scattered across the couch, and little trinkets decorating the shelves.

He's spent countless nights here—binging your favourite shows, eating endless amounts of cake as his way of helping you with new recipes, sitting patiently as you give him a faux fashion show of the millionth pair of shoes you bought—and yet this time is not like any of the rest. This time he's here to help you plan your wedding.

"You rang, future Mrs. Kim?" he calls out, kicking off his shoes in the entryway.

You pop your head out from the kitchen with a smile. "You're late, Jeon. You said you'd be here at 8. It's 10."

He takes off his leather jacket and hangs it on your coat rack, rolling his eyes. "You've been engaged for five minutes and you're already a bridezilla."

You scoff, making your way over to greet him with a hug.

He grins at the short embrace, pulling away to get a proper look at you. "Damn, your hair looks good today. Is that a new thing, or is it just the 'I'm-getting-married' glow?"

You roll your eyes, but your smile shows how flattered you are. "Such a suck-up."

"I'm your maid of honor," he says, smiling smugly. "Sucking up to you is literally my job now."

He walks into the living room and settles onto your couch. It feels normal but there's a certain nervous energy in the air today. It's officially the start of preparations for the wedding party, and he's not sure how ready he is for all that. But today isn't about him. It's your day, and he'll support you even if it slowly kills him.

"The bridesmaids are almost here," you murmur, sitting down with him, turning to face him.

"Do I know them?"

"Well, there's Mina," you smile, knowing how well they get along.

"Mina's great, I like Mina," he nods, scooting a bit closer to you.

"And Jeongyeon. You haven't met her yet but she's really chill, you'll love her."

"Okay, who else?" he asks, reaching out and absentmindedly twiddling a strand of your hair between his fingers.

"Uhm..." You sigh, preparing yourself for his reaction. "And Lisa."

His face falls, his fingers pausing in your hair. "Are you serious? She hates me."

"I had to, Jungkook. She's my cousin," you sigh. "And I mean, can you blame her? You had sex with her then ghosted her the next day."

"She almost broke my nose," he groans.

"It was an accident," you chuckle, rolling your eyes as he goes back to playing with your hair.

"She literally punched me in the face," he deadpans. "I told her it wasn't anything serious and she agreed. I can't help that she caught feelings for me."

You smile in amusement, shaking your head at how truly humble he is. "She's wanted to be my maid of honor since we were little, so she hates you even more now."

The doorbell rings right on cue.

You grin and rush over to get the door, welcoming them in. Jungkook isn't sure if the loud entrance is your bridesmaids greeting you at the door or a pack of hyenas cackling. He lets out a huff and stands up as they enter, plastering a smile on his face.

Mina hugs you first; your bakery manager and unofficial work wife. She's organised as ever, carrying a stack of bridal magazines that she's probably had since forever.

Then Jeongyeon, your friend from high school. She's less organised than Mina but equally as excited for you.

And finally…Lisa, your beloved cousin.

Jungkook fights the urge to roll his eyes when he sees her, forcing a smile to remain civil.

She freezes when she sees him, her eyes narrowing into slits.

You smile, choosing to ignore the tension between them for your own sanity. "Jungkook, you remember Lisa, right?"

Jungkook clears his throat, nodding as he sits back down on the couch. "Yeah. Of course. Hey."

Lisa offers a sweet, pointed smile that could kill him if she really wanted to. "Oh, trust me, I remember Jungkook."

The tension is very palpable.

Mina, sensing the shift, gives a diplomatic little nod and walks over to the couch. "Well, we should probably get started, hm?"

You clap your hands together, trying to regain control of the room. "Okay! So, thank you all for coming. Please, sit. I'll go get some snacks then we can start going over fittings, schedules, things like that."

"Can't wait," Jeongyeon smiles, getting comfortable on an armchair while you head to the kitchen.

"I already know this is going to be chaos," Mina chuckles, sitting next to Jungkook, watching as Lisa stabs him with her eyes.

"Some of us thrive in it," Lisa mutters. "Don't we, Jungkook?"

Jungkook scoffs, shooting her a pointed look. "Are we doing that already?"

"Doing what?" Lisa smiles, feigning innocence. "I just meant you're probably used to this; being around a lot of women, multitasking."

You return to the living room before they can start going at each other, carrying a tray of sandwiches and some iced tea before grabbing your wedding binder and sitting down with everyone else, getting right to business. You start listing off dates and logistics—dress fittings, the bridal shower, the family brunch the morning of the wedding—but the air is already charged. Jungkook asks too many questions, honestly, and Lisa's patience visibly deteriorates with every clueless comment.

"Wait, is the brunch before the church rehearsal thing?"

Mina shakes her head, jotting some things down in her planner. "No. The brunch is the morning of the wedding. We've been over this, Jungkook."

"Oh, right. Right."

Lisa laughs under her breath. "God help us."

Jungkook turns to her, raising a brow. "Got something to say?"

Lisa shrugs, taking a glass of iced tea from the coffee table. "Not really. Just wondering how someone who can't even follow a calendar is supposed to help plan a wedding."

"Lisa," you mutter, shooting her a look that says 'behave, please'.

"Well, I didn't know I was going to be graded on my maid-of-honor performance," Jungkook grumbles.

"Well, just fyi, I'd give you an F," she shoots back.

"Settle down, you two," you sigh, gently placing a hand on Jungkook's arm.

Jeongyeon smirks into her drink. Mina, smiling calmly, jumps in before the room ignites.

"Cut him some slack, Lisa. I'm sure he didn't grow up dreaming about tulle and seating charts."

"Yeah, no kidding," Jungkook mutters.

"Exactly," Mina smiles. "So, let's all just be cool."

Lisa takes a slow sip of her iced coffee and doesn't say anything else, but Jungkook catches the flicker in her eyes that says she should've been your maid of honor instead of the man who clearly doesn't know what he's doing.

Your phone rings on the coffee table, Namjoon's name lighting up the screen. "Sorry, I have to take this," you murmur shyly. "It's Joon."

Your bridesmaids all swoon at the mention of your future husband, and Jungkook has to resist the gag threatening to spill from his lips.

As soon as you excuse yourself to take the call in the next room, Lisa jumps into action.

"I've been a MOH six times before, so I'll organise everything that needs to be done, even though I'm not the MOH here," she mutters, crossing one leg over the other.

Jungkook's eyebrows furrow, clearly clueless. "What's a MOH?"

"M-O-H," Lisa mutters pointedly.

"It stands for maid of honor," Mina smiles over at Jungkook. "That's you."

"Oh, yeah, of course," he chuckles, ignoring the eye-roll from Lisa.

"Okay, so we've got the bridal shower coming up that Jungkook will plan, our bridesmaid hair and make up trials, shopping for ___'s trousseau," Mina lists off, reading from her planner in her lap.

"Trousseau?" Jungkook's eyes narrow, leaning over to peek at Mina's planner. "What is a trousseau?"

"It's lingerie for her wedding night," Lisa deadpans, looking fed up with his questions that she feels are completely unnecessary. "How do you expect to be a good MOH if you don't even know that?"

"Oh wow, look, she's actually talking to me," Jungkook quips.

"No, I'm not," Lisa mutters quickly.

"You just did."

"Oh, my bad, Jungkook," she smiles sarcastically. "Did I break one of your rules?"

"Okay, that's enough!" Mina whisper-yells. "Can you two stop and think about ___? She's happy with an amazing guy, so could we all please, for ___'s sake, just get along, put a smile on our faces and pretend like everything is perfect?!"

"Okay, fine," Jungkook mumbles, holding his hands up in surrender.

The tension in the room is thick, but you don't notice, too giddy after hearing that deep British voice tell you how excited he is to get home to you later. You return after the call with Namjoon, turning your attention back to the ladies—who seem perfectly fine after Mina's little pep talk, all of them smiling brightly.

"Okay, I'm back," you grin, getting comfortable. "So, while we're all over there, we'll be staying at the Kims' holiday home."

Lisa's brow arches, her interest piqued. "Holiday home?"

"Yeah," you murmur while flipping through your binder. "Namjoon's family has this gorgeous house out in the countryside. I swear it's like something out of a Jane Austen novel. It's got over enough guest rooms for everyone. The garden even has an actual maze."

Jungkook blinks. He opens his mouth, closes it, then clenches his jaw in silence.

Of course Namjoon's family has a spare country mansion lying around. Why wouldn't they? Probably stocked with limited-edition wines and antique candleholders. Maybe even a butler named Charles who plays the violin at breakfast.

He forces a tight smile. "Wow. A holiday home. That's nice."

Lisa snorts. "Bit of a step up from your one-bedroom apartment, huh?"

Jungkook slowly looks over at her, smirking. "You'd know. You've been in my bedroom."

You sigh, taking a big gulp of your iced tea. Jeongyeon's eyebrows hit her hairline, finding this all too amusing.

Lisa gives him a razor-sharp glance, crossing her eyes over her chest. "Yeah. Once. Unfortunately."

Mina cuts in with perfect timing, like she's trained for this. "I think this is all amazing, ___. I mean, talk about a dream wedding."

Jeongyeon nods. "Seriously. And Namjoon seems so thoughtful. You guys make a really sweet couple."

You smile bashfully, your cheeks heating up. "I think so too. It all feels like it was meant to be, you know?"

Lisa hums. "Mhm. Must be nice to be that in love."

Jungkook's lips press into a thin line as he stares at the coffee table, remaining silent.

When you flip through wedding magazines with Mina, gushing about colour swatches and invitation templates, he finds himself tuning you out, not because he doesn't care, but because he cares too much.

Wedding planning has his iced tea tasting more like acid than anything else.

due to the 1k block limit, you can read the rest of the story HERE

☆☆☆☆☆

Saturday, May 4th  

You’ve barely slept. Whenever you close your eyes all you can picture is Jungkook and Gabrielle. Gabrielle and Jungkook. 

Just a friend from high school…

You don’t know why, but that lie is the one that hurts the most. Maybe because you thought he was opening up to you, telling you about his past, but he’d shrugged it off, lied about it like it was just second nature. It’s sour, bitter, and you think you might hate him for it.

You feel cheated on. You’re fully aware that you weren’t dating, that you were just a maybe, but you hate that it was taken from you just like that, in a stupid video call from your drunk brother…

It really does taste vile, bitter, sour, and everything in between.

Ria left earlier today. She had to work, but she told you to invite Yoongi or Nabi, to not isolate yourself. You don’t feel like seeing anyone - yes, you could be miserable with Yoongi, but you don’t want to hear the told you so that your friends will say in the aftermath of what happened last night.

Taehyung didn’t even text you once. You wonder if he saw you crying, before Ria hung up the call for you. If he did, you think he’s unbelievably cruel for not even texting you anything, but then again maybe that had been his plan all along. To show you Jungkook’s true nature, the one he’d hidden from you in the last few months.

Were there any other girls? If he’d so easily kissed his ex after just a few days in Paris, does that mean he might have easily done the same thing here, with other people?

You feel nauseous. Thinking about everything makes you feel nauseous.

As does the text that sits on your phone, sent early this morning, while you were in and out of your troubled sleep.

[4:23 am] JK: can we facetime tonight

You haven’t replied. You don’t even want to talk to him, or see his face. You don’t want those treacherous doe eyes to ever meet your gaze again and yet…

Yet you want some closure. You want to tell him off, to break him like he broke you, but that would be assuming he felt for you the way that you did. Which, you highly doubt since he kissed his ex like you’d never been in the picture to begin with.

You sigh, rubbing your face, trying to keep the tears in. They keep sneaking up on you, like you’re not done grieving for what could have been, and frankly, you don’t know if you’ll ever be. You reckon the first step in the right direction might be to seek that closure, to talk to him and be done with it, permanently.

You didn’t think there was a time when you’d have to be done with Jungkook. Everything that you were building, everything, now just rubbles that will slowly turn to dust.

And so you finally open your phone, heart squeezing uncomfortably as the conversation with him pops up. You ignore the texts from before yesterday night, those where you believed he was falling in love, too, and you reply,

[2:09 pm] You: sure at what time

You put your phone away after you press send, sighing deeply as if that might shake the weight of the world off your shoulders. You figure you should stop rotting in bed - it’s not like it’s helped make you feel better - and so you get up, heading to the kitchen.

You’re not hungry. You’re not hungry, but when you see the spicy ramyeon he bought to help train your spice tolerance, you can’t help but crave some. Because you don’t want to let him go, don’t want to let go of all of him. So you put some water on the stove, preparing the noodles as if that might change what happened last night.

It doesn’t. The only thing it does is make you realize that you’ve indeed improved your spice tolerance, as you eat and you barely even have to sniffle. It makes you sad, far too sad, because what was the point?

What was the point of developing a spice tolerance if you won’t eat with him anyway?

Tears pool in your eyes, and this time you don’t bother keeping them in. You let them flow freely, memories of him swirling in your mind. You think about every time he cooked for you - that first time on Valentine’s Day. You think about New York, about every night you’ve spent cuddled up in his arms.

There won’t be any new nights, any new memories. Everything that you and Jeon Jungkook once were is in the past now, to forever haunt you.

You push the noodles away. You’ve only eaten half of the bowl, but the thought of eating more makes you feel sick to your stomach. Instead, you drop your head on your arms on the table, body rocking with sobs.

You don’t even know why you’re crying so much. Why your body holds so much pain for what Jungkook did, when part of you had been expecting it all along. Yet you break and break, like you’re glass thrown from the roof of a building, exploding upon impact with the ground.

It takes a while before you stop crying, the post-tears clarity filling your brain. You straighten, wipe your cheeks and the snot on your upper lip, and then you get up. You throw away the rest of the noodles, and then walk back to your room, trying to hold onto the clarity. 

You slow down in front of Jungkook’s door, imagining him to be behind. To never have gone to Paris…

It only makes you want to cry again, but you’re done crying. 

You don’t want to be crying for someone that cheated on you.

You finally make it to your room. Your phone awaits you on the night table, face up to the ceiling so that you can see that Jungkook texted you multiple times. You steel yourself, grabbing your phone, and then read his texts.

[2:28 pm] JK: we’re at the restaurant rn [2:28 pm] JK: so maybe in an hour and a half? [2:29 pm] JK: we finally went to the catacombs today [2:29 pm] JK: you were right it’s hella creepy

It’s like he’s unaware that he broke your heart, that he destroyed the trust you had in him. It makes you think, did you imagine everything that happened yesterday?

Was it all just a nightmare?

You wish it was, but the tear stains on your sheets are proof enough that it truly happened.

[2:35 pm] You: call me whenever

You spend the next hour lying in bed, looking up at the ceiling, trying to chase him out of your thoughts. Trying to figure out what you’ll tell him: there’s no way you’ll pursue a relationship with him now that that happened. But maybe he’ll have an explanation, reassurance that not everything was a lie…

You don’t know if that would make you feel better. Maybe relieved in some way, yes, but the throbbing in your chest would likely not be lessened by such reassurance. You fear it’d be worse. It would mean losing something that was real, and you don’t know if you’d survive it.

When your phone finally rings, you consider not picking up. You consider ghosting him, disappearing from his life before he has the power to hurt you more, but you’re weak for him.

Far too weak, and you pick up after a few seconds.

He’s obviously called on Facetime, and the moment he comes into view, a soft smile on his lips, you feel like you’re breaking all over again.

The last time you saw those lips they were pressed against another girl’s mouth.

“Hey,” he greets you.

You can’t find it in you to speak around the lump in your throat, so you just offer him a tight-lipped smile. He frowns, eyebrows almost touching over his eyes.

“Is something wrong?”

Of course he’d notice, but… is he that oblivious? Anger cuts through the sadness, and you raise your eyebrows.

“Don’t you have something to tell me?” you ask.

His frown deepens. “I…” he trails off, and then something changes in his demeanour. The frown disappears, his lips part and his eyes widen, filling with fear. “You… Is this about Gabrielle?”

You laugh, so bitterly you taste it on your tongue. “Are you being serious?”

“Yes?” he lets out.

He looks terrified. It’s a strange sight, and it makes unease settle deep in your stomach.

“Tae called me last night,” you reveal.

“Oh.” He pulls on his piercings, eyes dropping. “Oh.”

“What the fuck was that, Jungkook?”

Your question strikes him deep. You see it in the way his shoulders drop, like he’s burdened with the weight of the world.

“Nothing happened,” he tries.

But he doesn’t meet your gaze.

“I saw you kissing her,” you spit. “Don’t fucking lie to me.”

“Peach…”

You scoff, yet the nickname brings tears to your eyes. “What the fuck was that?” you ask again, and you hate that your vision is turning blurry, hate the way that you are so completely, irreversibly weak for him.

“It really isn’t what you think it is,” he says.

“You spent the evening locked up in a room with her.”

He closes his eyes, and his phone shifts just enough so that you see his surroundings better. He’s in a park from the looks of it, much like he’d been when you’d facetimed on Wednesday.

“I promise it really isn’t what you think it is,” he insists. He meets your gaze, his big doe eyes so pained you almost want to believe him.

You sigh deeply, and a single tear falls on your cheek. You dry it with the back of your hand. “What was it then?”

A muscle feathers on his jaw as he clenches it, yet he remains silent. His lips stretch in a thin line, horror filling his gaze.

“I really thought…” 

You can’t finish the sentence. I really thought we’d work. You can’t finish it, as your heart breaks and breaks and breaks until you’re back to where you were last night, struggling to breathe as you’d watched him kissing her.

“I made a promise to her years ago,” he admits, his voice wobbly. “I can’t tell anyone, but I swear, peach, it’s not what you think it is. I’d never do that to you.”

“But you did!”

His mouth opens and closes a few times, like he wants to say something but can’t.

“I can’t…” you trail off because you don’t want to say it. 

You don’t want to be the one to kill the relationship when it hasn’t even started yet. Though you reckon he killed it when he kissed her.

“I can’t be with you,” you whisper, as if the words can’t be uttered aloud.

“Peach…”

“Stop calling me that,” you burst. “Stop fucking calling me that when you basically cheated.”

He frowns, his jaw clenching again. “We weren’t even exclusive.”

“Excuse me?”

Undiluted rage consumes every inch of your body, taking away the pain. All there is is the blaze of anger, and it burns and burns until you think you might turn to embers.

“I don’t know why I said that,” he immediately replies, eyes so wide he looks like a deer in headlights. He takes a deep breath and swallows as the movement of his Adam’s apple shows. “Please just trust me on this.”

“No, Jungkook,” you say. “I can’t trust you when it took you all of a few days with your ex to end up kissing her.” You close your eyes, shaking your head. “You told me Gabrielle was just a friend.”

“And she is!” he says. “She really is, peach. She’s nothing like you.”

“Why the fuck did you kiss her then?” you ask, blinking away tears the second you open your eyes again.

“She kissed me,” he answers. “She kissed me when Tae opened the door. I didn’t even know he was on the phone with you.”

“You’re aware that it sounds like lame-ass excuses?” You scoff, shaking your head again. “I can’t fucking believe you. I should have listened to Colton.”

You see the blow that it is to him. His waterline turns silver, and he clenches his jaw hard. His shoulders drop even more, and you think you hear the sound of breaking.

You doubt he deserves to be breaking over his own mistakes.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Peach, I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you as soon as I’m home, and then we can…”

“There’s no we,” you interject. “There’s no we anymore.”

“Please.” He’s begging. You never thought you’d see a day when Jeon Jungkook would beg for you, and it hurts fiercely, replacing the anger.

You’re on a roller coaster, and you don’t think you’ll ever be able to get down. 

“What did you promise her, Kook?” you ask, your voice infinitesimally small.

He closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I promised her I’d never tell anyone. So I can’t tell you.”

You’re crying again, though this time it sweeps in softly, gently. No rocking sobs, no shaking hands. Just tears, heavier than the sun, rolling down your cheeks.

“Then there is no we anymore,” you whisper.

Because you can’t be in the shadow of his ex. There can’t be secrets between the two of you - especially not when his parents want him to marry her.

“Peach, please.”

“Stop, Jungkook.” You shake your head as more tears spill from your eyes. “Stop.”

“But I can’t lose you,” he says, and you think you spy a tear on his cheek too.

It feels out of place, like it’s a waterfall in the desert, or maybe oxygen in space.

“I can’t be with someone who keeps secrets from me, Jungkook.” You pause, taking a deep breath in to give yourself courage.

“But it’s just…” he trails off, and you watch as defeat takes over him.

You wonder if he ever had to fight for anyone before. If he even has it in him to do it. Though you don’t think you’d want to be with him even if he fought for you. 

Not after last night.

“It really is nothing,” he finishes, though he sounds just as unconvinced as you are and that, most of all, tells you that it is truly over.

You and Jeon Jungkook weren’t meant to be together in this universe after all. You should have known - you saw the signs and chose to ignore them. Maybe because your pink-tinted glasses coloured the red in such a way that it became the most beautiful colour you’d ever seen.

But now that the glasses are gone, you think, were you just blindsided all along?

“Have fun on the rest of your trip, Jungkook,” you whisper.

“Peach…”

“Do not ever call me that again,” you say softly, but you mean it.

You can’t afford him calling you that.

He tries your name, but you shake your head no. He curses underneath his breath, clearly unaware that he did it loud enough for you to hear, and then says, “So that’s it?”

You shrug, like you don’t care at all when in reality it’s taking everything in you not to break down right now. “That’s it,” you confirm. “We don’t even have to tell Tae.”

He nods. “Okay.”

Okay.

Everything, crashing down into a single flat word. Everything, ending on a note of heartbreak that rings and rings in your head until you think you might go insane.

You should have known you weren’t the muse behind the song, behind the poem and the art. You’d always been meant to break away, weren’t you?

You don’t remember hanging up. All you remember is staring at your reflection on the screen, and the sound of your breaking heart in the background.

*****

The thing with the end, it’s that it never really is just the end. The end of something is the beginning of something else, and sometimes the new beginning is better, sometimes it’s worse.

You think beginning your life post-Jungkook in a club might be good. The distraction of the flashing lights, loud music and alcohol is an effective one, yet you know it for what it truly is: escapism.

You don’t know how Ria and Nabi convinced you. You do like clubbing, but Nabi hates it. So maybe it was the fact that she suggested it, that she said it’d be fun that made you want to go. You even invited Yoongi, but Yoongi said he wanted to have a night in, so it’s just you girls tonight, and you reckon it has to be enough.

You follow Nabi past the coat check, waiting for Ria as she drops off her own jacket. A few seconds later Ria meets with you, and she hooks arms with you both to head towards the bar.

“Let’s get some shots before we go dancing,” she suggests, almost screaming so that you can hear her over the sound of the music.

“Dancing?” Nabi lets out.

“What do you think clubbing is for?” Ria teases, and you offer a half-hearted smile at that.

In other circumstances you likely would have laughed, but a smile is a good start, no?

“I don’t know,” Nabi grumbles.

You reach the bar, and you stand behind a group of four guys who are also waiting for shots, or so it seems. You glance at them, and your gaze meets that of the one who’s leaning against the bar, looking your way. You politely smile out of reflex, looking away a second later as you try to focus on Ria and Nabi’s now surprisingly heated discussion about the pros and cons of clubbing.

You think clubbing is good. Clubbing is empty mind, busy body, and right now it’s all you need.

It’s all you need not to run back to the Facetime call this afternoon, and the finality of Jungkook’s path in your life.

You close your eyes, take a deep breath and slowly let it out. Though your heart is aching - it hasn’t stopped since this afternoon - you’ve been good at ignoring it. At pretending that you’re fine, that you didn’t lose something that mattered to you far more than you should have let it to begin with.

You don’t think Jungkook deserved the devotion you had for him. Not when lying to you, when refusing to tell you the whole truth is more important to him. And you’ve gone down a spiral after the call. Stalking Gabrielle on social media, understanding why he kissed her in the first place.

If you were even a little bit gay, you too would probably want to kiss her. She’s attractive, elegantly so, in the same way that all people who are born into old money are. She’s from the same universe as Jungkook, has a beautiful smile and striking green eyes that you can only envy. Her hair - somewhere between blonde and red - is also amazing, probably because she has the money to maintain a good hair care and skincare routine.

You do have your own skincare routine too, but nothing that having a lot of money can pay for.

“Hey, you girls want shots?” one of the guys says, mostly in your direction.

Maybe because Ria and Nabi are still bickering next to you.

“Huh…” you let out, heart momentarily stumbling in your chest as you look at Ria next to you.

You nudge her, and she finally acknowledges the guy, staring him up and down once before smiling her ‘I’m on a mission’ smile. It works right away: the guy smirks, extending a hand for her to shake.

“I’m Jacob.”

She unhooks her arms from yours and Nabi’s, shaking his hand. “Ria. And this is Y/n and Nabi.”

You nod your head and wave weakly in greetings, and Jacob mirrors the motion before setting his gaze on Ria again. 

“So, do you want them shots or not?” he asks.

She tilts her head to the side prettily. “Sure, we’ll take them.”

And that’s how you find yourself downing shots with guys that look straight out of a frat - Jacob, Chad, Elijah and Lucas. Lucas is the one who smiled at you earlier, and he easily finds his way to your side as you drink the shots.

After that first round, Lucas suggests a second one, and you all end up downing Jaggerbombs, the sweetness of the Red Bull contrasting the taste of the alcohol in just the right way. Ria suggests heading to the dancefloor next, and no amount of pleading gaze from you and Nabi makes her change her mind.

She truly is on a mission, and you think it might be partly because she needs to stop thinking about Seokjin. Not that you would ever tell it to her face though.

You end up dancing with Nabi, both of you slightly uncomfortable with the unknown males. In another world, you’d probably be dancing with Lucas, indulging in his company, but right now the last thing you want is to sidle close to a man.

Pretending isn’t making you forget how, just a little under a week ago, you were breathing Jungkook in like he could be the oxygen in your lungs. 

You tense. You fucking tense, and Nabi immediately notices, leaning in to say in your ear, “Everything okay?”

You shrug. “I’d do without the guys, but I guess it was to be expected with Ria in a club.”

Nabi winces, offering you an apologetic look. “Do you want to go?”

“No,” you say, shaking your head. You even snort at the way her features fall in disappointment. “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” she admits.

The song ends, blending into another one, and you pull her to the side as a girl walks behind her, parting your group.

“Do you want to go to the bathroom?” you suggest.

She pouts, looking up to the ceiling as if in deep thought, then nods her head enthusiastically. “Yup, let’s do that.”

You chuckle, and then you pull her towards Ria. Ria glares at you when you pull her away from Jacob, yet leans in when you make to speak to her.

“We’re going to the bathroom,” you tell her.

You don’t give her a choice. You grab her hand, pulling her behind you as Nabi leads the way to the bathroom. 

The music isn’t as loud in the hallway, the red lights giving Nabi’s white top a tint that makes it just a little creepy. There’s already a line, and you stand at the end of it, turning to face Ria.

“Can we do no guys tonight?” you ask her.

Her mouth falls open. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t even think-”

“Don’t worry about it,” you reassure her.

She still looks apologetic, and it lingers for longer than just the bathroom trip - you have to pull her in a dance after you’ve taken more shots for her to stop looking forlorn. She’s reluctant at first, pouting, and you pull her closer.

“What’s wrong?” you ask.

“I’m really sorry,” she repeats. “I’m so dumb sometimes.”

You offer her a scolding look. “You’re not. Besides, it’s mostly for Nabi that I asked that.”

Ria glances towards Nabi, who’s dancing next to you but completely oblivious to the conversation. “Right.”

And that is that. Ria recovers her playful mood, and you dance and laugh and drink with your friends. You think Jungkook slips out of your thoughts on the fourth shot you down, and by the sixth, your mind is swimming in way too much drunk bliss to even feel the ache in your chest. It’s liberating - you feel like a bird who’s flying for the first time, and so you cling to the feeling as best as you can.

Nabi decides to leave before you and Ria, Namjoon picking her up on his way back from Yoongi’s place, where they apparently gamed together. You don’t care - you’re drunk enough to want to ride into the sunrise, to party until it’s light outside and the world has forgotten about your existence.

Luckily for you, Ria is one for such parties as well, and so you dance and dance and dance, taking another shot ten minutes after Nabi left. 

This time, when Ria pulls you back towards the group of guys, you follow her grudgingly. You even let the dancing tide push you closer to Lucas, who leans in and says, “Hey you”, in a way that makes you think maybe true solace lies in another person’s lips.

It’s early. Far too early. But you’re also far too drunk to care, and so when he pulls you closer to dance with him, you let him do so. You let him sway your hips to the music, let him lean his forehead against yours. Your eyes flutter shut, and you breathe in the same air, and the rhythm is everlasting.

You sigh in contentment. You’re back in New York, back at that DJ show you’d attended with Jungkook. It’s his hands you imagine on your hips, his breath that you breathe in, his sweaty forehead that rests against yours.

It’s him. Because it’ll always be him.

He kisses you, and you kiss him back, hands grabbing at his shirt. He kisses you all wrong - the lack of piercings a stark contrast to your usual.

It hurts. It hurts, and the hole in your chest gapes open wide.

You pull away from the kiss, eyes snapping open to see Lucas’s startled face. His eyes are brown, but they’re not Jungkook’s shade. And he doesn’t have that small scar on his left cheek, or the eyebrow piercing. He doesn’t have the mole under his mouth, or the doe eyes that you fell in love with.

“Shit,” you let out.

“Did I do something I shouldn’t?” Lucas asks, and he lets go of you immediately, as if you burn him.

“No,” you reassure him, yet panic is swelling in you, like the tide when the moon is high. “I just…” You shake your head, letting out a sound you know to be a broken sob. “Just got out of a relationship.”

“Babe,” Ria says from behind you, stepping in between you and Lucas. “Everything okay?”

“I want to go home,” you tell her.

She doesn’t know that you mean to him. She can’t know - you can’t even allow yourself to think so. Yet you can’t help it, the alcohol inhibiting the control you had on your emotions until you’re crying on the dancefloor, just a heartbroken twenty-something who might have flown too close to the sun.

“Please,” you add when she doesn’t react, just looks at your tears like they are foreign entities.

But then she snaps out of her drunken daze, and she pulls you away from the dancefloor, away from the reminders of Jungkook. She helps you get your coat while you sniffle to the side, your eyes red-rimmed. And then she helps you get into the Uber home, holding your hand all the way.

She walks you up to your apartment, but the second you’re inside Jungkook is everywhere, and you need the loneliness. You need to be alone, you need to be able to indulge one last time. So you reassure her, tell her that you’ll be fine, that you can hang out tomorrow, and then you push her out the door.

It takes you thirty minutes to shower and take your makeup off, and another five minutes trying to convince yourself that you should sleep in your bed.

You lose the fight, and you fall asleep in Jungkook’s bed, crying softly as his scent wraps around you like the embrace of a ghost gone too soon.

Tuesday, May 7th 

You’ve slept in Jungkook’s bed every day since Saturday, chasing him like you used to chase cars around his head. This morning, when you woke up, you made the bed, took one last look into this part of your life and then closed the door behind you like you’ll ever forget the hours you spent tangled up with him, fast asleep or losing yourself in him.

He’s coming back today. Taehyung is coming back today, and though you’d once wished for Tae’s return, now you’re dreading it. You don’t want to see him, don’t want to see Jungkook, or Jimin, or Sera, or even Ariane. 

You want to rewind time to the week before Jungkook left, but life doesn’t work that way, does it?

You finish work late, a while after they’ve returned from their trip. And maybe you sit in the car for a long time also, dreading the moment you’ll have to go in.

[2:39 pm] bröther👽: just landed [3:47 pm] bröther👽: it was a shitshow but we’re home [3:48 pm] bröther👽: ari is going to stay at ours for a few days [3:48 pm] bröther👽: we’re planning dinner? are tacos ok [4:31 pm] bröther👽: yeah so it’ll be tacos

You haven’t replied to any of the texts. You want to tell him that you’re good, that you’ll spend the evening locked up in your room anyway, but you can’t bring yourself to do so. In some twisted way, you want to see Jungkook, want to see if this is affecting him the same way that it’s affecting you.

You reckon that might make you a bad person.

You sigh, leaning your head back against the headrest. A car passes in the street, its headlights illuminating you for a few seconds before it’s gone, the dim neon light of the streetlights returning. 

You’re aware you can’t stay here forever. You have to go home, have to walk up the stairs and see Jungkook again. And so you take a deep breath, close your eyes for a few seconds so that you can steel yourself, and then you throw the car door open.

You can’t stop, can’t slow down. So you practically jog up the stairs after you’ve slammed the car door shut, locking it over your shoulder. And then you burst into the apartment, hands trembling as you still there to notice Taehyung and Ariane in the living room, lounging on the couch.

Jungkook’s bedroom door is closed, and you’re not sure if it’s a relief.

“Y/n!” Taehyung bursts, and he gets up from the couch to jog to you, immediately engulfing you in a bear hug.

You hug him back, fists closing around handfuls of his shirt, and you hide your face in his shoulder so that he can’t see the tears pricking at your eyes.

“Tae,” you whisper back. “How have you been?”

“Good,” he answers. “Happy to be back though.”

He pulls away, grabbing your purse from your hand so that he can drop it on the table by the door. You busy yourself with taking off your shoes, feeling shy under Ariane’s watchful gaze. She smiles at you when you look her way, and you smile back, offering her a small, polite nod. She gets up from the couch, walking your way so that Taehyung can properly introduce you.

She’s nice. She’s a warm person, and you feel the kindness oozing from her after just a few sentences exchanged. You know you’ll like her, and you’re relieved Taehyung finally found someone to make him forget his ex from high school.

As Ariane insists on cooking tacos for you all, you think she’s far better than Taehyung’s ex anyway. You do feel bad that she’s cooking at your apartment, but she says she loves cooking, and that you should just enjoy your brother’s return for now.

As she cooks, you and Taehyung sit at the table, telling each other stories from the last few months. Evidently you avoid mentioning Jungkook, instead focusing on what was going on in your friend group. Taehyung pulls Ariane into the conversation once in a while, and she admits she chose to do a semester in Paris because her grandfather was French, and he’s the one who chose her name.

It’s a comfortable conversation, a moment that almost makes you forget that Jungkook is hiding in his room, doing whatever it is that he’s doing. Thinking about him makes your heart strain in your chest, and you mindlessly massage the spot, as if that might chase the ache away.

What does help is when you decide to get up to actually help Ariane, and you take care of setting the table and preparing the lettuce. It busies your mind a little, and though you’re still speaking with Ariane and Taehyung, you manage not to let your thoughts wander back to a certain doe-eyed man.

You’re sitting down to eat when Taehyung finally mentions the elephant in the room, saying, “Should we ask JK if he wants anything?”

Ariane chuckles. “Feel free if you want to deal with him.”

You hope they don’t hear you gulp, and you innocently say, “What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s been weird for a few days,” Taehyung answers. “He’s been short with everyone, and he refuses to talk when we ask him what’s wrong.” Taehyung pauses, furrowing his brow. “Why?”

You shrug. “Just wondering.”

Can he hear your heart beating out of your chest? You definitely can, and it’s pumping in your ears, making you feel dizzy.

The knowledge that Jungkook hasn’t been doing well hurts far more than you expected it would. It’s like you just got stabbed right in the heart, and you’re bleeding out where you’re sitting at the table, on Taehyung’s left.

You avert your gaze, looking at the bowls on the table, eyes focusing on the steam rising from the cooked ground beef. You act like you don’t care - you grab a taco shell, and immediately start to prepare your meal, while a strange silence stretches. 

It’s uncomfortable, awkward, and Taehyung flees by getting up and heading to Jungkook’s room. You hear him knocking on the door, and you can’t help but strain your ears as you try to hear what they’re saying.

“You hungry?” Taehyung says after you’ve heard the door opening.

“Not really,” Jungkook replies, and hearing his voice is shattering, wrecking, like the car you were riding just smashed into a wall at full speed.

Your eyes fill with tears, which you furiously blink away hoping that Ariane doesn’t notice. She’s luckily looking towards the hallway though, and you successfully clear your gaze before she turns again.

“I think he’s upset because of Gaby,” she comments as she starts making her own taco. “He started being like this when she stopped hanging out with us.”

Right. Ariane is Gabrielle’s friend. Her best friend even, if what Taehyung said is true. 

You’re not so sure anymore if you’ll be able to get along with Ariane after all.

“Ah,” you flatly let out. “That sucks.”

She shrugs her shoulders. “He’ll get over it. Gaby said he’s the one that broke up with her anyway.”

You gulp around the lump in your throat, and though your hunger has entirely vanished, you bite into the taco so that you don’t have to talk.

It works, and you eat in silence as Taehyung walks back into the room, exchanging a knowing glance with Ariane. He sits back down between the two of you, and then he’s making his taco too, and though the atmosphere is awkward, you don’t have to partake in any more conversation.

You force yourself to eat a second taco, knowing Taehyung would tell you off if you don’t considering you usually eat at least three, if not more. It’s sickening, and you’re on your last bite when Jungkook appears in the door frame.

Your gazes immediately meet, and everything seems to stop around you, to disappear from existence. There’s just you and him, and you take in his dishevelled appearance, the dark circles under his eyes and the hollowness of his gaze.

All light has gone out from his eyes, replaced by shadows and darkness you recognize far too well.

They’re haunting your own eyes, too.

“I’m heading home for the summer,” he tells no one in particular, though his gaze doesn’t leave yours.

Like he’s trying to take everything in one last time, trying to commit you to memory like you’re doing with him right now.

Though you don’t want this to be a memory. You want to remember his lips on your skin and the light in his eyes and the way he’d always hold you close. You want to remember what it felt like to be his – or to believe you were. You don’t want any of the heartbreak, but it takes over everything, and your gaze drops to the table.

“What?” Taehyung lets out. “Right now?”

Jungkook nods. “My father needs help with his company.”

“We literally got home like six hours ago,” Taehyung points out. “Shouldn’t you get some sleep first?”

“I’m good,” Jungkook says. “It’s not that long of a drive.”

It actually is. It’s nearly four hours, and you highly doubt Jungkook’s father asked for help. Or maybe he did. Maybe Jungkook lied about his strained relationship with his family to get you to…

You stop the train of thoughts. He didn’t lie. You were there, and you saw it with your own two eyes. 

You force yourself to meet his gaze again - his eyes haven’t left you. He offers you the saddest smile you’ve ever seen on his lips, and his gaze fills with words unsaid. You can almost taste them on the sharp inhale of breath you take, and you want to tell him to stay.

You want to tell him that you’re in love with him. But it’s too little too late, and so you swallow the confession, shove it down until you can forget its existence.

He nods, like he knows then that you truly are over, and then he says, “I’ll see you guys soon.”

You watch him go - your heart goes with him, and you feel like you’ll cave in on the emptiness in your chest. 

Taehyung follows him to the door, leaving you alone with Ariane. This time, she doesn’t miss the agony on your features, and she asks, “Are you okay?”

You sit back in your chair, nodding once, yet you answer, “I don’t know, I feel sick.”

She offers you a kind smile. “You don’t need to eat anymore,” she reassures you. “You’ve worked all day, maybe you just need some rest.”

“Maybe,” you repeat flatly. “Let me just clean up the table.”

She stops you with a hand on your wrist. “Tae’s not done, I’ll get him to take care of it. Just go to bed.”

You nod curtly, and you hope she doesn’t see the silver lining your gaze, threatening to spill over. You do put your plate away in the sink, to be washed later, and then you head to your bedroom, seeking the cool reprieve of your own safe haven.

You can’t help yourself, glancing towards the door as you leave the kitchen. Jungkook is already outside, and Taehyung is speaking with him leaning against the door frame. You think it’s a relief you can’t see Jungkook from here - you’d probably have broken down right then and there, and you doubt you would have survived the embarrassment. 

You lean against the door of your bedroom once you’re finally in, and you take a deep breath, eyes fluttering shut. When Jungkook’s pained features appear behind your eyelids, you immediately open your eyes again.

There’s a box on your bed, next to a folded piece of paper. Curiosity replaces the agony in your chest momentarily…

Until you see your name on the folded piece of paper, and realize what this is.

Tears fill your eyes so quickly this time around that you can’t stop them, and they fall freely on your cheeks as you take a wobbly step forward. 

He’s left you a letter. And the box is clearly a jewelry box - there’s something so strange about the sight that it breaks your heart all over again, until the throbbing in your chest is so stark you barely can feel the paper as your hands reach for it, unfolding it carefully.

Your vision is blurry behind your tears, and as you see he’s written lines and lines of words for you, you let out a broken sob as you sit on your bed. 

It takes you five minutes before you’re actually able to read, and you read it so many times you think you know the letter by heart.

Hey peach, I know you asked me not to call you that. I promise this is the last time, and I’ll never bother you with that name again. I just didn’t know how to start this letter… I hope you’ve been doing okay. The last few days have been shit for me, and I feel really fucking guilty for everything. I wish it’d never happened, I wish I’d come home to you so that we could tell Taehyung about us… but as you said, there is no us anymore. Thank you for the few months we spent together. You taught me a lot about myself, and I really enjoyed spending time with you. I’ll look back fondly on the memories I have of us. I really want to apologize. For everything that I did. I wish I’d never gone to Paris. I’m sorry that I left, and that I let old promises to Gabrielle ruin what was between us. I’m sorry I wasn’t more upfront about how I felt for you too. It was all just so new to me, and I thought we had a long while ahead of us to figure everything out… I’m sorry that I was wrong. I don’t expect this letter to change anything. I just wanted to let you know how I feel, and I don’t think I would be able to speak to you face to face. Maybe that makes me a coward, but it is what it is. I got you a gift in Paris, before things went to hell. I couldn’t bring myself to return it or keep it, so I hope you enjoy it. You don’t have to keep it either, I just wanted you to still have it. Finally, I hope you have a nice summer. I hope you have fun, and I hope you find someone that treats you the way that you deserve. Someone Taehyung would approve of hopefully! You deserve it more than you can imagine. Take care, Jungkook

Your gaze is blurry behind the tears again, yet you manage to blink them away. You think, maybe you’ve run out of tears. Maybe you’ll go dry and desiccated like you died in the desert, and you think, maybe you deserve it.

You’ve never received a love letter. And though Jungkook didn’t confess, you feel like perhaps you’re holding his heart in your hands like he’s holding yours in his. Perhaps he did care for you, perhaps Gabrielle really was just a momentary mistake.

You take a deep breath in, and though it’s shaky, it does ease some ache in your heart. Not everything - the hole is still gaping wide open, and you reckon only time can fix it.

You put the letter down, picking up the jewelry box instead. Your hands are still trembling, yet you manage to open it to reveal a thin, shiny gold chain. The pendant that sits on the velvety cushion breaks you all over again, yet you don’t hesitate before putting it on.

Your fingers, suddenly steady, secure the necklace around your neck, and then your hand falls to the pendant. 

The peach sits light in your palm, a reminder of what your relationship with Jungkook should have been.

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:'''''') the letter right? Did I cry writing it? Yes I did. Did I cry the fifteen times I've reread it? Yes, I also did. What did you guys think of this chapter?:')