The spider screeches and gurgles, sinking to the ground. Death took a hold of the beast. The man pulls his sword out and stares at his blood covered hands. They are green because crab spiders have a green, gooey blood instead of red.

“Woah, you killed it.” 

He looks at you confused until he realises what he did. His dark-brown eyes fill with guilt and his face is covered in green splatters of blood. 

“I killed it. What have I done?” he looks at his own hands, shaking slightly.

“Hey, I’m ___. Are you feeling alright?”

“___?”

“Yes, don’t frighten at my looks. I don’t want you any harm. I heard screaming and I wanted to help you. Are you travelling?”

“I, I am. I want to visit my uncle in the mountains. I killed this. This. This thing.”

“This thing is a crab spider and if you didn’t kill it, it would have made dinner of us both. Trust me, it’s one of those things which is actually a monster.”

“Actually a monster?”

“Yes, you know, not someone who is a person but still gets called a monster just because they look different.” 

He widens his eyes in confusion.

You laugh awkwardly. “Forgive me. You’re a stranger and I’m telling you my whole life story. Are you well? Do you need water or food before you continue?”

“You want to offer me food?”

“I do. It’s in my cave. Do you want some?”

“Yes. I mean, no. No, I couldn’t.”

“It’s alright. I can spare you something. Come, follow me.” 

The man gathers his belongings and horse and follows you.

“You even have a horse?” 

“Yes, Calla. She’s my best friend.” He flusters. “I must sound insane.”

“No, I understand you. My best friend is a tree in front of my cave. Now, that’s insane”, you joke and laugh.

The stranger laughs with you. It sounds sweet and his voice is clear. Something about him makes you trust him. He hasn’t commented on your golden eyes yet or the scales running down your neck, neither does he seem appalled by them. It is very rare that humans are like this. 

“Are you from here?” you ask.

“No, I’m from far away. My uncle offered me work in the mountains and I need to take it.”

“Has the war reached your village as well?”

“It already passed through.”

“I see. How tragic. I am deeply sorry to hear this. I hope you didn’t lose anyone.”

“I…” he seems to close up.

“Forgive me. I am prying again. We are here. Please feel welcome.”

The stranger scans his eyes over the cave.

“Yes, I know what you want to say. Why do I live in a cave deep in the forest? You see, the village doesn’t really like that I’m half dragon. It’s safer for me to live in hiding. You know, where Hunters can’t find me.”

“Hunters?” He gasps, “but…why would anyone want to hunt you?”

“Because I’m different.”

“I see. I am sorry to hear this. We don’t have these people where I’m from.”

“I figured. You didn’t scare or curse when you saw me.” you give him a friendly smile. “But please step in. I have root stew cooking on the fire. It isn’t the most culinary dish but it will give you strength.”

“Thank you. Truly, thank you”, he says, bowing deeply.

The stranger stays for the rest of the afternoon. You chat a lot with him. He asks about why dragons are hated in your land while you get to learn that he was a farmer before the war destroyed his fields. His uncle offered work in the mines and the stranger hopes to earn enough coin to one day return back home. His home, so you find out, lies south. Far, far away from where you currently are. His village once was wealthy because it exported rice to the royal distilleries. He told you that he slept when the soldiers fell in and that he remembers the night in a blur. 

And then it is night already and you offer him a place to sleep. The stranger falls asleep hugging a small rabbit toy to his chest. He told you that it once belonged to his sister. 

You only realise once he is already fast asleep, that he never told you his name. You plan to ask him in the morning.

Being shaken around wakes you a few hours later. You peel your eyes open and instantly feel wide awake. You aren’t in your cave anymore. This is the night sky. And you are currently on a horse cart. You sit up only to slam down again when ropes tug you back. 

“What?”

You look around panickedly. The ropes are around your wrists, keeping you tied to the bottom of the cart. Your legs are tied down as well. 

“What? No. What is happening?”

“You’re awake.”

You crane your neck. 

“You?”

The stranger sits by your head.

“Did they catch you too? Hey! He’s only human, let him go!”

The stranger laughs and unlike before, it sounds menacing. Only now, do you notice that his wrists are free of ropes and he seems to hold reigns. You meet his eyes. They are vast of emotion.

“My name’s Jungkook.”

Your heart stops. You know this name. Jungkook, the nefarious Hunter who takes up even the most dangerous of jobs. 

“You heard of me. Good thing I didn’t tell you my name. Unlike you. You know, for someone so scared of Hunters, you are stupidly trusting with strangers.”

“I don’t know who hired you, but please let me go. You got the wrong person. I-I’m never leaving my cave. I swear, I don’t hurt people.”

“Quiet. Your kind’s so fucking chatty”, he says and presses a cloak soaked with sleeping potion to your face.

You try to fight it, try to shake him off, stay conscious, but it is too strong. You fall into helplessness within seconds. 

Jungkook stuffs the cloth back into his vest pocket and clicks his tongue.

“Trot on, Calla. We still have a long way to go.”

The next time you return to consciousness, you seem to be at a tavern. The potion is making you droopy. It is as if you are standing beside yourself as you have to watch your body get dragged around. You might not show it, but you are currently having a panic attack. You can barely breathe. You are so scared. You don’t know where you are and you don’t feel your own body. You know that you are walking and that he tugs at your wrist ties. The sounds of the tavern reach your ears as if you were underwater. 

You are by the counter. The Hunter is talking. 

“Help me please”, you force your tongue to work, but you are so far gone that you forget whether you actually spoke while you are still speaking. Did you say it out loud? Are you hallucinating it? Why is nobody reacting?

“Help me, please.”

Did you say that? Why is nobody reacting? Why does nobody hear you? 

The innkeeper hands the Hunter a pair of keys.

“Help me. Please.”

The innkeeper makes eye contact with you and looks away. He heard you, but he doesn’t care. You get dragged away again. You can’t breathe, you are numb, your ears don’t work. You are scared. 

Upstairs he takes you. Stairs one by one. One by one. 

“Help me. Please”, you try to yell. Did you yell? You can’t remember. Why is your mouth not working? You are scared.

You sob. Your face is numb. You can’t feel the clothes on your skin. You are scared.

The hunter shoves you into the room. He talks to you. At least you think that he does.

“If you beg for help again, I am gagging you too. Do you hear me? Nobody is going to help you. Nobody would care even if you screamed.”

He closes the distance and pulls out the cloth again.

“Please no, please no more” you beg and try to flee. 

He chases you easily because your limbs barely work.

“Please I can’t feel my own body. Please stop.” 

“Shut the fuck up.” 

He grabs the back of your head and presses the cloth to your face.

“Please no more.”

You try to stay awake. You try to fight it. But you can’t. You fall unconscious. The last thought you have is, please whatever he is going to do to your helpless body don’t let it hurt too much once you wake up again.

It must be morning. Someone stubs you with their foot repeatedly. You wake from it. Your head is still fuzzy. Your senses are blurred. 

The Hunter exhales as he squats down. You want to move away but you can’t. It is as if the sleeping potion left you paralyzed. Or perhaps it is fear. 

This wasn’t a nightmare. This is real.

“You’re awake. Good.”

You try to speak, but it is as if your tongue never learned how to form words. Somehow he seems to understand you nonetheless.

“Disgusting. As if I would want to touch you. I left you rotting on the floor, that’s what I did.”

His word are mean, but somehow you feel relieved. He didn’t take advantage. He didn’t hurt you. 

“Now get up, I’m not in the mood to wait any longer”, he says and drags you to your feet harshly. 

He needs to support you, but he does so with little tenderness. He shoves and pushes you, hurting the spots his fingers touch because he uses his strength for it. 

“Please let me go”, you beg, tongue slow and heavy.

“Can’t do. Won’t do.”

“I didn’t do anything bad. Please.” 

“Of course someone like you would say that.”

The innkeeper exchanges the room keys with a bag of breakfast for the hunter. He doesn’t pay you any mind. And so you are fated to leave the tavern, knowing that you are truly alone. Nobody wants to help you. Nobody would care if you rotted away. 

He shoves you up on the cart and you fall with a sob. You stay down, having no strength to fight him off when he ties down your legs again. 

“Please let me go, please.”

“Shut up”, he snarls and tightens the rope around your wrists. 

He ignores your sobs and climbs the cart. With a click of his tongue, the journey continues.

Your body hurts. Not being able to move whilst lying on a hard wooden cart as a horse drags it over uneven terrain really hurts. The spots where the rope lies are already sore. The drugs wore off a little. You feel dizzy and sick to the stomach. 

“Please can I have water?”

He ignores you.

“I don’t feel so good, please can I have water?”

He ignores you.

“Please?” you whimper. 

The Hunter sighs in exasperation and takes out his bottle of water. He opens it with his teeth. Next a cloth. This isn’t water.

“No, please. Please, it doesn’t feel good, please don’t do this to me.”

It is useless to beg. Or fight. He presses the potion soaked cloth to your face and drugs you once again. At least like this, your body doesn’t hurt anymore, you think  before you fall into helplessness.

You should be used to it, but you aren’t. It is so frightened to be aware of how helpless you are. And it is painfully scary to know that nobody actually notices how scared you are because you are too drugged to actually have control over your own expressions. Not that anyone at the new tavern would care. You don’t dare to beg for help. It is useless after all. The innkeeperer doesn’t want to notice you. 

“Good work you’re doing”, he comments on the Hunter’s deeds, giving you a fleeting look of disgust.

“I can’t wait to have it delivered. It’s so noisy.”

“It seems silenced right now.”

“Thank the gods.”

You become nothing again after the fleeting moment of attention. You become cargo that gets dragged to the Hunter’s room. You have to stop to watch him talk to one of the waitresses. They touch each other instantly, making seductive eyes at each other. She nods her head and leaves with a sultry look. He ignores your eyes on him and continues to drag you to his room. 

He shoves you inside and closes the door. He tells you to sit in the corner then walks to the table to take off his swords and daggers.

He already shed himself of his armour when the waitress knocks on his door. He hurries to it and talks to her. In the end, she gives him food and leaves after asking for a kiss. Which he gives her with a touch to her behind. She seems more than delighted.

“Later, sweetheart. Can I count on you?”

“Anything you want, good Sir.”

They chuckle and purr, stealing kisses as he closes the door more and more.

Click.

He actually locks the door. His smirk drops, his face freezes in a mask of emotionless apathy. His eyes flit to you. They are dark and filled with hatred. 

You cower away, body trembling. Not only from fear but also from the drugs. It feels so bad to be in this state. If you weren’t so numb, you would constantly cry. 

He closes in on you. Like prey, you wish to magically merge with the wall and therefore escape him. But to no avail. He reaches your side without problems. 

“Please no more.”

He squats down and puts a bowl of food down. He pushes it to you and throws a piece of bread next to it. Water in a cup sits beside it. 

“That’s for staying quiet”, he says darkly and stands back up to remove himself from your personal space. 

He sits down by the table and begins eating, keeping his eyes on you at all times. 

Quite frankly, you are so hungry that you have zero survival instincts. You don’t think about possible poison, you think about how much your stomach hurts and that you want it to stop. You begin gulping the water messily and eating the food with your bare hands, dirtying yourself because it is still very difficult for your limbs to work.

“Tch, disgusting”, he hisses and looks away, “gonna lose my appetite.”

He leaves you after dinner, keeping you tied to the fireplace and locking the door. The food and water helped you sober up, but it didn’t help you feel better. Now that you are clearer in the head, your state is so obvious to you. Your stench, your dirty skin, your food smeared hands, the tears crusted around your eyes. You can feel every bruise the days gave you and there is an unbearably dull pain in your head.

“Why did I decide to help?” you choke out and sink into yourself to cry into your own knees miserably. You hug them just like you did ever since you can think. When the other children at the orphanage were mean to you, when the nuns hit you because you were a dragon, when you missed your parents and when you were an outcast no matter where you went. Hugging your own knees has been the only comfort you have ever known. And it is a cold, lonely comfort. One which makes you crave true comfort afterwards. One which mocks you for your loneliness.

“By the gods, you’re crying again.”

You tense up, instinctively pressing yourself against the wall. You lift your head because you are too scared when you aren’t looking at him.

The Hunter seems to have left to wash up. His clothes are new and his hair and skin are clean. He even smells good. And he carries a clay bowl and pitcher. 

“Wash up. You look revolting and it’s making me sick”, he says, setting the things down in front of you. 

“Can I please have my wrists free for it?”

“No.”

“They hurt so much.”

“Too bad.”

“The room is locked, I can’t run. Please.”

The Hunter sighs in annoyance and picks up his sword and a dagger. He closes in on you. You try to melt with the wall again, whimpering in fear when he grabs your wrists. 

Slice. 

Your hands fall to the ground by your sides. The pain instantly stops. You open your eyes again. 

The Hunter towers over you, pointing his sword at you and watching you like a hawk. 

“Go on. Wash yourself.” 

It feels humiliating to be watched during such an intimate act. Even if you only wash your face and hands, it feels invading and embarrassing. 

The water hurts on your wrists. You sob quietly, trying to soothe yourself with gentle touches.

“Why are you doing this to me?” you press out. You lift your head, meeting his eyes. “I haven’t done anything to you. I, I helped you and gave you food and a place to sleep. Why are you hurting me?”

The Hunter puts his sword against your throat, “it’s nothing personal. I’m merely paid to capture you.”

“Why? Who would want me?”

“The king.”

King Foltest. The first of his name. Maidenless and naturally heirless. He reached his fiftieth year not long ago, but people who saw his face say that he doesn’t look his age. It’s never meant as a compliment. 

His great-great-grandfather is the reason why dragons became hated in your land. The legends go that he was rejected by a dragon woman and he felt so insulted in his fragile masculinity that he declared dragons to be the national enemies. Each new king only made the hatred fester and grow until it became an incurable tumour in the people’s rotten hearts. The legends are forgotten in the humans’ minds. They blindly follow what everyone does without stopping to think for themselves. And dragons have to pay the price.

You never saw the king, but you know of him and his sick experiments. You know what he does to dragon offspring because he believes that it will give him eternal youth. 

If the king hired a Hunter, it means that he is desperate. Very desperate. And it makes you so scared that it genuinely scares you how much fear you can actually experience.

“I’m going to die”, you choke out and sob.

“Naturally. I’m just sad that I won’t be the one to do it.”

“You’re a monster!”

“The call comes from inside the house, beast”, he spits.

“I helped you! I was kind to you! Why can’t you see that I’m not a monster?!” 

He sighs in annoyance and bends down to press the cloth onto your face without warning.

“Shut up, you noisy fuck.”

You grasp his wrists and try to drag him off, but to no avail. The potion is too strong. Once again, you fall into drugged helplessness.

The days pass like this. Captured and drugged you get dragged from one tavern to the next. You lost orientation long ago. Everything stopped hurting because the pain is everywhere and numbs itself. 

Nobody stops to help. They don’t care. Nobody cares.

The moments you are not under the influence, you are too weak to think of fleeing. Breathing became manual. It isn’t easier to bear your state. 

The Hunter left you in his room again, tied to the foot of the bed. He fed you before he left. The food tasted like nothing because the fumes burned your mucosa. You can’t smell or taste a lot these days. 

A woman brought the food and asked him to take a bath together. He didn’t deny her. He has been gone for quite a while. Two lines on the candle to be exact. One half of an hour. 

You don’t cry anymore these days. You exist in a state of complete numbness while you stand beside yourself and mourn for yourself. You don’t want to be numb. You want to have control over yourself again. 

Another line disappears slowly as the flame devours the wax. You watch it happening with sore, bloodshot eyes. Your lids are so heavy.

If only you knew how to breathe fire like real dragons do. You wouldn’t have to worry about anything. You could be free. If only your father loved you enough to stay and teach you. If only.

The door opens. The Hunter enters the room. He locks the door behind him. Just like every night, he brings you a bowl of water and a rag to clear yourself with. Unlike the first night, he doesn’t hold a sword to your throat as you do it. 

For the first time, he actually keeps his distance. He sits down on a chair with a loud sigh, stretching his legs out. He seems exhausted and as if the woman gave him everything he wanted. 

“How much does the king pay you?”

“Enough that I can buy a nice, big sun bed for myself”, he says and rolls his head back, “I will enjoy the sunlight on my face, knowing that I was the one to bring another one of your kind to justice.”

“This isn’t justice, this is-”

He lifts the cloth and takes out the potion. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought. Wash up and keep your mouth shut.”

“What did the king tell you that convinced you to hunt me?”

“I told you to keep your mouth shut!” 

“And I want to know why I deserve this treatment.” 

The Hunter stands up and closes the distance. He grabs the back of your head and presses the cloth to your face. You fight him even though it is useless. Once again, you are drugged against your will.

Something is wrong. Which may seem peculiar to say because everything has been wrong for weeks, but this feels different. Your stomach hurts so much that you refuse to uncurl yourself when the Hunter tries to wake you the next day.

“Stand up.”

He has been trying for some time. 

“Stand up, you lazy fuck.” 

You keep sobbing in pain, hugging your knees as you lie writhing on your side. 

“Stand the fuck up”, he spits and grabs your arm harshly to tug you up. 

You scream. He drops your arm again and takes a step back.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” 

You give him your answer by vomiting violently. He snarls in disgust, covering his nose and mouth.

“It hurts, please make it stop”, you beg, coughing up black pile. 

“The gods give me strength”, he murmurs before he squats down to pick you up. 

You sob and wail in pain. You barely take in what is happening. It hurts so much.

The Hunter carries you downstairs and outside to his cart. He doesn’t tie you down. Nor does he drug you. He simply climbs on the cart.

“What’s with the beast? It ain’t looking good”, the innkeeper asks after following the Hunter outside.

“Possible overdose. I have to confirm with a healer. Tell me where to find one.”

The innkeeper scrunches his nose in distaste, ogling you.

“Why’d you wanna save it? Just hit it with a shovel till it stops writhing. Is what I did with my last one. T’was a goblin. Good worker it was, til’ it caught the fever.” 

“I prefer to keep my swords clean until necessary. The healer. Where can I find them?”

“You sure you don’t want me to hit it?”

“Tell me where I can find this bloody healer before I paint the ground with your entrails, you old fuck!” 

“Alright, alright. North of here. He lives in a hut in the forest”, the innkeeper says, lifting his dirty hands in defeat, “fuckin’ bastard”, he adds under his breath, eyeing the Hunter darkly.

The latter is unimpressed. He clicks his tongue and shakes the reigns. The cart begins moving, taking you to this supposed healer.

“Don’t die on me. You hear me?” the Hunter says. His voice is far, far away. Everything is far away. There is a light so close by. You can hear your mother singing.

The Hunter tells his horse to go faster, keeping two fingers on your pulse point.

“Yes, it’s experiencing an overdose.”

The healer tied you down on the table. It hurts so much because laying horizontal on your back brings all the pain to the surface. They had to hold you down together. He muffled you with a stick. You already clawed your nails raw from trying to fight yourself free.  

“Fuck. Can you help her? I can’t have her die yet. She’s merchandise.”

“I can give it something that should stop the symptoms, but you will need to stop administering it the potion.”

“Well, that’s…fuck, alright. Anything else?”

“It will need to drink milk tears tea for seven days.”

“Milk tears. The flower? Where can I find it?”

“In these woods? Nowhere. A herbalist lives in Fisstech not far from here. She should have what you need.”

“I understand. What a bother. This will add another two days of travel to the journey.”

The healer removes the stick and pries your mouth open. He doesn’t look at you as he does it, looking at the Hunter as if he wasn’t currently handling another person that needs attention.

“Where are you headed? If I may ask.”

“You may not. Do what I pay you for.”

“I am”, he says and pours a bitter liquid down your throat. You gurgle and writhe, trying your hardest not to choke on it. You feel it filling your stomach. It is hot and burns. 

The healer licks his lips, running his eyes down your body.

“I have to ask”, he begins, “any chance that if I treated it free of charge, I get ten minutes alone with it?”

You whimper, begging them to please spare you. You are in pain, tied up and helpless. Please don’t let it get worse. Please.

“Just for this question, you are going to treat her free of charge because it means that I’m letting you live, you perverted fuck.”

“This wasn’t-”

“Are we clear?”

“Yes. Sir.” The healer steps back. “I did what was needed. It should feel fine by sundown.”

“Good.” 

The hunter rips the ties from the table and slides his arms under you to pick you up. He kicks the door open on his way outside, leaving it open. 

He sets you down on the back of the cart, climbs on top and tells his horse to keep walking. 

You instantly roll to your side and curl into yourself. Whatever the healer gave you really burns, warming you from the inside out. In a way, it is almost comforting.

“You’re going to be alright. Hear me? You can’t die on me.”

It is the last thing you hear before you sink into a deep sleep.

The cart stopped moving. There are people talking all around you. Dogs bark in the distance. Orange light soaks through your eyelids. 

You peel them open one by one. The sky is red. The sun is setting. You can feel her last desperate attempt of producing warmth on your skin. A breeze tickles your face and grazes the tips of your fingers. You are on your back and it doesn’t hurt. You can breathe. Your head doesn’t pound. 

It worked.

The burning stuff worked. 

You sit up and to your delight, it is possible. The cart where normally the Hunter sits, is empty. To your right a two story building steals the last rays of sun. The exposed wooden frame is tinted a dark brown and the clay walls are painted white. Climbing plants crawl along said walls. A sweet floral scent meets your nose. 

You inhale it greedily. It worked. You feel good again. Yes, the hunger still gnaws at your stomach and your limbs still ache but you finally feel like yourself again. Which means that your head was clear. 

You have to flee. 

A wooden shop sign tangles over the door of the building to your right. It shows the symbol of a herbalist. 

The Hunter must be inside, buying you white tears tea. This is your only chance to escape. 

There is one problem however. The Hunter tied you down on the cart. Not on your back like before, but your limbs were still held captive and there is nothing you could use to your advantage.

The only weapon you have is your mouth and foolish hope that somebody will actually listen. 

Strangers – all humans – hurry past the cart constantly. You turn to them, beg them to help you. Some increase their steps, not giving you a look. Some stop, only to leave when they see your eyes and scales. Most pass you as if you were invisible and silenced. Your presence and situation don’t change their days. 

“Please, I beg you help me.”

“Please, help me please.”

“All I need is a moment of your time, please Sir.”

“My lady, please spare me, please.”

Nobody hears you or wants to hear you. Time is running out. 

“Please” you whimper, chest aching.

“What’s wrong with you?” a small, peeping voice asks.

You crane your body as best as possible to see the owner of it. Just below the edge of the cart, a little human girl looks up at you. She can’t be more than six years old and her eyes aren’t tainted by the hatred of adults yet.

“Hello”, you greet her, trying not to scare her away by speaking softly.

“Hello. Why are people ignoring you?”

“Because I look different than them.”

“Is it bad?”

“No, but they think it is.”

“Is that why you’re up there?”

“Yes, a bad man tied me up. Can you help me escape? If I stay with him any longer, I will get hurt.”

“My papa is a bad man too. He hurts mama and makes her cry.”

Your heart aches.

“She sends me away when he comes home. Is the bad man like papa too?”

“Yes, he is. Do you want to help me escape?”

She nods her head.

“Yes? That is great to hear. Can you climb up here and then open these knots?”

She waddles to the end of the cart and climbs it with lots of effort. She grunts and huffs air, face scrunched in exhaustion and determination. Once up, she waddles to you and plops down.

“Mama says that I have fast hands and that I learn good.”

“Yes? I am sure that you do. You seem very intelligent.”

“Yes, mama says that too”, she says proudly as her tiny, little fingers fumble with the knot. 

It doesn’t budge, no matter how much she tries. It doesn’t take long for her to get frustrated. Her lower lip trembles, tears begin to well up in her eyes.

“It’s alright, look at me. Look.” 

She meets your eyes, one second away from wailing.

“Let’s try something else. It’s going to be fun”, you tell her with a kind smile, hoping that it is enough to distract her.

She nods her head, sniffling.

“Do you see that knife over there by the table?”

She follows your line of sight. The butcher seems to have left it outside for the day.

“Yes, I see it.”

“Why don’t you get it and then we cut the ropes together, yes?”

She stands up and waddles to the end of the cart. She climbs down with lots of effort and waddles to the table. The knife is so big that she has to carry it in two hands. 

“Come on, come on, come on”, you mumble to yourself, fidgeting nervously. Time is passing really fast. Way too fast. 

She lifts the knife on the cart with a grunt then follows as well.

“Here we go, you’re doing so well.” 

She picks up the knife again and waddles to you.

“Do my hands first. Yes?”

“Yes, alright.” She begins cutting. Her little fingers barely close around the handle. 

“You’re very good with a knife already. Does your mama allow you to help in the kitchen?”

“Yes, she lets me help with the potatoes.”

“Potatoes are very delicious.”

“Yes, I like them too. Papa doesn’t like them. He likes meat, but mama doesn’t have enough coin for meat. He gets angry because of it and hurts her.”

You feel so angry. This sweet little girl and her poor mother.

“I am sorry to hear this.”

The rope rips.

“Yes! Good job, you did it. Now give me the knife, quick.”

She hands it to you and watches as you cut your legs free. 

“Yes! Yes, I did it”, you murmur and react within seconds. You swing yourself off the side of the cart and strap the knife into your belt. Then you open your arms. “Come on, jump.”

The little girl stands up and jumps into your arms. Once you have a good grip on her, you turn to run. You run as fast as you can.

The girl squeals and presses herself against you.

“Where is your house?”

“The river. It’s green. Let me down”, the girl cries, scared because of your running. 

People are starting to look angry. A dragonborn with a human – crying – child in her arms is definitely worthy of attention. 

“Shit.”

You dodge into a narrow alleyway and stop for just a second to set the girl down. 

She looks at you scared and frightened.

“I am sorry for running but I had to get away fast. Are you alright?”

She whips around and runs off crying. 

“Great. What a way to treat children”, you mumble and huff out air. You allow yourself to wallow in the embarrassment for one second and then force yourself to keep going. 

Fisstech. That’s where you are. You don’t know where exactly on the maps it is, but you know that the place he took you from lies east. The sun is setting behind you, which means that you are going the correct way. 

Good. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run as fast as you can. Run. This is your only chance. Run.

You dodge people, ignore their insults and complaints. You jump over chickens and small dogs, run through fenced yards and climb knee high obstacles. You can’t slow down. You can’t let anything or anyone stop you. This is your only chance. 

Run.

Run. Run. Run. 

You reach the river. A bridge not far from your left gives way to the other side. You take the road to it. 

Run. Run. 

Stop. 

The green house. A scene of violence plays out in front of it. 

A man, a sorry sight to look at, has the little girl pinned to the ground with his foot, yelling at her about running off unsupervised.

She is silent and frozen. 

In his spindly grasp, the mother’s throat lies. She is sobbing for both her daughter and herself.

“Leave her be! She is just a child! She is just a child!” 

“And she will learn to obey her father!”

He lifts his boot to ready himself for a kick to his daugther’s back. He will definitely break it, leave her crippled and paralyzed for the rest of her life. 

“Please!” the mother wails. 

“Mama!”

The man lowers his foot, but the impact never comes. He gurgles and coughs blood as a result of you ramming the butcher knife into his back. His body sinks to the ground. 

He wriggles pathetically and draws his last mortal breath.

The abuser is dead.

The mother screams in terror, jumping to her daughter instinctively to shield her from possible attacks. 

“Spare my daughter! Please I beg you, spare her! Take me instead of her!”

“I won’t hurt you, I promise”, you say and offer her your hand to take. 

She accepts it.

“He is not going to hurt you or your daughter anymore. He is gone.” 

“I thank-” she lifts her head and screams with terror so grand that it shakes you as well. Not even watching her husband die made her scream as horridly as the view of you does.

“Stay away! Stay away, you beast!” she screams and kicks, shielding her daughter from you.

“I am not going to hurt you.”

“Help us! Help! It killed him! It killed my Edmund!”

People turn and look.

“He was going to hurt the child.”

“The dragon scum killed my husband! And now she is going to steal my Edwina from me!”

“I was just trying to help! I swear!”

You are met with faces of hatred and murderous lust. And then you see him. The Hunter. Because you decided to help, he managed to catch up. He is fighting his way through the crowd. 

You drop the knife and turn to run. The bridge isn’t far anymore. Run! Run! Bloody run!

“Somebody stop her!”

Run! Run! Run!

“Stop her!”

People dodge you in confusion. Fate must be on your side.

“Stop her!” 

Run! 

A stranger sticks his leg out. You miss it and trip. Your fall is violent, leaving you disoriented afterwards.

Hands grab you moments later and drag you to your feet. Your eyes glance at the person who betrayed you. He doesn’t even look at you, continuing his way.

“What the fuck do you think you are doing?” the Hunter spits and grabs you by the nape of your neck painfully. 

“A-ah”, you whimper, stumbling as he pushes you back to the cart. You can’t cry yet. You are still too angry at yourself to grief. Why did you decide to help? Again. Why did you fucking help? 

The mop tries to stop him.

“The beast needs to hang, it killed one of us.”

“Give it to us and you won’t get any trouble from us.”

“Burn the bitch, burn her!”

The Hunter pulls you into his side, keeping you in a headlock. You fight him as best as possible, knowing that it was useless because even if you escaped, there are a hundred people ready to kill you.

“Give us the beast, give us.” 

“The beast is promised to the king. Shall I tell him that the people of Fisstech decided to take precious merchandise from him?”

The mop dissolves. They crawl away, bowing and hunching.

“Long live the king.”

“May the gods be with him.”

“May he live long and prosper.”

The Hunter continues, only to stop once again when the little girl tugs at his pants. She looks up at him and you, while her mother tries to pry her away.

“Don’t hurt my friend. She made papa go away. Now mama won’t have to cry anymore. Please don’t hurt my friend.”

“What?”

“You’re a bad man. Like papa. Don’t hurt my friend anymore.”

The Hunter genuinely looks baffled. In a sense he almost looks as if he has emotions and he currently feels deeply upset that a little girl thinks him to be a bad man.

“Edwina, get away from them”, her mother hisses and manages to drag her against her chest. 

The little girl looks at you one last time before she gets nuzzled into her mother’s chest. 

The Hunter blinks in confusion, shakes his head and recovers. He grabs your neck and pushes you.

“Walk.”

The tears finally start. Knowing that for just a fleeting moment in your lonely life you had a friend who was willing to stand up for you means everything to you. For just one breath, you had someone who saw you and decided that you were worth standing up for.

The comfort of the moment isn’t of long avail. He throws you onto the cart and pushes you down with such strength that you knock your head on the wood.

“Stay down”, he spits, “I spent two hours in this cursed herbalist for you. Two hours of my life wasted because I am trying to nurse you back to health and this is how you repay me?”

“You wouldn’t need to heal me, if you didn’t drug me.”

You fight him as best as you can, kicking and hitting around yourself. 

“Keep. Still.” He twists your arms to your back painfully, instantly rendering you useless. It hurts so much.

“You’re hurting me, please stop.”

“You should have thought about this before you decided to run away. You think you have seen awful? I have been nice up until this point, but this is going to change.” 

He flips you to your back, ignoring your groans of discomfort as the position squishes your tied up arms painfully.

“And you are fucking stupid too. You had freedom and yet you stopped to kill an innocent man. You dragon scum are all the same violent fools.”

“He wasn’t innocent! He hurt his family. If I didn’t kill him, he would have broken the little girl’s spine. I stopped because an innocent girl needed help! He was the monster, not me!”

The Hunter falters. For just a second. Until he catches himself again and finishes the knot around your legs. 

He pulls out a cloth next.

“No, please. Please don’t do this again. It feels awful to be drugged, please don’t hurt me.”

“Don’t think that I wouldn’t want to silence you again this way, but if I damaged you, the king wouldn’t pay me.”

“Please just let me go, please. All I want is to live! Please, I want to live!”

“Shut up”, the Hunter hisses and stuffs the cloth into your mouth. He ties another around your lower face, keeping you gagged like this.

He meets your teary eyes. Fear, sadness and a flicker of hope look back at him. And for just a second, he thinks to himself how terribly human your eyes actually looked. 

He bites his tongue and forces himself to look away. What a stupid thing to think. Dragonborns are monsters, there is nothing human about them.

He climbs to the front of the cart and takes the reins. With a click of his tongue, the horse trots on.

The sun has set when you reach the next village. The people followed the cart with their eyes as it passed them. They looked curious about the Hunter but hateful against you. Except for a group of three men who seemed interested in you. Way too interested. They thankfully disappear into the crowd as quickly as they appeared.

The tavern is at the east end of the village. A dwarf of impressive stature welcomes you and the Hunter. 

“Good Hunter, welcome. I see that your journey has been successful”, she says and looks at you. Her brows knit together. “A person?” 

You cling onto this word like an addict clings to their drug. A person. You are a person in her eyes. You crawl to the edge of the cart, begging her for help with grunts and mewls. 

The dwarf looks at the Hunter grimly. She crosses her arms in front of her chest.

“Why is there a person tied up and gagged on your cart?” 

The Hunter jumps off the cart and begins loosening the ties on his horse. 

“It’s not a person, it’s a dragonborn and it killed a person.”

“She seems like a person to me.” 

“Didn’t you hear me? Person or not, it killed someone”, he hisses, “now make yourself useful and get a room ready”, he spits and throws her a bag of gold coins.

The dwarf opens it. Her eyes widen. She closes it and lets it disappear in the front of her dress.

“Very well, good Sir. The finest rooms for you and your prisoner.”

“She, it, sleeps in the stables.”

“As you wish, good Sir”, she says and hurries inside. 

You sink into yourself in heartbreak. Greed took her from you. Coin was more important to her than you.

The Hunter returns after guiding his horse to one of the empty stables. He meets your eyes.

“Go on. Jump off.”

You follow with a wobble because your arms are tied. He waits for you by the end of the cart to make sure that you don’t run.

“Walk.”

He pushes you to the stable where his horse stands.

“Sit.”

He pushes you down against your will. You fall rather violently, grunting in discomfort. You glare at him as he kneels down and begins tying your hands to the stable pole.

“Glare all you want. You brought this on yourself.”

He really tightens the knot then finally meets your eyes. Hatred at first. Time passes. Doubt. Just a flicker of it. Yet it seems strong enough that it forces his hands to reach for your gag and pull it down.

You instantly cough out the ball of cloth, groaning in discomfort. The corners of your lips are so sore and your mouth feels like sand.

“Water, please.”

“You lost your water privileges when you ran away.”

“Please”, you choke out with sad, broken eyes.

There it is again. That humanity. The Hunter doesn’t know how to handle it because normally dragonborns don’t get a chance to look into his eyes. Or talk to him. He kills them before they can. You are the first he actually has to spend time with. 

“Please.” 

The words of the little girl suddenly come back to haunt him. He is a bad man. He is a bad, bad man. He can see her little, angry face as the words repeat themselves. 

Heart heavy with sudden guilt, he gives in. He pulls his waterskin free and opens it. You meet it in the middle greedily, opening your mouth and sticking your tongue out. You close it around the opening almost sloppily and begin sucking on it vigorously. The Hunter bites down his own disgust at the fact that a dragonborn has his waterskin in her, its, mouth. He might need to buy a new one.

You actually drink it dry, falling back in relief afterwards. Your eyes close, you gasp for air as the feeling of hydration runs through your veins.

“Thank you”, you whisper, rolling your head to the side.

The Hunter grinds his teeth. He can’t look away. His head hurts because his brain can’t comprehend what is happening before his eyes. 

A question plagues him. It is unbearable. He needs to ask it.

“What did you mean with he wasn’t innocent?”

“What?” you open your eyes.

The Hunter can’t bear that you initiate connection and yet he can’t look away.

“You said that you killed him because he hurt his family. How would you know?”

“The girl helped me escape. You know how children are, they talk without thinking. She told me that her father hurts her mother.” 

“Children don’t understand adult relationships yet. Maybe she saw them fuck and thought it to be violence.”

“I watched a grown man pin a little girl down on the ground with his foot and choke his crying wife. I watched him lift his boot to kick the fragile, small back of a child while her mother begged him not to. I was part of the scene of violence. I was there! I have never killed anyone before!”

“He was your first kill?” 

“Yes! And I would do it again if it meant that he can’t hurt people anymore!”

The Hunter has nothing to say to that. He looks to the side. You get the feeling that you won. 

“I’ll bring you the tea later. Perhaps I will bring you food scraps as well”, he says and turns, leaving you tied up and helpless in the stable. 

You wait for a while to make certain that he is truly gone. Once you are assured that it will take a while for him to come back, you begin your escape. 

He sees this as a punishment, you see it as your only chance. You are alone and unguarded. This is the perfect opportunity. 

There are no tools or sharp objects around you, so you will have to use your strength. It is currently barely existent because you are so hungry, but it will have to make do. You tug on the rope with what little strength you have. It doesn’t budge.

New plan. 

You grab the rope on two parts and tense it. You rub the tensed part against the corner of the pole, hoping that you will weaken it this way and it can rip easier.

It seems to work. Slowly, but surely small particles of the rope fall off.

“That’s it. That’s it. Come on.”

You have already worked up quite a sweat and made progress on the rope when his horse begins to snort repeatedly. 

“Hush, don’t betray me.”

His horse shifts from one foot to the other nervously, snorting louder. You look up at it, hands still working hard.

“What’s the matter, Calla?” 

The horse neighs softly, nodding her head up and down quickly. She seems anxious. 

You look to your other side and freeze. The three men of the crowd. They found you.

“Would you look at that? We actually found the beast”, the first says, ogling you hungrily.

“Looks like it’s tied up”, the seconds says, licking his lips.

“That’s good. Means we don’t have to hold it down”, the third says.

“Please don’t hurt me”, you beg, trembling in fear. You try so, so hard to rip the rope but it is fruitless. You cannot escape. You are alone and it will end in pain.

“Who’s going first?” 

“I want. You went first with the last one.”

“You always go first. I wanna go first tonight.”

“Fine, you go first.” 

The third inches closer.

“Help! Somebody help!” you scream, knowing that you won’t get help. You never do. You are alone.

“It’s noisy.”

“Yeah, I like it. Makes it more fun.”

The third pulls his pants down and kneels. He grabs your ankles and pulls. You fall to your back, getting dragged over the dirt. 

The Hunter’s horse neighs loudly, kicking its legs. It is too far away to hit the man.

“Ah! No! Please stop! Stop! Please stop!”

“Fucking dragon whore, I’ll show ya what it means to scream.” 

He is touching himself. You don’t want to look but still do. It looks so….dangerous.

“Help! Please help! Help!” 

Another tug. He tries to pull your dress up, you fight him as best as possible, giving him a hard time. All while you are still trying to tear the rope.

“Stop! No! Stop! Don’t touch me! Stop!”

“Quit kicking, you ugly beast”, he spits and slides his hand inside your dress.

“No!”

Shattering of a jug. Singing of metal. Two wet slices followed by two heavy thumps. Next a sword appears through the sternum of your attacker. His blood and insides spill all over your face.

You scream in horror. 

The attacker gasps for air, convulses, dies. The sword disappears and the corpse gets thrown back. 

You…are saved. Somebody saved you.

You finally look up at them.

“You?” 

The Hunter kneels down and puts your face between his hands. He wipes the blood from your skin, helping you sit up this way.

“Are you alright? Did they touch you? Was I too late?” 

“N-no. They wanted to start, they- Oh go-gods, oh”, you stutter, trembling and looking around aimlessly. 

He gives your eyes focus by holding your face a little tighter.

“They’re dead. They can’t hurt you anymore, I promise.”

You meet his eyes because his behaviour confuses you. His face is covered in blood and his brows are furrowed deeply and yet deep down he seems genuinely worried.

“Th-they want-wanted, wanted-”

“They can’t anymore. Calm down now, you’re safe”, he says and opens the knot around the post. “Can you stand up?”

“Yes, I think.”

“Good. Come on”, he says, helping you to your feet. He even does the unbelievable thing of fixing your skirt. 

You let him because you are too shaken to register it. He slaughtered them. Two of them lost their heads, the third lies in the farthest corner of the stables after being thrown. They are truly dead. They wanted to hurt you and he saved you.

“There we go, all proper”, he says and holds you by the rope between your wrists, “let’s go, we need to leave. Help me with Calla.”

“Where are we going?”

“The next town. People are going to find the bodies soon. We will drive all night.”

“I don’t know, Big-something. Big…Hit? BigPunch? I forwarded it to you.”

You froze. Your heart stuttered. “BigHit? Are you serious?”

Lea made a confused noise. “Yeah, is that a big deal? I just thought it was, like, a local talent agency or something. They didn’t say much. You okay? You sound like you’re gonna combust.” You didn’t answer right away because your brain was rebooting.

“They’re—Lea, they manage BTS. Like, the BTS. Global. World tour. Grammy-stage BTS.”

There was a pause on her end. “...Oh. Uh. Is that the one with the guy who did a thing with Charlie Puth? Or is that the ramen guy?” You laughed, a choked, borderline hysterical sound. “Yes. No. Sort of. I’ll check the email. Just—thank you.”

“Anytime,” she replied, bemused. “I guess let me know if the ramen guy’s showing up.” You hung up with shaking hands and sprinted for your laptop, yanking it open so fast the battery nearly popped out.

And there it was.

FROM: [email protected] SUBJECT: Collaboration Inquiry – Upcoming LARP Project

You stared at it for a solid minute, blinking hard, rereading the signature and domain. You even copied the email into a group chat with your seven friends titled “Project Zombie Apocalypse 202X” with the caption:

"Tell me I’m hallucinating."

You didn’t.

Over the next few weeks, the back-and-forth with BigHit solidified something real and turned into a full-blown project folder on your desktop—contracts, security forms, scheduling proposals, and endless discussions about what was feasible and what wasn’t.

They were interested in sending one of their groups for a LARP experience to include in their “challenge vlog” series. They loved your concept: four days in a remote woodland complex turned survival horror sim, where around 250 participants would play out a fictional zombie outbreak in real-time. Minimum power except for medical posts and staff centers. No phone service. Just radios, bloodied props, a kitchen, and pure adrenaline.

At first, your team didn’t take it seriously.

“Some Korean band wants to vlog here?” Pia had said during your first group Zoom call. “Okay, sure. Do they know our kitchen runs on two electric hot plates and prayers?”

“They know,” you sighed, rubbing your temple. “I told them in the first reply. I made it very clear that we’re... rustic.”

“They probably think we’re some scenic wilderness experience,” Erik muttered. “Wait ‘til they see our ‘bedding options.’”

“It’s not just some band,” you shot back. “It’s BigHit. That’s... that’s massive. This is actual, career-changing visibility. Even if they send a small or new band.” That caught everyone’s attention, but the tone shifted from surprise to skepticism quickly.

“Okay, but do we want that kind of visibility?” Lea asked. “We built this to be immersive, chaotic fun. Not something where we have to worry about stepping on a celebrity’s shoe.”

“It would mean a lot more work,” Pia added cautiously. “Like...a lot. Extra infrastructure, coordination, liability coverage. Probably hiring more crew down the line. And taxes—Jesus, we’ll have to register it differently. No more fun hobby exemption. We’ll need to go full business mode.” You felt a cold knot in your gut. She wasn’t wrong.

“But it also means we could finally get paid properly,” you said, more softly now. “Like... not just break even. We could maybe even fund the next LARP without crowdfunding. Or get better props. Maybe even hire full-time help. This could be our way out of ‘barely-making-it.’” That silenced them. For a moment.

“Only if we survive it first,” Erik muttered. “And if it doesn’t kill the vibe.”

In the end it was decided, you would give it a try.

You found yourself writing emails late into the night, negotiating with BigHit’s reps while triple-checking your spreadsheets for costs. At one point, you were balancing on a stepladder fixing a hanging light while on the phone with your accountant friend, trying to figure out how to legally declare sudden international income.

BigHit wanted privacy, but also good footage. They wanted realism, but no actual injuries. You had to promise fast response plans, prep multilingual safety briefings, and accommodate a small filming crew without giving the players any clue who was coming.

It was exhausting, overwhelming, and a logistical headache—but when BigHit confirmed the collaboration and wired the down payment, you stared at the numbers in your bank account for a full minute in shock.

This wasn’t just a cool opportunity. This could be the thing that made your dream sustainable.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

It was the day before the event—the day you’d circled in red on every planning calendar and spreadsheet. You and one of the BigHit staff had agreed: the band would arrive a full day early for privacy, filming, and a crash course in zombie apocalypse survival.

You were their primary contact for the duration. The only one on your team fluent in Korean and English, which meant every question, every request, every last-minute panic would come straight to you.

The old asylum grounds you rented every year sat deep in the woods, surrounded by rusted fences, gravel paths, and fog-thick silence. It looked exactly as eerie and perfect as ever—half horror movie set, half forgotten relic. Soon, over two hundred players would fight to survive a fictional outbreak here. The zombies (your tireless NSC crew) would sleep in a locked-off wing of the asylum, like always. The uppermost floor—off-limits to players—was reserved for the organizing staff. You’d already transformed it with air mattresses, fairy lights, warm blankets, and the half-desperate charm of veteran event runners.

Whoever BigHit sent would be staying there too. In the same room as you.

For privacy. And for emergencies. And not to interfere with the other Orga or the plot.

The Orga floor had its own bathrooms—tiny, ancient, and a little creepy—but it was better than the alternative: the heavily trafficked bathrooms down near the NSC quarters, split by gender but used by dozens. The kitchen was also down near the NSC zone, which meant any idol who wanted a snack might have to wade through latex-coated zombie crew at 2 a.m. That’s why you had your personal stash of snacks on hand.

You’d explained all of this to BigHit in a painfully detailed PDF. They had agreed. You still weren’t sure if they fully understood what they were walking into.

You had just finished breakfast—instant coffee and a lukewarm breakfast wrap—and were lounging outside in a creaky camping chair, soaking in your last hour of relative calm before the storm. Erik was beside you, sorting through printed liability waivers and contracts for the players arriving tomorrow to sign.

“I still don’t get why they want to film here,” he muttered, flipping a page. “Like, no offense to our haunted horror dreamscape, but... this isn’t luxury content.” You shrugged, sipping from your dented thermos. “Maybe they want something gritty. Or real. Or ironic. I dunno. Maybe they just like zombies.”

He smirked. “Sure. Maybe one of them has a secret undead kink.” You opened your mouth to sass him back—then stopped cold. Three sleek black SUVs rolled down the gravel path toward the asylum gates. Silent, shiny, and entirely out of place.

Erik raised a brow. “...Oh shit.”

You stood so fast your chair fell backward into the dirt. You swore your heart stopped. The first door opened. Jeon Jungkook stepped out of the first SUV like it was nothing. Like this was normal. Casual in black cargo pants, a harness vest, and a hoodie, he looked like he’d walked straight off a dystopian movie poster. His eyes flicked over the asylum grounds with quiet curiosity.

Behind him came Taehyung, laughing at something Jin said as he followed. Taehyung wore a long coat and combat boots like it was fashion week.

Yoongi had earbuds in, head down, expression unreadable. Jimin waved cheerfully, his hair fluffing in the breeze. Namjoon caught your eye and nodded—calm, respectful, already reading the vibe. And Hoseok, last out, stretched and turned his face toward the fog like he was trying to feel the mood in the air.

They were all here. All of BTS.

In your forest. At your LARP. At your chaos-riddled, mud-streaked, budget-scraping zombie survival event.

Erik leaned closer, whispering, “So uh… I guess it’s not the ramen guy after all.” You couldn’t answer. Your brain had short-circuited.

And the real chaos hadn’t even started yet.

You took a deep breath, forced your legs to move, and tried your best to walk over professionally, even though the inside of your chest felt like a popcorn machine of nerves. All seven members of BTS stood together, flanked by three guys from the filming crew—compact gear bags slung over shoulders, cameras padded in protective foam, one of them already eyeing angles like he was mapping a cinematic plan in real-time.

You greeted them in Korean, voice steady even as your palms sweated.

"Welcome to Outbreak Protocol. I’m Y/N, I’ll be your main contact before and during the event." Namjoon smiled, surprised but happy you spoke Korean, his voice warm. "We’ve heard a lot about the project. Sounds pretty intense." Jungkook’s eyes drifted past you to the rusted fences and fog-cloaked trees. "This place looks like a horror movie set."

You grinned like he’d handed you an Oscar. "Perfect. Because tomorrow, you’re all survivors."

You shifted into logistics mode before your brain could spiral. You pointed toward the makeshift parking area. "You can park over there. We’ve got the legal documents all ready—Erik will help you with those." The filming crew gave polite nods and peeled off toward the cars. Erik waved and waited near the porch, clipboard in hand.

You turned back to the members. "Would you like the grand tour first, or do you want to settle in upstairs and look around later?" The group exchanged glances, some rolling their shoulders to shake off travel fatigue. Jin was already shifting his backpack into a more comfortable position. Jungkook flexed one hand to crack his knuckles.

“We’ll drop our stuff off first,” Namjoon said. “But we’re definitely doing the tour after.” You nodded. “Follow me then.”

As you led the way toward the heavy front doors and up the creaking staircase, you caught a few quiet murmurs of interest from behind—Yoongi commenting on the paint-peeling walls, Jimin quietly admiring the fog that still clung to the edges of the broken windows.

A strange thump echoed from the lower hallway, something shifting in the NSC quarters. Probably a dropped bin or one of the staff testing props. Hoseok jumped. You couldn’t help your grin as you looked back. “First scare of the weekend goes to you, I guess.”

He laughed, embarrassed but entertained. “Is it always like this?”

“Sometimes it’s worse,” you teased. Just as you reached the upper floor, Lea passed by holding a coil of LED fairy lights and two rolls of duct tape under her arm. She paused, nodded politely to the group, then looked at you and held out a radio.

“For you,” she said. “Orga team check-ins start now.” You took the radio and clipped it to your belt, clicking the button twice before speaking: “Unit Sparkles to HQ. Guests incoming.” There was a long pause, then Erik’s voice crackled through, dramatic and low: “Copy that, Sparkles. Hostiles confirmed. Prepare for contact.”

Taehyung laughed aloud, almost tripping on the last step. “Wait—did you say Sparkles?” You looked over your shoulder with a wink. “I did.”

“Is that your code name?”

“It is.”

“Why?”

You grinned wider. “Just because.”

Taehyung snorted. “That’s not a reason.”

“That’s exactly the point.” He grinned at you like you were a riddle he wanted to solve. You opened the door to the upper dorm hallway, leading them past the first room on the left. “This one here,” you said, pausing with your hand on the frame, “is the organizers-only room. Our private space, mostly for sensitive documents, extra gear, and collapsing in secret when the caffeine wears off.”

You continued walking and stopped at the next room, opening it fully this time. “This one,” you gestured them in, “is where you’ll stay. It’s a shared space. Sorry, no luxury suites here.” Inside, air mattresses had already been inflated and neatly spaced out. Each was made with sleeping bags, throw blankets, and a small labeled bag of towels and toiletries. Fairy lights flickered lazily along the upper edge of the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of mint tea, dust and fresh laundry.

“We had to compromise,” you explained. “This room has somewhat heating, and it’s closer to the emergency exit in case of… well, any kind of problem. Plus, it’s more private than the downstairs dorms. The bathroom’s through there—shared, though. Welcome to the apocalypse.” Jin raised an eyebrow, inspecting the setup. “Charming.”

“I did warn your manager about the rustic conditions,” you said with a small shrug. “It’s better than some green rooms we’ve had,” Yoongi mumbled, setting down his backpack. Namjoon gave you a grateful nod. “This’ll do. Thanks for being upfront about everything.”

You returned the nod with a smile, then turned to gesture down the hallway. “This floor is the staff area. Off-limits to players, which means you’ll have some privacy here when needed. Once the game starts, though—”

You turned back toward them, your smile shifting into something more mischievous.

“—you’re all survivors. No exceptions. Survivors can’t come up here—not even to sleep. You’ll have to make do with what you find out there and work with other players to get a place to rest. And trust me,” your voice dropped to a playful threat, “I run the NSC , the zombie side of the event. I make sure survivors get very little sleep.”

Taehyung looked half-terrified, half-thrilled. Jungkook grinned like someone had just challenged him to a fight. Yoongi raised a hand immediately. “Can I just be a zombie from the start and skip the sleep deprivation part?”

You laughed. “Yes, absolutely. You can request to switch roles if you want. It’s a game—not actual torture. If anyone gets too exhausted, just tell me. You can and should rest. This is meant to be immersive fun, not military training.” He nodded in approval, clearly filing away that option.

As they set their bags down, Jimin drifted toward one of the mattresses—clean, thick blankets folded neatly, some big fluffy pillows, a water bottle placed in the middle like a hotel mint. It looked more like an actual bed. He tilted his head and asked: “Who gets the fancy bed?”

You followed his gaze and smirked. “That one’s mine.” A beat. Then a chorus of mock groans followed. “Of course it is,” Jin muttered. “I respect the flex,” Jungkook said, dropping his bag onto the floor next to a less-decorated mattress.

But then something in the air shifted—a glance shared between a few of them. Some of the members looked uncertain, shifting slightly in place. Hoseok scratched the back of his neck. Taehyung was unusually quiet. Finally, it was Yoongi who broke the silence. “Wait, so… we’re all sleeping in here with you?”

You blinked, nodding. “Yeah. Didn’t they tell you? This was the agreement with your staff—one room for all of you and me, so I’m close in case of an emergency and you don’t have to look for me. This is the safest and most direct setup.”

Namjoon cleared his throat, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. “Right. They did tell us that. We just didn’t know about you and logistics, exactly…”

You tilted your head, eyebrows drawing together in genuine confusion. “What about me and logistics?” There was a beat of silence. Namjoon sighed and rubbed at his temple. “This might sound awkward, but… you know, sleeping in the same room. You are a woman and might be in, uh, sleeping clothes. Or… yeah.”

You blinked. Jungkook suddenly found the floor intensely interesting. His ears flushed red. You stared for a second longer, and then laughed—just once, not mocking, but surprised. “Oh. I mean—sure. I get it. Thanks for saying something.”

Then your tone shifted into something firmer but still friendly. You looked at each of them in turn. “This could turn into a cultural, or language misfire so bear with me I will be direct... Let me ask you this: do any of you intend to do anything to me—without my consent?” The effect was instant. A few of them looked scandalized. Jimin’s eyes widened like a deer in headlights. Hoseok choked on a breath. Jungkook’s ears turned even redder.

Namjoon stepped forward, hands raised slightly. “No. Absolutely not. Never.” You nodded once, satisfied. “Then, I don’t see a problem. I’m not here to be uncomfortable—I’m here to make sure this whole thing doesn’t fall apart. And at night it can get really cold. So no way for short shorts. I’ll probably pass out in leggings and a hoodie, and you’ll be too tired to care.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, and then Yoongi let out a single low chuckle. “That… actually makes me feel better.”

“Same,” Jin muttered. “I don’t think I’ve ever been called out so politely and so brutally in the same sentence.”

You grinned. “Good. Now that that’s settled—pick your mattress. Tomorrow, you're all getting hunted by the undead.” Jungkook finally looked up, still red around the ears, but with the corner of his mouth twitching into a reluctant smile.

Taehyung slung his bag onto the far corner mattress. “I want the spot closest to the door in case I have to run from you.” You gasped in mock offense, hand to your chest. “Run from me? Please, I’m the safest person here—unless you insult my campfire coffee. Then it’s over for you.” Taehyung grinned wide, eyes crinkling. “Noted. No coffee jokes.”

“Exactly,” you said with a wink. “Respect the bean or face the consequences.” The others chuckled, and you caught a flicker of movement from the corner of your eye. Jungkook, who had just set his bag   on a mattress near the edge of the room, paused. His gaze flicked from Taehyung to you—lingering for half a beat longer than necessary. Without a word, he picked his bag back up, walked past a few other mattresses, and set it down on the one right next to yours.

You noticed—of course you did—but didn’t say anything. You just glanced down at where he was now crouched, adjusting the pillow like it needed perfect alignment. “Strategic placement?” you asked lightly, not looking directly at him.

Jungkook glanced up through his lashes, a crooked smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Just figured I’d want to be near the person who controls the zombie apocalypse.”

“Oh, smart,” you replied, lips twitching into a sly grin. “Stick close to the Game Master. That’s either genius or cheating.” He looked like he might respond, but Jimin threw himself backward onto his chosen mattress with a groan, breaking the moment.

Taehyung leaned toward you and whispered loud enough for only the closest to hear, “I still think you’re secretly a final boss.” You gave him a dangerous smile. “You’re not ready for my final form.” Jungkook coughed—just once—and looked back down at his bag like it had suddenly become fascinating.

You raised your walkie again, clicking it twice. “Unit Sparkles to HQ. Base camp secured. Survivors setting up now.” Erik’s voice crackled through after a second. “HQ copies. Keep ‘em alive, Sparkles.”

“Can’t promise that,” you muttered, already mentally ticking off the next steps on your checklist.

“Why Sparkles again?” Taehyung asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. You winked. “Because it makes people underestimate me.” He laughed, shaking his head. “Noted.”

You smiled at them all as you backed toward the door. “Once you’re settled, come find me downstairs. We’ll start the tour, walk through the storyline, and then go over the filming schedule. If you have time, I’d like to give you a short survival orientation too.”

Jungkook perked up. “Like… a zombie boot camp?” You smirked, a mischievous gleam in your eyes. “Exactly. Think of it as your apocalypse training montage.”

His mouth parted like he was about to say something else, but just then, the walkie crackled at your hip. “Sparkles, this is HQ. Got a delivery truck trying to get through the west gate—paperwork’s a mess.” You sighed and clicked your radio. “On it.”

Turning back to the room, you gave the guys a quick wave. “Duty calls. I’ll see you all in a bit.” With that, you slipped out the door, your boots soft against the scuffed linoleum.

Jungkook watched you go, his brow furrowed slightly. You were cool. Open. Friendly in a way that wasn’t fake or overly impressed. You didn’t act like they were some otherworldly beings descended from the sky. You were just… normal. Confident. You had a job to do, a passion you clearly lived and breathed—and somehow, you still kept it together even when seven global superstars walked out of three SUVs.

And now you were gone before he got to ask what role you usually played. Or how long you’d been running events. Or what made you pick zombies of all things. He frowned at the floor. How had Taehyung managed to flirt so much with you already?

His grumbling thoughts were cut off when Hobi dramatically fell backward onto a mattress and groaned, face squishing into the pillow.

“Ugh. I’m already regretting this. You know they’re gonna put me through hell tomorrow.” Yoongi, setting his phone to charge beside his mattress, didn’t even look up. “You can die early and join the dark side. I plan to. I already feel like a corpse.”

“Can I be a fast zombie?” Taehyung asked. “I want to be dramatic.”

“You are always dramatic,” Jin replied, tossing him a rolled-up blanket. Namjoon glanced around at the mattresses and raised an eyebrow at Jungkook. “You moved your stuff?”

Jungkook didn’t answer right away, just mumbled something about lighting and space. Not about the way you’d smiled at Taehyung, or how you’d winked during that “respect the bean” comment. Jimin sprawled across two mattresses and groaned, “I’m not ready to fight for food in the woods.”

“Don’t worry,” Namjoon replied dryly. “If we lose you, I’ll eat your snacks first.” The room filled with laughter as the group continued settling in. They unpacked bags, laid out blankets, and immediately began comparing the modest comforts of their temporary setup to your very clearly upgraded, fairy-light-lit corner of the room.

“Yo,” Jimin said, poking Jungkook’s side. “She really has the best bed.”

“I saw,” Jungkook murmured, glancing again at the door you’d disappeared through.

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When they came back down to find you, they didn’t expect the sight they walked into. You were hunched forward, arms wrapped around one side of a massive wooden euro pallet—one of three—that you and Erik were hauling toward the large toolshed near the edge of the gravel lot. From the looks of it, you weren’t on your first trip and dangerously close to snapping your spine in half.

“Wait—are they lifting pallets?” Jin blinked.

“Damn,” Taehyung murmured. “She’s gonna pop something.” Before you could straighten or even notice them fully, Jungkook was already moving. He practically jogged ahead of the group, brushing past Jimin, who huffed, “There he goes.”

You saw motion and started, “It’s fine, I—”

But it was too late. Jungkook was already there, nudging you gently out of the way with the side of his shoulder, his brows furrowed in focus. He slipped in opposite Erik, bent down, and lifted the side you’d been hauling with practiced ease.

“Where to?” he asked. You blinked, slightly thrown off. “Uh—behind the shed. Along the wall. They’re barricade props.” Jungkook nodded without another word and followed Erik, muscles shifting under his sleeves, tattoos dancing as he hoisted the pallet like it weighed nothing.

“Helpful,” Jimin chuckled behind you, watching your expression. “He’s just bad at saying it out loud.”

“I noticed,” you said with a small smile, brushing your hair back from your face. “Thanks.” A few minutes later, Erik came back, Jungkook trailing behind him and brushing dirt off his hands. You made sure to stop him with a light tap to the arm.

“Hey,” you said, looking him in the eye. “Seriously—thanks. That was a lot.” He gave a small, sheepish grin. “It’s no problem.” And with that, you launched into what you’d promised earlier—the grand tour.

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You led them through the central facilities first, starting with the compact, camp-style kitchen.

“This is where the NSC—Non-Survivor Characters, but also the makeup team and staff—get food. Basic stuff. We’ll prep three times a day but no five-course meals, sorry.” You gave them a mock apologetic shrug. Jin raised a hand. “Will there be snacks?”

“No promises,” you teased.

The next stop was the makeup rooms, where several folding chairs, makeup kits, and prosthetic materials lined the walls. “Here’s where we zombify people. If you die in-game, you’ll come here, get turned, and be sent back out with directions. Sometimes as slow walkers, sometimes fast. Sometimes… something weirder.”

Jimin leaned in. “Something weirder?”

You just smiled. “You’ll see.”

Then came the outdoor terrain. You walked them past several adjacent cabins and storage sheds. “These are part of the playable zones. All of them are open unless marked otherwise. We have hidden clue points, some locked areas, and a couple jumpscares set up, but you’ll get used to it.”

You led them toward the forest edge, indicating with hand signals where the terrain began and ended. “The game area ends about five hundred meters that way. Beyond that? Too steep, too muddy, or just plain dangerous. Avoid it.” Yoongi eyed the tree line. “How will we know?”

“I’ll point it out tomorrow again before game start, but we’ve also put up orange tape and warning markers. You’ll know.” Back near the edge of the game field, you turned to face them all again and reached into your backpack. You pulled out a bright, eye-searing pink warning vest and held it up dramatically.

“This is your holy relic,” you said, grinning. “If you see me wearing this during the game, it means I’m in staff mode. You can approach me for help, questions, breaks, water, whatever. I’ll avoid interfering unless it’s an emergency. But my every word is law.”

“And if you’re not wearing it?” Namjoon asked. “Then I’m playing as a survivor or NSC. You’ll find me out there, somewhere, scrounging for food and dodging zombies like the rest of you. However—if you get uncomfortable or need out of a situation for any reason, say the phrase, ‘That has a nice sparkle to it.’ Or something similar.”

Taehyung snorted. “Seriously?”

“Dead serious,” you said. “It’s a safe phrase. The game can get intense. If I hear it or any other Orga for that matter, we’ll pull you from the scene immediately—no questions, no breaking character.”

“That’s actually smart,” Namjoon admitted.

Jungkook stepped in closer, curiosity in his voice. “So if you’re out there as a survivor… are you playing to win?” You raised an eyebrow at him, the corner of your mouth twitching. “You think there's winning at the literal end of the world?”

He blinked, taken off guard for a second, but you didn’t give him time to recover. You smiled—but didn’t tell him how you really liked to play the game. Instead, you slipped into a mock arrogance that fit too easily. “I’ll be scavenging, bartering… probably stealing. So stay alert.”

“I will,” Jungkook said, mouth curling in a slow grin. “Just don’t expect me to go easy on you.” You smirked, gaze flicking up and down him. “That goes both ways.” Taehyung slung an arm over Jungkook’s shoulder, all mischief. “She’s got bite, huh?”

You didn’t miss a beat, voice sweet but edged with a grin. “Some zombies every year actually do. But me?” You flashed your signature mocking smile. “I only bite if you ask nicely.”

Jungkook’s head turned toward you too fast—eyes narrowing with a spark of surprised amusement, like he didn’t know whether to laugh or lean in closer. Taehyung burst out cackling. Even Yoongi gave a low whistle under his breath.

Jungkook shook Taehyung’s arm off with a grumble and stepped just a touch closer to you, adjusting his hoodie like he needed something to do with his hands.

“So,” he asked, tone a bit lower, “what’s your tip for surviving the first night?” You tilted your head, studying him. For a moment, you actually thought about it. Then you answered, quietly but clearly, “Stay moving. And don’t just trust any survivor. If they kill you, they’ll loot your shit.” His brows furrowed slightly.

You added, “So yeah… best tip? Stay quiet. And stay off the main road.” Jungkook looked at you like he was filing away every word. “Noted,” he said softly.

After you had finished explaining how to fake fight and how “death” in the game would work—that the moment they "died," you'd pull them aside to explain how to play as a zombie and give them their undead assignment—they were all quiet for a second. Attentive. Processing.

Especially Jungkook. His gaze didn’t leave you. “And… you designed all this? The rules, the props, all of it?” You gave a small, casual shrug. “With my friends, yeah. A lot of long nights. A lot of coffee.” There was something about the way he looked at you that caught you off guard. Not the usual idol poker-face. He looked… impressed. And maybe a little something else—like he was trying to figure out you, not just the game.

“It’s… impressive,” Jungkook said, voice quieter than the others. “Kinda crazy. In a good way.” You opened your mouth, unsure whether to say thank you or make a joke—but all that came was a laugh, slightly flustered. You turned away before you could smile too obviously.

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Later that evening, the guys were off filming some of their vlog content—lots of running through the woods, fake dramatic reactions, and over-the-top “lost in the apocalypse” monologues. You gave them full freedom for the rest of the day to capture whatever material they wanted. You had work to do anyway: final checks on game mechanics, syncing walkie-talkie channels, triple-confirming the food schedule, and helping your team scatter props in the right zones.

You only got pulled in once—when Jin called over to you with a shout about “something moody.” Yoongi was standing next to him, holding up a camera and trying to catch the golden-hour light streaking between the trees. “Do you have something… cinematic?”

You pulled off your bag, unzipped one of the side pouches, and without missing a beat, produced a smoke grenade—sleek, matte black, like something out of a spy movie. Jin’s eyebrows hit his hairline. “Wait, what?”

Yoongi blinked. “You just have that in your bag?”  You gave a sweet smile. “Always keep one for emergencies.” Hoseok, already half-suspicious about the creepy makeup room earlier, took a cautious step back. “What kind of emergencies need smoke grenades?!” You didn’t answer—just gave him a devilish grin.

Jimin cracked up. “She’s totally evil.” Taehyung beamed, clearly delighted. “That’s exactly the vibe. I love it.” Jungkook didn’t laugh immediately—he was watching you again. But then a soft chuckle escaped him, and he looked down like he hadn’t meant to smile that wide. “Remind me to never piss you off.”

You shot him a wink. “Naw, too fun.”

He laughed properly then—low and surprised—and you had to turn back to your work fast before anyone saw the grin tugging at your lips.

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You had just come from the shower, wrapped up in your oversized hoodie—your LARP team’s logo printed proudly on the back—and a pair of leggings that still clung to you with faint humidity. Your hair was damp and pulled into a loose braid over one shoulder, a quiet testimony to how fast you’d gotten ready after a long day.

You found an empty camping chair near the bonfire and immediately sank into it, curling around a warm mug of tea or maybe mulled juice—whatever had been available. The scent of grilled vegetables, meat, and woodsmoke hung heavy in the air. Laughter bubbled from you as Pia leaned over to mutter something only meant for your ears, and you nearly choked on your drink in response.

Not far away, Jungkook emerged from the trees with the rest of the BTS members, the last golden slivers of twilight painting their silhouettes as they returned from filming. He spotted you immediately.

You looked different now. Not in a dramatic way—just… softer. Cozy. The sharp, efficient energy you’d carried during the tour and safety briefing had melted into something warm and content. It was the first time today he saw you truly at rest. You noticed them coming in and lifted your hand in greeting.

“Hey,” you called, voice already lazy with bonfire comfort. “Food’s self-serve. We grilled ahead for the evening. I made two kinds of pasta salad, Lea did her cucumber-dill thing, and Erik has clearly declared war on every sausage in the region.”

They laughed, and Namjoon gave a thankful little bow as he made his way toward the tables. “It smells amazing.”

“All the stuff we don’t finish gets put out again tomorrow,” you added. “So dig in. There’s no losing here.” Jungkook’s eyes wandered from the food to the little table you and your friends had arranged—organized chaos, a mix of homemade sides in mismatched containers and tin trays with foil. Without realizing it, he made a mental note: Try the pasta salad you made first.

The group spread out slowly—Yoongi asked where he could find drinks, Jin demanded more marshmallows with absolute seriousness, and Hoseok yelped dramatically when an owl hooted a bit too close for comfort. You were still translating here and there, weaving between your team and theirs with a natural ease, until eventually things just settled.

Jungkook ended up back near the fire, hoodie pulled over his head, paper plate in one hand as he lowered himself into the camping chair beside you.

For a while, neither of you spoke.

You weren’t trying to impress anyone. You just sat there, cheeks a little flushed from the heat, watching the fire flicker and crackle with the same quiet pleasure as everyone else. The shadows danced across your face. Jungkook looked at you, a bit longer than maybe he should’ve, and realized he didn’t want to interrupt the peace you were wrapped in.

But still, he found himself asking, “Tired?” You turned your head just slightly toward him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “So tired I forgot I’m tired. Does that make sense?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook said, mirroring your smile. “It does.” He took a bite of your pasta salad, his eyebrows rising in surprise. “This is really good.” You looked smug. “Lea and I spent an unreasonable amount of time arguing about whether we needed more garlic. The answer is always more garlic.”

Jungkook chuckled. “You should sell this stuff.”

“Oh, yeah,” you drawled playfully. “Just a side hustle while running full-scale zombie wars in the woods and having an adult job. Easy.”

“You don’t mind being out here for days?” he asked, voice low, pitched only for you. You turned your head toward him, and your smile was quiet, grounded. “I live for this. It’s exhausting, sure. But when the game starts? Everyone forgets it’s fake. And for four days… it’s just survival. Emotionally messy. Physically brutal. And unforgettable. If you let it happen.”

Jungkook studied your face for a moment—how the embers danced in your eyes, how certain you sounded. You weren’t just hosting a game. You were throwing people headfirst into a world you loved. He leaned in, just a little. “You ever thought about filming it like a movie? You’re already doing something cinematic.”

You blinked, surprised by the question, then smiled. His tone hadn’t been flippant. He really meant it. “Actually… yeah. We’ve talked about a YouTube channel. Mini-series, behind-the-scenes stuff. But we don’t have the gear. Or the time. Or a consistent enough crew.” You glanced at him with a tilt of your head. “You think people would actually watch?”

“I’d watch it,” Jungkook said without hesitation. His grin turned a little crooked. “I mean, if I survive the next four days.” That made you laugh, and the sound felt natural between you, easy. Warmer than the fire now burning low in the pit.

The longer you sat next to him, the stranger it felt that you hadn’t known him longer. There was an openness to him tonight—a curiosity, a genuine effort to understand your world, and it wasn’t performative. He hadn’t needed to ask those questions. He just wanted to.

The fire crackled again. Your friends and his were mingling in overlapping conversations now—language barriers half-forgotten in the mix of food and warmth. Your friends were joking around in rapid English while trying to coax Namjoon and Taehyung into playing some kind of night-tag game with glow sticks. Jimin was fully horizontal in a deck chair, whisper-singing spooky background music. Jin had given up and wrapped a blanket around himself like a burrito, muttering about zombie bites and indigestion.

You took another sip from your mug, and Jungkook watched as you closed your eyes for just a second, letting the night settle over your shoulders like a second hoodie. It was quiet, comfortable, unforced.

And Jungkook thought—not for the first time today—how unfair it was that Taehyung had gotten to flirt with you first.

One by one, people started trickling back to the sleeping quarters. Eventually, Erik started packing up the grill with sleepy movements, Pia tossed a blanket over her shoulders, and Hoseok finally declared he couldn’t feel his toes.

As you stood, knees crackling a bit from sitting so long, you stretched your arms above your head with a quiet groan. Jungkook’s eyes lingered, just for a second—like he couldn’t help watching your hoodie move higher—before he stood too, brushing stray bits of ash off his sleeves.

The rest of the members were already grumbling about the cold, groggy and slow-moving.

So they began retreating into the main house or their sleeping quarters. Jin flapped his arms dramatically. “Why does it feel like I’m sleeping in a refrigerator? Who builds houses out here with no insulation?”

“It’s historical,” you reminded him, biting back a grin as you grabbed your toiletry bag. “Be honored. You’re basically in a museum.” You turned in the low, amber-hued glow of the fairy lights strung loosely above the old rafters, their dim twinkle casting soft halos over the mattresses lined up like dominoes across the floor. Yours was nestled near the corner, extra blankets piled at the edge, and Jungkook’s mat had ended up right beside it—not close enough to touch, but closer than coincidence.

“Yeah, a museum of frostbite,” Jin shot back, wrapping his hoodie tighter. By the time you got to the bathroom, you found Jimin leaning against the doorframe. “Can I brush with you?” he asked, voice soft, already holding his toothbrush.

You nodded with a smile, and the two of you brushed side-by-side. Soon, Hoseok padded in to rinse his face and complain about the cold again. Jungkook came in last, hair still tousled from the hoodie, looking far too good for someone about to camp in a half-renovated asylum for the night.

Back in the sleeping area everyone was getting situated. The fairy lights making barely any light. Despite the portable heaters you had brought, it was still drafty. The floorboards creaked under your steps. The windows hissed with night wind.

“Okay, no, seriously,” Hoseok groaned from his nest of sleeping bag. “This is inhuman. Jin-hyung, I can feel my soul freezing. My kneecaps are shivering. Who brought us to the North Pole?!”

“I think I lost three toes already,” Jin added dramatically, clutching his hoodie like a shawl. “This is not what I signed up for. I’m not even a real actor and I don’t deserve this.”

“You’re not even outside,” Yoongi mumbled from under a blanket. “Doesn’t matter,” Jin whispered, haunted. “The cold found me.” Hoseok rolled closer to Jin like a dying Victorian noble. “Hyung. If I don’t make it through the night… tell my stylist I loved her.” Namjoon groaned loudly from the other side of the room. “Oh my god, Hyung, please. Just sleep!”

“Easy fix,” you said, sitting up and tightening your hoodie. “Just bunk with someone. Body heat solves most of it.” You meant it practically—your team had done this a dozen times. It was survival basics. But before the sentence even finished, Taehyung had already propped himself up with an eager glint in his eyes.

“Can I bunk with you?” he asked with a mischievous grin, already halfway toward your mat like a very cold puppy. You snorted, raising an eyebrow. “That wasn’t an invitation.” Before you could answer, Jungkook sat up from his corner with a sharp huff. “Yah—don’t just ask like that.”

Taehyung turned toward him slowly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “You wanna bunk with us, Jungkook? You keep her right side warm, I’ll be her left?” You lost it, full-on laughing now as Yoongi let out a long, tortured groan and flopped a pillow over his face. Namjoon was face-down in his blanket, shaking his head in exhausted disapproval.

Jungkook looked mortified. His ears flushed pink even in the low light. “It’s not—! I wasn’t—!” He cleared his throat hard. “It’s rude, that’s all. She’s the organizer. She needs space.” Your brows lifted, amusement all over your face. “Uh-huh.” Taehyung looked like he was biting his tongue just to stop himself from saying something even worse.

Jimin, bless  him, nudged Taehyung back toward the other side of the room. “Come on, Tae. You’re gonna get us kicked out. I’ll bunk with you. Stop flirting.” With a dramatic sigh, Taehyung accepted it, flopping down beside Jimin and stealing half his blanket. “But just know—I could have been the hottest option.”

Yoongi didn’t even open his eyes. “You radiate chaos, not heat.”, when Hoseok snuck under his blanket and just sighed like a man who had given up on peace. Jin wiggled his eyebrows at Namjoon, who just deadpanned: “Try it and I’m tossing you outside.”

You shook your head fondly, digging into your supplies. “Jin, I’ve got an extra blanket if you want one.”  He hesitated, shaking his head. “No, no, I’ll manage—”

“Really its fine,” already holding it out. He accepted it with a sheepish grin. “You’re sure you don’t need it?”

“I’ve still got two more and a sleeping bag. I’ll be fine.” You moved carefully through the half-dark, stepping around boots and duffel bags, a folded blanket in your arms for Jin. The wooden floor creaked beneath your socked feet, each step an exercise in balance over warped boards and chaos. You murmured something to Jin, who accepted the blanket like he’d been rescued from an arctic death, dramatically clutching it to his chest.

You turned back toward your mattress, navigating the familiar obstacles in reverse. As you made your way back to your spot. And then you caught your foot on the edge of someone's abandoned hoodie.

“Shit—!” You stumbled forward—arms flailing—and would’ve face-planted if it weren’t for a solid pair of hands catching you mid-fall. Warmth met you.

You blinked.

Jungkook.

He was already sitting up, half-covered in his sleeping bag, hoodie still up, his phone forgotten beside him. His hands had caught your arms instinctively, steady but not grabbing. You were kneeling awkwardly now, one hand on his chest, the other braced on the mattress behind him, close enough to feel his breath.

“You okay?” he asked, voice quiet with concern, eyes wide in the fairy-lit dark. Mortified didn’t even begin to cover it. “I—yeah—sorry,” you stammered, cheeks already burning. “Didn’t see where I—uh—my foot—hoodie—” He chuckled under his breath, one hand still lightly on your elbow. “It’s okay. You didn’t fall. Technically.”

Your eyes flicked up to his—too close, too pretty in this soft, sleepy light—and then down again, like maybe you could disappear straight into the floorboards if you just willed it hard enough.

From the dark, Jimin’s voice floated lazily through the room. “Everything good over there?”

“Yup!” you squeaked, trying to stand too fast and instead just half-falling sideways—straight into your sleeping bag with a flustered huff. There was a moment of silence before Jungkook chuckled again, softer this time. You could hear the shift of fabric as he laid back down beside you, his voice pitched low. “Smooth recovery.”

“Shut up,” you whispered through a grin, tugging the sleeping bag over your head in self-defense.

The fairy lights buzzed faintly above, and somewhere in the room Jin sighed contentedly into his new blanket like a satisfied burrito. But Jungkook stayed quiet beside you now, arms folded under his head, gaze occasionally drifting in your direction long after the rest had fallen asleep.

He couldn’t help the small smile that pulled at his lips.

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The house woke slowly. The soft creak of floors and the smell of coffee drifted through the old wooden frame as morning sunlight filtered in through mismatched curtains. Jin was the first to loudly complain that someone had stolen his blanket—which turned out to be Hoseok, who claimed it had “drifted onto his mat” during the night.

“You were snoring like a vacuum cleaner,” Hoseok groaned, head buried under a pillow, insisting he needed another hour. “It’s the least you owe me.”

“I don’t snore,” Jin declared with wounded dignity. Namjoon hummed dryly. “You do. Aggressively.” Laughter bubbled through the group, even as no one quite managed to leave the warmth of their sleeping bags. Jungkook was the last to sit up, hoodie still half covering his eyes, glancing once to his left—to where your mat lay empty. Already cold. You’d been up for hours.

The smell of instant coffee and toast lingered faintly in the air, and while the boys slowly filtered through breakfast—some filming themselves with still-sleepy voices—you and your team were already darting between bags of props, radio check-ins, and set dressing. You'd been radioing Pia about the entrance setup while giving Erik a checklist and stuffing a walkie into your jacket all before most of the group had even laced their boots.

“Do you even sleep?” Jungkook had asked, watching you with something like awe as he munched on toast with one hand and held his camera with the other. “After the apocalypse,” you’d joked without slowing down, already halfway through sorting a box of bloodied bandages and prop ID cards.

Around midmorning, it was time to head to the game zone.

The boys filmed their "arrival" separately, capturing the forest entrance and the handmade wooden signpost marked "ZONE 3 – MISSION: BLACKOUT" while Erik, now dressed in dusty cargo pants and boots, played the enthusiastic guide.

"Welcome to hell, gentlemen," Erik grinned in-character, flinging his arms wide. Jin burst out laughing immediately, and Yoongi muttered, “This already feels like a fever dream.” Meanwhile, you and your friends were spread across the clearing and bunker grounds, setting up props, panning out gear to the incoming LARPers, and checking walkie frequencies.

You pulled the boys aside just before the first players arrived.

“All right,” you said, already in your organizer vest and scarf. “Masks, caps, scarves—anything to obscure your faces. Just until everyone’s settled.”

“I feel like a secret agent,” Taehyung said as you handed him a half-face tactical mask.

“Good,” you smirked. “You’re not supposed to be famous here. You’re a dirty, starving survivor like the rest.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jin huffed dramatically. “I’m going to be the hottest starving man in the zone.”

“AH! And no selfies unless you’re dead,” you added with a teasing glance.

“That’s so specific,” Namjoon muttered.

“It’s been a problem before,” you grinned. “One guy literally tried to live-stream his own death scene. Kinda ruined the mood.” Still, they complied—caps tugged low, scarves around mouths, sunglasses here and there. They settled off to the side near a small outcrop of trees, watching the entry path as players trickled in.

Jungkook pulled his mask halfway over his face, watching you bounce from person to person, still radiating energy despite the chaos. Even beneath your scarf and with your walkie clipped to your belt, you looked in your element. Confident. Happy.

That’s when the first wave of survivors started to arrive.

Boots crunched gravel. Cars rolled in, gear piled high on roof racks. The first few survivors were new and wide-eyed, some shy, some filming themselves as they approached. But others came in loud, excited—familiar faces from past games. People spilled out in various levels of post-apocalyptic chic—some clearly new, blinking in wonder, others grinning with the casual swagger of veterans. Some even had also Go-Pros on them.

“Hey, look at them,” Jimin nudged Jungkook, nodding toward a group of heavily geared players striding in like Mad Max extras. “Wow,” Taehyung whispered. “Some of these people look like they live here.”

Then they saw you.

You were greeting people by name, hugging a few, clapping shoulders. One player—a tall, bearded man with a thick leather coat and a ridiculous foam axe strapped to his back—let out a joyful bellow.

“THERE SHE IS!” he boomed, arms already out. “My favorite corpse-wrangler!”

You turned just in time for him to lift you clean off the ground and spin you in a circle, your laughter ringing out across the lot. “Markus!” you wheezed, swatting at his shoulder as he set you down. “Warn me next time! My spine isn’t apocalypse-proof!”

“Missed you, boss,” he grinned. “Ready to get emotionally traumatized again?”

“Always.”

Jungkook’s jaw ticked. He was too slow to school his expression. Taehyung, still beside him, caught it instantly. “Ohhh?” Taehyung leaned closer with a smug grin. “What was that face, Jeon Jungkook?”

Before Jungkook could deny anything, another man approached you—this one younger, maybe late twenties, tall and lanky with buzzed hair dyed copper red. “Hey there, fluffball,” he grinned, eyes dragging down your body.

You gave him a polite smile but stepped slightly back, putting some space between you as you shook his hand instead of accepting the hug he clearly wanted. “Hi, Lukas.” He didn’t quite get the hint, his hand brushing along your back as if to pull you into a side hug, but you dipped forward just in time to greet someone else passing by.

“Excuse me! I’ve been looking for you!” you said loudly to a surprised but delighted player behind him. Lukas was left smiling awkwardly at your back. He was, one of the newer regulars, known for pushing boundaries and blaming it on “just being friendly.”

Jungkook had taken a step forward, body tense—but as you gracefully handled it, he forced himself to stop. Taehyung saw that too.

“...Someone’s jealous,” Tae sing-songed under his breath, elbowing Jungkook lightly in the ribs.  “Looked like ‘mildly jealous caveman’ to me,” Jimin added, peeking over his mask. “Shut up,” Jungkook muttered. Taehyung grinned. “You want to go spin her around too? Or just go hug her? I’m sure she wouldn’t mind—”

Jungkook snorted. “Shut up.”

Jimin held up both hands, laughing. “You’re so obvious, man. You’ve been watching her like she’s the main quest.”

“She is the organizer,” Jungkook grumbled, though his eyes followed you again as you helped someone fix their shoulder rig. “Of course I’m watching her.”

“Sure,” Taehyung said. “It’s definitely about the logistics. Not about how you almost exploded when the Mad Max McThighs got touchy.” Jungkook tugged his scarf higher up his face to hide the small, helpless smile. He’d never seen you laugh like that. Not while working, not while briefing them. It was unguarded. Effortless.

And somehow, he wanted to see it again.

Even if the guy spinning you around was the size of a refrigerator.

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By noon, the grounds were buzzing. The last car had pulled up, and nearly 200 players were now scattered around the staging area. Some stood in loose, eager groups, already forming alliances. Others sat quietly with water bottles, eyes scanning every detail like it might matter later.

You, already hoarse from shouting, clapped your hands to gather attention. "NPCs to the barn! Survivors over here—yeah, red scarves, come to Erik. Zombies, you're with me. Group A briefing starts now, Group B you're next."

As you walked backward through the chaos, still calling instructions, Jungkook spotted your pink vest and your megaphone clipped to your belt. It amazed him how you moved through the mess with such control. Like a general of the end times.

The members had already received their own briefing—thankfully in Korean, which made it easier to absorb the detailed rules and storyline. BigHit’s crew, mostly keeping a low profile, helped secure GoPros and test audio. They would run after the members and try to get as much footage as possible.

“You ready?” Jungkook asked, testing the strap of his fake holster as he caught up to Taehyung. Taehyung tilted his foam machete like it was a guitar. “Born ready. I’m emotionally prepared to die in the first ten minutes.” Jin snorted. “Please. I’m planning to survive and retire with a fake garden and fake dog.”

“Can we have fake ramen?” Jungkook asked, smirking. “Or do we have to scavenge that too?” Then, like a starter pistol, the airhorn blasted. A long, echoing blare that shattered the warm afternoon.

Everywhere, people moved.

Screams. Laughter. Stomping boots. Half the crowd surged toward the tree line, another half bolted for the barn. Some fell immediately into character, yelling things like, “Split up! Head north!” or “They’re coming from the creek!”

Jungkook was startled to see how real it felt.

He hadn’t expected the panic—the thrill. Despite the fake weapons, the rubber knives, and the painted faces, when a mass of snarling “zombies” came barreling out of the woods, the instinct was to run.

Even he flinched before catching himself.

The zombies were good. Dirty, growling, twitchy. You were leading the pack from behind—he recognized your pink vest, your voice barking direction to the others in character, but you were already gone again into the trees.

Only those with long-range weapons made a stand—firing their limited fake ammo with purpose, trying to buy time for others to flee. In the chaos they had already lost some of the members. Jin clutched a piece of bent cardboard like a broken riot shield. “Okay, okay, fallback, regroup, hide—what are we doing?”

“Hide,” Jungkook said immediately. “Barricade if we can.”

“Find ramen,” Taehyung added.

“You’re obsessed,” Jin said.

“I’m hungry, Hyung.”

Behind them, Erik—wearing a bright pink vest that read “MODERATOR”—raised two arms and made a dramatic “breaking” motion.

“That’s the signal!” Jungkook yelled. “Barricade’s compromised!” Players screamed, laughing as they fled in a dozen directions. Taehyung grabbed Jin’s arm and bolted toward a row of abandoned sheds, while Jungkook pushed the crew member following them behind a thick wooden post before diving for cover himself.

“Okay, now what?” Jin gasped, crouched behind a fallen sign. “We regroup,” Jungkook said, catching his breath. “Try to find Yoongi or Namjoon.”

“Or her,” Taehyung added, eyes twinkling even beneath his mask.

Jungkook pretended not to hear it. Still, his thoughts drifted back to you—your voice, you disappearing into the woods, your laughter from earlier. He hoped you were okay out there in the madness you’d helped create.

Though, something told him you were probably more than fine.

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The first day had been equal parts chaos and clever hiding. It was kind of a miracle that he, Jin, and Taehyung had stayed out of the early chaos—ducking behind barns, creeping through drainage ditches, hiding under an overturned canoe at one point while a group of howling zombies passed within arm’s reach. Some groups had immediately gone feral, fighting over water jugs or arguing about whose map was correct. Others just wandered, yelling for allies or screaming when someone leapt out of the bushes as a fake infected.

Jin’s idea had been simple: “Stick together, don’t get bitten, and avoid anything that sounds like foley work.”

Jungkook agreed. They didn’t run. They didn’t shout. They watched. Stuck to the edges. By the time the sun began to dip past the tree line, casting a soft violet glow over the LARP zone, they had only minor dirt smears and one near-miss.

“I never thought crawling through actual dirt would be part of this,” Jin muttered, wiping leaves from his face. Taehyung laughed, breathless. “We were born for this. We’re survivors, Hyung.” Jungkook had just grinned, heart thudding, feeling more alive than he had in weeks.

By the time the sun dipped below the tree line and the shadows turned long and gold, they were dirty, tired, and hungry—but they found them.

“Jimin-ah!” Taehyung called in a stage whisper. Jimin—who had been rifling through an overturned toolbox with Namjoon and two strangers—turned, eyes wide, then relaxed into a smile. “Hyung! You’re alive!”

“Holy crap,” Namjoon said with a breathless laugh. “You made it.” The reunion was short but sweet. The group Jimin and Namjoon had fallen in with—mostly guys in tattered cosplay and thrift-store camo—were initially suspicious of the newcomers.

Several of them were already carrying canvas satchels and worn-looking packs, with scavenged “rations” (pre-placed supplies from the orga) tied at their hips. A few were skeptical at first.

“Who the hell are the new guys?” a tall man with a buzzcut muttered.

“We’re clean,” Jin said with a flash of his ‘actor smile.’ “Untouched. Pure. Like rice at a wedding.”

“I hate that metaphor,” Taehyung whispered.

It took some convincing. Namjoon vouched for them—half in character, half with real charisma—and eventually, the group let them stay. The trek back to the safe zone was cautious, deliberate. No one shouted. No one ran. Even the leaves beneath their feet seemed to hush under the weight of tension.

Their new “base camp” turned out to be a miracle of DIY survivalist craft. And Jungkook was impressed. There were rotating shifts for keeping watch and a pile of ration cards being counted for their next food run. Spotlight had been placed and where working, casting bright cones of light around the camp's edge. A whiteboard on the wall labeled who was “on shift,” “scouting,” or “MIA.”

It felt like a real camp.

“Who built all this in six hours?” Jin asked, amazed as he folded onto an upturned crate near a lantern. “Apparently some of the veteran players just… knew what to do,” Jimin said, unwrapping a protein bar. “It was like instinct kicked in. With the things the Orga carried around yesterday.”

“I watched a guy build a water collection system from trash bags and a mop,” Namjoon added, shaking his head. “People are scary smart under pressure.”

“He wants to drink from it?” Jungkook looked shocked. But Namjoon shook his head, “Said the Orga would bring water if he builds it.”

“It’s crazy, So much for realism.” Taehyung muttered back.

 Jungkook sat near the barricade, fake rifle laid across his lap. He chewed a bite of cold ration bread and scanned the tree line, still charged with energy. They were just starting to relax—just starting to settle for the night—when the first growl came from the tree line.

It was subtle at first. A rustle of leaves. Then a shuffling footstep. Then a hiss.

Just two at first—figures staggering toward the barricade in the fading light, their shadows stretching long over the grass. The nearest watchman gave the alarm, and others scrambled into place. Flashlights switched on with shaky hands. Someone dropped a rubber axe.

“They’re coming!” a survivor called.

But the barricade held. More zombies emerged from the trees, groaning and clawing. Foam weapons swung, shouts echoed. One particularly committed zombie hurled himself at the gate with a blood-curdling screech that made even Jin yelp behind Jungkook.

“They’re good,” Jungkook muttered, eyes wide. “Too good,” Jimin whispered beside him, holding a battered flashlight like it might actually do something. Taehyung was grinning ear to ear. “I want to die dramatically. Let me jump from the roof.”

“No,” Jin said. “You’ll twist your ankle.”

“Then carry my corpse and avenge me.” Jungkook was laughing quietly, heart thudding.

Then—

From the woods. A flicker of movement. A splash of pink just barely visible beyond the tree line. His breath caught. There. A pink vest. It was you. Even in the low light, he knew. The confident way you moved, one hand raised in signal, clipboard tucked under your arm like a weapon. You watched the chaos unfold with a hand on your hip, head tilted.

Jungkook’s pulse jumped. He nudged Taehyung, whispering, “It’s her.”

“Huh?”

He pointed. “Pink vest.” Taehyung squinted, then smirked. “Your little crush?”

“Shut up.” But he couldn’t help the grin pulling at his lips. You were behind this. Orchestrating this wild, thrilling, immersive madness. He remembered what you’d said the night before: I run the NSC side of the event. I make sure survivors get very little sleep.

“What are you planning now?” he murmured to himself, eyes locked on your figure as you turned and melted into the woods again.

Whatever it was—you’d already hooked him.

And he had a feeling things were just getting started.

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The air had stilled for a moment. No more groans from the woods. No rustling leaves. The tension that had coiled tight for the last hour had begun to loosen. Jungkook leaned back against the cabin’s wooden siding, rifle balanced across his knees. “Maybe they’ve gone to harass another group,” Jin whispered to Jimin, who was starting to doze upright.

Namjoon was jotting something down on a paper map in the corner while Taehyung peered through a crack in the barricade with childlike fascination. Jin had found a reasonably clean blanket and was curled up with it like an idol with his stage towel.

Then—

Jungkook saw you again. His eyes caught movement near the tree line, just beyond the rough gravel road leading to the cabin. You stepped into view like some trick of the moonlight—vest still on, hoodie zipped to your chin, your silhouette unmistakable even in the dark.

He sat up straighter. No zombies around. Just you. Watching. His heart thudded in a mix of nerves and anticipation. Were you just checking in on them? Taking notes? Or—

Then your hand lifted. Tapped the button on your walkie. And you smiled. Right at him.

He couldn’t hear your voice, but your lips moved. He was sure you said, “Good luck… Now.”

A second later, the lights went out. With an audible click, the generator died. The spotlights illuminating the barricades flickered, then vanished. Instant pitch black—except for the sliver of moonlight painting the gravel and one flickering lantern down the street.

Jungkook’s stomach dropped.

“Shit,” he muttered, not even realizing he’d said it in English. “What?” Jimin hissed beside him, now fully awake.  “I saw her. Just now. She was smiling. That was not a friendly smile. Taehyung perked up. “A plot twist?” Jin groaned from under his blanket. “I hate plot twists.”

Then—

The moans began. Soft at first. Far off. But they built, swelling like a tide. Multiple voices. Low, rasping. Fast. Namjoon was already grabbing his weapon. “Positions!” People scrambled. Someone dropped their flashlight. Someone else screamed as a “guard” tripped over his own feet trying to get back into place.

Then Jungkook saw it. A flicker. A bounce of light. Something small fell a few feet before him on the ground, rolling toward him—right up to the edge of the barricade.

“What the—?”

PFFFFFTT—

A cloud of smoke exploded outward, thick and grey. “Oh come on—a smoke grenade?!” Jungkook backing up.

“Smoke!” a woman with a crossbow screamed, not missing a beat. “They use those for haunted houses. Totally safe.”

“Terrifying,” Jin muttered, waving a hand in front of his face. “I smell artificial doom.” The fog rolled over the makeshift barricade and down the path, mixing with the moonlight and giving the street a cinematic glow—soft yet eerie. Every silhouette looked ten times taller, their edges distorted by smoke and shifting shadows.

Then came the moans.

So many.

Zombies surged from the smoke like nightmares. They were louder now. Hungrier. Faster. Their makeup looked worse in the dark—more grotesque, more desperate. Foam weapons still in their hands, but they snarled and lunged and shrieked with a commitment that made Jungkook’s blood run cold.

“THEY LOOK POSSESSED,” Jin yelped as a pair slammed against the wooden fence.

“Shit,” someone whispered from the rear. “They’re using the smoke to cover a flank.” Jungkook grinned, adrenaline kicking in again. You were really going for it tonight. One “undead” scrambled over the barricade, wild-eyed, reaching for Jimin. Jimin screamed—then clocked the guy in the shoulder with a rubber hammer.

Taehyung had tears in his eyes—from laughing. “This is the best night of my life.” Jungkook couldn’t help it—he was terrified and thrilled. He felt like a kid again. A very armed kid with a fake rifle and a vendetta.

And then—figures appeared in the fog. Dozens. Some slow, arms dragging. Others twitching unnaturally, heads jerking with every step. Even though he knew it was fake, Jungkook's heart pounded. The lighting, the fog, the groans, the chaos—it was better than any horror game. You’d turned the entire woods into a living set.

He braced his foam knife tighter in one hand and his fake gun in the other. Beside him, a guy in a battered leather jacket grinned. “Whoever planned this is evil.” Jungkook beamed, eyes locked on the misty tree line. “Yeah,” he said under his breath, spotting a flash of pink from your vest in the shadows. “She really is.”

"Positions! Now!" someone barked—not one of Jungkook’s friends, but a woman near the barricade. She had a blue streak in her hair and a crossbow slung over her back. "Close-ranged to the front! Spotters up top!"

Players sprang into action. This wasn’t just cosplay—it was commitment. Everyone threw themselves into the game like it was real. A guy wearing a dirtied duster coat and fake blood smeared across his cheek grabbed an axe and stood shoulder to shoulder with Jungkook.

“You new?” the guy asked, breath fogging. “You three look fresh.”

Jungkook grinned, ducking as a zombie thumped against the boards. “First time.”

“Hell of a night to start. If we make it out, I’ll show you where we hide the real snacks. Not the ration boxes. The actual chocolate.”

Jungkook laughed. “Deal.”

Meanwhile, Jin had cornered himself behind a crate. “Does this look like a hero arc to you?” he snapped at a random player crawling beside him with a prop spear. “I am a bard. I sing. I complain. I don’t get eaten!”

“I don’t understand shit! You’re literally holding a hammer,” the other player said, crawling past him. “You’re doing great.” Taehyung, meanwhile, had somehow ended up in a roleplay conversation mid-battle with a grizzled survivor in a torn biker jacket and a toy pistol. “My name’s Snake,” the man said seriously. “I used to run with a group out east before the swarms came.”

Taehyung blinked. “Out east, like… Seoul?” The guy didn’t break character. “Used to be called that. Now it’s a graveyard.” Taehyung whispered to Jin, “This guy’s living his dream.”

“Yeah, and we’re living his fan fiction,” Jin muttered. The barricade groaned again—another wave.

Jimin dove forward with a group of other survivors to reinforce a gap, slamming a foam board across it just in time to hold back a zombie clawing through. Someone shouted, “We need more cover left side!” and Namjoon ran to help, organizing people like he was born to be a post-apocalyptic general.

One of the players, an older man with a scar drawn across his cheek and a “Medic” patch sewn on his jacket, muttered, “Something’s wrong.” Jungkook edged closer to the front again.

And then he saw it—you, darting across the tree line just long enough to be spotted. Just long enough for him to catch the wicked grin on your face. You disappeared into the trees again like a shadow, headset still pressed to your ear.

“She's still here,” Jungkook whispered, oddly proud. “Of course she is,” the chocolate-smuggling player muttered beside him. “We call her secretly the Puppetmaster. She only smiles like that when something real bad is about to happen.”

And then it did.

A guttural howl tore through the woods—different from the earlier zombie moans. Everyone froze. “What the hell was that?” Jin asked, eyes wide. “Boss zombie?” Jimin guessed, not sounding confident. Namjoon slowly rose from behind his makeshift command table. “Or worse.”

The front barricade shook again—but not from a horde. From something heavier. Then smoke again—this time from behind. Jungkook spun. “Back entrance!”

Several players rushed to the rear barricade as you unleashed the next chaos round. Amid the smoke, a dozen zombies swarmed from the woods—some moving faster than before. Their groans were louder, their makeup more grotesque, their eyes glowing faintly from the LEDs embedded in their masks.

You had leveled up.

“GUYS—THIS IS SO COOL,” Taehyung screamed as he dodged behind a barrel. Jin smacked a zombie's arm with his foam hammer, panic written across his face. “THIS IS A FORMAL COMPLAINT!” The players were laughing, yelling, swearing, acting—and Jungkook loved every second. The adrenaline, the immersion, the fact that you were the mastermind behind it all.

Then he caught a flash of pink again.

Your vest. You were darting through the shadows behind the zombies—counting, correcting, watching them as they attacked. Fully in control. He couldn’t help but grin. Then, your voice cut through the night commanding: “GAME STOP!”

The word was like a spell. Every player froze, weapons half-raised, breaths held in the chill dawn air. Only the few you signaled with a hand gesture moved, carefully shifting the faux-barricade aside to make the scene safe again. Jungkook blinked, heart still thudding. Even though he knew it was a game, the adrenaline refused to fade.

And then—there you were.

Stepping lightly over the uneven ground, in that same pink vest, headset snug against your cheek, clipboard in hand. You made your rounds like a stage manager inspecting the set after a complicated scene—checking faces, weapons, broken props.

When you passed Jungkook’s side of the barricade, you didn’t say anything. Just gave him a sly wink. He didn’t even try to hide his grin. Then, turning to face the cabin, you lifted your voice: “Ready?”

A few tired nods. Some thumbs up. You waited one extra beat… and then stepped aside with a flourish of your hand. “Continue.” The world shifted again—players jolting into motion as if time had resumed. As zombies now flooded the cabin.

He raised his fake gun, nodded to his new squad of random survivors, and shouted: “Let’s defend this place!” Someone cheered back, “For the chocolate stash!” “FOR SEOUL!” Snake added dramatically.

Jungkook aimed and fired a foam dart into the chest of a rushing zombie, adrenaline coursing through him like fire. He was in your world now.

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The attack had ended.

The aftermath was quiet, eerie. Six players had “died” during the horde, and one had been “bitten.” Jungkook watched as the bitten man and his friend played out a painfully convincing scene by the fire—whispers, pleading, an emotional goodbye, then a single dramatic “stab” to the chest with a foam knife. The bitten man fell back into the shadows, now part of the undead ranks.

Jungkook was impressed. He hadn’t expected people to feel this much playing pretend.

After that, the next few hours passed in relative quiet.

They re-secured the barricade—Jin helping hammer prop-boards into place while Jimin argued over who should take the next watch. Namjoon and Taehyung went through “scavenged” supplies, checking LARP rations, carefully labeled in duct-taped bags. The fake walkie-talkie system still worked, and the illusion of apocalypse held steady.

As the deep purple of night slowly melted into that strange, pale blue of early morning, Jungkook sat against the side of the shed, rubbing at his neck and breathing in the cold.

“I thought we were dead for sure,” Jin murmured next to him, legs stretched out. “I almost cried,” Jimin said dramatically, flopping down onto a sleeping mat. “I thought Tae got bitten.” Taehyung scoffed. “I was performing, thank you. Some of us have range.”

Namjoon sipped from a thermos of something that was definitely just instant coffee, but in this world felt like a potion of life. “Honestly, I’m surprised we made it through the night. That will give amazing footage.” Jungkook didn’t say anything at first.

He was looking past them—toward the tree line again, where the smoke had cleared and the trees looked just like trees again. He had seen you there, in the middle of it all. Smiling. Running the show. Creating chaos and keeping them all safe inside it.

And he’d felt… exhilarated. Not just because he’d survived. But because you’d made it feel real.

“You’re amazing,” he murmured without thinking. The others glanced at him. “Huh?” Jimin blinked. “Who’s amazing?” Jin teased, raising an eyebrow. “No one,” Jungkook said too quickly, but his ears were already red. Taehyung didn’t say a word, just smirked, bumping Jungkook’s knee with his own.

Jungkook looked up again, just as you appeared around the corner, talking into your headset with that same intense focus—head tilted, brows furrowed, clipboard under one arm.

Still working. Still organizing. Still making this world turn.

And somehow, even after staying up all night surviving fake zombies and crawling through fake smoke, Jungkook had never been more awake.

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You jogged across the field, half-laced boots kicking up dust in the early light. You had just gotten word from your comms team: one of the BTS members had officially “died” in-game.

Time to pick up the body.

The makeshift makeup atelier was full with people that wanted to turn into zombies, turn from reality into the ruined world your team had crafted. You expected someone tired, maybe a little dramatic. You did not expect Yoongi lying on a fold-out chair like a lazy vampire, arms crossed and hoodie pulled halfway over his head.

“Yo,” you greeted, brushing back your windswept hair. “Dead, or just felt like napping?” Yoongi cracked one eye open and gave you a smirk. “Bit of both. I figured I’m way better at being creepy than surviving.” You laughed. “Honestly, valid. Want a break first or should I track down the others for you?”

Yoongi sat up, hoodie slipping from his head. His eyes glittered, mischievous and strangely at peace with his new undead status. “Food. Nap. Then undead chaos.”

“Respect,” you said with a grin. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the kitchen. You good with whatever they’ve got, or should I threaten someone to find you a real croissant?”

Yoongi rolled his eyes but followed. “If there’s a real croissant, you’re legally required to bring it to me.” You held your hand over your heart. “Scout’s honor.”

The kitchen was one of the few non-immersive zones—filled with thermoses, cereal, toast, and bleary-eyed crew. You led Yoongi in, checked he had everything he needed (which, as expected, was basically a piece of toast, tea and a quiet seat), and leaned on the table.

“If you wanna hop back in after your nap,” you said, “just head to makeup. They’ll get you zombified. Walk-ins welcome.” Yoongi gave a lazy salute. “Enjoy the chaos.”

You smirked. “Oh, I will.”

As you stepped back outside, you pulled your vest off, checked your headset, and tapped your radio.

“Sparkles goes in to play,” you told everybody in the Orga channel.

The wind stirred your hair as you walked up the stairs to get into your survivor outfit. Somewhere out there, survivors were scavenging. Somewhere in the trees, barricades were being reinforced, stories played out.

And maybe—just maybe—Jungkook would spot you again.

You couldn’t help smiling at the thought.

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You had changed.

Gone was the confident, sharp-eyed game runner in a bright vest and headset. In her place, standing at the back entrance of the ruined asylum terrain, was a frail young woman—dirty, disheveled, a little wild in the eyes. Your cheeks were flushed as if you’d cried, and your hair was messily pulled back like it hadn’t been washed in days. You wore a torn oversized knit sweater that hung off one shoulder, stained and torn, and your jeans were fraying at the hems like you’d worn them through hell. A ratty scarf was wrapped around your wrist, and your hair was a tangled mess like you hadn’t had a brush or mirror in days. But it was the lifeless plastic baby doll swaddled in a stained cloth to your chest like it was your entire world that completed the look.

You looked haunted.

You were embodying the character you'd warned the staff about weeks before—the “young mother,” a deeply unhinged, petty chaos agent with one goal: survival. At everyone else’s expense.

The back entrance of the asylum was quiet now, but as you predicted, players had already started establishing a trade hub there. Makeshift tables held bartered goods—scraps of old food props, dummy ammunition, lighters, glowsticks, water bottles, a few hand-written “currency” notes. Some players stood guard, clearly skeptical of strangers, while others played smooth-talking scavengers or suspicious loners.

You blended in perfectly.

Your current mark was a man with a fake shotgun and far too much fake canned food to his name. You rocked the doll in your arms, sniffled, and gestured toward the woods as you explained in slow, stilted English that you were looking for your brother.

“I’m just… looking for my brother,” you said softly in a broken, unsure tone, gently rocking the baby doll in your arms. “He… he wanted to look for food…but… I think something happened…”

A weathered-looking survivor with a fake scar across his jaw nodded slowly. “You armed?”

You looked at him, eyes wide. “No. I—I’m not stupid, I had a knife, but I traded it. For formula.” You shook the baby slightly. “She… she was screaming. And people were starting to look. Please… he said he’d meet me here, if something happens. Please, I don’t want anything. I just… I don’t want to be alone.”

Your eyes glittered with wetness. The man softened, the way players do when they think they’re being heroes. “Stay close, alright? If you need anything—”

Jungkook, Taehyung, Snake (still inexplicably calling himself that), and Molly—crossbow-slinger extraordinaire—were making their way through the asylum’s crumbling courtyard. A day and a half in, they looked the part now: mud on their clothes, sweat-dampened shirts, fake bandages here and there. They had clearly made it through a night and a morning of scavenging, and judging by the pack Taehyung carried, they were doing well.

That’s when Taehyung spotted you from a distance.

He nudged Jungkook and hissed under his breath, “No way. Is that Y/N?”

Jungkook’s eyes locked on you—and froze. “She’s… acting, right?” Jungkook asked, but he was already moving toward you.

Gone was the confident, sharp-eyed you that Jungkook had seen commanding a smoke grenade like it was part of your DNA. Gone was the grinning puppet master who had thrown him and his friends into a zombie nightmare for the sheer love of chaos. Instead—standing under the gray, early-morning sky—you looked like someone lost.

You stood at the trading post near the old asylum ruins, speaking softly to a weathered player with fake dirt on his face and a rusted toy gun slung over his back. Your voice was shaking. So were your hands.

“Y/N?” he said uncertainly, a flicker of hope in his voice. You didn’t react. Of course not. That wasn’t your name right now.

So he tried again, stepping closer, more hesitant. “Hey… are you okay?”

Taehyung beat him to it, his Korean accent thick but clear. “Miss? Is everything okay?”

You turned toward them slowly. Your lip trembled. And the look you gave them… it was so raw it knocked the wind out of Jungkook’s chest. You looked at all of them like you didn’t know whether to run or cry. You glanced from Taehyung to Jungkook to the two strangers flanking them. You held the baby tighter to your chest. Your lip wobbling, and your voice came out small.

“I’m just… looking for my brother,” you said. “We—we said we’d meet here. I lost my knife. I traded it for formula. For her. Please, I don’t want anything. I just—I need help.”

You clutched the baby doll tighter and gave a little, heartbreaking smile. And Jungkook’s heart squeezed in a way that shocked him. He should know better. He did know better. This was a game. You were in character. You were one of the organizers. Hell, he’d seen you cut the power and signal a horde like a general commanding troops just last night. But right now…

Right now, all he could see was you looking scared, tired, alone—and goddammit, holding a baby. Even if it was a fake one. You looked down at the baby doll, brushing your thumb over its plastic cheek. “She’s been so quiet, but I think she’s hungry. I… I don’t know where else to go.”

Jungkook couldn’t breathe.

Your vulnerability wasn’t just convincing—it felt real. Too real. He knew it was stupid. He knew this was part of the game. But still, something primal and protective swelled in his chest. He wanted to shield you. Even from pretend danger. Even if you were one of the people causing it.

You looked up at them again with a shiver. “You’re not with the men from the train, right? They had—masks. And one had this axe…”

Molly gave a soft, reassuring nod. “We’re not with the train people. You can come with us, okay?” You nodded, eyes wide. “Thank you. Thank you so much.” Snake muttered under his breath, “If that baby starts crying tonight, I swear—”

“I’ll keep her quiet,” you said quickly, gripping the doll tighter. “She knows not to cry anymore.” Jungkook couldn’t take his eyes off you. His brain kept screaming it’s fake, it’s fake, it’s fake—but his heart wasn’t listening.

As the group turned and began to walk back toward their temporary outpost, you fell in step beside them, eyes alert but downcast. Jungkook moved quietly beside you, matching your pace. You didn’t look up, but you let your arm brush against his as if by accident. He glanced sideways—and for the briefest moment, your expression cracked just enough for him to see the smallest flicker of a smirk.

You knew. You knew exactly what you were doing. And god, it was working. Jungkook ran a hand through his hair and sighed through his nose, exasperated with himself.

He was so. fucking. doomed.

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It was crazy. Absolutely insane.

From the second Jungkook’s group took you in, everything changed. One of the trade vendors, a grizzled guy with a sheriff badge duct-taped to his chest, handed them two extra magazines of Nerf ammo “for the baby.” Another gave a can of pineapple, whispering with serious urgency, “Good for nursing moms.”

You nodded, clutching the doll like your life depended on it, eyes watery with gratitude. You didn’t overplay it. You didn’t need to. Back at their camp—a semicircle of barricades and scavenged supplies around the shed—chaos broke loose. You walked in and people lost their minds.

“She’s got a baby?” “She has a baby!” “Is she alone?” “Where’s the father?” “Was she pregnant during the outbreak?!”

People took it way to serious. But Jungkook kind of understood. The men swore to protect you. Loudly. With solemn nods and fist-to-chest pledges. Even the quieter ones suddenly sharpened their focus, ready to fend off zombie hordes at the sound of a rattle.

The women? They were instantly circling. One gently tugged your sleeve and whispered, “You should sleep, hon. Let someone else take care of the little one for a bit.” Another offered to heat water and try to sterilize a bottle. A third handed over a slightly-clean blanket, saying it would be softer for the baby.

Molly, tough-as-nails Molly with her battered crossbow and flinty eyes, was the most surprising of all. She stepped up, arms crossed. “You need to eat. Properly. Sit.” You blinked, nodding slowly. “Okay. Thank you.”

Molly took the baby doll from your arms like it was made of glass. Then—dead serious—she growled at it. “Don’t give me that face. Your mom’s busy.” You couldn’t help but laugh, eyes crinkling with warmth. When you returned from the warm food someone shoved into your hands, Molly handed the baby back with a straight face. “Grumpy little thing. Missed you.”

“Thank you,” you said, genuinely touched, your hands brushing hers as you took the baby back. “You’re… really kind.” 

Taehyung, crouched by a rusted fire barrel with Jungkook, Jimin, and Namjoon, leaned in and hissed low under his breath, “Don’t let her distract you. She’s got villain energy written all over her right now.” Jimin snorted. “Bro, she’s holding a doll and crying.”

“That’s exactly why,” Taehyung said seriously. “That’s exactly how they get you.” Namjoon didn’t speak. He just looked across the camp, watching you sit under the tarp, huddled with the baby like a storm-wrecked statue.

Jungkook… didn’t speak either. He just looked at you.

Watched the way you curled your body around the doll, like you were shielding it from the cold. The tiny smile you gave to the woman who offered to stitch the tear in your sweater. The way your eyes scanned each person like you were searching for something real. Your brother. Maybe hope. Maybe a way out.

He knew you were acting. He knew you were playing a role.

But the tenderness of it—the truth underneath it—cut into him.

You were building something. A narrative. A presence. A story that folded into theirs, made their world feel larger, more real. You asked softly, eyes tired but kind, “Has anyone here seen my brother? He’s about this tall…” You held your hand a bit above your head, eyes sweeping over their faces. Everyone shook their head with murmurs of apology. No one had seen him. You gave a small nod, looking down at the baby. “Okay. Maybe he’s further south.”

And then, reluctantly, after they insisted—you let them lead you to a cot inside the shed, where two women covered you in blankets and one brushed your hair softly from your forehead. “Sleep,” she whispered. “We’ll keep watch.”

And you did.

 He didn’t know why it hit him so hard. Maybe because you trusted them, even just in-character. Trusted them enough to sleep.

Jungkook stood nearby, cross-legged on an overturned crate, his gun across his lap. He kept his eyes on the tree line. But every few minutes, he turned and looked toward you.

Just to be sure you were okay.

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You woke slowly, groggy but warm. For a moment, the peaceful hum of camp lulled you—muted conversations, the scrape of someone sharpening a weapon, distant birdsong. And then your hand slid over the blanket beside you. Nothing.

The baby doll was gone.

Your eyes snapped open. You sat up fast, breath catching, scanning around wildly until you spotted one of the women from earlier—Annette, the redhead with the braid—standing by the fire barrel. Holding the baby. You stormed over. And went into character.

“Give me back my child!”

Every head turned. The group froze. Annette startled, backing up a step. “I was just—he was cold! You were asleep—!”

“You took him without asking! Without telling me!” You were full of fake hysteria now, body trembling, eyes shining with fresh tears as you stomped toward her. “You were passed out!” she snapped back, holding the doll protectively. “You’re lucky you have people to help you. Don’t act like a saint—you’ve got a whole family around you now!”

“Don’t you dare guilt me for caring about my own child!” you screamed, and the camp exploded into noise.

Women yelled. Men hovered uncertainly, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Namjoon staring wide-eyed as you and Annette tore into each other like wild animals in rags and apocalypse grime. Jimin held his hands up like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Molly shoved through the circle. “Alright! Enough!” She snatched the baby out of Annette’s arms, cradled it to her chest, and stalked back toward your bed. “I’m putting him down where he belongs.” But the damage was done.

From the woods, groans began—deep, feral, unmistakable.

“Zombies!” someone shouted.

And then you and Annette were surrounded by indecision. The men hesitated—do they break up the fight? Do they protect you? Annette was still fuming. “You can’t even handle being a mother!” You looked around wildly—then saw the zombies moving closer. Ten? Maybe more.

You didn’t flinch.

“You don’t deserve him!” Annette screamed. And with a dramatic sob, you shoved her hard—right toward the oncoming horde. You stumbled back just in time not to end as Annette.  As Annette let out a perfectly-timed scream as she stumbled backward into their arms. The zombie players descended in full choreographed carnage—screeching, arms grabbing, paint splattering.

“NOOOO!” she wailed, perfectly, theatrically, just as she was “bitten” and dragged to the ground. Her hand reached out… and dropped.

Game over.

The whole camp went dead silent. Jungkook’s heart was hammering. He saw it all—your heaving shoulders, your wide tearful eyes, your trembling hands. As some of the guards went to deal with the zombies now coming your way. You had just killed someone.

Sort of.

Molly returned, baby doll back in your arms. “She touched your kid. That’s on her.” Another woman nodded sharply. “No one takes a child from its mother.”

Taehyung whispered, “She’s terrifying.” Namjoon exhaled like he’d forgotten how to breathe. Jimin blinked. “Did she just—?”

“Yeah,” Jungkook whispered. “She did.” But it wasn’t condemnation in his voice. It was awe.

You pulled the baby closer to your chest as the zombie players—groaning, covered in fake blood and smugness—left toward the next part of the map. You wiped your eyes and turned toward the fire, shaking.

And the group? They closed in around you, no questions asked. Annette’s name was crossed off the board.

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Jungkook approached slowly, hands in the pockets of his tattered apocalypse jacket, still glancing at the baby doll cradled in your arms as if it might blink.

“You know…” he said, voice low and a little awkward, “the kid has the same sparkle… in his eyes as you.” You froze. Your head snapped up immediately. Your gaze flicked to Jungkook. You gave him a small, quiet nod of understanding. “Thanks,” you said, softly. Then, to Molly, “Could you watch him for a second? I need… I need a breath.”

Molly, rocking the fake baby as if it were the most precious thing in the world, smiled. “Of course. He’s an angel when he naps.” Before you could turn, she added, “Take Jungkook with you. He looks like he needs it too.”

You looked at him grinning, one brow raised. He looked… startled. But he nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

The trees offered some quiet from the chaos behind you. For a while, you just listened to the wind threading through the branches and the crunch of your boots on dry leaves. It was strange how easily the game dissolved out here. No screams. No laughter. Just you and him. Then you stopped and looked at him with the same gentle concern you’d shown to the doll not five minutes ago.

Jungkook stared at you, confused. For a moment—just a second—he wasn’t sure what was real anymore.

“I… I think I used the wrong phrase,” he admitted. “The sparkle thing—I thought that’s how people got out of the game? Like… a code?” You looked at him, something melting in your expression. “It is a code,” you said softly. “You used it perfectly.” He blinked. “Then… why do I feel so messed up?”

You inhaled slowly and reached up to remove the scarf around your head, your shoulders relaxing as you let the mask of your character slide off. “I’m going to talk to you now as me,” you said. “Not the mother. Not the Game Master. Just… Y/N.”

Jungkook nodded and saw your entire demeanor change. You were instantly more open—more you.

“Are you okay?” you asked gently.

“I don’t know why it hit me so hard,” he admitted eventually. “I knew it wasn’t real. You were holding a doll. I saw it. But something about it—your voice, the way you shook, how scared you looked…” He laughed bitterly. “I thought, if something happens to her, I won’t be able to fix it.” You watched him with quiet patience.

“You know,” you said, “a lot of people come into these games thinking they’ll be cool and strategic. Like it’s chess with costumes. And then they see someone crying over soup, or hear a scream at night—and suddenly their brain forgets it’s a simulation.”

Jungkook gave a tired nod. “Yeah. That happened about three hours in.”

“Of course it did,” you smiled. “You’re human. Your empathy isn’t fake.” He looked at you. This time, really looked. “You were so good,” he said. “I thought—” His voice broke off like it betrayed something too personal.

You didn’t press. You gave him space.

“I’ve been doing this a while,” you said. “I’ve seen heroes break down because someone pretended to die in their arms. Seen friends scream at each other over fake betrayals. Emotions can be real even if the context isn’t.”

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. “So you mean I’m not crazy?”

“Not even a little,” you said, stepping closer. “But I will say this—” He met your eyes again, waiting. “If you do ever get too close to a character—too emotionally tied—step out. Use the sparkle phrase. And don’t be ashamed of needing a breather. It’s not weak.”

Jungkook exhaled, long and slow. “You’re really good at this.” Your lips twitched into a grin. “That was my evil plan.” He laughed—genuine, breathy, warm. “Well, it’s working. You’ve got, like, twelve people ready to die for you back there.”

“I know,” you said, brushing a leaf off your sleeve. “I love watching human psychology unfold in these settings. Throw in a helpless baby and a crying woman, and boom—pack instinct. Protector mode activated.” Jungkook chuckled again. “You’re dangerous.”

“I try.”

You walked a little further, the air calmer now, your heart beating less like you were in a game and more like you were just… here. With him. “Do you feel better now?” you asked, tilting your head. He exhaled, but it didn’t quite reach the bottom of his lungs. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I do.”

But you could see it—how his body still carried it. The weight. The leftover adrenaline. The strange, instinctual need to protect something that was never real. You hesitated for only a breath, then took a small step closer.

“Can I offer you something?” you asked. Jungkook blinked. “Uh… what?”

“A hug.” His eyes widened, and he laughed—not at you, but because he hadn’t expected that. “A hug?”

“Sometimes it helps,” you said with a gentle smile. “Just—Something human. Especially after hours of zombies, crying, and everyone screaming about rations.” He paused. You could see him considering it. Then, with an almost sheepish smile, he said, “Yeah… okay.”

You stepped forward, arms open but soft, giving him room to change his mind. He didn’t. Instead, Jungkook folded into the hug like he hadn’t realized how much he needed it until it was happening. How it made him realize you were safe. His arms wrapped around you, firm but hesitant at first. Then, when you didn’t pull away, he held tighter.

And for a moment, there was nothing but the two of you in that quiet patch of woods—no fake apocalypse, no baby dolls, no cameras. Just his heartbeat against your chest. Just your breath near his ear. “You smell… nice,” he mumbled, half-laughing, and you felt his smile against your shoulder. You grinned too. “Thanks. Its called a shower.”

He pulled back laughing, just enough to look at you. His eyes were clearer now—less dazed, less confused. Grounded. You gave him a look like, See?

“Thank you,” he said, quietly. And he meant it. You nodded. “You’re welcome.” You started turning back toward camp, but paused, reaching out and placing your hand lightly on his forearm. “One last thing,” you said quietly. He looked at you, attentive. “When the time comes,” you said, voice more serious now, “don’t try to save me.”  Jungkook frowned. “What?”

“I’m supposed to die,” you explained. With how serious he took this you didn’t want to traumatize him. “It’s planned. For story, tension, payoff—all of it. So when it happens… let it happen. Don’t let your character die for me.” He looked at you for a long moment, lips pressed tight. He didn’t like it. Not even a little.

But eventually, he gave a small nod. “Okay. I’ll try.” You smiled at him. “That’s all I ask.”

And the two of you walked back to camp—quietly, but closer. Something between you had shifted. And the end of the world kept spinning.

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Back at camp, the mood was lighter for a while. People were laughing over old canned soup, swapping stories about their fake injuries, showing off smudged zombie makeup like war medals. Jungkook sat beside the fire pit with Taehyung and Jimin, poking at the embers with a stick as the sun dipped lower behind the trees.

“I talked with Y/N earlier,” he said, voice quieter than before. Jimin raised a brow. “The mother?”

“She broke character. For me,” Jungkook added. Taehyung leaned forward, grinning. “That’s unexpected. You okay?”

“I think so,” Jungkook said, then smiled a little to himself. “It just felt… too real. Like I couldn’t separate her from the game. I looked at her and couldn’t tell where the mother ended and she began. I needed to separate them for a moment.”

“She offered me a hug,” he added softly, almost like it embarrassed him to say it. “You took it, right?” Taehyung asked, nudging him. “Yeah,” Jungkook said. “And it helped. It made it feel like… it was okay to enjoy it again.” Jimin nodded slowly, looking thoughtful. “She’s good. I think she sees when someone’s slipping too far into it.”

Before they could say more, a horn blared from the far end of the camp. Then came the scream.

It was you.

Blood-curdling. Raw. Real enough that even the most seasoned players froze for a heartbeat. You crashed into camp, fake tears streaking your cheeks, your baby doll clutched tight to your chest. “They’re coming—I can’t—I can’t do this—please, someone—!”

Jungkook's body moved before his brain did. He stepped forward—but too late. Then, in your frantic scramble, you fumbled with the makeshift barricade and ripped it open. And the horde swarmed in.

Chaos erupted.

It was like a dam breaking. Zombies—dozens of them—surged from the trees with low groans and guttural snarls, their movements jerky and terrifyingly fast for something supposed to be undead. The illusion was flawless. You bolted for the other side of camp, stumbling with your doll in your arms, and vanished.

The scream that came next didn’t belong to you.

It was Jin.

“NOPE. NOPE. I’M OUT!” he yelled, laughing even as he backed himself into a corner, behind some stacked crates meant to look like a supply station. “I’m not fast enough for this sh—!”

They got him.

One of the zombies tackled him, then another. Then three more. Jin disappeared under the pile, mock screaming and laughing at the same time, smacking at the air with ketchup-smeared hands. “I’M BEING EATEN ALIVE! SAVE ME—ACTUALLY DON’T—THIS IS KINDA FUN—”

And then his hand dropped limp. Fake-dead. Out of the game.

Jungkook turned to call for Jimin—but Jimin was already being overwhelmed. He had tried to hold a makeshift line near the fire pit, swinging a padded bat and shouting commands, rallying three of the younger players behind him. “Hold the flank! Hold the—AH—!”

One grabbed him from behind. Then another. A third clung to his legs. “Shit—shit—I’m down! I’m—gah—nooooooo—!” Jimin crumpled dramatically, laughing breathlessly as he disappeared beneath a tangle of groaning zombie players. He held up a hand one last time before letting it fall with a thud. His “death” was over-the-top—classic Jimin—and it still managed to hit Jungkook square in the chest.

Within minutes, nearly half of their group had gone down.

Some were taken trying to flee. Others died fighting. Some just froze in the panic, paralyzed by the sheer size of the horde. And when it cleared, only three of the members were left, with only a few of the original survivor group.

Jungkook.

Namjoon.

Taehyung.

The camp was littered with bodies—players lying still, arms splayed, makeup smeared with fake blood, laughing and groaning as they pretended to be “fresh kills.” Jungkook stood, chest heaving, heart racing. His bat dripped red corn syrup. He looked around, adrenaline still buzzing under his skin, and spotted you.

You were across the camp, standing slowly, brushing leaves off your shirt. You still had the doll but now hit hung limp like a doll in your hand, your expression was calm again. Collected. You turned. Found him with your eyes. And waved. And for the first time since the screaming started, Jungkook remembered to breathe.

He waved back, just once.

Then you were gone again—heading off toward the makeup rooms with Jin and Jimin rising to follow. They teased each other as they walked, still catching their breath, still smiling through the chaos. Followed by many other undead, ready to find other survivors or to go with you the makeup rooms.

“You really went all in,” Jin said, chuckling. “God, I thought you were actually going to cry for real.”

You laughed. “Almost did.” But it was Jimin who leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You left an impression,” he said. You blinked. “Thanks. I wasn’t sure how the baby would play with the—”

“No,” Jimin cut in. “Not the character. You.” Your brow furrowed, caught off guard. “What do you mean?” Jimin smirked. “I mean, you—Y/N—you got under Jungkook’s skin. He’s still pretending not to notice, but I’m telling you now, something cracked open in him. You’re in there.” You rolled your eyes, trying to hide the warmth creeping up your neck. “He just got stuck in immersion.”

“Nope,” Jimin said confidently. “You can lie to yourself all you want, but I saw the way he looked at you. That wasn’t caring for just your roll.” You glanced back once, just before disappearing behind the curtain of trees toward the makeup.

Jungkook was still watching. And your chest fluttered—just a little. You smiled shyly at Jimin, brushing dust from your shirt, cheeks still warm from the earlier chaos. “Oh… then Jungkook won’t like my next character,” you murmured. Jimin raised a brow and leaned in. “Oh? What’s it gonna be?”

You only grinned. “First? Food. And maybe an hour of sleep.” Jimin laughed, nodding. “Fair. I’ll be around. Don’t forget to scare me later.” You gave him a mock salute and started making your way upstairs—up into the top floor of the asylum, where players weren’t allowed. Where you could take a breath, eat without breaking immersion, and switch roles without being spotted.

On the way up, you passed a surreal little scene—Yoongi, fully zombified with his head twisted at an odd angle and one eye gone pale with makeup, lumbered through the halls muttering, “Did you see Hoseok? I want to scare him."

You stifled a laugh. “No but I will let you know.”

“Acceptable,” Yoongi mumbled in his zombie voice, shuffling away.

You made it to the upper ward, peeled off your layers, and managed to get two and a half hours of rest. Your alarm buzzed at 9:45pm.

It was time.

By 10:00, the event would shift. The safe zones would crumble. And from 11 onward… there would be no mercy. Downstairs, five of your most seasoned zombie player had been briefed and would meet you at the NSC hall. You wanted your entrance to be theatrical, disruptive, and unforgettable.

By 10:15, you were halfway through your transformation—tight brown neoprene pants clinging to your legs, the lower half of your costume fitted. The upper part, a terrifying piece of neoprene and latex-mottled horror, hung around your hip, along with the harness system that would make your movements twitchy and unnatural.

You were just adjusting your sports bra and reaching for the torso suit when the door creaked.

“Hey, did you—” Taehyung froze in the doorway, wide-eyed like a deer caught in headlights. He blinked hard, processing the sight of you: half-dressed, back turned, casually sorting through prosthetics and blood tubes.

You turned around, utterly unfazed in your sports bra and pants. “Dead or tired?” Taehyung swallowed, his voice catching. “Uh. Dead. I died. Heroically. Saved Snake and Molly. Got torn apart. Y’know. Normal day.” You chuckled, reaching for the suit. “Glad someone made it out with flair.”

Taehyung lingered, clearing his throat. “Uh—do you… want help?”

“Please,” you said immediately, stepping toward him and turning your back to him. “The zipper’s a nightmare.” He caught the heavy latex piece awkwardly and stepped closer. The suit was clammy from the spray blood and tight as hell, almost impossible to shimmy into without another person. You guided your arms in, shifting your weight.

Taehyung tried not to look at the way the fabric stretched around your body. “You alright?” you asked as he fumbled with the zipper. “I—yeah. It’s just—tight,” he mumbled, finally getting the zip started, pulling it slowly up your back.

When it clicked into place, you rolled your shoulders, adjusting the neckline and tugging at the seals. You met his eyes over your shoulder. “Thanks. This character’s a little… worse.”

“How bad?”

You smirked darkly, your voice lowering. “Tonight… there’s no more safe space.” Taehyung blinked. “Like—none?”

“None,” you confirmed. “No sanctuary. No barricades. Only hiding. Running. Or dying. And I’m going to make sure they remember it.” Taehyung stared at you. “I think Jungkook’s gonna have a heart attack.” You laughed. “Good. Maybe I’ll let him live if he plays it right.” He shook his head with a grin, backing toward the door. “Remind me not to get on your bad side, Y/N.”

“You should’ve remembered that the moment you walked in on me half-naked,” you called after him. Taehyung flushed but grinned wider. “That wasn’t my fault!” You grinned back. “It is now.”

You picked up your blood capsule belt, slipping it over your shoulder. The last part of your transformation was almost complete. From here on out, no one would recognize you under the makeup, the prosthetics, and the twitchy, grotesque movements of your new role.

Tonight, you would become the thing people whispered about.

And Jungkook would be right in the middle of it.

The night was thick with fog and the smell of wet leaves, the moonlight too thin to offer comfort. You stood in the shadows just beyond the NSC hall, the five zombies around you adjusting their gear in eerie silence. Your neoprene suit clung to your body like diseased skin, the painted latex blistered and blackened. You had blended the mask into your neckline so your real face disappeared beneath rot and ruin. Only your eyes remained—but even they were ringed in thick, oily black makeup, obscuring any hint of humanity.

Taehyung stood nearby, wide-eyed, one hand over his mouth. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “You guys look like something from Silent Hill.”

You tilted your head slowly toward him, silent.

“That’s not helping,” he added, stepping back.

The other five—Alex, David, Mira, Yuji, and Garam—stood tall beside you, identical in costume and horror. A collective nightmare. One of them cracked her neck; another flexed their fingers in tight gloves soaked in darkened blood. You all looked like a single organism splintered into six lethal bodies.

And when Eriks voice whispered through your comms—Go—you didn’t stumble or lurch like the rest of the infected.

You ran.

Fast.

The six of you surged into the night like a flock of death crows, howling, shrieking, voices jagged with distortion. You had trained for this—months of movement practice, stunts, and horror choreography. Every motion you made was unhinged and wrong, arms twitching, heads jerking too far. Real terror wrapped in rubber and foam. And when the normal zombies saw your group emerging from the darkness, they actually cheered.

“Let’s go, monsters!”

“The bosses are here!”

“Hunt them!”

It was like a celebrity entrance from hell. And that’s exactly what you were—hell in motion. And Taehyung watched in horror. He was suddenly very happy he had died and hadn’t had to face you.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the map…

Jungkook sat against the cracked wall of an abandoned two-story building, head tilted back, breath steady. He hadn’t realized just how badly he needed the break until now. Namjoon dozed lightly beside him, one hand still on the prop axe resting across his lap. A few others—veteran players and a couple of newer ones—had taken refuge here too. One, who played a frazzled but skilled doctor, had claimed the cellar and set up shop with fake supplies and dim LED lights to simulate a generator hum. He’d even set up a patient cot.

Snake sat at the window, looking out into the forest with haunted eyes. “Taehyung shouldn’t have saved me,” he murmured. Jungkook leaned forward. “He would’ve done it every time.” Snake didn’t reply, just gripped the curtain tighter.

Since you had left the game earlier in the day, Jungkook had finally started breathing normally again. Watching you with that doll—sobbing, panicking, screaming as you threw open the barricades—had twisted something inside him he hadn’t expected. Even knowing it was part of the event, it had pierced something too real. Too much. Your trembling hands. Your broken cries.

And then you were gone. Not dead, not hurt. Just… absent from the game. And that distance, as strange as it was, helped. He could see it as a game again. He could focus on survival. Strategy. The vlog footage. The thrill.

But then—

The screams began. Far off at first, like crows fighting. Then closer. Louder. Sharper. Wrong. Jungkook shot up. Namjoon blinked awake, eyes wide. “What the hell is that?” It wasn’t the usual zombie moan. Not even a fast-zombie screech. This was like someone being torn in half.

And then the first impact hit.

Something—or someone—slammed into the front of the building with a crunch and a spray of fake blood. One of the new players screamed as the front barricade gave way and something darted through the broken opening.

It wasn’t stumbling. It was sprinting.

“Upstairs!” Namjoon barked. “Now!” Jungkook grabbed Snake’s arm and hauled him back as one of the monsters—rotting flesh, twitchy limbs, face all wrong—threw itself at the nearest survivor. They weren’t like the others. These were different. Silent coordination. Screaming, yes—but like hunters calling to each other, not mindless noise.

Upstairs, the survivors scrambled. Jungkook kicked over a shelf to block the stairwell. It bought them seconds at best. And then another scream—closer, more guttural. One of the new players was down. He looked out the broken top-floor window.

There were five of them. All identical in horror.

Jungkook backed away from the window, breath caught in his throat. Below, the five nightmares prowled through the dark yard like wolves who had just learned how to hate. They didn’t move like zombies. They moved like something smarter.

And then came the curse: “FUCK,” one of the veteran players snapped, fumbling with the fake gun strapped to his shoulder. “What?” Namjoon asked, crouched behind a toppled cabinet. The veteran pointed sharply out the window. “They brought them again.”

“Them?” said a new player, confused and wide-eyed.

“Crawlers,” the vet spat like it was a slur. “They’re fast, they’re coordinated, and worst of all—they don’t go down like normal zombies. You can’t just push them or tag their arm. You have to fight them. Hard.” Even Namjoon’s brow furrowed at that. “I thought this was supposed to be a survival horror game. Not full-on combat.”

“Oh, it’s both, still LARP fighting only,” the vet said grimly. “But that’s the boss class.”

The "doctor" player popped up from the cellar stairwell, glasses askew, fully in character. “But if we catch one,” he said, voice buzzing with faux-manic glee, “I might be able to extract the virus. Create an antidote.”

Everyone stared at him.

“What?” he said, indignant. “That’s literally my quest line.”

Upstairs, they fortified the landing. One staircase. One hallway. If nothing came through, they were safe—for now. Official game rules meant no break-ins unless an Orga member approved it. Everyone relaxed slightly.

Until a scream ripped through the room.

The vet player stumbled back, swearing again. “Window! They’re coming in through the fucking window!” Two of the Crawlers were halfway inside—literally crawling through the second-story window frame, their movements contorted and snapping, their masks reflecting the dim LED lights with a shine that made everyone recoil.

“They climbed the goddamn drainpipe!” someone shouted.

The room exploded into chaos.

One of the Crawlers lunged for the doctor, who barely rolled out of the way. The second went for the vet, who fought back—but in the scuffle, he clocked the monster hard in the ribs.

“GAME STOP!” the veteran called, hands shooting up in the air. “STOP, STOP, STOP!”

Everyone froze mid-motion. The doctor, mid-laugh, cut off instantly. Namjoon swore and backed up, gun lowered. Jungkook was halfway through a lunge and immediately paused, breath caught in his throat. Garam was slumped against the wall, arms cradling his side, eyes shut tight.

“Garam?” someone asked, voice tense.

“I didn’t mean to hit that hard—shit, I’m sorry, man,” the veteran said quickly, rushing over but stopping short, hands out in apology. “I panicked. You were coming at me like a fucking demon.”

“I’m fine,” Garam said hoarsely, holding up a hand.

“No, for real—are you sure?” Jungkook stepped in now, crouching next to him. Looking beyond the horror of a costume. “Don’t push through if you’re actually hurt.” Garam drew in a breath, sharp and shaky, then slowly exhaled. “I’m okay. Winded. Just… give me a sec.”

Namjoon knelt beside them, offering his canteen. Garam took a sip, then leaned his head back, already laughing softly. “God, you guys are so soft now. Its cute.“ The veteran muttered, visibly shaken. “I’m really sorry. I got scared, man.”

Garam looked at him properly now. “It’s okay. Honest. You got a clean hit. No cracked ribs, I think. Just knocked the air outta me. Good reaction time.” He smiled—strained, but genuine. The group laughed lightly, nerves easing. The veteran still looked remorseful but nodded gratefully as Garam gave him a reassuring pat on the leg.

“Let’s keep going,” Garam said. “I want my death scene to be worth it.” The players regrouped fast. And the fight picked up again with renewed fury. One Crawler went down under coordinated fire from Namjoon and the vet. Another—Yuji—was tackled and “captured” by the doctor with wild delight. The remaining Crawlers hissed, shrieked, and clawed, but were picked off one by one.

And then there was you.

You’d gone for Namjoon—darting in from the shadows with a curved movement that made his skin crawl. You tackled him into the wall with a guttural cry. He shouted in shock, the breath knocked from him.

But just as you leaned in to “bite,” Jungkook moved like lightning. He grabbed the prop axe from the ground and turned you off Namjoon with a strike so fast it made everyone pause.

You froze.

You dropped like a puppet with cut strings, dead in the game.

Unmoving.

Breathing hard, Jungkook stood over you. Startled for a moment. Had he hurt you? But the crawler didn’t groan or called for a stop. “Nice save,” Namjoon muttered, rubbing his side. The doctor was practically dancing in place. “Bring the bodies down! I’ll dissect them for a cure!”

Normally, a dead player would be tapped or, just sit up and ask where to go. But Jungkook was staring at you like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing.

He crouched beside you, prop axe still in hand, and leaned down to “double tap” for dramatic effect. But as he did, he whispered low: “Y/N…?” You gave the smallest nod.

His heart jumped.

He hadn’t been wrong.

You were here. You’d been one of them. One of the nightmares. The others were getting ready to drag the bodies into the cellar, the doctor already spinning in-character theories about viral extraction and neural mutation. The noise fell away for a moment when Jungkook leaned closer, hoodie brushing your side.

He cleared his throat. “Y/N… would you be part of the cellar scene?” You gave a tiny nod, keeping your body limp. “Can I move you?”

Again, you nodded—expecting the usual signal. Normally, the player in charge of corpse transport would tap the "dead" player twice on the shoulder, telling them to get up and walk to the next area. But instead of that, Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He simply leaned down and scooped you up into his arms like it was second nature. Like you weighed nothing, in front of the entire group, Jungkook slipped his arms under you and carefully picked you up, cradling you against his chest.

Startled, you tensed—and your hands instinctively gripped the front of his hoodie. Tight. Jungkook paused the second he felt it. “You okay?” he whispered softly, head close to yours. You hesitated a second, then exhaled shakily and slowly relaxed. Your body went slack in his arms.

Jungkook felt it. Felt your trust settle into his chest like warmth. He held you tighter, more securely, and started moving down the hallway toward the stairs.

The doctor whooped. “To the lab!”

“Man, how are you touching that thing like it’s not disgusting?” one of the players called playfully. “Dude, it smells like rubber and old meat!” another joked. “Jungkook,” Namjoon called, eyeing him curiously, “you sure you wanna carry that thing?”

Jungkook didn’t even look back. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I’ve got her.”

“Think he likes corpses now,” a third laughed.

Jungkook ignored them all, only shifting you slightly in his arms so your head wouldn’t bump the stairwell wall. As he stepped onto the first stair, he heard it: a whisper, muffled under your latex mask. “Please don’t bump me against anything…” He smiled.

His grip tightened again, protective, steady. “Never,” he whispered back.

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The doctor’s “lab” in the cellar was cluttered and eerie, dimly lit by flickering lanterns. It smelled like fake blood and floor polish. He’d cleared a long table in the center for dramatic effect, and when Jungkook arrived, the doctor clapped gleefully.

“Put her here, yes, yes—right under the light!”

Jungkook didn’t just drop you off. He gently lowered you onto the table, hands bracing your back and shoulders until he was sure you were resting comfortably. The latex of your suit squeaked faintly as you settled.

The others filed in, dragging the other Crawlers. Garam gave Jungkook a thumbs-up before collapsing back into his dramatic corpse pose. The doctor hovered over you, monologuing in detail about virus strains, moral quandaries, and the possibility of a cure—“if only we can harvest enough tissue before the mutation completes!”

Half an hour passed before the doctor clapped his hands and declared, “That’s a wrap on dissection!”

People relaxed. It was an immersion break. But sometimes that was the only way to get a group of zombies out of a scene. Laughter bubbled up. Someone offered Garam a bottle of water. Another player grabbed a granola bar.

You sat up slowly—but before you could stand, Jungkook gently touched your arm. “Wait.” You blinked at him through the mask. Your body still wore the look of rot and infection. Only your eyes were visible—blackened around the edges with makeup, narrowed at him curiously.

He stared for a moment.

Then you reached up and peeled your mask back, the latex lifting with a soft hiss. Your face was flushed from the heat, and the black makeup had smudged slightly around your eyes. Your hair stuck to your forehead.

“Better?” you asked, voice hoarse but warm. Jungkook’s lips curled into the softest smile. He nodded. “I think…” He cleared his throat, suddenly shy. “I think it’s easier when you’re the danger.” You chuckled—tired and amused—and without thinking too hard, you leaned forward and gave him a hug. Arms around his shoulders. Quick. Sincere. Real.

He hugged you back before he even realized it.

Then you stepped away, slipping the mask back into place like a switch had flipped. The creature returned. Crawling death. Fear incarnate. The doctor gave a playful salute. “See you on the battlefield.”

With a blood-curdling scream, you launched yourself back into the night with the other Crawlers, skittering up the stairs like nightmares given shape. Namjoon leaned into Jungkook’s side as they watched you vanish around the corner. “You’re down bad.” he teased. Jungkook didn’t look away, eyes fixed on where you vanished.

“She hugged you coverd in latex, dude. Latex.”

“Shut up,” Jungkook muttered cheeks flushing just a little. Namjoon laughed, shaking his head. “And that’s not even the weirdest thing you’ve been into this week.” Jungkook’s voice dropped, quieter than before. “She is just cool…”

Namjoon blinked, “She let you carry her like a princess.” then clapped him on the shoulder, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. “You need to calm down before you propose in the basement, Romeo.”

Jungkook didn’t even hear him. He was still staring toward the stairwell. Waiting for the screams.

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Now, early morning had settled over the camp. Despite all their efforts to survive the night, the relentless game had even caught up to Jungkook and Namjoon. But even the strongest couldn’t escape unscathed.

Namjoon was the first to go down. It happened so fast, almost by pure chance. They had been trying to treat a wounded player nearby when a zombie slipped in unnoticed from a side corridor. Namjoon barely had time to react before the creature was on him.

Half an hour later, Jungkook went down too. He and Snake had gone to refill their water bottles when one of the Crawlers—not you— ambushed him suddenly, and he was taken down, collapsing hard to the ground.

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Now, around the breakfast table in the NSC lounge, the members tried to catch their breath and regroup. The early morning light was soft, the room cluttered with empty coffee cups and half-eaten granola bars. Yoongi sat back, arms crossed, shaking his head with a wry smile. “I couldn’t find Hoseok anywhere last night. He’s got to be the last living member out there, right?”

Taehyung smirked, leaning forward with a mischievous glint in his eyes, hell bent on changing the topic. “You know, Y/N’s got a really nice trained body.” The others immediately turned to him, eyebrows raised. “How would you know that?” Jin asked, clearly curious.

Jungkook cut in quickly, voice low but firm, “Taehyung, maybe you should drop it.” Jimin gave Taehyung a pointed look, then glanced over at Jungkook with a slight warning. “Yeah, Tae, that’s not really something you should say out loud.”

But Taehyung just laughed, shaking his head. “I’m not lying. I actually saw her—in her underwear, earlier.” Jungkook’s jaw twitched involuntarily at that confession, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face. Taehyung grinned wider, clearly enjoying the moment. “I was helping her get dressed after her break. You know, the suit’s tricky to put on alone.”

Jimin rolled his eyes, but Jungkook’s expression was unreadable, caught somewhere between frustration and reluctant amusement. Jin clapped his hands, eager to change the mood. “Hey Namjoon, why don’t you get zombified with us? We can go find Hoseok and scare the hell out of him.”

Namjoon grinned, nodding enthusiastically. “Sounds like a plan.” He looked expectantly at Jungkook. Jungkook shook his head firmly, rubbing his tired eyes. “No way. I want to sleep for at least two hours before anything else. I’m wiped.”

Just then, the door creaked open and you walked in, still in your Crawler costume — the latex suit clinging tightly, eyes rimmed with smudged black makeup from sweat. You grabbed a banana and a granola bar from the counter, munching casually.

“Morning. Looks like you all had fun without me.”

Yoongi grinned slyly, waving a hand. “You have no idea. I’ve been having a blast scaring the other players. You should see their faces.” They shared stories, laughing about close calls and wild moments. You smiled, genuinely happy they’d had fun.

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You and Jungkook moved quietly up the creaking stairs together, the weight of the night’s chaos finally pressing down on both of you. The stale air clung to your skin, mixed with sweat and the grime of hours spent playing your part in the nightmare. You could already feel the tight neoprene suit clinging uncomfortably, suffocating you in every movement.

You placed your mask and gloves at the foot of your mattress, giving a small sigh of relief to finally be rid of them. The room still smelled faintly of latex, dust, and whatever old building materials had long since decayed here. Now came the tricky part—getting out of your suit. You reached behind your back, fingers fumbling for the zipper, but as expected, it was nearly impossible to grab at that angle.

From the corner of your eye, you spotted Jungkook walking by, towel slung over one shoulder and his small toiletry bag in hand, clearly headed for the showers.

“Hey, Jungkook,” you called, turning your head toward him with a sheepish smile. “Can you help me with the zipper real quick?” He stopped mid-step, blinking. “Oh—uh… yeah, sure.” His voice cracked slightly, caught off guard, but he didn’t need to be asked twice.

You turned around fully, holding your hair out of the way so he could see the zipper running along the back of your suit. He stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly against your back as he grabbed the zipper tab. His touch was warm—surprisingly careful. The sound of the zipper sliding down seemed louder than it should have been in the quiet of the room.

As he pulled it lower, his eyes involuntarily dropped, catching a glimpse of the smooth expanse of your sweat-slicked back. Taehyung hadn’t lied—your body was strong, defined, glistening slightly from the hours of movement. Jungkook’s fingers lingered a moment longer than they had to, hovering near your spine before he cleared his throat and stepped back like he’d touched something sacred.

“There,” he said, voice a little hoarse. “You’re good.”

You turned back to him with an easy smile. “Thanks, lifesaver.” He gave you a short nod, but didn’t meet your eyes. As you peeled the top of the suit down and started pulling it off your legs, Jungkook retreated into the bathroom, flushing hard even before he got to his cabin.

Inside, the showers were basic—four stalls with curtains, old tiles that had probably seen better days. Still, the hot water was a gift after hours in costume. Jungkook stepped into his stall, undressed and put his clothes on a hock and turned the knob, exhaling as the warm water hit his skin. But then he heard your voice from the stall just two over—cheerful and relaxed.

“So how did you die?” you asked through the running water.

“Huh?” he answered, caught off guard again to here your voice so close with his state of undress. “In the game,” you laughed. “Last I saw you, you were still human. What got you?”

“Oh. Uh… Namjoon went first, some zombie got him when we were trying to distract for a medic run. Then me and Snake went to refill water and one of your creepy little friends came crawling out of a hole and nailed me.” He chuckled. “I didn’t even see them coming. They were small.”

“That was probably Mira,” you replied, amused. “She’s got the smallest frame but is pure chaos in the dark. She lives for that kind of ambush.”

“She’s terrifying,” Jungkook admitted, grinning despite himself. You laughed, and he could hear the sound of you scrubbing your hair. “So you didn’t last long without me.”

“Are you saying I need you for survival?” he teased back, as he washed his own hair.

“I’m saying you should’ve let me kill you. I would’ve taken you out dramatically.”

Your banter echoed between the stalls, easy and natural—both of you shedding more than just the sweat and grime of the game in that moment. The intimacy wasn’t physical, but it was there, warm and unspoken.

After the shower, both of you dressed in sleepwear—loose, clean clothes that smelled faintly of soap. You stepped out first, toweling off your hair. Jungkook followed shortly after, ruffling his own damp hair into a messy puff. He was wearing simple sweatpants and a hoodie, but he still managed to look unfairly good in the dim light.

You returned to your mat with a small yawn, ready to collapse—and then frowned.

Your blankets were gone. You looked around once. Twice. Only your sleeping bag remained. “What the hell,” you muttered. “Did Pia take my blankets again?”

Jungkook glanced over, already halfway through pulling on his hood. “What’s wrong?”

“My blankets are missing,” you said flatly, rubbing your arms. “Again. That’s like, the third time during a break. I’m gonna freeze.” You grumbled under your breath, tugging your sleeping bag tighter around you as you curled inward, trying to trap any hint of warmth. It wasn’t working. The bag alone just wasn’t enough, not after hours of sweat and adrenaline that had now chilled on your skin.

Next to your mattress, Jungkook had already made himself comfortable, lying cocooned in his own sleeping bag, arms tucked under his head. He watched you silently for a moment, then sat up a little, reaching for the extra blanket that lay folded over his legs.

“Here,” he offered gently, holding it out to you. “Take this.” You looked up at him, surprised, and hesitated before shaking your head. “I’ll be fine,” you murmured, forcing a small smile. “Just need to fall asleep quickly, that’s all.”

Jungkook didn’t argue at first, but you could tell from his expression that he didn’t buy it. And honestly, neither did you. Not even a minute later, your body gave you away as a shiver rippled through you, followed by another. Jungkook sat up again with a sigh, clearly having reached his limit.

“Seriously—just take the blanket,” he said, a little firmer this time. You shook your head again, teeth almost chattering. “You need it too—if you give it to me, you’ll be cold.” Jungkook stared at you, frustration twitching in his brow, and then—without warning—he huffed loudly and tossed the blanket at you with a bit more force than necessary.

“Okay, then we’re both using it,” he muttered.

Before you could even react, he scooted over with a soft grunt, shifting from his mat to yours with a little “hup.” You blinked at him, startled, still lying on your back as he threw the blanket over both of you and pulled the edge down to tuck it around your sides.

“There,” he said, grumbling, but not unkindly. “Better?” You swallowed, your heart giving a strange little kick as you nodded slowly. “Yeah. Better.” Your voice came out quiet, meek even. “Thanks.”

You could still feel the cold—your limbs hadn’t quite caught up yet—but the difference was immediate. The blanket added a crucial barrier, but more than that, Jungkook's body was a furnace next to yours. You were lying close, shoulders nearly touching, his warmth seeping through the thin fabric of your hoodie like sunlight under a door.

Minutes passed in silence. You stayed perfectly still, listening to the quiet rise and fall of his breath, hoping he’d fallen asleep—because the truth was, you were still cold. Less so than before, but it lingered. The kind of chill that settled into your bones. You hated the idea of waking him if he had managed to doze off.

But then, you heard it—another huff. A small, exasperated sigh that made it obvious he was still awake. “Are you seriously still cold?” he asked, voice low but clear in the darkness. You didn’t answer right away, unsure if you should lie or not. “I’m fine,” you whispered eventually. Jungkook shifted beside you, the sound of fabric rustling. “You’re shaking.”

You opened your mouth to protest—but the next second, you felt his arm slip across your waist, pulling you ever so slightly toward him. Not forceful. Just enough that your sides touched fully now, his chest against your shoulder. The heat from him was immediate, his hoodie warm against your arms.

“Okay?” he asked softly, this time with less exasperation—just concern. You hesitated, heart thudding, then nodded into the pillow. “Yeah,” you breathed. “Thank you.” He didn’t answer right away. Just let out a quieter sigh, this one sounding more like relief. His hand stayed at your side, resting lightly, and the closeness wasn’t awkward—it was grounding. Your shivering slowed, then stopped.

As the minutes ticked by, the room grew quiet again. The air had stilled. But the space between you and Jungkook was something different—small, warm, shared. You closed your eyes.

“Night,” Jungkook murmured, his voice just barely audible.

And for once, you were warm enough to whisper back, “Night.”

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You woke slowly, the edge of sleep still soft around your thoughts. Everything was warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Sometime during your rest, your sleeping bag had worked itself open—or maybe Jungkook had helped, you weren’t sure—but now you lay wrapped in something better. Jungkook’s arm, solid and warm, lay snug around your waist, pulling you gently back against his chest. His tattooed forearm rested across your middle, the ink just barely brushing your skin where your hoodie had ridden up. You could feel the rise and fall of his breathing, steady and slow.

You didn’t move for a long moment.

Even with all the work still to come—players to scare, undead routes to reset, makeup touch-ups to manage—you couldn’t bring yourself to shift away. Not yet. Instead, you nuzzled back a little deeper against his chest, murmuring a quiet, contented, “Warm.”

A subtle ripple moved through Jungkook’s chest in response—a slight hitch of breath, then the unmistakable rumble of his voice, low and gravelly from sleep. “Morning,” he murmured, the sound wrapping around you like a second blanket.

His arm tightened slightly around you, pulling you more securely against him until the crumpled sleeping bags beneath you rustled. You felt the line of his body at your back, his warmth chasing away the last of the chill from your sleep. You smiled. “Morning.”

He stayed quiet for a moment longer before speaking again. “Did you sleep okay?” You hummed, nodding as you tipped your head gently back against him. “Yeah. I did. You?” There was a pause. And then, too honest to be casual, came his answer: “I did. Best sleep I’ve had in a long time.”

The quiet that followed was thick and strange and sweet all at once. Your heart did an unhelpful little flutter as you stared at the wall. His voice had been quiet—like a secret—but it was the way he said it, the way it settled under your skin, that startled you.

Still tucked in his arms, you hesitated before slowly peeling yourself away, stretching your legs and arms with a small groan. “We should probably get up,” you muttered. Jungkook made a reluctant noise behind you, but eventually pushed himself upright, dragging a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. He blinked down at you, his voice still a little hoarse. “So… what horrors await us today?”

You reached for your phone and tapped the screen. Your eyes widened. “Shit. We overslept.” You turned to him, already scrambling to gather your things. “We were supposed to be up at least an hour ago to prep the player routes. Come on!”

Jungkook followed suit, grabbing his clothes and slipping them on with smooth, practiced motions. He grinned as he shoved his arm through a hoodie sleeve. “Guess I really did sleep well.”

“You better hope I can still get you into the zombie ranks,” you teased over your shoulder, pulling on your boots. “They might reject you for being too cuddly.”

“Hey,” he said, raising a brow as he followed you out into the hall. “That was survival cuddling.”

“Oh yeah?” you laughed. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Absolutely. Basic warmth acquisition.” He bumped his shoulder against yours lightly, and the two of you headed down the stairs, your footsteps echoing in the sleepy silence of the building.

You both made your way to the kitchen, where the smell of instant coffee and oatmeal powder greeted you. Inside, Taehyung was leaning against the counter, his long limbs wrapped in a tattered bloodstained robe, clearly halfway into his zombie transformation (or out of it) already. Jimin sat at the table eating a banana, one eye shadowed with black makeup.

“Well, well,” Jimin drawled, spotting the two of you. “Look who finally decided to rise from the dead.” Taehyung grinned. “Didn’t know we had to go wake the lovebirds.” Jungkook rolled his eyes but didn’t rise to the bait. You just raised a brow and headed to the table for the last granola bar. “You’re just mad we look better rested than you,” you quipped.

“Debatable,” Jimin muttered around a mouthful of banana. “So. We still got one survivor left—Hoseok. You two in?” Jungkook grinned. “Absolutely.” You leaned on the counter next to him, smirking. “He won’t know what hit him.”

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The day moved at a full sprint. The final night of the event loomed close—players were on edge, volunteers ran from one side of the forested game area to the other, and the undead roamed with renewed energy, determined to make the last full round of scares their best yet.

Jungkook, freshly zombiefied with a smear of fake blood on his cheek and a torn-up hoodie that somehow still looked good on him, had left with Jimin and Taehyung just after lunch. The three of them had dramatically limped into the woods, groaning and growling, arms outstretched as they slipped into character followed by on of there camera guys. You’d only had a second to wave at Jungkook before he disappeared behind the tree line, flashing you a boyish grin beneath all the gore.

You, meanwhile, were knee-deep in logistics. Between coordinating player movements, monitoring timelines, and fixing half a dozen costume or prop-related mishaps, your feet barely touched the ground. Still, through the organized chaos, you caught glimpses of the guys doing what they did best—causing a scene.

At one point, you spotted Jungkook chasing a trio of screaming players down a muddy path with Jimin crawling out of the bushes behind them. Later, you heard Taehyung howling like a banshee near the river checkpoint. It was impossible not to smile. They were having the time of their lives.

But by nightfall, with just a few hours left before the grand finale at 6pm tomorrow—and the afterparty that would follow—it was becoming clear that one thing was still unresolved. “Hoseok’s still MIA?” you asked one of the Orgas, brows raised as you checked your notes. “Completely vanished,” the guy replied, breathless from running equipment between checkpoints. “Jungkook swore he saw him near the cornfield trail, but then poof. Gone.”

“Okay, either he’s in deep stealth mode, or he’s sleeping in a tree,” you muttered.

Around 10 PM, drained but steady, you made your way back to the NSCs rooms. You were just about to climb the stairs toward the staff rooms when the door burst open and the rest of the crew poured in—Yoongi, Jin, and Namjoon among them.

“I’m done,” Yoongi declared, already pulling off his gloves. “Like, corpse-mode. Actual sleep tonight.”

“Same,” Jin said, groaning. “If Hoseok’s really vanished, I’ll haunt him tomorrow.”

You smiled tiredly. “I just came to change back into my crawler costume. I need to help with the tunnels. We’ve got a group going through in twenty minutes.” Taehyung immediately perked up, nearly tripping over his own boots as he took a step forward. “Want help changing again?” he asked, eyes bright and hand half-raised like an eager kid.

You hesitated, suddenly more flustered than you expected to be. Taehyung had already helped you into the suit earlier with no shame whatsoever. He hadn’t done anything inappropriate—it had just been functional.

Still... you’d kind of hoped someone else might offer this time.

You stumbled for a second, unsure how to phrase your answer, but you didn’t have to say anything. Wordlessly, Jungkook came up beside you and gently placed a hand on the small of your back. Without saying a thing, he guided you up the rest of the stairs.

Taehyung blinked after you both. “I was just—”

“She’s fine,” Jungkook said over his shoulder, calm but firm. “We’ll wait outside if she needs help.”

“Wait, we?” Taehyung started. But Jungkook turned, holding a hand out against Taehyung’s chest and calmly, but with that subtle steel in his tone, said again, “Wait. Outside.” Before Taehyung could protest again, Jungkook closed the door with a soft click, leaving you blinking inside the small room, alone and stunned.

That… was kind of adorable.

You got changed fast, tugging on the skin-tight crawler suit, grimy from hours of wear. With the bulk of it on, you opened the door a crack, needing just a bit of help with the zipper. The first thing you saw was Jungkook’s back—broad, inked arm crossed as he leaned against the railing, still arguing quietly with Taehyung about “giving people space.”

He must have sensed your presence because he turned at once, and the second your eyes met his, you grinned. Wordlessly, you turned around and held up your hair.

Without hesitation, Jungkook stepped into the room, his hands warm against your back as he reached for the zipper. His fingers brushed your skin lightly as he drew it up, not rushed, not clumsy. You could feel his breath near your neck, the subtle tension in his shoulders. His touch lingered just a second longer than it needed to—his fingertips barely grazing your lower back before he let go.

It wasn’t overt.

But it was enough for your heart to stutter. Was that on purpose? You didn’t dare turn around yet, just let your hair fall back down and murmured, “Thanks.” Behind you, Jungkook cleared his throat, voice quiet. “Anytime.” There was something intimate in the silence that followed, something thick and unspoken. You finally turned, meeting his eyes.

He didn’t say anything, but he was watching you—really watching you. Not with teasing or smugness like Taehyung, but something quieter. Something... careful.

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The moody, overcast sky hung low as your group of undead moved silently across the clearing, a grim swarm of crawling, shuffling figures. Those who hadn’t needed rest—the tireless, restless ones—had followed you and the other crawlers, forming the largest horde of the weekend so far. It was impressive. Terrifying. Beautiful.

Jungkook kept close to your side, his gait eerily fluid now that he’d embraced the undead role. His makeup—smudged and dripping as intended—made him look like he’d clawed his way from a shallow grave. It was hard to look at him and not feel a chill, even knowing it was all fake.

Your target loomed ahead: the same weather-worn house from yesterday. The survivors had taken the whole day reinforcing it, piling fake furniture against doors, jamming wood panels over the windows, and even reinforcing the crawlspaces and drainage. You had to admit—you were impressed.

No ordinary zombie was going to breach those defenses.

But you and the crawlers weren’t ordinary.

You circled to the back, scanning every possible entry point. The drain was blocked. The cellar sealed. Windows barricaded. But then you spotted it—an open skylight above the sunroom extension. Small, maybe two feet wide, but you could make it through.

You just needed a lift.

Turning to Jungkook, you lowered your voice to a whisper. “How strong are you?” He blinked, caught off guard. “Uh—what?” You pointed toward the skylight. Jungkook followed your gaze, his expression morphing from confusion to surprise. “You want me to… hurl you up there?”

“If you think that’s too much, I can ask someone else,” you teased, your voice cool, deliberate. Jungkook's jaw set. “No way. I’ve got you.” He wouldn’t risk someone else making a mistake that could get you hurt. You grinned, already backing up to get a running start, moving in position as Jungkook did as well. “Alright then. Just don’t drop me.” He crouched, hands out in position. “You better jump like you mean it.”

The two of you moved like you’d practiced it for years. You dashed toward him, boots silent on the damp grass. At the right moment, you planted your feet into his hands. Jungkook grunted as he pushed upward with strength that surprised even you. The world tilted—sky, house, the sharp outline of the skylight racing toward you.

Fingertips caught the ledge. You gritted your teeth, swung a leg up, and wriggled through. It was tight—but you made it.

You dropped into the attic-like space below with a soft thud and a grin, heart pounding from the adrenaline. A second later, you peeked back through the skylight. Jungkook stood below, looking stunned. You whispered down, “I will never ask someone else for this shit ever again!” He gave a breathless laugh, already approached by the next crawler.

In the next few minutes, you helped pull up two more. One got through on their own, the other needed Jungkook’s full strength and a bit of a climb. From your high perch, you coordinated their positions through narrow crawlspaces and above ceiling beams. Inside the house, muffled voices from the survivors grew louder—unaware of the silent, slithering danger creeping above.

And then the screams began.

Chaos erupted inside.

One of the crawlers dropped from the attic into a bedroom and shrieked. Another lunged from the shadows of the hallway, forcing a survivor to tumble back and crash through a makeshift barricade. The rest of the horde—waiting like hungry wolves—poured through the newly opened path.

You grinned with satisfaction as the house devolved into beautiful, fake carnage.

By the time it was over, the “survivors” were either “dead” or fleeing into the woods with wildly flailing arms, laughing and screaming in equal parts. You climbed out through the front window, breathing heavy but beaming, makeup streaked with sweat again.

Jungkook waited by the tree line, breath caught in his throat when he saw you. “That was… insane.” You sauntered toward him, brushing a cobweb from your shoulder, the thrill still sparkling in your chest. “You mean brilliant,” you corrected, giving his shoulder a friendly nudge. “Couldn’t have done it without my undead catapult.”

Jungkook chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You were just—like—gone. I thought I overthrew you for a second.”

“Well, lucky for both of us,” you said, nudging him again, “I have excellent upper body strength.” He looked at you for a moment longer than he probably meant to, eyes tracing your face, your smirk, the fading makeup. There was something new in the way he was seeing you—somewhere between admiration and being completely, quietly floored.

“I’m seriously not sure if I should be impressed,” he murmured, “or mildly intimidated.” You raised a brow, amused. “Why not both?” Jungkook grinned—genuine, wide, and a little shy. “Yeah. Both works.”

And together, shoulder to shoulder, you wandered back toward camp, the last moans of the “dead” trailing off behind you.

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You had played through the night. One relentless wave after another, your massive horde had flushed the most of the remaining survivors out of every hideout they had pieced together over the weekend. Some screamed. Some laughed. Some fought back valiantly—but none of them lasted long. It had been glorious.

Jungkook had stuck by your side for most of it, shambling and snarling beside you as if he'd been part of your crew since day one. By now, he fully understood why you loved this—why Yoongi had defected to the undead team without hesitation. There was something cathartic about giving in to chaos, something addicting in being the fear rather than the prey.

But still… playing a survivor had made Jungkook feel more. Adrenaline. Hope. Loss. Victory. Desperation. And you. You, always right in the thick of it. There was something unforgettable about the way you'd looked at him, teasing and alive.

It was nearing 10 AM now. The fog was finally burning off the morning air. Everyone had dragged themselves back to base. Some were already sleeping in bunks or huddled in chairs. Others slumped over mugs of instant coffee. The ones that hadn’t been up all night, just came back from their zombification to pick up were you left of.

You had wandered into the break area for off-duty undead NSCs. There, without a word, you'd climbed onto the billiard table, peeled off your gloves and mask, and lay down flat on your back, arms draped across your stomach. Eyes closed. Still in costume. Still streaked with grime and fake blood. But utterly at peace.

And Jungkook couldn’t stop looking at you.

He wasn’t the only one. Taehyung leaned lazily against the wall next to Namjoon, watching you with a curious tilt of his head. “She’s knocked out cold?” Taehyung asked, though he already knew the answer. Namjoon smirked faintly. “Nah. Just recharging. Like a haunted Roomba.”

“Should I poke her?” Taehyung grinned, raising a finger.

“Do it and lose that finger,” Yoongi mumbled from his spot in a nearby armchair, eyes barely open. “She hasn’t slept properly since Thursday.” Jungkook smiled to himself at Yoongi’s comment. But then someone else entered the room. The last person Jungkook wanted to see.

Lukas.

The same guy who had all but tried to force himself on you as he arrived here on the first day, eager and overly familiar from the start. A former survivor who’d now joined the undead side like everyone else. And apparently still hadn’t taken the hint.

Lukas sauntered over to your resting spot, standing at the edge of the billiard table and launching into some one-sided conversation about how epic the finale last year had been and how this year would probably be even better, he’d totally bring better gear next year, and how “you and me should team up next time” and on and on.

You didn’t move much, didn’t open your eyes, but the subtle pinch of your brow was all Jungkook needed to see. You weren’t relaxed anymore. Jungkook set down the energy bar he’d been holding and stood up.

Namjoon noticed. “Oh?” he murmured, nudging Taehyung. Taehyung leaned closer. “Here we go.”

Jungkook ignored them both, grabbed a bottle of water and a bag of chips from the supply table, and made his way over to you. He stopped right beside Lukas, who faltered midsentence, startled by the sudden appearance of the younger man.

In slow, careful English, Jungkook said, “Make space, please.” You opened one eye in surprise.

Lukas blinked. Jungkook held the bottle out toward you. “Water. For you.”

You stared at him for a second, then slowly sat up to make room on the table, a small smile tugging at your lips. “Thanks,” you said, genuinely touched. You hadn’t asked him for anything—but you also wouldn’t say no. Especially not if it meant Lukas stopped talking.

Jungkook climbed up next to you without hesitation, stretching out on the green felt beside you, propping his head on one arm like it was the most natural thing in the world. He wasn’t even subtle about it—he just was there. Close enough to feel the heat of him again. Like last night.

Lukas stood awkwardly at the edge of the table, clearly thrown. “Uh… well. I guess… I’ll see you later?”

You hummed in acknowledgment but didn’t look at him. Lukas lingered for a second more, then mumbled something and left the room. Taehyung whistled low. “Oh damn.” Namjoon laughed under his breath. “That was smooth. Very nonchalant. Ten out of ten for execution.”

Yoongi cracked one eye open from his chair. “Is he lying next to her now?” Taehyung nodded. “Full-on pool table cuddling. He just stared that dude down in second language flirtation mode and won.” Yoongi closed his eye again. “About time.”

Jungkook ignored them, offering you the chips as well. You took one, still smiling. “Didn’t mean to steal your table,” he murmured. “You didn’t,” you said, voice soft and relaxed now. “You upgraded it.” His grin was small but pleased. You lay back down beside him, arms occasionally brushing as the room fell into a comfortable lull.

The room buzzed around you in muted tones—people talking in corners, the occasional thud of boots, a laugh carried on the tired air—but next to him, it felt like the eye of the storm. Warm, peaceful, grounded. You didn’t need words. Just the rise and fall of Jungkook’s chest next to yours and the shared quiet of mutual exhaustion. And this time, no one interrupted your peace.

That was, until Jimin appeared.

Without hesitation, he climbed up onto the billiard table with the agility of a cat and flopped across your legs like he belonged there. Which, apparently, he did. “Comfy,” Jimin murmured, his head pillowed on your thigh. “You’re crushing my soul,” you replied, flicking the back of his head affectionately. “Good. You weren’t using it.”

Jungkook snorted, as you muttered, “He always like this?”

“Worse when he’s had sugar.”

You all stayed like that until the walkie-talkie on your belt crackled and broke the spell. “HQ to zombie queen Sparkles. Everything’s in place. Megaphone announcement’s done. All survivors have been warned. Last stand is good to go.” Eriks voice offered.

You sighed, sitting up with an exaggerated groan. Jimin flopped onto the floor dramatically like you’d cast him off a cliff. Jungkook stretched beside you, rubbing a hand over his face and smearing the last of his undead face paint across his cheek. The three of you reluctantly peeled yourselves off the table and made your way to the final battlefield.

The terrain had been cleared. Flags were up. The megaphone had roared across the campgrounds announcing the final stand. The survivors, what few were left, had gathered and were bracing themselves behind makeshift defenses, guns ready, darts loaded.

You moved among your horde. Dead eyes. Snarling mouths. Fake blood drying on skin and clothes and fingernails. All of them buzzing with excitement and end-of-event adrenaline. Everyone was here.

Everyone… but Hoseok.

You were starting to worry, but then—

A scream. A scramble. And then, emerging from the woods, looking like he’d barely slept or eaten in a week, came Hoseok followed by a cameraman and hunted by two Zombies. Mud-streaked. Wide-eyed. Alive.

Barely.

Yoongi didn’t miss a beat—lunging from a bush with a banshee screech. Hoseok screamed. Like a horror movie final girl. Dropped to the ground, arms over his face, bracing for impact. Yoongi just cackled and stood over him. Namjoon helped Hoseok to his feet, who was still shaking like a leaf.

“How the hell—” Namjoon began, looking both amused and baffled, “—how are you still alive?” Hoseok blinked rapidly, eyes darting around at all the undead closing in now. “I… I did what she said,” he stammered, gesturing weakly toward you.

You raised an eyebrow. “What did I say?”

“Keep moving,” Hoseok replied. “Don’t stay too long in any one group. Hide when it’s quiet. I—” He swallowed. “I spent the night in a tree.” There was a beat of stunned silence. Taehyung let out a bark of laughter. “You feral squirrel! You slept in a tree?”

“I panicked, okay!” Hoseok shouted, hands in the air. The final stand didn’t last long after that. You and your horde overwhelmed the last defenders like a slow-moving tidal wave of moans, shrieks, and Nerf darts. The end came gloriously, with dramatic deaths and heroic sacrifice.

And then—it was over.

Cheers erupted. Everyone collapsed on the grass. Some in laughter, some in total exhaustion. Hugs were exchanged. Final photos were taken. The event was officially declared a success.

Which meant only one thing: the after party.

What began as a mad dash turned into a full-blown war in the dorms. Everyone rushed after you as they saw you make a run for the room and then to the limited bathroom stalls. You, Jungkook, Taehyung, and Yoongi ended up in a four-way standoff in the hallway outside the bathrooms, all equally caked in grime and fake blood.

“There’s four showers!” you said, already tugging at the zipper of your jacket. “We can do this. We can be civil.”

“We’re never civil,” Yoongi muttered, eyeing the doors like he was going to sprint at the first handle that turned. “I vote Taehyung showers last,” Jungkook said, pointing at Taehyung’s face. “You literally have glitter glued to your cheek.”

“It’s part of my character,” Taehyung retorted. “I was a vampire zombie warlord, thank you very much.”

“I call stall three,” Jimin shouted as he skidded in, already half out of costume. “And if anyone touches my conditioner, I will bite.” You laughed, giving up the illusion of control. “We’re all feral.” But you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Especially not the way Jungkook’s eyes kept drifting toward you, even now—mud-streaked, tired, and grinning like a man who had just found something worth crawling through dirt and fake gore to keep seeing.

From your group of eight, you, Jimin, Jungkook, and—surprisingly—Namjoon had won the great shower battle and secured first dibs on the stalls. Victory had never felt so warm and sudsy.

But that victory came with a price: the walk of shame.

Wrapped in nothing but a towel, hair still dripping and skin flushed from hot water and scrubbing off layers of fake gore, you had to walk barefoot from the shared bathroom back into your room—with them. Not your usual mix of female friends and old LARP buddies, but instead a full suite of K-pop idols with unfair cheekbones and far too many curious eyes.

You opened the door and stepped inside, water-slicked and entirely underdressed. Yoongi whistled, long and low.

Taehyung? Didn’t even pretend to be subtle. His eyes dragged over you like it was part of a performance piece. Jungkook, bless him, nearly dropped the hoodie he was folding and spluttered, “You—you forgot to grab clothes?”

You shrugged, casual as could be, striding across the room to your duffel bag. “Didn’t forget. Just didn’t want to lose my spot in the shower queue.” This wasn’t your first post-bathroom towel walk. But you had to admit, it was a lot easier around your usual chaos crew. You were used to that. You weren’t used to standing in a towel while the nation’s heartthrobs stared at you like you were a comet they weren’t supposed to look directly at.

You bent down, rifled through your things, and grabbed your black underwear and—

—pulled out your party outfit.

Jimin, still towel-drying his hair, froze. “You’re serious.”

“I’m dead serious.” As you wiggled into your panties, trying not to lose your dignity and keeping the towel in place, Jungkook caught Taehyung shifting on his bed and very pointedly moved to block his view. With Jungkook’s back turned to you like a protective wall, you quickly slipped on the rest of your clothes and zipped up the front of your fuzzy red panda onesie.

You were warm, soft, and immediately happier. Taehyung laughed, incredulous. “A red panda? For a party?” You grinned, cheeks flushed but triumphant. “All the Orga are wearing onesies tonight. And this one’s warm. And comfy. And now—” you spread your arms with mock pride “—I am fluffy.” Jimin ran over like a heat-seeking missile and threw his arms around you. “Confirmed. Very fluffy.”

Jungkook, finally looking at you in full red-panda glory, let out a soft laugh, and the last of the embarrassment in his expression faded into something gentler. He didn’t say it out loud, but the look in his eyes clearly read: adorable.

By the time the group of you arrived at the after-party, the hall had already transformed. Music was pumping, string lights strung between beams. People were dancing, drinking, lounging on couches—some still in costume, some freshly scrubbed clean like you, and others halfway in between.

You headed toward the bar, where Lea was already pouring drinks with practiced speed and familiar chaos, dressed in a beautiful dragon onesie.

“Beer?” she asked, without needing to be prompted.

“You know it.” You turned to Jungkook, who was already pulling out his wallet with that polite determination he always showed when trying to do something nice. “I’ll get hers too,” he said to Lea. You chuckled and lightly pushed his hand down. “No need, golden boy.”

“Huh?”

You leaned in, voice pitched over the music. “It’s my event, remember? My name’s on the staff list. I drink for free.” His eyes went wide. “Wait—you organizers drink for free?”

“Perks of power,” you said, and with a wink, handed him a beer instead—on your tab. Jungkook stared at it like it might explode in his hand. “You got me a drink?”

“Don’t look so shocked. You helped me catapult into a house full of screaming survivors, I figured I owed you one.” He took it with both hands like it was sacred. And then he blushed.

Hard.

Taehyung, passing behind him with two colorful drinks and glitter again clinging to his jaw, gave you a knowing smirk. “Careful. Jungkook might fall harder than that survivor who tripped into the fog machine earlier.” You raised your beer to your lips and shrugged, grinning. “I don’t mind a little drama.” And beside you, Jungkook drank, trying not to smile too hard—and failing.

The party had a warm chaos to it, the kind that made the exhaustion of the last few days dissolve into beer foam and basslines.

Somewhere during the first hour, a regular player—Mads, one of the older guys who had survived every single event you ran—took over Erik’s place at the grill. Erik, grateful, passed off the tongs with mock ceremony and rejoined the rest of the organizer crew.

That meant, for once, all of you (except poor Lea, glued to the bar like a bartender in some Viking saga) could give your traditional end-of-event speech.

So there you were: standing on the makeshift podium in your red panda onesie, Erik beside you in his lemur suit (complete with a striped tail and hauntingly round eyes), Pia in an inflatable frog getup, and four more of your crew in various animal-shaped fleeces. You each held beers, shouted into the mic, and barely kept a straight face.

“Thank you for not dying too early!” Erik called out, the lemur ears wobbling as he waved his beer in salute. “Thank you for dying dramatically!” Pia added. “And remember,” you said, holding your mic aloft with one paw-gloved hand, “when in doubt—scream louder.”

Your crew’s unofficial anthem blared from the speakers. And with that, the dance floor was officially open.

Players whooped. Some already half-drunk stumbled forward. Others started clapping, and the lights dimmed enough to encourage even the shy ones. Your crew, still in onesies, immediately launched into the most chaotic, uncoordinated, off-beat dancing the LARP world had ever seen.

You waved your arms like a raver raccoon on energy drinks. Pia was hopping. Erik did something disturbingly close to twerking with his lemur tail. It was a mess. Jungkook watched from the sidelines, drink in hand, shoulders shaking as he tried—and failed—not to laugh. “What… are they doing?” he asked quietly, in disbelief. “They’re dancing,” Namjoon said around a mouthful of chips. “I think.”

“No one taught them rhythm?” Taehyung asked, grinning. Yoongi chuckled. “Who needs rhythm when you’ve got that much conviction?” Jungkook took another sip of his beer, gaze lingering on you, red panda tail bouncing as you did a spin that nearly knocked over Pia. It was stupid. It was adorable.

But then his jaw tensed.

Because there, half-shadowed near the back of the hall, stood Lukas—again—watching you with a kind of focus that rubbed Jungkook the wrong way.

He stiffened.

Yoongi noticed immediately. “What’s up, lover boy?” Jungkook blinked, caught. “You’re staring at that guy staring at her,” Jimin chimed, leaning into Jungkook’s side like a nosy little devil. “You gonna do something or keep clutching that beer like it’s gonna kiss her for you?”

“He’s just… watching her. Again.” Jungkook’s tone was too neutral to fool them. Yoongi raised an eyebrow. “So you watch her, but when someone else does it, it’s creepy?”

“Yeah, because he didn’t get her hint. Not the first day, not earlier. He doesn’t even know her.” Jimin tilted his head. “And you do?” Jungkook opened his mouth—then closed it. “I know enough.”

“Then go talk to her,” Yoongi said simply. “It’s not that easy.” Jungkook looked away, jaw tight. “She’s… different. This isn’t some club. We’re in the woods. This whole thing’s temporary. What am I supposed to give her? A one-night stand in a barrack at the ass-end of nowhere?”

Yoongi was quiet for a moment. Then: “Why are you deciding for her?”

Jungkook blinked.

“If that’s all she wants,” Jimin added, “fine. Go for it and stop looking at her like a lovesick puppy. But what if she wants more?”

“I’m an idol,” Jungkook said quietly. “Schedules. Tours. Cameras. Chaos. I don’t even know where I’ll be next month. How do you fit something real into that?”

Yoongi leaned on the table next to him. “First of, this doesn’t look real to me,” and with that Yoongi pointed back at you and your friends now all twerking… in a circle… rubbing your butts together? “Second, maybe you don’t. Maybe she fits you into her life.”

That thought lingered, heavy and hopeful. Jungkook stared into the crowd, finding you again—laughing now as you leaned on the bar next to Lea, talking with some of the remaining players. One girl clasped your hand and said something earnest. Another guy raised his drink and said, “Best LARP I’ve ever done.”

You looked genuinely happy. Genuinely in your element. Jungkook felt his chest tighten. But before he could take a step—before he could even turn around—

There was a commotion.

All heads turned. Glass clinked. Music faltered for a second. Jungkook shoved his drink into Yoongi’s hand and moved. He didn’t hear Yoongi call after him. He was already in motion, eyes locked on you, on Lukas, on the way your shoulders tensed and your voice cut through the music like glass.

“Let me GO!”

Lukas had you by the arm—tight. His face was flushed, not just with drink but something rawer. Jungkook’s pulse surged. By the time he got to you, Erik and two other guys were already there, trying to pry Lukas off. You weren’t crying, but your face was pale, and the way you leaned back, straining against Lukas’ grip, made Jungkook’s stomach twist. Your body was tight with fury.

Jungkook didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t posture. He just stepped forward and gripped Lukas’s wrist—not his shoulder, not his chest, but right at the tendon and bone where Lukas was holding you. His grip was precise. Firm. Final. His other hand found your waist. Gentle. Protective. Steadying.

“Let go,” Jungkook said—low, dangerous, and razor-sharp. Lukas jolted at the tone, but his grip stayed locked on your arm. “I just wanted to talk—”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you snapped, voice ringing out above the crowd. “Not now. Not ever.” Lukas faltered, blinking at you like he couldn’t believe you’d just said that in front of everyone—as if his entitlement had never once been challenged. His hand stayed where it was, fingers tight around your skin.

Jungkook’s fingers pressed harder on Lukas’s wrist, just enough to make the point clearer. But you weren’t done. Your eyes blazed as your spine straightened. “If you don’t let me go in the next five seconds,” you said, voice shaking with rage, “I swear to god I will break your nose.” Jungkook could feel the rage vibrating through you—radiating off your body like a storm about to burst. He wasn’t sure if you were bluffing or if you were about to swing.

Honestly? He wasn’t sure if he should stop you if you swung.

But Lukas still didn’t let go. His pride puffed up like a balloon on the verge of popping. He looked around, suddenly aware of all the eyes on him. Of how many people weren’t stepping in to defend him—but you. Cornered, humiliated, he snapped. His voice turned sharp and bitter as he sneered at Jungkook, eyes flicking to the hand still resting protectively on your waist.

“What, a ching chong like you thinks he can just show up here and take my girl?”

The words hit like a slap—sharp, vile, and so incredibly wrong. Jungkook didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. He’d been called worse before—more vile, more venomous. He’d learned, long ago, to let it pass over him like cold wind. But here? In a place like this, surrounded by paint-stained props and foam swords and people just trying to have a good time? It surprised him. How casual the cruelty was.

And it surprised him even more—how fast you moved.

Your fists clenched, words hissed. “What did you just say?” Everything about that sentence—the racism, the possessiveness, the delusion—made your blood boil. And you lunged.

And Jungkook caught you. Barely.

His arms snapped around your waist like instinct. His fingers curled tight, grounding you as your momentum dragged both of you forward a step. He was strong, but you were all rage, and it took everything in him to anchor you still. Erik and his friends surged forward again, grabbing Lukas and dragging him off you.

You thrashed once in his hold, fists curled, jaw clenched. “Let me go,” you growled, low and lethal. “I’ll break his fucking jaw for that—I swear to God—" Every inch of you wanted to throw your fist into Lukas’s face. And you would’ve—if Jungkook didn’t hold you.

“Hey—hey,” he breathed against your temple, voice still calm, still quiet—but laced with something tight and simmering underneath. “He’s not worth it. Not your hands. Not your energy. He’s not worth you.”

But you were shaking with more than rage now—humiliation, helplessness, the aftershock of being touched like that, spoken to like that, in front of everyone. If not for Jungkook holding you tight, grounding you, you might’ve done it. You wanted to.

Lukas shouted something incoherent as Erik and his friends dragged him away, kicking and protesting. “This is bullshit! I didn’t even do anything—!” As they dragged Lukas toward the gate, shouting and protests growing quieter, you stood trembling—but trying to take slow and controlled breaths. Your hands shook as they fisted in Jungkook’s hoodie. Your jaw locked so tight it ached.

You weren’t scared. Not with Jungkook behind you, Erik standing guard, and half the event ready to rip Lukas apart. But you had been handled. In public. Dragged like you didn’t matter.

And that... stayed with you.

Jungkook’s grip loosened just slightly, but he didn’t let go. You didn’t either.

He glanced down, brows tight with worry. His hands were steady. But his pulse wasn’t. He could feel the fury in you—righteous, volcanic—and for a second, something deep inside him marveled. At how fast you’d defended him. He wasn’t proud that it had happened—wasn’t proud of being reduced to a slur in front of strangers. But he was proud of you.

Proud he’d had to catch you mid-swing because you’d chosen to step in—for him.

“You okay?” he asked softly.

“I’m fine,” you muttered automatically. But you weren’t. Your arm was red—angrily so—and your fingers, curled into his hoodie shaky. That told him all he needed to know. You weren’t fine. And the way the red panda fluff of your onesie caught in the light only made it more noticeable. Jungkook followed your line of sight, then looked down at you again, brows pinched.

“Can I see?” he asked gently, nodding toward your arm. You hesitated—just for a second—then gave a short nod. He let go of you slowly. You turned to face him as he carefully reached for your wrist. His fingertips brushed the discolored skin—hot, raised, aching.

You hissed through your teeth before you could stop it. He pulled back instantly. “Okay,” he said softly, like talking to a cornered animal. “You’re gonna need ice. And space.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

But your voice was strained, and your hand trembled again—this time against the chest of his hoodie, where you were still holding on.

You weren’t fine. You were furious. And humiliated.

Jungkook didn’t say anything else. He just looked at you. You were standing there—shaking, unsure, your arm throbbing now that the adrenaline had started to burn out of your bloodstream. You felt the ache settling in, the way your fingers trembled at your side, the warmth of Jungkook’s presence suddenly too close and not close enough.

Embarrassment burned hotter than the bruise.

You couldn’t look at him. Not really. Not after lunging like that. Not after being manhandled in front of half your own damn crew. Behind Jungkook, Jimin and Yoongi stood nearby. They hadn’t interfered but had clearly been ready to jump in if things had escalated. Jimin’s jaw was set, eyes still flinty and sharp with anger on your behalf. Yoongi, meanwhile, had that unreadable look—cool, assessing, but not uncaring.

Then Yoongi tilted his head, dry humor flickering in his eyes. “I’m just saying…” he said, glancing at your clenched fist. “Jungkook should’ve let you throw that punch.” That broke the tension like glass underfoot. You blinked up, startled. So did Jungkook.

A small laugh escaped you—wry and strained, but real. Jungkook huffed a soft sound. “Don’t encourage her,” he said, though his mouth twitched. “She was serious.”

Yoongi just shrugged like it wasn’t a big deal. “Exactly. When was the last time a pretty lady was ready to throw a punch for you?” that forced a chuckle out of you and Jungkook.Seconds later, Taehyung arrived with long strides and no smile in sight. His usual easy warmth was replaced by something clipped and focused as he held out a bottle of water to you.

“Erik’s walking him out,” he reported, eyes flicking to Jungkook, then back to you. “I called our security. He’s handled.” He paused. “Jungkook, you might want to press charges.” You nodded before Jungkook could answer, your fingers brushing his. Even that soft contact was shaky. Your grip was weak around a water bottle, and it took you more strength than normal to unscrew the cap. Your mouth was dry, but swallowing felt harder.

Jungkook’s voice was calm but resolute. “I’m not pressing charges.” That made your head snap toward him, brows pinched. He met your gaze. “It’ll only drag the event into it. Headlines, attention… you don’t need that.” The quiet that followed wasn’t reassuring. It wasn’t peace. It was the stillness of something raw, exposed.

You nodded slowly, but you felt small. Shrinking. The ember of humiliation sat low in your chest—tight and awful. Being grabbed like that—dismissed like that—had settled in your bones. Your voice was smaller than you intended. “I think I’m gonna sit down for a second.”

Jungkook didn’t hesitate. “Come on.” He placed a hand lightly on your back, steering you gently toward a quieter corner behind the bar. You weren’t sure how you got there—just that he never left your side. You could still feel the aftershocks in your hands. The tremble wouldn’t stop.

Lea saw you coming and immediately crossed the bar with urgency. She passed Jungkook a folded towel packed with ice, eyes widening at the redness blooming across your arm. “Thanks,” you murmured, pressing the bundle to your skin.

You sank onto the bench like your knees had finally given out. Jungkook crouched in front of you, eyes locked on your face. His brows furrowed—not with frustration, but with a quiet, watchful worry. He waited until your gaze finally lifted to meet his.

“I’m sorry,” you said softly, throat thick. “For… ruining the mood.”

“You didn’t,” Jungkook said immediately, voice low, unwavering. “You didn’t do anything wrong.” But still, the weight of it sat heavy in your chest—like you’d broken something sacred by needing help.

“Yeah, no offense,” Jimin chimed in gently from somewhere just behind Jungkook, “but the mood was already kinda dead when you guys started that weird circle twerk thing.” You blinked. Then snorted. Taehyung pulled another bench over, slouching onto it with theatrical despair. “Was that meant to be dancing? Because I think my eyes need therapy.”

Yoongi gave a low chuckle from behind a cup of water someone had handed him. “Honestly, I think I preferred the screaming zombies.” The laughter this time was softer, but it curled through your chest like something healing.

The boys were trying to lighten the air, you realized. Trying to give you a minute to feel normal again. And you realized—this was what safety felt like. Jungkook didn’t smile, though. Not really. He huffed, looking down with a rueful smile, then leaned in a little closer, voice quiet and serious. “Honestly? Would’ve been nice to watch Lukas get dropped flat. Especially by you.”

Yoongi gave a quiet snort of agreement, and Jimin let out a low, appreciative, “Damn.” Then Jungkook looked back up at you, head tilting. “And you came in swinging for my honor. That was… sweet.” Your stomach dropped. You groaned, burying your face in one hand. “Don’t make it sound like that.”

“What?” Jungkook grinned, teasing. “It was kinda romantic.”

“I hate this,” you mumbled into your hand, burning. “I should’ve just bitten him.”

“You were aiming,” Yoongi commented. “I saw that jaw clench.” Jimin leaned in, mock-serious. “Next time, lead with the knee.” Taehyung, blinked. “I miss five minutes of drama and apparently it turned into Mortal Kombat?” That finally earned a real laugh from you—soft and sore-throated but genuine.

You looked down at Jungkook—still crouched in front of you like you might fall over again if he wasn’t anchoring you. He looked up, eyes dark and gentle. “You sure you’re okay?”

You hesitated. Then nodded once. “…Getting there.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything to that. But the look in his eyes said enough.

✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩ͯ•͙͙✧⃝•͙͙✩ͯ┄•͙✧⃝•͙┄✩̣̣̣̣̣ͯ

Part 2

Masterlist

A/N: Hi! Just wanted to mention that I use ChatGPT and DeepL to clean up grammar and spelling in my writing. English is my second language, and this tools help me share stories the way I imagine them, without spending hours double-checking every word. Writing is just a hobby I enjoy after a full workweek—I’m not trying to make money from it. If you’re curious or have thoughts on it, I’d love to have a friendly discussion!

Taglist: @dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @canarystwin @mar-lo-pap @notyourfriendooo @bjoriis

Phone in hand, you opened your messages and quickly typed out a note to Jungkook: “Found my gate. Just waiting now 😊” As usual, it took a while for him to respond. That was something you’d grown used to. Being with Jungkook was like living in an echo—conversations happening slightly out of sync, affection delivered in delayed but meaningful beats.

It still felt surreal sometimes. The way you'd met him, how easily he had slipped into your life that first night—like he'd always been part of it. You'd welcomed him into your circle of friends without question, as if he was just some guy, not the Jeon Jungkook. That night together had been more than just impulsive—it had been oddly right. Real. And yet, somehow, the deeper emotional connection only started forming after the physical one.

The last few days of his vacation had been spent in the most ordinary ways—wandering your city, drinking coffee, watching dumb reality shows, laughing at inside jokes that formed way too fast. It had all been strangely easy. Strangely intimate.

One afternoon, you'd sat down with his lawyer and signed a non-disclosure agreement. That had been the one jarring moment. Formal. Cold. You remembered how Jungkook had kept glancing at you, like he was waiting for you to flinch or back out. You hadn’t. You’d just signed, asked for a pen that didn’t smudge, and moved on. If anything, it made him more affectionate afterward. Like he’d realized you were serious.

And then—he was gone. Just like that. Back to his world of stages and cameras, press schedules and airport chaos. You hadn’t put a label on anything. There had been no ‘are we something’ conversation, no dramatic goodbye. Just a kiss that lingered, and a promise to stay in touch.

You did. As often as time zones and chaos allowed, you texted, sent photos, shared voice notes. Sometimes hours passed between replies. Sometimes whole days. But the rhythm was steady. The thread stayed unbroken. Now, here you were. Sitting at an airport gate, boarding pass tucked inside your passport, heart a mess of nerves and excitement.

You were flying to Seoul.

To see him.

And even if nothing was official, even if the words hadn’t been said aloud—you couldn’t deny it anymore. This meant something.

You’d fought him on the visit at first. Not about going—God, no. You wanted to see him. Missed him. Dreamed of him. But the cost of an international flight was no joke, and your budget had limits. It would’ve taken you at least two more months to save up, even if you lived off instant noodles and cut every corner. You had told him so, somewhat shyly, trying to make it sound like it wasn’t a big deal. Jungkook, in true Jungkook fashion, had looked at you through a video call and simply said, “Don’t be stupid. A plane ticket isn’t going to bankrupt me.”

You’d groaned at that, partly amused, partly exasperated—and it sparked a longer conversation, one you were glad you had. Because just like that, money had become the shadow in the room. Not between you emotionally—he’d never made you feel less—but between your lives. The very real difference in scale. Jungkook could buy anything. Fly anywhere. And while he never flaunted it, you didn’t want to start something that made you feel like a kept secret, or worse, a guest in his world.

You’d told him you didn’t want gifts. Didn’t want him throwing money around to impress you. You just wanted him. He’d listened. Really listened. And then explained that paying for your flight wasn’t about spoiling you—it was about making it easier to be with you, when his job made it nearly impossible with the upcoming album to travel freely where he wanted to be. “If it were up to me, I’d be flying to you,” he’d said quietly. “But it’s not. So please, let me do this.”

In the end, you’d agreed. But you’d made your stance clear. He could cover the flights—but you’d pack your own toiletries, bring your own snacks, and cover your fun expenses while you were there. You weren’t arriving with empty hands.

So now, here you were.

About to board a flight to Seoul. Staying for three weeks. It still didn’t feel entirely real. Another small argument you’d had: accommodations.

You’d offered to book a hotel—at your own expense, no frills needed. It wasn’t that you didn’t want to be close to him. It was just... staying with him felt like a big step. Like something official. Something people in actual relationships did. But Jungkook hadn’t even let you finish the sentence.

“No.” One word. Flat. Final.

You blinked at him through the video call, and he softened when he saw your face. He wasn’t mad—just adamant. Steady in a way that made your stomach flutter.

“I want you home,” he’d said quietly. “I want to fall asleep next to you. Wake up next to you. I don’t want to waste time driving across the city every night to drop you off like you’re temporary.”

And then he added the real kicker, the one you hadn’t thought of: “And if I come to your hotel… if someone sees me there, sees you there—paparazzi could have a field day. I don't want you dragged into that. You don’t deserve that kind of attention.”

You understood, of course. It made sense. Practical, even. You knew what world he lived in—and what came with it. But it still felt weird. Like stepping into a role you hadn’t auditioned for. You weren’t his girlfriend—not officially. You hadn’t had that talk. You hadn’t labeled anything. Yet here you were, planning to sleep in his bed. In his space. With his driver picking you up. Like you belonged there.

The dissonance was strange. Sweet, but strange.

Still, he wanted this. And if you were being honest with yourself, so did you. So you’d caved, of course. Not because you didn’t have boundaries—but because that quiet, vulnerable side of him? The one that peeked through his fame and confidence? That version of Jungkook you couldn’t say no to.

So you were going to his home. A private driver was going to meet you at Incheon airport with a small placard bearing your name—another thing you didn’t really need, but Jungkook had insisted on, citing security and comfort. And once the workday was over, once he was done being the global superstar the world knew him as, you’d finally see him again.

Not on a screen. Not through messages. But in person.

So you packed for Seoul. Not like you were meeting your maybe-boyfriend. No—like you were about to walk into something quietly important. Something real.

And the thought of seeing him again—offstage, unfiltered—made your stomach knot with something dangerously close to excitement.

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The flight had been as comfortable as a long-haul business class flight could be—plush seats, a quiet cabin, even a decent meal you didn’t have to pay extra for. You’d done your best to relax, but anticipation buzzed beneath your skin, tugging at your nerves the closer the plane got to Seoul.

At the arrivals gate, your driver had held up a discreet sign with your name. He was polite, maybe a little stiff at first, trying hard to speak English as he helped with your luggage. But when you replied in Korean—halting but clear—his face visibly brightened in relief. The ride became lighter after that. Your Korean had improved quickly in the last few weeks, mostly out of necessity. Daily conversations with Jungkook had turned from playful chaos to something deeper, smoother. You still stumbled over grammar, and your spelling was a disaster, but you made it work. And he always answered patiently, even when you texted him three different ways to ask the same question.

The driver brought you straight to Jungkook’s apartment. It was late afternoon, the sky a watercolor mix of soft greys and warm golds, the city humming in the background. Jungkook wasn’t home yet, caught up with work, but the door code worked just like he said it would. The space inside was quiet and immaculately clean—modern, tasteful, and subtly masculine. Not cold, though. Not with the welcome you got.

Because the moment you stepped inside, you were greeted by a tall, sleek doberman trotting toward you, ears perked and tail wagging slow and steady. Bam. You crouched instinctively, hand held out, heart thudding a little—he was much bigger than you'd expected from old videos. But he sniffed your fingers, let out a soft huff, and nudged his head under your palm.

You melted immediately.

Bam followed you around the apartment like a quiet shadow while you explored only the spaces Jungkook had told you were fine to use. You didn’t go into his bedroom, unsure if that was too much. You felt like an intruder, a guest in something delicate, even though he had been the one to insist you stay here. You were still wrapping your head around it—this whole thing. You. Him. Here.

Jetlag hit like a freight train not long after. You curled up on the big living room couch, your travel bag still half unpacked in the corner. Bam, loyal and massive, hopped up beside you with a low grunt and carefully tucked himself against your side. His weight was comforting. His presence grounding.

You sent Jungkook a quick message:

You: i’m here. bam says hi. talk soon <3

You passed out before you saw his reply.

Later that evening, Jungkook stepped into his home quietly, the soft sound of the door the only warning. He didn’t call out. Just slipped off his shoes and padded in, shoulders loose with exhaustion—until he turned the corner and saw you.

You were curled up in the middle of his living room, tangled in a throw blanket, mouth parted slightly in sleep. One arm was draped around Bam, who was nestled against you like a guard and a traitor all in one. His eyes flicked open at the sound of his master entering, but he didn’t move—he just blinked lazily and stayed close to you. He couldn’t remember the last time Bam had taken to someone that quickly—or that completely.

Jungkook stood there a long moment, completely still, a soft ache blooming in his chest.

It wasn’t the sight of you in his home.

It was how right it looked.

You, barefoot and flushed from sleep, his dog choosing you without hesitation. You fitting into his space like you’d always belonged there.

He smiled slowly, heart warm and full, and whispered so quietly that neither of you heard it:

“Welcome home.”

He approached slowly, kneeling beside the couch and gently rubbing behind Bam’s ear. The dog grumbled, low and disgruntled, when Jungkook nudged him away, resisting for a moment before finally huffing and hopping down with reluctant steps. He gave Jungkook a betrayed look before slinking off to his usual spot in the corner, flopping down with a groan of effort.

You stirred faintly in your sleep, your hand reaching absently for the warmth that had just left your side. A soft whimper left your lips as your arm fell against empty cushions. Jungkook's heart ached.

But he didn’t let you stay cold for long. With practiced care, he maneuvered into the space Bam had just vacated, lifting the blanket slightly and slipping in beside you. You mumbled something in your sleep, brow furrowed briefly before it smoothed out again when his arm circled your waist. You exhaled slowly and relaxed into him, instinctively curling closer, your head tucking beneath his chin like it belonged there.

He wasn’t tired. Not really. Adrenaline still buzzed faintly in his veins from a long day, but lying there with you in his arms melted every ounce of tension in his body. The way you fit against him. The steady rise and fall of your breathing. It was all too easy to close his eyes and let himself fall.

Still, from past experience, Jungkook knew the jet lag would catch up to you fully in a few hours. You’d wake in the middle of the night, confused and out of place, maybe even a little anxious in the unfamiliar dark. He wanted to be there for that moment—to meet it with calmness and quiet company.

So he stayed, anchored to you. He would wake with you. He would walk you through the time zone shift and sleepy confusion and maybe heat up some tea. And then he’d hold you again, as long as you’d let him. For now, though, he simply breathed you in and let himself drift.

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You woke up groggy and disoriented, your mind struggling to place the moment. For a few seconds, it was like surfacing from a deep, unfamiliar dream—blinking into the darkness, unsure where you were, let alone what year it was. And then you felt it. A warm arm draped tightly around your waist. A solid chest beneath your cheek, rising and falling in a calm rhythm. Someone was holding you—and for a panicked breath, your heart jumped into your throat.

But the scent hit you a second later—warm cotton, clean skin, and something faintly musky and familiar. Jungkook. You exhaled in relief, sinking back down into him with a soft sigh, the tension draining from your muscles all at once. Oh, right. Seoul. His apartment. Your nap on the couch with Bam. You hadn’t expected to fall asleep for so long—or to wake up like this. With him.

A low, husky groan rumbled beneath your ear, followed by the gravel-soft voice you’d missed hearing in person.

“You awake? … Awake?”

His voice cut through the quiet of the apartment, rough with sleep, brushing against your skin like velvet. You hummed an answer, still not fully ready to rejoin the world. You could’ve stayed like this a little longer, maybe forever—but the haze of jet lag was clearing, and restlessness had started creeping in.

You shifted slightly, intending to sit up—but Jungkook’s arm tightened around you, the pressure a little too firm for someone half-asleep, his strength not yet tethered by full consciousness.

“Hey,” you whispered with a sleepy laugh. “That’s my… back you’re cracking.”

He grunted, barely lifting his head, and loosened his hold—just enough to still keep you against him. You didn’t really mind. After so many weeks apart, after only seeing him through flickering screens and filtered photos, being this close to him again felt surreal. Grounding. Like your whole body remembered something your mind was still catching up to.

After a long moment of quiet, just the two of you breathing each other in, Jungkook’s voice came again, still a little slurred. “Wanna eat? I could make something…” At the mere mention of food, your stomach gave an embarrassingly loud growl, betraying you completely. You laughed softly, hiding your face in his chest.

“I mean… yes,” you murmured, “but no. Go back to sleep. I’m not moving.”

But Jungkook was already sitting up, dragging you with him like a giant human blanket. His arms stayed wrapped around you as he shifted, and his head dipped to your neck, lips brushing against your skin as he buried his nose there and sighed.

“You smell different,” he mumbled against your collarbone.

“Is that a complaint?” you teased, still half-draped over him.

“No.” He shook his head lightly. “Just… missed it.”

You smiled, a little dazed, and tucked your arms around him tighter. You were both a little stiff, your backs mildly protesting from the awkward sleep on the couch, but honestly? There were worse ways to start a day than tangled up with him, sore but smiling, in the quiet cocoon of morning.

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You’d arrived on a Thursday, so you woke up Friday morning—jet lagged and disoriented, but wrapped in Jungkook’s sheets and warmth. The day had started slow and soft, exactly the way it should when you’d just flown halfway across the world. And honestly, waking up at an absurd hour because of jet lag had its perks, because you had woken up early, and that only gave you more time to start the day gently. The world was quiet. Still. Yours.

Jungkook stayed near you that morning, brewing coffee and making toast like it was a sacred ritual. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. The way he moved around you, careful and present, already said enough.

It was easy to fall into something like a routine. Too easy, maybe. Like you never left each other’s side.

He’d cleared as much of his schedule as possible before your arrival and only had to leave for dance practice that day. Then the weekend would be entirely yours. Even the week after, he’d made sure to carve out as much time with you as possible. There’d be a few appointments he couldn’t skip, but nowhere near as many as usual. He wanted to be around you. He’d made that very clear. Not that he needed to say it out loud. The way he hovered around you that morning, stealing lazy kisses like he had all the time in the world, said it better than words ever could.

He wanted you involved—you could feel it in the way he clung to each moment with you, unwilling to waste even a second—to show you his world the way you had shown him yours. One of those ways included tagging along to his dance practice, where Taehyung and Yoongi were set to join. He’d already talked to them about you—casually, naturally, like you were simply part of his life. He’d even gone the extra mile to make sure nothing major would be filmed that day, just in case you ended up on camera.

That part made your chest warm in a way you didn’t know how to name.

Yoongi and Taehyung had known about you for weeks now, ever since that night Jungkook had been on vacation, since the night he had wrote them about you. He hadn’t meant to fall for anyone really—especially not someone outside the industry. But you didn’t orbit him like so many others did. You’d walked straight into his life, and instead of pulling away, he’d let you stay.

They’d seen the shift in him. The quieter smiles, the full nights of sleep, the way he stopped mindlessly scrolling late at night because he was on the phone with you instead. He wasn’t seeing anyone else. He didn’t want to. Still, you and Jungkook weren’t officially together, not in any public or defined sense—but even that felt like a technicality.

They knew enough to know that whatever this was, it mattered.

That said, the dance practice didn’t start with any proper introductions.

Yoongi and Taehyung arrived barely on time—Yoongi blaming traffic, Taehyung blaming his iced coffee addiction—and both of them gave you brief but warm nods as they breezed into the studio. There wasn’t a second to spare. The choreographer was already running warm-ups, and Jungkook had been pulled aside for notes on the updated routine.

So no handshakes, no formalities. Just quick glances and quiet acknowledgments. You weren’t offended. You were just grateful Jungkook had brought you along.

The dance studio was enormous and dimly lit in that moody, creative sort of way, mirrors lining one wall, the faint scent of sweat and fabric softener clinging to the air. You’d taken a seat against the mirrored wall, laptop open, tapping away occasionally—but mostly you were watching him. Quietly. Intently. The way Jungkook moved—precise but fluid, powerful and impossibly graceful—it was like watching sound come to life. He'd worried you'd be bored watching him for hours. But you weren’t. Not even close.

You weren’t sure he’d ever believe how easily he captivated you just by being himself. What was harder to enjoy, however, was the female background dancer paired with him in the choreography. From a purely professional perspective, she was skilled. Confident. She executed the routine well. But you weren’t oblivious. Every touch that lingered just a second too long, every extra flick of her eyes toward Jungkook, every unnecessary smile—it all added up. She was trying.

And though Jungkook was polite—ever the professional—you could see the discomfort beginning to pinch at his expression in brief, subtle flickers. Still, the routine required proximity, some contact, a storyline. And no matter how much he dialed back, there was only so much he could do in front of a full room.

And you weren’t the only one noticing.

Taehyung had paused mid-stretch, one arm hooked behind his head, his eyes scanning across the studio before they landed on you. You sat quietly, unreadable, your fingers still moving on the keyboard even as your shoulders had gone rigid. You didn’t say anything, didn’t frown or scowl or even blink too long—but the tension clung to you like smoke. Your polite smile had dulled, just slightly, around the edges. And with each unnecessary brush of the dancer’s hand against Jungkook’s chest, it faded a little more.

Every time that dancer reached for Jungkook like she wasn’t acting, like she meant it—Taehyung saw the flicker in your expression. The stillness behind your eyes. Like you were trying not to flinch. Yoongi caught it too. He’d sat himself against the opposite wall, his back against the mirror, pretending to scroll through his phone—but he was watching both of you with quiet calculation. He didn’t need to say anything. Neither of them did.

Jungkook caught it too. He was watching you through the mirror when he thought no one would notice.

Between movements, he glanced in the mirror—and saw you sitting there, trying to focus on your work, trying not to let any emotion leak through. But he knew you. He’d memorized every micro-expression, every twitch of your fingers. And he hated the way your jaw had tensed the moment someone else’s hands had found their way to his skin for to long.

“Break,” he called, cutting off the music mid-count. “Can we take ten?”

The dancer—persistent as ever—stepped toward him, her voice light and playful. “Want to grab water together?”

Jungkook didn’t even blink. “No. I need the room for a second,” he said, gaze flicking to Yoongi and Taehyung. “You guys can stay. Just—everyone else out, please.”

His tone wasn’t unkind. Just final. The dancer blinked, clearly thrown, but didn’t push it. One by one, the others filed out, some tossing curious glances back, sensing the undercurrent but not quite placing it. The door clicked shut behind them, leaving the quiet hum of the AC and the soft squeak of rubber soles in its wake. You looked up from your laptop as Jungkook approached, breath still heavy, sweat at his temples. He stopped a few feet in front of you, his jaw tight.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, voice low enough for only you, to hear. “I didn’t like that and...”

You tilted your head, offering a half-hearted shrug, trying to play it off with a weak smile. “I know it’s your job.”

“I know,” he echoed, already reading everything behind your eyes. “But it didn’t feel right. And she knew what she was doing.”

Taehyung, ever tactful when he wanted to be, stood and stretched with exaggerated effort. “Yoongi-hyung, I think I need coffee. Right, now. Like, desperately.”

Yoongi didn’t even look up from where he was kneeling to tie his shoes. “I thought you were cuttingback on coffee.”

“I lied.” Taehyung replied smoothly.

The two of them disappeared without another word, leaving you and Jungkook alone in the quiet, mirror-lined studio. The door clicked shut behind them, and Jungkook slowly sank down to kneel in front of you. He reached out but didn’t touch you yet, like he needed to explain something before he earned that right again.

“She’s a coworker. That’s it,” he said, eyes locked onto yours. “But it didn’t look like that, did it?” You didn’t answer right away. Your silence must’ve said enough, because Jungkook’s lips pressed into a tight line.

“I should’ve stepped back. I should’ve shut it down the second she tried.” His hands curled into loose fists in his lap. “You flew across the world to be here. And I just stood there and let her touch me like that in front of you.”

“She’s not a stranger to you,” you said, gently—not accusing, but not softening the truth, either.

“She is,” Jungkook said firmly. “I’ve danced with her maybe twice before. We don’t talk. I don’t want her. I just—” He sighed and sat back a little, his shoulders slumping. “I’ve been thinking… Maybe I should talk to the choreographer. Ask if we can change that section. Or switch the dancer.” Jungkook was rambling now. As if talking more to himself than you.

You blinked, surprised. “What?”

“I don’t want her touching me like that again,” he said, the words fast, almost rushed like he’d been holding them in. “Not just because of what it looked like—because I hated how it felt. She knew what she was doing.”

You nodded. “But you didn’t do anything wrong.”, you said softly, meeting his gaze.

“I don’t care,” Jungkook said, leaning closer. “I’ve been in relationships where jealousy ruined everything. Accusations, silence, punishment. It got ugly. Where we spent more time questioning each other than actually being together. I don’t want that with you.”

You exhaled slowly. “I told you I understood. I’m not jealous,”, and the way you said it made him look up. “I mean, okay. I felt something. I didn’t love watching her touch you, but I’m not angry at you. I just needed to know if you saw it, too.”

“I did,” Jungkook didn’t smile. He lowered himself to sit in front of you, cross-legged, damp hair falling into his eyes. His eyes searching your face. “And I believe you when you say you understand. But understanding doesn’t mean it didn’t sting. I saw your face. You shouldn’t have to pretend like you’re fine with it just to be supportive. I don’t want you to swallow things for my sake.”

There was a pause.

“I just—” He rubbed at the back of his neck, voice quieter. “I don’t want this to be something that chips away at us, slowly. Before we even get the chance to be real.”

Your heart ached at the sincerity in his voice. “You think that could happen?”

“I think I’ve seen it happen,” he admitted. “And it scares me. I’ve never had something like this before. Something that feels… good and safe and like it could actually last. I’m scared of ruining it.”

You reached out, your hand brushing his where it rested between you. “Jungkook, you’re not ruining anything.”

He looked down at your joined hands, then back at you. He nodded. “But I want you to really know it. I don’t just want to be good on stage and careful in private. I want to be someone you can trust not to hurt you, even when you’re not watching.”

You smiled, heart catching in your throat. “I trust you, Jungkook.”

He leaned forward at last, his forehead resting against yours, his hand warm as it wrapped around your fingers. He smiled, just barely, like it still didn’t feel real to hear you say that. He leaned forward, his forehead pressing gently to yours, his hand curling around your fingers like an anchor.

“I wish I could tell the world about you,” he murmured. “I hate hiding this. But I want to keep you close.”

You smiled, and the tension in your chest finally gave way. “Even when I barely talk and just type on my laptop?”

“Especially then,” he said, eyes glinting with warmth.

“Okay,” you murmured. Nodding. Believing.

The rest of the room faded after that. The tension began to drain from your shoulders. You let out a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding and let him pull you into a hug. You let out a little sound of protest as he hugged you tightly, your cheek squished against his chest, which was still faintly damp from earlier practice. You wrinkled your nose and tried to push lightly against him.

“Ugh, you’re sweaty, Jungkook,” you grumbled. “Now you make me sweaty.”

He leaned back just enough to look down at you, a mischievous glint in his eyes and the ghost of a smirk playing at his lips. “Oh?” he said, chuckling low in his throat. “Are you daring me to make you sweaty?”

Your eyes widened a fraction, caught between amusement and something heavier. Your fingers stilled against his shirt. “Jungkook—”

He grinned, his voice dropping. “Because I would really like that challenge.”

You swatted at him, but your fingers didn’t stray far. Not really. Now, standing this close, with his warmth clinging to your skin and his breath brushing the edge of your jaw, it was hard to ignore how much you’d missed him. “I’m just saying,” Jungkook murmured, pressing his lips gently against neck, “I’ve been very respectful, today. I’ve been good.”

You gave him a slow, knowing smile. “You have.”

“But I don’t want to behave anymore,” he added, lips grazing your temple. “Not if you don’t want me to.”

Your stomach flipped, and your hands gripped lightly at the hem of his shirt as you leaned into him. Your voice was quiet, but certain. “I don’t.”

He hummed like he’d been waiting for that—like he already knew, but would wait for you—but needed to hear it anyway. His hands settled on your waist, grounding, careful, and his kiss was slow and deep, like he’d been holding onto it for far too long.

You lingered like that—just a moment longer—before a distant shuffle reminded you both where you were, and what was still ahead.

Because somehow, as practice started again after the break, even though the female dancer’s lingering glances didn’t stop, it was easier. Easier to sit through the rest of it knowing exactly where you stood with him. Easier to ignore the subtle looks she sent him during water breaks, when you knew—without even needing to check—that Jungkook’s gaze would always find yours, quietly checking in on you like he couldn't help it.

And then, eventually, practice wound down. The choreographers called it a day. Dancers peeled off in twos and threes, chatter echoing down the hall. The energy in the room began to cool, leaving behind the heavy press of silence and your quietly building nerves. You shut your laptop and packed your things slowly, fingertips tingling with leftover adrenaline—not just from practice, but from what came next.

Something Jungkook hadn’t pushed you toward.

But something he clearly wanted.

A proper introduction.

Taehyung and Yoongi lingered back as everyone else filed out, casually pretending they weren’t waiting for Jungkook’s signal. He gave it with a tilt of his head and a soft, “Hey, guys—come meet her.”

Your stomach flipped again, harder this time.

Even though you’d heard about them from Jungkook for weeks—had seen their faces in performances, in behind-the-scenes clips, in his photos—nothing really prepared you for what it was like to meet them for real. In person. In a quiet, echoing studio where they were no longer just global icons, but his friends.

Taehyung was taller in real life, wearing a fuzzy cardigan that somehow made him look both rich and soft. He smiled like he already knew all your secrets. Yoongi moved slower, hands in his pockets, expression unreadable but not unfriendly. And they were still international superstars, no matter how casually they approached.

You smiled nervously but held your ground. “Hi. I’m—uh—”

“We know,” Taehyung grinned, stepping forward first. “It’s good to finally meet you.”

Yoongi nodded in agreement. “Took him long enough.”

You laughed quietly, feeling the warmth begin to settle in your chest. Jungkook stepped beside you, still in his sweat-damp shirt, looking slightly more nervous than you were.

“I’ve told them about you,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “Like… a lot.”

There was a soft pause—one of those rare moments that wasn’t awkward, just gently charged. Everyone in the room knew Jungkook didn’t bring people around often. Definitely not women. Definitely not ones who made him rearrange his whole schedule and his whole mood.

Taehyung tilted his head a little, eyeing you with interest—but not the sharp, assessing kind you were worried about. Just the warm curiosity of someone who'd heard too much secondhand and was finally getting to fill in the blanks.

“So,” he began casually, hands in his pockets, “how do you like Seoul so far?”

You smiled, grateful for the low-pressure question. “Honestly? I haven’t seen that much of it yet. But what I have, I’ve liked a lot.”

Yoongi raised a brow. “Wait, seriously? You haven’t shown her anything yet?”

You gave an innocent shrug just as Taehyung groaned, dramatically scandalized. “Jungkookie! What are you even doing?”

Jungkook held up both hands. “She’s staying a while, okay? I was gonna show her around—just not yet. We’ve been resting first!”

You laughed, nudging him with your hip. “To be fair, I did need to recover from the flight.”

“Still,” Yoongi muttered, shaking his head with mock disappointment. “You bring someone all the way here and don’t even take her to Han River. Rookie mistake.”

“Not even Hongdae?” Taehyung added, hand to his chest like he was offended on Seoul’s behalf.

“I will!” Jungkook said, exasperated and laughing now. “We have time. You all act like I’m messing this up already,” Jungkook grumbled, running a hand through his hair, but his smile gave away that he was enjoying the teasing. “Can I live?”

“Barely,” Taehyung shot back, grinning.

You chuckled softly, watching the exchange with a growing sense of ease. “It’s okay, really. He showed me his home so far , so we’ve been kind of a homebody since I got here.”

“Homebody with him?” Taehyung asked, teasing. “That’s dangerous.”

You laughed softly. “He’s alright. A little dramatic sometimes.”

Jungkook scoffed. “Me? Dramatic?”

“You said Bam was a traitor because he cuddled with me.” You raised a brow at him.

“He is my puppy,” he defended, then added quieter, “You already like him more…”

You rolled your eyes, smiling despite yourself.

 Yoongi made a disgusted face. “Okay, can we not flirt in 4K right now?”

Taehyung grinned wide, clearly enjoying himself. But before the teasing could get too far, Yoongi shifted the topic with an easy tone. “You two wanna come by later? Me, Hobi, and Jimin are grabbing food. Just something casual. You could tag along.”

Jungkook shook his head, looking genuinely regretful. “Can’t tonight. We’ve got plans.” Your blush returned like a reflex, but you didn’t say anything, just adjusted the strap of your bag with sudden interest.

“Ohhh,” Taehyung said, dragging the word out, his smile going fox-like. “You just don’t want us around her too much. Worried we’ll steal her.”

“You wouldn’t,” Jungkook grumbled.

“I was planning to steal her,” Yoongi added dryly. “You are an idiot for not making a move earlier anyway.”

“That’s what we all said,” Taehyung agreed immediately. Nodding your way. “When you came back from that trip going on and on about her? All of us were like, ‘You didn’t make her your girlfriend?’ We were about ready to write you ourselves.”

“Hey!” Jungkook sounded scandalized, face burning bright red now. “She just got here!”

“You’ve been talking about her for weeks,” Yoongi deadpanned.

“Yeah, and the NDA? That was girlfriend energy,” Taehyung said, nodding toward you. “That was ride or die behavior.”

You blinked, then giggled face starting to get red as well. “I just didn’t want to cause trouble.”

Yoongi looked at Jungkook. “And this are the reactions why we all decided you are an idiot for not locking it down then and there.”

Jungkook groaned into his hands while you smiled, cheeks warm. “Okay, okay! I get it,” he said, muffled. Taehyung was practically bouncing now. “So? Did you ask her properly now, or do I have to?”

“I was going to—later!” Jungkook exclaimed, still flustered. Then, muttering as he glanced sideways at you: “I had a whole thing planned…”

You leaned in slightly, voice soft with a teasing edge. “Was it before or after sweating all over me at dance practice?”

He made an exaggerated sound of protest. “You liked that.”

You gave him a look. “Did I?”

“You did,” he said with a grin, already wrapping an arm around your shoulders. “And if you didn’t, I’ll make you like it.”

“Ugh,” Yoongi groaned, grabbing his bag. “I’m out. Text us if you two get married or something.”

“Wait, are we invited?” Taehyung asked you with a grin as he followed Yoongi.

“Depends,” you called after him, smirking. “On how much you bully him between now and then.”

“I can stop bullying him immediately. Cold turkey. Not a single jab from here on out.” Taehyung spun dramatically on his heel, hand to his chest like you’d just wounded him. You raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Then you’re definitely not invited.”

A beat of silence. Then—Taehyung burst into laughter, shoulders shaking as he gave Jungkook a look of exaggerated sympathy. “Man, she’s worse than us.”

“She’s better than us,” Yoongi said, already halfway out the door. “You better keep her, Jungkook. Or we will.”

Jungkook just stood there for a second, lips parting in a soft smile that made his whole face light up. His eyes flicked to you and then back to his friends, something tender settling deep in his chest. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

And as the door swung closed behind Yoongi and Taehyung’s teasing voices, Jungkook didn’t even seem to notice they were gone. His hand brushed down your back, grounding and light, his grin lingering even as he sighed like he couldn’t quite believe this was real.

“You know,” he murmured, “they’ve never liked anyone this fast.”

You looked up at him, lips twitching. “Even if it’s mostly just to make fun of you?”

He laughed, eyes crinkling at the corners. “They like you because of that.” Then he leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead, voice soft and filled with warmth.

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽     

By the time you two finally made it home, it was well past dinner time. Dance practice had—as usual—run later than expected. The sky was already dark, your limbs heavy from sitting through hours of choreography and quiet nerves. Jungkook unlocked the door with one hand, the other holding three stacked takeout containers, while you shuffled in behind him, kicking off your shoes and already sighing at the familiar comfort of his apartment.

“I still think you should’ve let me carry something,” you said as you reached to take two of the boxes from him.

“And let you mess up my perfect balance?” Jungkook grinned, nudging the door shut with his heel. “I had a system.”

You laughed, nudging him with your elbow as you both moved toward the kitchen. “Your system involved leaning all the containers against your face. I’m not convinced.”

“I looked cool.”

“You looked like a walking bibimbap ad.”

Jungkook let out a boyish chuckle, placing the food down on the counter. “Still cool.”

As you helped him unpack the containers, the smell of spicy rice cakes and grilled meat filled the air. You reached for the plates as he started opening the lids, already falling into a rhythm you hadn’t even realized had formed between you. He’d set the table, and you’d plate the food. He’d pull out drinks, and you’d grab chopsticks. Like you’d done it a hundred times before.

You started telling him about what you did during his practice. “Oh—Pascal and Flora say hi,” you added with a grin, referring to your two best friends from home. “They’ve been trying to find cheap flights for next time, but Flora refuses to fly economy again after last time. Apparently his spine still hasn’t forgiven him.”

Jungkook chuckled, setting two glasses of sparkling water down. “He sounds like Namjoon.”

You smirked. “You say that like it’s an insult.”

He opened his mouth to reply, but then paused, chopsticks in hand, his eyes landing on you as you shifted around his kitchen like it was your own. And just like that, the moment slowed. He blinked, watching you with quiet wonder. The sound of you humming under your breath, the way you straightened the napkins even though no one would notice, the ease with which you belonged here—it all struck him harder than he expected.

Domestic. That was the word for it.

And for someone who lived most of his life on stages, in airports, and under blinding lights, the realization that something so quiet could feel this… right? It hit like a punch to the chest.

You looked over at him, catching his expression. “What? Did I use the wrong word again?”

His eyes flicked back to yours, startled from his thoughts, and he quickly shook his head. “No—no, you didn’t. Actually, your Korean’s gotten really good. Really fast.”

You beamed, proud. “I had a good teacher.”

His face lit up as he opened his mouth. “Me—”

“Eumi,” you interrupted innocently. “You know, the one I started learning with?” Jungkook let out an exaggerated groan and immediately crossed the space between you, dramatically draping himself over your back as you laughed.

“You’re so mean to me,” he mumbled into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, his lips dangerously close. “Here I was, waiting for my praise. And you give the credit to your friend?”

You snorted. “She deserves it. She got me through verb conjugation hell.”

Jungkook groaned again, this time lower, like the betrayal physically pained him. “I knew I should’ve snatched you the moment I met you.” You rolled your eyes fondly, tilting your head just slightly into the warmth of him as you reached for the last of the banchan. “Why didn’t you? Pascal and Flora think you were a coward.”

“I was a coward,” he murmured, pressing his cheek to your shoulder. “Everyone knew it. Even the hyungs gave me shit the moment I came back from that trip.”

You laughed. “Really?”

“You should’ve seen the group chat. I told them I met someoneand a little bit about you, and instantly it was—‘Why didn’t you make her your girlfriend already?’ ‘What’s wrong with you?’ ‘Do you need me to write the text for you, Jungkook?’” He groaned softly, mimicking Yoongi’s unimpressed tone. “Namjoon even offered to draw me a diagram on how to confess.”

You grinned, clearly delighted by the image. “Poor thing. Peer-pressured into love.”

Jungkook shot you a mock glare, but it was softened by the way his eyes sparkled. “You make it sound like I didn’t want to.”

“Well…” you let the word hang teasingly in the air, plucking a piece of pickled radish from the side dish tray. “Did you actually have a plan to ask me? Or were you just bullied into into the topic by Yoongi and Taehyung?”

You expected him to laugh, to deflect the way he usually did—but instead, he hesitated. His mouth opened like he had something to say, then closed again. A beat passed. He groaned softly and leaned forward, burying his head against the crook of your neck as he mumbled something you couldn’t quite catch, his breath warm on your skin.

You tilted your head to the side with a soft laugh, one hand coming up to steady the takeout container he was threatening to knock over. “What was that?”

He exhaled again, dramatically. “You’re mean.”

“You’re avoiding.” He didn’t argue. Instead, he lingered there for a few seconds more, arms tightening slightly around you before he drew back just enough to see your face. He wasn’t wearing any of his usual playful masks now. His eyes were wide, dark, sincere—and maybe a little shy. “I was just…” he began, then paused, tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Comfortable. With you. Like—weirdly comfortable. From the start.”

Your heart stuttered a little. He wasn’t joking now. He shifted back just enough to glance at you, cheeks flushed pink, lips parted like he wasn’t sure how much more to give you without combusting. “It’s been a while since I felt that,” he admitted. “Close to someone like that. Like I could stop trying to be… whatever people want me to be.”

You blinked, taken aback by how quiet and honest his voice had become. He rubbed the back of his neck, gaze flickering to the counter, then back to you. “I did have something planned,” he said. “Not yet—later. During your trip. Something better than this.” He gestured vaguely to the table with a sheepish half-smile. “I wanted to ask you properly. Like… lanterns or a rooftop or a song or something dumb like that. You know. All that rom-com bullshit people do when they like someone a lot.”

You laughed gently, chest tight in a good way.

Jungkook reached for your hand, threading your fingers together without looking down. “But yeah,” he said, voice soft and steady now. “If you’re willing to deal with the long distance, the time zones, the stupid hours, and… y’know. The cameras and sneaking around, and whatever else comes with dating me…”

He swallowed. “I’d love for you to be my girlfriend.”

The quiet that followed wasn’t heavy—it was warm, tender, charged with the kind of feeling that sat low in your chest and made your throat ache with the effort of holding it in. You smiled, leaning forward just slightly, so your foreheads touched.

“I was already planning to say yes,” you murmured. “Even without lanterns.”

His expression broke open like sunrise—light and wonder and something a little awestruck. His fingers curled tighter around yours as if grounding himself in the fact that you were real, here, and choosing him. “I’m still gonna do the lantern thing,” he whispered, already imagining it. “You deserve cheesy. You deserve better than takeout and my messy kitchen.”

“You’re the cheesy one,” you said.

“Yeah, well…” He leaned back and moved toward the table as his phone started to vibrate on the counter. He glanced at his screen and let out a quiet, bemused huff.

“You okay?” you asked. He turned the phone so you could read the screen.

The group chat had been renamed:

💥 JK’S GIRL SQUAD (UNAPPROVED) 💥

Yoongi: if you don’t marry her, I will Hobi: JK still hiding her huh?? Taehyung: she’s fun!! bring her next time Namjoon: did you two eat?? hydration check??

You tried not to laugh, but a little snort slipped out anyway. “They’ve officially adopted me, haven’t they?”

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

You had eaten—eventually. After ignoring his group chat for long enough to quiet the buzzing guilt (and teasing), Jungkook finally gave in to your suggestion of a quiet walk with Bam. The night air had been cool and refreshing, the stars just barely visible between the city haze. Bam trotted happily beside you, his tail wagging like a metronome as Jungkook kept pace on your other side, his hand brushing yours more often than not.

Now, back in his living room, everything felt still. Comfortable.

You shifted on the couch and let your neck tilt until a faint pop echoed in the quiet. “Ugh,” you muttered under your breath, rolling your shoulders to chase the tension away. The long flight was still weighing down your limbs, even after the food and fresh air.

From the kitchen, Jungkook reappeared with two glasses of something cold. He paused mid-step as he heard the creak of your neck, his lips already quirking. “Damn, was that you or the sofa dying?” he teased, eyebrows raised in mock horror.

You gave him a tired side-eye but didn’t bother with a comeback. Your body spoke for you—slouched posture, sleepy eyes, one leg tucked under the other as you reached down to pet Bam’s soft ears. The big dog had, without hesitation, claimed your lap the second you’d sat down, curling up with a low huff of contentment like he’d been waiting all evening for that exact moment.

Jungkook crossed the room with a quiet chuckle, handing you your glass. His fingers lingered on yours for a beat longer than necessary before he let go. He hesitated, watching how you leaned gently into Bam, your fingers absentmindedly stroking between his eyes while your own blinked slower and slower.

“You sure you don’t wanna sleep? Sleep?” he asked softly, crouching beside the couch with one hand on the armrest, the other resting lightly on his knee. His voice was gentle, like he didn’t want to startle you out of your calm, but there was a note of concern in it too. “You’ve been fighting the jet lag like a champ, but it’s still catching up to you.”

You met his eyes and smiled, slow and lopsided. “Yeah, I should sleep of the rest of this stupid jet lag,” you admitted. “But I’d rather spend a little more time with you.” Your voice came out softer than you intended, the honesty in it slipping through like warm light through sheer curtains. Jungkook blinked once. Then, without hesitation—without a single ounce of his usual playful stalling—he leaned in.

There was no dramatic pause, no question asked, no teasing remark. Just the quiet shuffle of his body drawing closer, the brush of his knee against the couch cushion, and then the warmth of his mouth on yours.

His kiss was gentle, slower than the ones from earlier. Less about thrill, more about holding you there with him. It tasted faintly of citrus from whatever he’d poured into your glasses and carried the same softness you saw in his eyes when he looked at you.

One of his hands came up to cradle your cheek, his thumb sweeping lightly across your skin, like he was trying to memorize the texture of your tired smile. Bam let out a tiny groan of protest from being slightly jostled, but didn’t move.

When Jungkook finally pulled back, he was still close enough that his breath fanned across your lips. His eyes searched yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

Then, softly but firmly, he said, “No.”

You blinked, turning your head toward him. “No?”

His gaze was warm but unwavering. “You belong in bed.”

You raised a brow, ready to argue just for the sake of it—because this moment was so nice, because you didn’t want it to end—but you didn’t get the chance. Without stepping far or breaking his rhythm, Jungkook reached forward, placed both glasses neatly on the coffee table, then gently moved Bam’s head from your lap.

Bam grumbled like a toddler denied his favorite toy, but didn’t put up a fight. Maybe even he knew better. And then, before you could so much as blink, Jungkook grabbed you—swift and effortless—and tossed you right over his shoulder.

“Jungkook—!” you yelped, hands scrambling against the back of his hoodie. “Put me down! Down!”For a moment you even struggled to find the right word.

He laughed, the sound low and amused against your side as he started walking. “Nope,” he said again, like he actually enjoyed denying you.

“Jungkook!”

“I distinctly remember,” he added, shifting you slightly so he could tap the back of your thigh playfully, “someone telling me they didn’t want me to behave anymore. At least for a while.”

Your face flushed so fast it made you dizzy. “That was a different context!”

“Still counts,” he said smugly.

You buried your burning face against his back, gripping the fabric of his hoodie as he carried you down the hallway like you weighed nothing. You could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath, the strength in his arms, the way his hold on you never once faltered.

He kicked open the bedroom door with one socked foot and marched straight to the bed.

Then, without ceremony, he tossed you onto the mattress like a victorious knight claiming his reward. You bounced once, letting out a startled laugh—but it cut off abruptly as Jungkook climbed over you, caging you in with one hand braced beside your head, the other gently threading into your hair.

For a beat, he just looked at you. His expression was unreadable—dark lashes lowered, lips parted slightly, something intense glinting behind the softness in his eyes. His thumb brushed along your temple, his breathing just a little uneven now. Then he leaned in, and his mouth found yours again—this time deeper, hungrier.

The warmth of him pressed down just enough to let you feel the full weight of his presence, but never so much that it overwhelmed. His hand moved in your hair, firm and grounding, and you felt the heat bloom low in your stomach. Whatever exhaustion you’d been carrying, whatever jet lag was left clinging to your bones—it vanished, scorched clean by the kiss he gave you.

Jungkook’s lips moved against yours like he couldn’t bear to stop, like the space between kisses was too wide to stand. And then, barely audible, barely a breath: “I missed you,” he murmured, mouth brushing yours. “God, I missed you…”

The words melted into your skin, into the space between your parted lips as he kissed you again—soft, reverent, and then deeper, like he was chasing the feeling. “I missed touching you,” he confessed against your cheek. “Missed how you feel, how you sound…” His voice was low, rough around the edges, like it scraped up from somewhere deeper than his lungs. “Missed you so bad.”

God, you’d missed him too—so much it hurt. So much it had snuck up on you in quiet moments when you hadn’t realized how deeply he'd settled under your skin. Now, with him over you like this—warm and solid and entirely focused on you—it was unbearable and euphoric all at once.

One of your hands slid up into his hair, threading through the dark strands, holding him close. The other drifted lower, finding where the hem of his hoodie had ridden up just slightly—leaving a sliver of warm skin along his side exposed. Your fingertips brushed against him, just barely, and Jungkook inhaled sharply, his body tensing like a pulled string.

His breath hitched. His kiss faltered for the briefest second. Then he exhaled shakily and moved lower.

His mouth trailed down from your lips to the corner of your jaw, then under your ear—slow, purposeful, almost teasing. You felt every word he wasn’t saying etched in those kisses.

You tilted your head back instinctively, giving him space, your fingers curling tighter in his hair. And when his lips met the sensitive skin of your neck, your back arched ever so slightly, a quiet sound catching in your throat.

Jungkook groaned, softly, like the sound of you alone did something to him. His hand slid down the side of your body, over your waist, anchoring you in place while his mouth kept moving—down, down, until—

He hit the neckline of your shirt. He paused. You felt him sigh, a deep and frustrated thing against your skin. His fingers flexed at your side like he was trying to decide whether to keep going or not. Then he lifted his head, gaze a little wild, lips kiss-bitten and pink.

“Too many layers,” he said hoarsely, and there was a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but his eyes burned with something else entirely.

Jungkook’s hands skimmed along your sides, warm and steady as his fingers found the hem of your shirt again. He looked down at you—really looked—and you could see it in his eyes: the hunger, yes, but also restraint. That careful, trembling line between reverence and desire.

He tugged lightly at the fabric between you, voice low and breath warm against your throat. “Can I get rid of this?” he asked, fingertips slipping just under the edge of your shirt, grazing bare skin. Your breath hitched. You met his eyes, reading the question for what it was—not just about the shirt, but everything else.

“If,” he added softly, “you are … up for this?”

A breathless laugh escaped you before you could stop it. You tilted your head back into the pillow, the flush in your cheeks rising with the tension curled tight between your hips. “Yeah,” you nodded, voice airy. “I’m up for this.”

Jungkook’s eyes darkened at your answer, his grip tightening just slightly on your waist.

“But,” you added, lifting a brow as you brushed your fingers lightly over the curve of his hip, “if you were planning to keep me up all night riding you… you might want to adjust expectations.”

That got him. He let out a low, startled laugh—part amused, part aroused—his head dipping forward as if he needed a second to recover from the visual that clearly slammed into him. “Damn,” he murmured against your collarbone, his smile curling wicked. “Don’t say things like that unless you mean them.”

You laughed again, softer now, but your heart was pounding. Jungkook leaned back just enough to look at you again. His eyes gleamed with mischief, heat, and something more tender tucked underneath.

“Not tonight,” he said with a quiet promise, shaking his head, though his voice dropped an octave. “Tonight’s not about that.” Then, with a slow, deliberate movement, he helped you sit up just enough to ease the shirt over your head. His fingers brushed your sides, your arms, the curve of your shoulder blades as he pulled the fabric away—almost like he was unwrapping something delicate.

He tossed the shirt somewhere off to the side, not caring where it landed. Then his hands settled on your waist again, thumbs sweeping slowly across your skin. His gaze dropped for a moment—taking you in, reverent and slow—before returning to your face. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, almost like he was telling himself, not you.

And then he was leaning in again, mouth finding yours. His kiss devoured and gave in equal measure, his body pressing just a little more fully to yours as if something inside him had finally snapped loose. Just like that, the warmth between you turned into something else.

Jungkook’s mouth found yours again, this time with more heat—no hesitation, no teasing. His kiss deepened, growing messier as his body pressed more fully against yours. One of his hands cupped your breast, his touch slow and deliberate, while the other caged you in. You felt the shift in his weight, the slow grind of his hips as he settled between your thighs.

You gasped softly into his mouth at the contact—he was already hard, the press of him insistent even through the layers of clothing still between you. Your hips tilted upward instinctively, seeking more of that delicious friction. He groaned, low and broken, into your kiss. The sound thrilled you, igniting something hot and desperate in your core.

He rolled his hips again, slower this time, just to feel you respond. Your thighs squeezed around him in reflex, your nails digging slightly into his back through the fabric of his hoodie. He smiled into the kiss at your reaction, then broke away just enough to look down at you—his lips kiss-swollen, his chest rising and falling faster now. As his thumb brushed over your nipple in slow, deliberate circles, coaxing a soft gasp from you as he explored the sensitive peak.

His tongue and lip nervously fiddle with his lip ring, his gaze flickering down your body and then back to your face like he couldn’t believe this was real. “Just so you can adjust your expectations as well,” he murmured, thumb brushing lightly over your cheek, “we haven’t seen each other in a while…” You raised an eyebrow, breathless but grinning. “I’m aware.”

He swallowed, his blush darkening as his fingers tapped against the edge of your jaw. “So I might not… y’know—last long.” His voice cracked a little, and you could see just how flustered he was by the confession. But you were already shaking your head, your smile impossibly fond.

“It’s fine. No judging,” you said softly, tracing his spine with your fingertips. “And if it comes to that…” You let your voice drop as you added with a playful smirk, “I’ve got two perfectly good hands, and can just jerk myself off to an frustrated idol, no?”

Jungkook choked on a breath—his laugh a shocked, aroused rasp as he buried his face into your neck, groaning dramatically. “God, please tell me you mean me now.”

Your only answer was a breathy hum, your legs wrapping around his waist as you tilted your hips again, sending another jolt of sensation through both of you. He growled softly, biting back another moan, then started trailing kisses down the line of your throat. His hands slid from your waist to your chest, cupping your breasts through the lace of your bra, thumbs brushing experimentally over the peaks until you gasped again, arching up into his touch.

He murmured something that sounded like a curse under his breath, his mouth following the curve of your chest until he reached the valley between your breasts. He kissed you there, slow and reverent, before flicking his tongue just under the edge of your bra, lips brushing heatedly over every inch of newly exposed skin. Your fingers tangled in his hair as he tugged gently at the band of your pants.

“Off,” he whispered hoarsely, not quite begging, but close.

You nodded, helping him as his fingers slipped beneath the waistband of your pants. The fabric slid down your hips, dragged by eager hands that trembled just slightly. He watched, eyes locked to every inch of newly revealed skin like it was something sacred—something he’d been starving for. When your underwear followed, his breath caught audibly.

His palms smoothed down the outside of your thighs, his lips not far behind, leaving a hot trail of kisses and slow exhales as he worshipped every inch of you. You threaded your fingers into his hair, your chest rising and falling faster now, overwhelmed by the intensity of his focus. When he looked up, lips red and parted, eyes heavy-lidded with want, he whispered like it was a confession, “You’re gonna kill me.”

You let out a soft breathless laugh, dazed but still playful. “Don’t die on me, Jeon.” His mouth curled into a crooked grin at your answer, but before he dove back in, you tugged at the hem of his hoodie. “Your turn.”

He bit his lip, then sat back on his heels, straddling your thighs as he grabbed the hoodie and yanked it off in one smooth pull. His hair was a little mussed from the motion, his chest rising as the fabric left his skin. The soft lighting of the room carved gentle shadows down his torso, every line of his body familiar and still somehow dizzying to take in again.

Your hands rose instinctively, skimming over the muscle of his stomach, your fingers grazing the spot you'd touched earlier under the hoodie. His abs twitched beneath your touch, his breath hitching. “I missed you,” you murmured, almost without thinking.

His gaze softened instantly, but there was a fire just beneath the surface. “Not as much as I missed you, this,” he replied, voice low and dark, before leaning down to kiss you again—slower now, but deeper, heat building steadily between you.

You fumbled for the waistband of his pants next, tugging at it in silent invitation. Jungkook didn’t hesitate. He stood long enough to kick them off, tossing them somewhere to the floor, and joined you again in the nest of tangled sheets and fevered breathing—now skin to skin, heat to heat. You sighed as his body settled against yours, your thighs parting to welcome him fully between them. The weight of him, the warmth, the familiar press of muscle and tension—it filled something raw and hollow that had been aching in his absence.

Jungkook groaned as your bodies aligned again, harder now, no clothes left between you. His hand found your face, thumb brushing your cheek as he looked at you with something deeper than lust. “You still good?” he asked, voice tight with restraint. You reached up to tug him down into a kiss that left no room for doubt.

“Better than good,” you whispered against his lips. “Now shut up and touch me.”

He laughed, breathless—and this time when he kissed you, it wasn’t playful. His touch was everywhere—your hips, your waist, your thighs—warm hands leaving behind trails of heat that pulsed beneath your skin. And his body, all taut muscle and warm skin pressed flush against yours, was like a weight you welcomed—anchoring you, teasing you, torturing you. You tried to shift beneath him, to move your hips up into his, desperate for more friction, for more of him—but Jungkook was faster. His palm pressed against your hip, firm and commanding, pinning you to the mattress.

"Not yet," he murmured into your ear, voice so low it shivered down your spine. Then his hips rolled, deliberately slow, the thick, hot length of him dragging across your core in maddening precision. You gasped, your legs trembling with the aftershocks of every pass, every denied relief.

The friction was overwhelming. You could feel him clearly—hard and leaking, slick between your bodies—and it made your whole body clench with need. Your thighs quivered involuntarily around his hips. Your mouth parted in a breathless moan, your head tipping back against the pillow. And then… he stopped. You whimpered at the sudden loss of contact, hips lifting unconsciously toward him. Jungkook laughed softly at your frustration, his breath warm against your neck.

"You're so greedy," he teased, lips brushing your jaw as he sat back just slightly. Then his hand was between your thighs, fingers sliding through the mess he’d made of you. And when two sank into you, easily, fully, you both groaned—Jungkook from the raw sensation of feeling you clench around him, and you from the maddening fullness and pace he set without hesitation.

You arched, gasping again, hands flying up to clutch at his biceps.

"God…" he groaned, jaw tightening as his fingers slid deep, his eyes flicking down between your bodies. "You're so wet. You're…"

His words fell off into a ragged exhale as his fingers began to move, slow at first, then pressing into you with a rhythm that was devastating in its precision. He watched you—watched the way your lips parted, your brows knit, your hands clawed lightly against his arms as you tried to keep yourself grounded. But your body had other ideas—your walls fluttering around him, thighs twitching, the growing pressure in your belly unbearable.

Jungkook was transfixed. "Look at you," he murmured, brushing his nose against your temple. "Fucking beautiful."

You tried—you really did—to keep your eyes on him, to meet the heat in his gaze, but they rolled back without your permission, and a broken moan spilled from your throat. He loved it. He drank it in. Your legs trembled under the intensity, hips twitching, hands grasping at the sheets, at his shoulders, at anything to ground you.

Jungkook’s other hand slid up your thigh, thumb brushing slow, hypnotic circles just above your knee as he held your leg steady over his hip. He was watching you again, hyper-focused, studying your body’s every reaction like it was the only thing that mattered.

“Right there,” he whispered when your walls began to flutter, when the tension in your thighs started to coil too tight to hold. “So pretty like this. All of you—falling apart for me.”

His voice alone could’ve undone you. And then—right as the edge got close, just a breath away—you moved. Your leg jerked—your foot gently pushing at his chest, a quiet, trembling push. Not rough, not panicked. Just enough. Your hand covered his, holding him in place. Your breathing was uneven, your lips parted, eyes hazy as you stared up at him, halting the movement of his fingers inside you.

"W–wait," you managed, your voice hoarse and trembling. You weren’t trying to stop him completely—you just needed to breathe. To speak. To ask.

Jungkook froze, his fingers stilled immediately, but stayed inside though his thumb was still ghosting soft, slow circles along your inner thigh—his other hand anchoring your ankle gently against his chest.

“Everything okay?” he asked softly. There was no panic in his voice, no alarm. Just attentiveness. He was watching you closely—reading you like a book he already knew by heart. But still, he needed your answer.

Your eyes were glassy, your chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths. You stared at him—He looked... devastating. Wild hair falling over his forehead, lips kiss-bitten and red, his body flushed with restraint, so close to release. His cock lay heavy against his thigh and dripping between you, flushed pink and glistening with slick, twitching against his stomach like it hurt to be untouched. You felt dizzy just looking at him.

You reached for him, fingers skimming over his hip, voice low and wrecked.

“I’m okay. I just… I need you. Not just your hands.”

Jungkook's eyes darkened instantly, chest visibly rising with a shaky breath as your words sank in. He leaned in and his throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. His expression shifted—desire tightening into something feral, something reverent.

“…Say that again,” he said, almost breathless, leaning closer like he couldn’t believe his ears.

“I need more than your fingers,” your voice barely above a whisper, your eyes holding his. “Now.”

His groan vibrated through his chest, deep and guttural. “You want me now?” he asked, voice low and wrecked.

You nodded, a small, breathless smile curving your lips. “Need you. I want to come around you, not just your fingers.” He groaned again, the sound breaking in his throat, and pressed a long kiss to your lips—soft, but buzzing with restraint that was wearing thin by the second.

“Okay,” he whispered, forehead against yours. “Okay. I’ve got you.”

The condom was on faster than you could blink—Jungkook had moved with practiced ease, but even in those brief seconds without his touch, the absence felt unbearable. You whined quietly, sitting up just enough to press messy kisses to the line of his jaw, his throat, anywhere you could reach. Your hands wandered his chest as he fumbled slightly, your lips pulling a soft groan from him when they found that spot just beneath his ear.

“Could go faster if you didn’t keep distracting me,” he muttered, faux-annoyed, but the heat in his voice betrayed how much he liked it—how much he needed it. Then, finally, he was over you again, hands framing your hips, his gaze dragging down your body like he couldn’t believe you were real. Your leg curled around his waist instinctively, but he took your thigh in one hand and lifted it higher, draping it over his forearm to open you further, make more space for him. Your other leg slipped between his, foot pressed gently to his calf, guiding him into the perfect angle.

And then—God.

He pushed in, slow and steady, inch by careful inch. The stretch, the heat, the way he filled you—it knocked the breath out of your lungs. Your hands gripped his shoulders like a lifeline, fingernails biting into his skin as a broken sound escaped your throat.

“Shit,” Jungkook choked out, voice shaking as he stilled inside you. “You’re—fuck, you’re so tight.” You trembled in his arms, body twitching from the sheer intensity of being filled again. Of him. It had been too long—too long without him, without this—and your body remembered every second of it in the way it clung to him now.

Jungkook ducked his head, hiding the overwhelmed look in his eyes by pressing open-mouthed kisses to your neck. You felt the tremor in his arms, the tight control in his slow breathing, the restraint pulsing through every inch of him.

And then—your voice, breathy and already cracking:

“Jun… Jungkook… please—please move. Or I… I might—”

He looked up, eyes blown wide, pupils swallowing the light. You were trembling beneath him, flushed and nearly undone, and still barely able to form words. The sight made him feral. Something in him broke—in the best, most reverent way. He hadn’t known what to expect, hadn’t known if he could live up to the memory of you. But this?

You were already so close to unraveling beneath him. Around him. And it was making him lose every shred of composure he had. He leaned down, kissed you like he was starved for it, and then started to move—slowly, carefully at first, hips rolling into you with a rhythm that immediately pulled a soft, high cry from your throat.

“You feel,” he gasped, breath caught, “so—fucking—perfect.”

Your hands scrambled across his back, pulling him closer, grounding yourself as the world spun from the way he moved in you—like he was savoring you, like every thrust was an offering. His pace started to shift as you clung to him, breaths shared, skin sliding against skin. It was frantic and tender, desperate and unhurried all at once, like both of you were trying to make up for every second lost between the last time and now.

And Jungkook couldn’t stop kissing you—your mouth, your cheek, the corner of your jaw. Like he needed to taste you everywhere, remind himself this was real. “Gonna come soon,” he breathed, voice raw. “If you keep looking at me like that—I can’t—fuck, I can’t hold back.”

You smiled through the haze, pulling him closer until your foreheads touched, until every movement of his body was yours and every breath you took belonged to him.

And you whispered, “Then don’t.”

Your smart little comment had barely left your lips before Jungkook dipped his head and caught your breast in his mouth, lips warm and soft as he sucked gently, tongue circling your nipple before he gave it a teasing nip that made you jolt under him with a strangled gasp that started your downfall.

“Smart mouth,” he murmured against your skin, grinning as your body twitched from the overstimulation and want. “You just love driving me crazy, don’t you?”

But then he pushed forward again, his hips grinding down just so—right over that spot where you were already trembling. The thick, perfect slide of him hit home deep, the ridge of his pelvis pressing tight against your clit in a way that knocked the air clean out of your lungs. You shattered, voice breaking apart into a gasped cry, hands clawing at his back as your entire body locked up and then trembled violently around him.

“Jungkook—!” Your walls fluttered and clenched hard, dragging him down with you. He barely managed a few more erratic thrusts before he groaned—low and raw—burying his face in your neck as his hips jerked. The heat of his release filled the condom as his entire body tightened over yours.

“Fuck,” he gasped, voice shivering as he came, still rolling his hips just enough to ride out the end. “You—God, unreal.” You were both breathing like you’d run miles, chests rising and falling in tandem. His forehead dropped against yours for a long moment, sweat clinging to his hairline, breath hot against your cheek.

He stayed inside you a little longer, reluctant to leave the warmth and the aftershocks still fluttering through your body. His lips pressed lazy, tender kisses to your neck and collarbone, his weight comforting above you without being too much. Eventually, he slowly eased you down with him, shifting so you were both lying on your sides, your leg still draped over his hip.

You swallowed hard, cheeks burning now that the high was fading—embarrassment blooming quietly in your chest. “I… came so fast…” you muttered, barely audible. “I—shit, sorry.”

Jungkook blinked, and then his smile split wide, bright and boyish and disbelieving. “Are you kidding?” he said, his voice rough but teasing. “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. I thought I’d lose it just from hearing you.” And just like that, he twitched inside you.

You let out a soft sound—half gasp, half groan—that made him chuckle.

“Sorry,” he whispered, not sounding sorry at all as he placed a kiss just below your ear. He finally pulled out of you with care, murmuring something soft when you twitched at the loss, and disposed of the condom before turning back toward you.

But before he could lie down again, you were already pushing yourself up gingerly on shaky limbs, breath still shallow. He blinked at you, brows lifted, concern and curiosity mingling on his face. “You okay?” You nodded, brushing your hair out of your face. “Bathroom,” you said simply, voice still wrecked around the edges. His lips quirked into a crooked smile, eyes fond. “Ah.” You wobbled slightly as you swung your legs over the edge of the bed—but Jungkook was already sitting up behind you, hands at your waist, helping you up with exaggerated care.

“Anything for my girlfriend,” he said playfully, kissing your shoulder as he steadied you.

You groaned. “God, you’re not gonna let that go, are you?”

“Nope.” He grinned and gave you a soft smack on the hip. You pushed yourself upright, but before you could take more than a few steps, Jungkook’s hand wrapped gently around your wrist. “I’ll come with you,” he said, standing up beside you in one smooth, quiet motion.

You gave him a tired glance, amused. “You don’t have to babysit me, you know.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re literally walking like a newborn deer. I feel obligated.”

You huffed a laugh, letting him tug you toward the bathroom with fingers laced through yours. He kept close as you both stepped into the low-lit space, the faint hum of the fan filling the silence. You reached for the faucet and splashed water on your face as he stood behind you, watching with a small, soft smile, the glow from the mirror lighting his features gently.

Your reflection caught his—a mess of tousled dark hair, flushed cheeks, a lip still slightly swollen from your kisses. His hoodie and pants were gone, his inked arm on display, his chest bare and scattered with faint red marks you’d left in the heat of it.

You handed him the washcloth you’d wet, and he accepted it easily, dragging it across his chest and neck with a low, content sigh before tossing it into the hamper. The two of you brushed your teeth side by side in companionable silence, hips bumping every now and then, like even now, your bodies couldn’t help but seek each other out.

When you finished and leaned against the sink, Jungkook reached over and gently tucked your hair behind your ear, studying your face like it was something precious. “What?” you asked, voice quieter now. He shook his head with a lazy smile. “Nothing. You’re just really damn pretty.”

You rolled your eyes, cheeks warming again. “I look wrecked.”

“Exactly.” His voice dropped, teasing and rough. “My kind of wrecked.”

You groaned, pushing lightly at his chest, but he only grinned wider, catching your wrist and kissing your palm before guiding you back toward the bedroom. When you reached the bed, you both climbed under the covers at the same time, your bodies drawn together instantly like magnets. Jungkook settled on his back and opened an arm without question. You tucked yourself against his side, one leg thrown over his hip, your head finding the crook of his shoulder.

His skin was warm—soothing—and he smelled faintly of shampoo and the clean linens. His hand smoothed slow circles into your lower back while the other combed lightly through your hair, grounding you with every touch. You stayed like that for a while, tangled together in the quiet glow of the night, breaths syncing, heartbeats slowing.

“Hey,” he murmured eventually, voice soft. You hummed, eyes half-lidded with sleep.

“I really missed this,” he said, fingers still tracing invisible lines on your skin. “Missed you.”

You looked up at him, blinking slowly. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “More than I realized. It’s stupid how good it feels... just to hold you.”

That made your chest ache in the best way. You kissed his collarbone, lazy and lingering, and felt him hum in response. “I missed you too,” you whispered. “Even when I pretended I didn’t.” Jungkook’s hand slid up to cradle the back of your head, keeping you close.

“I’m not pretending anymore,” he said quietly.

You nestled tighter against him, and he pulled the blanket up higher, another kiss pressed to your forehead. The room had settled into silence, save for the sound of your breaths mixing, slow and even beneath the covers.

You were nestled into Jungkook’s side like you’d never left, like there had never been a gap of time or space between the two of you. His fingers continued their lazy path over your back, warm and familiar, like he was memorizing you all over again.

“You know…” he murmured after a moment, voice low and sleepy, vibrating softly through his chest beneath your cheek. “I’m flying you out more often now. Whether you want me to or not.” You let out a tired, amused breath, not even lifting your head. “So you’re just going to kidnap me now?”

“Exactly,” he said with a small grin. “I’ll drag you into my suitcase if I have to. Make this long-distance crap work.” You chuckled, eyes still closed, your legs tangling deeper into his under the sheets. “Fine. But only if you also make time to visit me. Not just airlifting me to you every time.”

He hummed thoughtfully. “Deal. But I want to be where you are anyway, so that’s not exactly a compromise.”

“Mmh…” you shifted closer, like that was even possible, pressing your nose against the base of his throat, letting the warmth of his body soothe every frayed nerve. “We could do workcations, too. Pick a city, hole up somewhere nice. You shoot your stuff, I take meetings, and we eat too many pastries in between.”

Jungkook laughed softly at that, the sound a deep, muffled rumble in his chest. “You’re dangerous with ideas like that.”

“I’m serious,” you mumbled. “I’m not letting you disappear into some blackhole schedule again. If I have to sit in your studio in pajama pants just to see you, I will.”

“You can sit on my lap in pajama pants,” he offered, smirking against your hair.

You groaned into his neck, voice muffled. “God, you’re impossible.”

But your arms didn’t loosen around him. You were already curled into his side like you’d come here to stay, like this was your rightful place. And Jungkook—he didn’t move an inch to suggest otherwise. If anything, his grip around you only tightened, pulling the blanket tighter around both of you like he was locking the moment into place.

“I like this,” he whispered after a beat, voice quieter now. “You here. Like this.”

Your fingers brushed across his ribs, drawing idle lines. “You planning to trap me like this for a while?”

He hummed, not even pretending to sound guilty. “That’s exactly what I’m planning. But tomorrow we need to visit the Han River first.”

And the way he cradled you after, his chin resting on top of your head, his breath warm in your hair, told you he meant every word.

Masterlist

Tags: A/N I was stupid and not specific with the Tags at my Tag post for this. So as to not Tag anyone that doesnt want to be Tagged I changed the post and tagged only the people that interacted after the change. I am sorry! If you wanted to be tagged :/ If you want to be tagged for Missing you, just write it in the comments or dm me. Sorry!

@dachshunddame @hecatesdescendant @chaeisrichnow @notyourfriendooo

He had chosen the place carefully: a traditional Korean restaurant tucked on a quieter street, not far from his hotel. It looked promising — cozy, with soft lighting and a small, not on any main roads. He figured he could at least have the comfort of ordering in his own language without fumbling through English. He'd even gone the extra mile to cover his hand tattoos, knowing how easily they gave him away. While he loved them, they were like a neon sign flashing BTS to anyone who glanced too closely.

At first, everything seemed fine. He ordered quickly and quietly, keeping his head down, then slipped off to the bathroom before his food could arrived. That was when things took a turn. On his way back to his table, two young women — early twenties, maybe — caught sight of him. He heard it before he fully understood it: a rush of excited chatter, the words tumbling out too fast. Still, a few things were unmistakable — his name. BTS. His stomach dropped.

Damn it.

He could already see it in their eyes — the disbelief, the beginning of hysteria, the desperate reach for phones. If he didn’t move fast, he’d have a scene on his hands. An entire evening ruined. Jungkook tensed, scanning for the fastest way out without making things worse. He adjusted the cap pulled low over his eyes, preparing to dodge past them—when suddenly, a hand landed firmly on his shoulder.

"Yah, Eun-woo," a voice said, warm and a little impatient. "You really left us sitting there alone forever?"

He froze. Eun-woo? Before he could react, a figure slipped smoothly between him and the two girls — you, stepping up like you belonged by his side. You didn’t even look at the strangers. Instead, you gave Jungkook an exasperated, playful glance, your hand still steady on his shoulder. "Come on, sit down. You’re not getting out of paying for the appetizer again."

The girls faltered. Confusion flickered across their faces. Jungkook, wide-eyed, caught the brief flash of uncertainty in their eyes — was he really Jungkook? Was this just some random guy who really looked like him?

Across the room, just minutes earlier, you had been minding your own business — more or less.

"Oh my god. Guys, don’t look — but I think my screensaver just walked in," you hissed across the table, eyes wide. Pascal barely looked up from his beer, snorting. "Ha! You say that about every hot Asian guy."

"No, listen," you insisted, trying not to move your head as you watched Jeon Jungkook slide into a booth like it was the most casual thing in the world. "I'm serious. I’m pretty sure that's the real one."

Pascal, skeptical but willing to humor you, turned slowly to peek. "The one with the cap?" You nodded, a little too quickly. Pascal grinned. "You wanna go over there? Get an autograph, a picture, maybe his firstborn child while you’re at it?"

"Shut the fuck up!" you hissed, smacking his arm lightly. "I'm not walking over there. He's human. He deserves to eat in peace — just like we do."

You stabbed at the grill, throwing a little more bulgogi onto the sizzling surface, but your eyes kept sneaking glances at Jeon fucking Jungkook sitting a few tables away, as casual as if he weasn’t the biggest star in the world. Pascal and Flora, your two best friends, were used to your dramatics — Flora being the towering but gentle giant of the group, and Pascal the sassy, slightly taller than you, but never impolite energy bomb.

"You’re really not gonna go over?" Flora asked, his deep voice low and amused.

"I want to," you admitted through gritted teeth, "but it’d just be...awkward."

"Why? You’ve been learning Korean with Eumi for months," Pascal chimed in. "You two can actually have conversations now. She said you were good. He'd understand you."

"Not the point!" you groaned, burying your face in your hands.

You peeked again just in time to see Jungkook stand up, making his way toward the back where the bathrooms were. Not long after, you heard the unmistakable chatter of two girls at a nearby table — rapid-fire excitement, the words BTS and Jungkook tumbling out clearly. You tensed.

Shit

You straightened up just as Jungkook reappeared, walking back from the bathroom — tense, shoulders slightly hunched, eyes flicking nervously as the two girls went to him chattering animatedly and making hearth eyes at him. He immediately looked tense and ready to bolt. You didn’t waste another second. You shot a quick look at Pascal and Flora.

"I’m gonna need you to fake it," you muttered under your breath, leaning in. "Pretend Jungkook’s part of our group."

Both of them froze for a second, then nodded sharply, understanding immediately — the chatter from the other table had tipped them off too. You grabbed Dong, your favorite waiter, as he passed by with a tray.

"Hey, can you bring whatever that guy ordered to our table if he sits with us?" you asked in a low voice, flashing your most pleading smile. Dong, ever the professional but also a secret gossip lover, glanced at Jungkook and then back at you. Without missing a beat, he nodded. "Got it."

Relieved, you made yourself ready to intervene, moving casually into his path like it was the most natural thing in the world. As you closed the distance and saw his shoulders with how close the girls approached, you acted on pure impulse — stepping up beside him, placing your hand firmly on his shoulder, and saying, loud enough for the girls to hear:

"Yah, Eun-woo, you really left us sitting there alone forever?" You gave him a playful, exasperated glance, ignoring the stunned look in his eyes. "You’re not getting out of paying for the appetizers again," you said, tugging lightly at his jacket like you'd done it a hundred times before.

The girls looked stunned for a second before one blurted out, "Wait—what are you doing with Jungkook?!" You let out a soft, easy laugh, glancing between them and Jungkook — well, Eun-woo for now.

"Jungkook?" you repeated, shaking your head fondly. "Ahh, you must be mistaken. Happens all the time. He does look a lot like him, right?" You gave a little laugh, warm and natural, and Jungkook — though still looking like a deer in headlights — caught the drift.

You quickly switched to Korean, low and hurried: "You looked uncomfortable. I help."

Your Korean wasn't perfect, but it was enough. Jungkook’s eyes widened, surprised, then softened with instant understanding. He nodded once — subtle, grateful. Unfortunately, the girls weren’t ready to let it go.

"Oh my god, you speak Korean?!" one squealed, inching closer. "Please tell him we’re his biggest fans!"

You turned back to them, switching back to English with the kind of casual patience that comes from telling a lie you’ve told a hundred times. "Sorry, but he really isn’t Jungkook," you said kindly. "You’re actually like the third group of people during his student exchange who think that."

You grinned in a way that invited them to laugh about it too — to feel a little silly, but not judged. For a moment, they wavered. But then one of them pointed sharply, "Yeah, sure. Look at his lip ring and his eyebrow piercing! It’s totally him!"

You could feel Jungkook tense up beside you, his body rigid, caught like an animal about to bolt. The girls were getting too close, practically in his personal space now. You stepped firmly between them and him, hands up in a calming, almost scolding gesture.

"Guys, guys," you said in a low, mock-conspiratorial voice. "I get it. It’s spooky, right? Crazy look-alike level. Even I freaked the first time."

You leaned in slightly, dropping your voice even more like you were sharing a juicy secret. "But trust me. If he were really Jungkook, he would have..." You grabbed his left hand gently, flipping it palm-up to show them his knuckles. Well it was his hand without tattoos. You hoped the girls didn’t know that.

"See? No tattoos," you said smoothly, smiling wide. "Eun-woo just likes to dress edgy sometimes. Doesn’t make him a K-pop idol.", trying to bluff your way through it. You didn’t really have any other way to try and convince them otherwise.

But the girls weren't buying it. "Yeah, right!" one of them snapped, jabbing a finger toward his hand. "On his left he wouldn’t have tattoos!"

Jungkook, still tense and quiet beside you, picked up enough of the fast English chatter to realize the situation was slipping. He glanced down at his own hand — the one you were still holding loosely — and seemed to understand instantly what was happening. Before you could stammer out some wild excuse —Jungkook moved.

He raised his other hand casually, briefly turning it up, then back down again, as if dismissing the whole thing. A quick, confident gesture — Look. Nothing there. You're imagining it. And because it was so natural, so matter-of-fact, the girls hesitated. Having showed them both his hands were tattoo free, for them to see, but not long enough to see one was covered in make-up.

You jumped right back in, "Trust me, we’ve been through this before. Poor guy can’t even go to a grocery store without someone asking for a selfie." You laughed like it was the most ridiculous thing in the world. Like it was all just a funny misunderstanding.

And finally — finally — the girls started to lose steam. They muttered something to each other, still suspicious, but not brave enough to cause a bigger scene.

"I mean, think about it," you added, tilting your head playfully. "If the Jungkook really came here, don’t you think there’d be like...bodyguards? Cameras?"

The girls exchanged a glance, suddenly unsure, their momentum stalling. You caught Jungkook’s eye and tilted your head slightly toward your table, (where Pascal was calling from, what took you so long) — Move now.

Jungkook blinked, then — catching on fast — nodded. You casually gripped his jacket and steered him away. Jungkook leaned in just slightly, his voice low and warm near your ear: "Thank you," he murmured in Korean.

You straightened, heart hammering hard. You hadn’t realized until now just how close you’d gotten to him. How much his presence seemed to settle over you like a heavy, comforting blanket. Only once you made it safely back to your friends, your heart pounding in your chest, did you let go of his jacket, sliding into your seat like nothing had happened.

You leaned in a little, keeping your voice low and soft so it wouldn't carry. "I’m sorry if I overstepped," you said in careful Korean, your nerves making you speak slower than usual. "You just looked... really uncomfortable. I thought maybe I could help."

Jungkook blinked at you — slow, processing — like he wasn't quite sure how he'd ended up here, surrounded by strangers who weren't trying to mob him. You rushed to add, "If you want to leave, you totally can. But..." You hesitated, glancing toward the girls. They were still peeking over, whispering behind their hands, but they didn’t seem nearly as sure of themselves anymore.

Jungkook followed your glance — having to lean slightly to the side around Flora’s massive frame to even see them. You had, very intentionally, placed him right beside Flora — your towering, gentle-giant of a friend — blocking most of the view and shielding Jungkook from wandering eyes. Meanwhile, Pascal, unfazed as always, continued grilling meat like nothing dramatic had just happened. With casual flair, he plopped a few sizzling slices onto Jungkook’s plate too, playing the part of a friend just sharing food — selling the image that Jungkook was simply part of your group.

Across the table, Pascal gave you a meaningful look, then asked slowly, deliberately, so Jungkook could follow the English easily, "So, what now?"

Jungkook’s gaze flickered between the three of you — you, Flora, and Pascal — something warm and amused beginning to spark behind his eyes. He turned toward you again, answering in low Korean, "Thank you... for helping. Really. But I don’t want to bother you."

You shook your head quickly, heart thudding. "No bother! Honestly..." You smiled, feeling a bit like a kettle about to boil over. "It’s kind of amazing to meet you here."

Jungkook’s brow quirked slightly — not out of arrogance, but like he was bracing for the onslaught of questions, of personal space invasions, of fans pretending to be casual. For a situation just like before. But nothing came. You didn’t start babbling questions hysterically about his music, his tour, his tattoos. You didn’t even ask for a selfie.

You just smiled across the table at him — and yeah, maybe your hands twitched a little like you were physically restraining yourself from peppering him with excitement — but you held it together.

And Jungkook noticed.

The way you were practically vibrating with curiosity, but still giving him space. The way your friends didn’t treat him like a trophy, but just another person at their table. He let out a soft, almost disbelieving laugh through his nose. Then he gave a small nod, looking down at his plate — at the freshly grilled meat Pascal had thrown there without a second thought — and then back up at you.

"If... okay, then," he said lightly. "I’ll stay. If that’s alright?"

You grinned, feeling the warmth spread all the way to your fingertips. "Of course it’s alright. We have plenty of food. You can even steal Flora’s if you’re fast enough."

Flora, catching on without missing a beat, rumbled, "Not if I eat him first," flashing Jungkook a wide, toothy grin that was so over-the-top it made the idol chuckle out loud. And just like that Jungkook relaxed into his seat, picking up his chopsticks like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like for one evening, at least, he could just be a guy on holiday.

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You did what you always did when you came here: You overate. By a lot.

The two girls who had hovered and whispered about Jungkook had left ages ago — giving up when it became obvious that Jungkook wasn’t going to break away from your group. Now, the atmosphere was relaxed, warm, and a little sleepy, the grill cooling down after the last round of bulgogi. You groaned dramatically, leaning back against the booth.

"I’m dying. I can’t eat anymore," you announced, one hand cradling your stomach.

"Good," Flora rumbled immediately, grinning as he reached toward your plate. "Then I’ll just have your bulgogi, right?"

You shot forward like he’d just threatened your firstborn, jabbing your chopsticks at him defensively. "Don't you dare!" you cried, and before he could even try again, you grabbed the last sizzling piece of bulgogi and stuffed it into your mouth with a defiant groan of satisfaction.

Flora only laughed, and next to him, Jungkook chuckled too — a soft, genuine sound that made your heart squeeze a little.

It had been shockingly easy to eat with your group. No pressure, no weird tension — just easy laughter, messy chopsticks, and half-argued conversations. Pascal and Flora had made a real effort to slow their speech down, checking themselves so Jungkook could follow without feeling lost. You, meanwhile, translated where you could, your Korean a little clumsy but more than enough to get by. And when even that wasn’t enough, both you and Jungkook had your phones open with Google Translate, passing them across the table like some bizarre relay race.

It was fun — in a way that made Jungkook forget he was supposed to keep his head down.

In a way that felt... normal.

And the more Jungkook learned about your little trio, the more he found himself relaxing. Neither Flora nor Pascal had any real idea who he was. They didn’t listen to K-pop — hell, they barely listened to pop music at all, according to Flora, who proudly proclaimed over a plate of kimchi that "good music died with cassette tapes."

It was only you who had recognized him. You — who had quietly, almost shyly, admitted you were an ARMY, but not in an overwhelming way. You didn’t list off his accomplishments like a resume. You didn’t bombard him with facts you’d memorized from interviews. You didn’t even try to worm your way closer with desperate compliments or too-personal questions.

In fact, you hardly brought it up at all.

It had been Jungkook who pried the truth out — curious after you translated a complicated joke for him mid-conversation without missing a beat. When he’d asked if you were a fan, you had paused, ducking your head slightly, offering only small pieces in response. Guarded. Careful. Like you were trying not to make him uncomfortable, like you didn’t want to remind him of the distance between you.

You even whispered to Pascal and Flora at one point, firm but light-hearted, "No asking him to sing. No asking for autographs. Pretend he’s Flora, just smaller."

Pascal had snorted so hard he nearly dropped a piece of meat onto his lap. It made Jungkook laugh — real and open — because it was funny, yes, but also because it made him feel like he was with his Hyung’s again. It reminded him of the way the Hyung’s used to bicker and tease over late-night meals, eating until you were ready to burst.

He missed that.

He missed them.

And sitting here now, watching you argue half-heartedly with Pascal about how many scoops of matcha ice cream you deserved after dramatically declaring yourself "too full to move," something in Jungkook's chest slowly, quietly loosened.

Dinner was officially winding down. The plates were mostly empty now, only a few stubborn scraps of meat and side dishes clinging to the platters. The air was heavy with the warm smell of grilled beef and soy sauce, mixed with the lazy hum of a Friday night crowd. You’d been chatting casually with the server — Dong — a young man who clearly liked your table a little too much, lingering at every opportunity, refilling your water glasses three times when once would have sufficed.

Jungkook noticed it immediately. He noticed everything about you now.

It was strange.

Even after all this time at the table — after the way you had helped him out earlier, helped him laugh, helped him breathe without a weight on his shoulders — he still felt like he barely knew anything about you. Or your friends.

You were polite to the point of being overbearingly considerate. Every question you asked him was gentle, cautious — if you asked anything at all, that unsettled Jungkook more than if you had been the typical overeager fan.  He had braced for the usual flood of attention, the eagerness, the invasive questions. He almost wanted you to break and start peppering him with everything you were dying to know.

It would have been easier. Predictable.

But you didn’t.

You just smiled, careful and kind, carrying every conversation with a deliberate gentleness that made his chest ache a little. It made him want to know everything about you— needing — to know more. What made you laugh until you cried. What you thought about when you stared off into space. What songs you sang when you thought no one was listening.

And yet, Jungkook could feel you holding yourself back, watching him with bright, hesitant eyes whenever a new topic surfaced, like you were trying to calculate what was safe to say, what might be too much.

You wanted to ask him things. He could feel it — the questions trembling on the tip of your tongue. But you were afraid to step over some invisible line. Afraid to be another name on a long list of people who had only wanted pieces of him, not the whole person.

He couldn’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault. But somehow, that made him want to bridge the gap even more. It wasn’t just you protecting him tonight. Without realizing it, he wanted to protect this fragile thing between you, too — this warm, quiet, normal moment.

And maybe, just maybe, he could find a way to make you trust that it was okay to ask him things. That he wanted you to. And as luck would have it, Flora threw him the perfect opportunity.

"So, where are we going first?" Flora asked, stretching his arms wide like he was preparing for battle. You groaned faintly, looking about ready to surrender to your impending food coma. Still, you dutifully pulled out your phone, swiping through what looked like a list of names and places, rattling them off faster than Jungkook could even hope to follow.

He blinked at you, completely lost.

Pascal, noticing his confusion, leaned over and offered a translation — half in English, half through Google Translate — "It's art night in town," he said, flashing a thumbs up like it explained everything. "All the museums and galleries stay open until three a.m.! It’s awesome. You should totally come!"

You looked up at Jungkook instinctively — and the realization hit you both at the same time.

They were inviting him.

Your panic was immediate. Surely he didn’t really want to come? He was Jungkook — he had better things to do than stumble through art galleries with three random weirdos. He could be doing... literally anything else. But Jungkook just tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes pinning you with playful intent. "Can I?" he asked softly in Korean, his voice rich and teasing, like he already knew you wouldn’t dare say no.

And god, it was unfair — the way the restaurant lights caught the faint gleam of his lip ring as he dragged it thoughtfully between his teeth, the way a tiny, almost-shy smile flickered at the edges of his mouth as he watched you.

You huffed — a tiny, strangled sound — and nodded quickly, trying so hard not to burst into flames. Jungkook’s smile widened just a little, victorious, and you knew you had lost whatever silent battle was happening between you.

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When the check came, the server, Dong — who by now was basically auditioning for honorary fourth member of your little group — dropped it neatly at the center of the table with a cheery, "No rush!"

And then all hell broke loose.

Jungkook moved fast, reaching for it without hesitation. You, Pascal, and Flora all protested at once, insisting he was a guest and shouldn’t pay.

"No, no, you’re our guest!" Flora protested immediately, reaching for his bag.

"Absolutely not, man, you’re not paying," Pascal added, doing a frankly embarrassing full-body lunge across the table.

You had your wallet out too, fumbling with your card and a nervous glance at Jungkook.

But Jungkook just shook his head, his stubbornness absolute. He didn't even bother arguing properly — just stood and handed his card to Dong with a polite bow, cutting off all resistance. Pascal leaned over while Jungkook was distracted signing the receipt, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. He spoke just loud enough for you to hear: "Damn... he's kinda hot when he gets bossy. No wonder you listen to K-pop."

You choked on your own spit, slapping a hand over your face as heat bloomed fiercely across your cheeks. Flora snorted his drink up his nose.

"PASCAL," you hissed under your breath, half mortified, half strangling on a laugh.

Unfortunately for you, Jungkook had impeccable timing. He turned back toward the table just in time to catch you covering your face and trying desperately to disappear into the floor. His brow quirked up, a devilish little gleam sparking to life in his eyes. "What - What did he say?" he asked in a mix of English and Korean, voice low and far too pleased, a grin already threatening the corners of his mouth.

You shook your head frantically, mouthing "nothing, it’s fine, please don’t" — but Pascal, grinning like the absolute traitor he was, had already shoved his phone into Jungkook’s hands, Google Translate glowing bright like a sword of betrayal.

Jungkook read the screen, blinked once, then grinned — a slow, lazy smirk that made your stomach do something wildly unfortunate. He chuckled — a low, warm sound that skated down your spine — and cocked his head at you, lip ring catching the light. "You like me bossy, huh?" he teased in Korean, clearly savoring every second of your visible suffering.

You made a strangled, dying noise into your hands as Flora and Pascal cackled at your expense. Even Dong, hanging around a suspiciously long time under the pretense of clearing plates, laughed quietly into his sleeve.

"I— That’s not—" you tried, but you were too flustered to form a coherent sentence. Jungkook just beamed at you, looking devastatingly pleased with himself, before tossing a playful wink your way that nearly finished you off completely.

You were going to perish right here, in the middle of this barbecue restaurant, at the hands of Jungkook’s teasing smile. And honestly, it would be a beautiful way to go.

Jungkook watched you quietly, his heart beating a little faster. You were... lovely like this — bright and real and flustered, your kindness and humor wrapping around him like a warm blanket.

And the best part?

He hadn't even really started yet.

Jungkook tucked his card back into his wallet with a satisfied air and turned to the table, clapping his hands once like a boss. "Let’s go," he said brightly. "Art night is waiting."

"You’re a tyrant," Pascal groaned with a smile, shoving his arms into his jacket sleeves. "You’re a saint," Flora said, with a deep chuckel.

You could only laugh, your heart buzzing in your chest, as you followed Jungkook out into the cool night air. He fell into step beside you almost naturally, his shoulder brushing yours just lightly enough to make you wonder if it was on purpose. When you dared glance up at him, he was already looking at you — smiling — like maybe he didn’t mind spending a little more time in your world after all.

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

The city was alive tonight.

The streets buzzed with people, lit in gold and neon, the sidewalks thick with couples, families, groups of students laughing too loudly under the old streetlamps. It was the perfect kind of crowd — big enough, distracted enough, that Jungkook could move almost invisibly through it.

Especially with Flora at his side.

Flora, towering and broad-shouldered, was a natural shield — not even trying, really, but his sheer size meant Jungkook easily tucked into the space behind him whenever the street grew too crowded. It was funny, actually. Jungkook had spent years surrounded by professional bodyguards. But walking behind Flora, who cheerfully blocked people’s lines of sight without even noticing, felt easier somehow. More casual. More... normal.

You and Pascal, though, were another matter entirely.

You caught attention just by existing — a bright spark in the corner of Jungkook’s vision, laughing too easily, moving with that infectious kind of energy that made people glance over without even realizing they were doing it. And Pascal, tall and cocky in his easy, flippant way, was just as bad, tossing sly comments and grins over his shoulder that had strangers double-taking in amusement.

Together, you two were impossible to miss and draw even more attention away from Jungkook. And somehow, impossibly, Jungkook didn’t mind. It was... fun. Real. Messy and alive in a way he hadn’t realized he missed.

Your first stop was a tiny underground art exhibition tucked between two noodle shops. Only ten pieces total, displayed in a narrow, dimly lit space that smelled faintly of fresh paint and old stone.

The theme was "Nature Reclaimed."

Everything was green and rough around the edges — photographs of abandoned buildings overtaken by ivy, sculptures made of twisted roots and river glass. It was quiet inside, hushed in that reverent way art spaces sometimes were, the noise of the city outside muffled like a dream. As you made your way down the shallow stairs to the entrance, a man in a faded hoodie approached, murmuring something quickly.

Without missing a beat, you pulled out your phone, flashed a QR code from a ticket app, and then — smiling apologetically — pointed at Jungkook, indicating him as part of your group. The man nodded, satisfied, and waved you all in without further fuss.

Jungkook, lingering just half a step behind you, blinked in surprise. "What was that about?" he asked in Korean, his voice low enough not to carry.

"He just wanted to see our tickets," you said, switching languages. Your voice was soft, almost careful, but there was a lightness in your eyes that made him feel strangely at ease. Jungkook frowned slightly, processing — and then his eyes widened as the realization hit him. "But… I don’t have a ticket," he said, baffled.

You turned to him fully then, your smile gentle, almost teasing as you answered, "It’s fine. I got you one."

Jungkook stared at you. Like you had just sprouted wings or declared yourself king of Seoul. There was a strange little jolt in his chest — something between touched and ruffled — because he was the one who usually took care of things. He bought the tickets. He paid the bills. He made sure the people around him were comfortable.

He wasn’t used to... this. Someone quietly smoothing the way for him without making a big deal out of it.

"You didn’t have to..." he started, almost defensive without meaning to.

But you just shrugged easily, already drifting a few steps ahead toward the first sculpture — as if it really wasn’t a big deal at all. As if he wasn’t someone you needed anything from. As if he was just... your friend.

"It’s just a ticket." you said over your shoulder, voice warm and a little teasing. "Don’t be dramatic."

Behind him, Pascal snorted. "Oh no. He's learning your secret," he stage-whispered to Flora. "She pretends to be all nice and harmless, and then BAM — she pays for something and makes you feel like a useless piece of trash that’s forever in her debit."

"Happened to me last month at brunch," Flora added solemnly, adjusting his bag strap like he was remembering a war story. "Still not over it."

You turned back around, walking backward now, grinning wickedly. "Shut up, both of you," you said, voice bright with laughter. "I’m a delight."

Jungkook couldn’t help it — he laughed too. Something warm and full that he hadn’t heard from himself in longer than he liked to admit. He jogged a few steps to catch up to you, bumping his shoulder lightly against yours — playful.

"Next time," he murmured in Korean, just for you, "I’m buying your ticket."

You glanced up at him, surprised — and something flickered between you. Something bright and a little reckless.

"Next time?" you said softly.

Jungkook smiled — a real one, crooked and boyish and impossibly endearing — and followed you deeper into the exhibition, the city’s noise forgotten behind thick stone walls. One of the last exhibits at this place was a sculpture — simple at first glance — just a mass of twisted iron and polished driftwood. It looked almost like a bird caught mid-flight, wings half-formed, trapped in metal and wood.

You tilted your head, studying it thoughtfully. Jungkook drifted closer, hands shoved casually in the pockets of his jacket, watching your expression out of the corner of his eye more than he watched the art itself. There was a small part of him — quiet but insistent — that wanted to know what you thought of it. What you saw when you looked. What kinds of things stirred you.

Meanwhile, Pascal, in typical fashion, had already wandered closer to the next piece — a massive tangle of tree roots shaped vaguely like a crouching figure.

"Oh, hell yes," Pascal muttered mischievously, glancing back over his shoulder at you. "Come on, you have to!"

You turned, caught sight of what he was eyeing, and burst out laughing. Without hesitation, you moved over, and the two of you — grinning like fools — immediately contorted yourselves into a ridiculous reenactment of the sculpture: Pascal crouching dramatically, you draping yourself halfway over his back like a sagging vine.

"Hold still!" Flora said, laughing, pulling out his phone with a little huff of effort. He knelt slightly to get the right angle, his giant frame making the tiny gallery feel even smaller. Behind Flora, Jungkook chuckled low in his throat, bemused. He crossed his arms loosely and leaned in toward Flora.

"What are they doing?" he asked, amused but genuinely curious.

Flora shifted a little awkwardly, clearly searching for a way to explain it. "Uh... how to say..." He grimaced slightly, embarrassed, but soldiered on anyway. "Since I know them... there is no sculpture they don't — ehm — copy." He smiled sheepishly. "It's kind of their thing."

Jungkook blinked, then laughed out loud, nodding in understanding. "Tradition?" he teased.

Flora brightened. "Yes! Tradition."

Jungkook turned his gaze back to you and Pascal, who were dissolving into giggles as Pascal dramatically flopped to the floor, still committed to the ridiculous pose. You sat beside him, poking his shoulder, scolding him half-heartedly for "ruining the artistic integrity" of the piece.

They looked close, Jungkook thought. Comfortable. Easy in a way that spoke of long friendship, of thousands of shared jokes and late nights. He hadn’t gotten the vibe that you and Pascal were together — no overt flirting, no lingering glances — but still. Seeing you like this, smiling so freely, leaning on Pascal like it was the most natural thing in the world...

A tiny, unwelcome sting flickered through him.

Beside him, Flora shifted again, glancing down at Jungkook with a knowing twinkle in his eye. He leaned down, voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper: "I have a pretty boyfriend, right?"

Jungkook startled slightly, his brows furrowing as he looked back and forth — from Pascal, still lying dramatically on the ground, to Flora, standing there with an easy, fond smile. It took him a beat. Two beats. And then it clicked.

"OH."

Understanding bloomed like a firework behind Jungkook's ribs — bright, stupidly bright — and he turned to Flora with a sudden, warm grin, nodding. Of course. Pascal and Flora were together. They were the couple. Not you and Pascal.

A soft, almost giddy sense of relief — of possibility — unfolded in his chest like a secret he didn’t even know he was hoping for. Without thinking too hard about it, Jungkook pulled out his phone and handed it to Flora.

"Take one more," he said, his voice low but sure. "Of me and her, yeah?"

Flora’s eyebrows jumped, but he grinned wide and took the phone eagerly. You, brushing dust off your knees, glanced up — saw Jungkook approaching — and blinked, startled.

"He wants to—?"

But Jungkook just smiled at you, easy and boyish and a little challenging, and dropped into a crouch beside you, mimicking the awkward, sprawled pose you and Pascal had struck earlier. He looked at you expectantly. "You’re not gonna leave me hanging, are you?"

Your heart did a weird, flipping thing inside your chest. Something fluttery and wild and wonderful. Because this was Jungkook choosing to be part of your chaos. This was him wanting to share a stupid, silly moment with you. Smiling so wide your cheeks hurt, you scooted closer, slinging an arm loosely around his shoulders, mimicking the sculpture’s pose with exaggerated drama. Flora laughed, snapping a few quick pictures while Pascal cheered you both on in the background.

"Artistic integrity!" Pascal declared. "Restored!"

Jungkook’s shoulder bumped yours lightly as you both tried (and failed) to hold the ridiculous position without laughing.

"You’re surprisingly good at this," he teased under his breath, his voice warm against your ear.

"I told you," you whispered back, smiling. "I'm a delight."

And as the flash clicked and Flora captured the moment — something unspoken settled between you and Jungkook, bright and sparking and full of possibility. You straightened up from the silly pose, cheeks warm from laughter. Flora grinned down at his phone, satisfied with the shot he had just taken of you, Pascal — and now, Jungkook — tangled together mid-laughter, perfectly recreating the odd sculpture’s awkward, balancing pose. Jungkook flashed you a quick, slightly breathless grin, and for a second, you let yourself just look at him — really look.

You peeked at Jungkooks’s screen. There it was — You and Jungkook, shoulder to shoulder, laughing like old friends, looking so natural. Like it was something you did all the time. Your heart gave a tiny, helpless flutter. You would have loved to have that photo. Loved to have that memory of you and Jungkook together, caught mid-laugh, tangled in a ridiculous re-creation of art. To have a little piece of this impossible evening, something to hold onto later when it felt like a dream.

But...

You hesitated. The thought of asking — of possibly making him uncomfortable, of seeming like some crazy fan who only wanted a trophy photo for social media — made your stomach twist up tight. No.

Better to let the moment pass quietly. Better to keep the memory for yourself.

You swallowed the wish and tucked it away. Unbeknownst to you, Jungkook watched it happen. Watched the way you bit your lip slightly, looked at the photo, then deliberately looked away.

He waited — giving you space — waited, thinking you might still ask.

But after a few seconds, when you said nothing and just smiled and adjusted your bag on your shoulder, he smiled softly to himself. Of course. He was already starting to understand you a little: you didn’t take — you never expected. You just quietly appreciated.

And somehow, that made him want to give you even more. He didn’t press. But he did make a little note in the back of his mind: to get that picture to you later.

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

Pascal clapped his hands, dusting them dramatically as if he’d just completed a grand performance. "Alright, children. That’s enough culture inside walls. Let’s go outside and be sophisticated." he declared with a grandiose wave toward the exit. "There’s an installation out in the courtyard, and you must be seen with a glass of wine. It’s, like, mandatory. Très chic." He threw a dramatic arm toward the courtyard where twinkling lights were already coming on and food and wine stalls lined the edges. ”Let’s go be fancy art snobs outside."

You laughed, slipping easily back into the banter, and translated quickly for Jungkook, whose eyebrows lifted in amused confusion at Pascal's theatrical tone.

"Pascal says it’s mandatory to hold wine and look… pretentious," you added, grinning, having just checked the word for pretentious in Korean.

"Can’t argue with that," Jungkook said, lightly bumping his shoulder against yours, adjusting his cap. The subtle disguise doing surprisingly well so far. You didn’t even try to hide your smile.

Pascal was already striding ahead toward a charming little stand selling local wines and small plates, dragging Flora along with him. You and Jungkook followed at a more leisurely pace. Outside, the evening air had cooled just a little, and the courtyard looked like something from a storybook — soft golden light, the rich smells of roasting nuts, spices, and baked goods drifting on the breeze.

As you reached the stand, Pascal was already leaning against the counter, animatedly discussing the wine options with the poor vendor asking which wine would make him look the most "cultured."

You chose a light, fruity glass for yourself — something casual — and reached automatically for your wallet. Before you could even properly find your card, Jungkook was there, stepping in front of you, gently pushing you aside with a soft nudge of his arm.

"I got it," he said firmly.

"No, really, it’s fine," you protested quickly, heat rushing into your cheeks. "You don’t have to —"

But Jungkook just shook his head, looking down at you with that stubborn little smile you were already starting to recognize.

"I want to," he said simply, already tapping his card against the reader before you could argue more. You turned to the older man running the stand, hoping maybe he would help your case — but the man just chuckled, a twinkle in his eye, and said warmly, "Ah, let the gentleman pay, sweetheart. He is insisting."

You blushed harder, feeling the tips of your ears go hot, and Jungkook caught it instantly. He tilted his head slightly, absolutely delighted by your reaction.

"See?" he teased, voice low enough that only you could hear.

Behind you, Pascal — never one to miss a good opportunity for mischief — clutched his chest dramatically.

"She’s blushing! Flora! Flora!" Pascal stage-whispered loudly, grabbing Flora’s arm with faux urgency. "Call a medic! We’ve got a romantic casualty. Look at her blushing like a Victorian maiden! Flora, where’s my fainting couch?"

"Oh my god, Pascal, shut up," you hissed under your breath.

You buried your face in your hands for a second, groaning in embarrassment while Flora just laughed quietly and patted Pascal’s shoulder like he was an unruly child. Jungkook laughed too — not meanly, not mockingly — but warmly, like he was laughing with you, not at you. There was something soft and sincere in his eyes when you finally peeked up at him through your fingers. Pascal patted you patronizingly on the back, still dramatically gasping for breath like he might swoon at any moment.

"Cheers?" Jungkook offered, holding out your wine glass to you with a small, almost shy smile.

You took it carefully, your fingers brushing his just for a moment — enough to send a tiny, electric shiver racing up your spine.

"Cheers," you whispered back, your smile matching his.

You didn’t even notice Flora sneaking another candid photo of the moment — but Jungkook did. And he didn’t stop him.

The art installations out here were larger than life — strange metal trees twisting into the stars, mosaics glittering under fairy lights, even a giant abstract sculpture that looked suspiciously like a melted spoon.

"Clearly," Pascal said solemnly, swirling his wine glass like he was at a five-star auction, "this piece is about the futility of buying matching socks."

You burst out laughing, trying (and failing) to mimic his snooty voice while shaking your own glass dramatically. A tiny drop of wine sloshed out, and you gasped, wiping it quickly against your jacket.

"Careful," Jungkook chuckled, stepping closer, his eyes bright. "You're too fancy now. Gotta protect the image."

You grinned up at him, emboldened by the lightness of the evening. "Oh, absolutely," you said, twirling your glass again with a theatrical flourish. "I’m basically a... more than princess now."

You fumbled for a better word, realizing halfway through that your Korean wasn't good enough for this moment. Jungkook caught on instantly, his smile widening.

"You could say yeowang. Queen," he offered, voice warm.

"Ah, yeowang!" you repeated, beaming, and Jungkook gave an approving nod.

Pascal threw an arm around Flora’s waist and sighed dramatically.

"We are in the presence of royalty. Someone fetch me a fainting couch."

You snickered. "Pascal, what is it with you today and needing a fainting couch?"

"Art moves me," he declared, clutching at his chest. Jungkook shook his head in amusement and, swirling his own wine with a mock-serious air, leaned toward you. "In Korean, if you want to say someone’s showing off, you can say Pom jabn-da." He pronounced it slowly. You tried to repeat it — and immediately mangled the pronunciation. Jungkook burst out laughing, not unkindly. "Again, again," he encouraged, tapping the air like a metronome.

You tried again, slower. "Pom jabn-da...?"

"Much better!" he praised, his eyes crinkling. "Just casual. Like teasing a friend."

You practiced it under your breath a few more times, earning another bright thumbs-up from him. Your heart fluttered stupidly at how delighted he looked. A few installations later, you and Pascal spotted a new sculpture — a chaotic tangle of bronze limbs, like a group of dancers frozen mid-fall.

"This one's asking for it," Pascal declared.

Without even needing to speak, you both clambered into a half-recreation, Pascal sticking his leg straight up in the air and you pretending to trip over him, arms flailing. Flora chuckled and obediently pulled out his phone to take pictures. Jungkook laughed too — the sound bright and real — and watched you both with amused wonder. After a moment, he handed his phone to Flora.

"One more photo?" he asked you, offering his hand with an eager grin.

You took it without hesitation, your palm tingling in his. Together, you struck another ridiculous pose, trying to mimic the bronze chaos behind you. Jungkook leaned into it easily, copying your outstretched arm with exaggerated seriousness. Flora snapped the picture, snorting with laughter as you both tried to hold still.

When you finally broke apart, laughing, you brushed some dust off your coat, cheeks flushed from the cold and the silliness. Jungkook’s phone buzzed insistently in his hand, lighting up the space between you with a soft glow.

He glanced down, his mouth twitching into an automatic smile when he saw the stream of messages blowing up his group chat.

🐿️ (Hoseok): Where r u?? 🐨(Namjoon): You're still out? 😎 (Taehyung):  Send pics!!! 🐱 (Yoongi):  Did u get lost???

Jungkook huffed out a quiet laugh, fond and exasperated at the same time. His thumb moved quickly over the screen, tapping back a few replies. Then, almost shyly, he tilted the phone toward you, as if wanting you to be part of it too.

"They're checking on me," he said, amused. "I told them I’m out with some... cool new friends."

You smiled so brightly it almost hurt, something easing inside you — that tight, nervous coil you'd been carrying ever since you met him starting to finally loosen— and gathering your courage, you cleared your throat. Maybe it was the wine, or the night air, or just the way Jungkook looked at you— but for the first time, you didn’t overthink to much what you said next. You weren't triple-guessing if it would sound too much like a fan thing. You just... said it. Simple and honest.

"If it's not too weird... could you, um... tell them I said hi?"

Jungkook’s entire face lit up — not just with amusement, but with something warmer, softer. Like you'd handed him something precious without even realizing it. He nodded immediately, eyes bright. "Of course! They'll love that."

There was something a little new in the way he looked at you now — a quiet kind of delight. Like he was seeing you take a step closer toward him, and he liked it more than he probably should. He tapped out a quick message — [My friend says hi 👋🏻] — and sent it off without fuss, then tucked his phone back into his pocket without another glance. He wasn’t distracted. He wasn’t half-present. His attention was all on you.

You didn’t realize you were fidgeting slightly, smoothing the sleeve of your coat, until he chuckled lowly under his breath.

"Hey... random question. Who’s your favorite BT21 character?"

You blinked, caught off guard — and without thinking blurted, "Tata."

There was a beat of stunned silence. Jungkook recoiled dramatically, clutching his chest as if shot. "Not Cooky?! Betrayal!"

Pascal immediately gasped, clutching Flora for support. "Scandalous. How dare you!"

"I'm wounded," Jungkook said, lowering his head in mock despair.

"I didn’t realize there was a quiz," you teased, bumping his shoulder with yours. "And anyway, Tata’s a prince. I’m royalty, remember?"

"Excuses," Jungkook grumbled, though he couldn’t stop smiling.

"You can be my second favorite," you added magnanimously.

"Gee, thanks," he said with a dramatic sigh — but his eyes sparkled.

"And Pascal's favorite is Mang," you pointed out quickly, grinning. Pascal flipped you off over his wine glass, making you laugh harder. As you wandered toward the far side of the courtyard, Flora checked his watch.

"If we want good seats," he said, "we should head to the church soon."

Jungkook blinked. "Church?"

"There’s a little concert," you explained. "Local artists. It’s small, but cool. Flora found it."

He hesitated for just a breath — then smiled, resolute. "I'd love to."

The streets were quieter now as you made your way toward the old stone church, the evening mist curling around the narrow alleys like fingers. Jungkook walked close by your side, hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets, occasionally nudging a stray pebble along the cobblestones with his boot.

Warm yellow light spilled from the church's arched windows, casting long golden pools onto the street. From inside, you could already hear the soft hum of voices and the faint strum of a guitar being tuned.

"Wow," Jungkook murmured, tilting his head back to take it in. The church was small but beautiful, its ancient stones blackened by time, its steeple leaning just slightly, like an old man hunching over against the years.

You smiled. "Pascal said the acoustics here are insane. Like, even a whisper carries."

Jungkook grinned at that, bumping your shoulder playfully. "Guess we better not gossip too loudly, huh?"

You laughed, feeling light, warm. God, it was getting too easy to just be around him. Inside, the church smelled faintly of old wood, wax, and rain-soaked stone. The wooden pews were already filling up fast with people — a colorful, buzzing crowd of locals and a handful of tourists who had clearly stumbled upon the event by accident and decided to stay.

You hesitated, glancing around. You didn’t want to assume anything — maybe Jungkook would prefer some space? Maybe he didn't want you hovering— Before you could finish that worried thought, Pascal clapped a hand on Jungkook’s shoulder and gave him a not-so-gentle shove toward the pew where you were standing.

"Here! Plenty of room," Pascal declared with a grin, not noticing (or not caring) about the slight oomph noise Jungkook made as he was practically dumped beside you. Flora shot you a secret wink as he slid in next to Pascal.

Jungkook blinked once, surprised — then let out a soft, helpless laugh, shaking his head as he settled beside you. "Guess this is my spot," he said, throwing you a playful sideways glance.

You tucked a smile behind your hand, feeling giddy and weirdly shy all over again. The bells outside gave a soft, distant chime, and a low murmur of excitement buzzed through the church as more people filed in. The pews were old — carved from dark, heavy wood — and the space between each row was narrow. Cozy.

At first, you and Jungkook sat with a polite little buffer of air between you, your knees almost but not quite brushing. You kept your hands tucked carefully in your lap, too aware of how close he was. But then — fast — the church started filling. People squeezed into every row. An older man with a large coat tapped Pascal’s shoulder, gesturing to the crowd still trying to find seats.

Pascal looked around — then turned back to you with a big, sunny grin. "Hey — scoot up a little? Let's get cozy," he said cheerfully.

Before you could react, Pascal planted both his hands on Jungkook’s side and gave him a strong, enthusiastic shove. The force of it knocked Jungkook sideways — right against you. You gasped, instinctively catching yourself with a hand braced against the pew back. Jungkook let out a startled, embarrassed noise, his whole side pressing into yours for a heartbeat before he awkwardly tried to straighten himself — only to realize he couldn’t. There was no more room.

You were now squished between the cold stone wall and a very solid Jungkook. Your entire side was plastered against him — your coats and sleeves brushing, your knees bumping under the narrow pew rail. His warmth radiated through the layers of fabric, dizzying and so real.

Jungkook froze, obviously realizing the situation at the same moment you did. He turned his head toward you, cheeks visibly flushed even in the dim light, and managed a breathless, sheepish little laugh.

"Uh— sorry," he mumbled, voice low and rough. He tried to shift — to give you space — but there was none. Every inch of the pew was packed now, people squeezed shoulder-to-shoulder in every row. You shook your head quickly, fighting your own rising blush. "No, it's okay," you whispered back, and God, your voice sounded weirdly breathless to your own ears. Jungkook's gaze caught yours for a second — wide, surprised, a little shy — before he gave up, exhaling a soft, helpless little huff.

"I guess we're... stuck like this," he said under his breath, the corners of his mouth twitching like he couldn't quite decide whether to laugh or die of embarrassment. You nodded, biting your lip, pulse pounding. Neither of you moved again.

The rest of the pews were just as packed, a sea of strangers pressed elbow-to-elbow, the whole church buzzing with low chatter and the warm crackle of excitement. But all you could feel was Jungkook — warm, solid, steady — right there beside you, close enough that you could catch the faint, clean scent of his cologne every time you breathed.

It felt crazy. Exciting. A little dangerous, in a way that made your stomach flip. You stole a tiny glance at him — and caught him doing the same, his eyes darting away quickly, a guilty little smile tugging at his lips.

You weren’t imagining it. He felt it too.

The lights dimmed further as the musicians took their places, tuning their instruments with brief, fluttering notes that melted into a respectful silence. You felt the change instantly — the whole church seeming to hold its breath, waiting.

Then the music began. A soft, sweeping melody filled the stone chamber, rising up to the vaulted ceiling like smoke. It was beautiful — a delicate blend of classic orchestral pieces and haunting film scores that sent shivers down your spine. You exhaled slowly, letting your body relax for the first time in what felt like forever.

The concert would last about thirty minutes — not long, technically — but just long enough that sitting stiff and upright like a statue was impossible. Especially when you were packed so tightly in a crowded pew.

Next to you, Pascal was already adjusting — sliding down a little in his seat until his frame rested comfortably against Flora’s shoulder. Flora didn’t seem to mind in the slightest; he barely reacted beyond adjusting his posture slightly, offering a solid, comfortable place for Pascal to rest against. The two of them looked perfectly at ease, making a little more room for themselves without a second thought.

You shifted, too, almost without realizing it — leaning ever-so-slightly more into the narrow space you shared with Jungkook. It wasn’t much — just a subtle change — but it brought you even closer, until the line of your arm brushed his. And neither of you moved away.

Jungkook noticed immediately. He stiffened for half a second, some instinct in him flaring — but when he glanced sideways and saw your face, the tension melted almost instantly. You weren’t tense. You weren't looking around nervously or pulling away. You looked... content.

Happy, even.

Your eyes were half-lidded in peace, your body visibly trying to slump a little more comfortably — but there just wasn’t space to do it properly. Something inside Jungkook twisted sweetly at the sight. He wanted — badly — to just lift his arm and rest it along the back of the pew behind you, maybe even let it fall lightly around your shoulders. It would make it easier for both of you. Give you more space to lean, more room to relax. And... it would feel so natural, so right.

He could already imagine it: your head might lean into his side, both of you fitting together better, finding a little more space to breathe.

But he hesitated. If someone in the crowd recognized him — if a photo made it to the wrong hands — he could already imagine the tabloid headlines. "Jungkook Seen Cozy With Mystery Woman at Church Concert" "Romance Rumors Swirl After Late-Night Sighting"

It wouldn’t just be chaos for him — it would drag you into it too.

But you didn’t shift away. You didn’t stiffen or glance around anxiously. If anything, you looked even more comfortable as the music rose, the corners of your mouth softening in a small, private smile. So he stayed frozen, pulse racing, watching you out of the corner of his eye for any sign of unease. Anything at all. But you didn’t pull away.

If anything, you seemed to be relaxing more with every passing minute — your side melting unconsciously into his, your knee nudging lightly against his under the narrow pew rail. Jungkook’s throat worked as he swallowed hard. Very carefully, he allowed himself to relax — not dramatically, not enough to draw attention, but enough that his side pressed lightly against yours in a way that felt intentional. Enough that if you wanted to lean just a little bit more, you could.

The music swelled around you, rich and deep and almost cinematic in its beauty. Every pew was crammed full of people now, groups squeezing closer and closer to fit. In the row ahead, an older couple sat shoulder-to-shoulder, hands folded together. Farther down, teenagers bumped elbows and whispered with wide grins. Everyone was packed tight — no one would even blink at how closely you and Jungkook sat.

You lost yourself in it a little — the sweep of the strings, the low, steady pulse of the piano — but never entirely. Because you could still feel Jungkook, right there, pressed against your side. Every breath you took seemed somehow linked to him. You didn’t dare move too much, didn’t dare look at him, afraid you’d break whatever fragile, unspoken thing had started to stretch between you.

And Jungkook, for his part, was battling himself silently.

The longer he sat beside you, feeling the faint warmth of your body so close, the harder it became to stay still. The harder it became to pretend he didn’t want more.

Slowly — as casually as he could manage — he shifted. Not much. Just letting his hand fall, loose and heavy, onto his lap. An innocent movement to anyone watching. But he placed it carefully, precisely angled, so that when he next took a deep breath — deeper than necessary, maybe — the motion rocked his hand just enough that the back of it brushed lightly against yours.

It was feather-light. Accidental, surely.

You froze, heart thudding, half expecting him to immediately jerk away in embarrassment.

But he didn’t.

His hand stayed there, the faintest touch between you — just the back of his knuckles against the side of your hand. He didn’t grab you. He didn’t even really move. Only the tiniest twitch betrayed him, a small tremor that made his pinky bump gently against your skin.

Your breath hitched audibly — not loud enough to draw attention, but enough that you felt Jungkook go even more still, sensing it. You swallowed hard, pulse hammering in your ears, and allowed your own hand to twitch in response — a small, almost involuntary movement, nothing that could be called bold.

But it was enough.

Enough to tell Jungkook that you weren’t pulling away. He was tense beside you, vibrating like a tightly wound string about to snap. But emboldened by your tiny gesture, he shifted the smallest fraction, just enough to let his pinky curl — and hook lightly around yours.

It wasn’t hand-holding.

Not really.

But it also wasn’t nothing.

You felt it instantly — that almost imperceptible entwining of pinkies, the barest linking of skin. The smallest possible way to touch you more, without making a scene, without risking everything. And yet somehow, it felt monumental. It felt like the only thing in the world that mattered.

Your lungs burned slightly, your heart hammering harder than the crescendo of the music washing around you. You stared straight ahead, afraid that if you even glanced at him, the spell would shatter. Beside you, Jungkook shifted again — the tiniest adjustment — a breath that somehow pressed his side a little more firmly against yours. His pinky, still entwined with yours, twitched once, almost like a question.

You squeezed yours back — barely — the smallest answer you could give. But it was enough.

It was everything.

The music swelled higher, louder, grander — but you barely heard it anymore. Because Jungkook was there, his pinky tangled lightly with yours, his thigh warm against your leg, his presence swallowing up every breath you took. You had no idea how you would survive the next twenty minutes of this concert. And from the way Jungkook's breathing had subtly shifted — a little heavier, a little faster — he was wondering the exact same thing.

As the last note of the concert faded into the stone vaults of the old church, the first people began to rise from their tightly packed pews, voices low and murmuring as they shuffled toward the exits, eager for their next destination.

You and Jungkook didn’t move.

Neither of you wanted to.

And, realistically, you couldn’t, not yet — Flora and Pascal were still squeezed in on the other side, and the narrow rows left little room to maneuver without tripping over each other. But even without that excuse, you knew you wouldn’t have been ready to let go of him.

Not just yet.

Your pinkies were still lightly hooked together, the smallest bridge between you. You could feel Jungkook’s warmth through that tiny touch, a quiet heartbeat of connection neither of you seemed quite willing to break.

When you dared a glance at him, you found him already looking at you.

His eyes were soft — almost bashful — and a shy, almost sheepish smile curved his lips. You saw the faintest flush creep up his neck to his cheeks, the stage lighting doing nothing to hide it. And before you could say anything, before you could even breathe properly, he gave your pinky one last small squeeze. Your heart twisted almost painfully.

Slowly, regretfully, you both let your hands drift apart.

The group started to shift and rise, Flora stretching his long frame carefully to avoid knocking into the people in front of you. Pascal shuffled sideways, pulling the others with him, and finally you and Jungkook had enough space to stand without causing a scene.

Outside, the cool night air hit you like a balm, carrying away some of the dizzy warmth clinging to your skin. You regrouped under the streetlights, the tall, dark shape of the church behind you casting deep shadows. Jungkook stayed close. Closer than before. Close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours whenever he moved, Jungkook stayed by your side as the group paused under the yellow pools of light spilling from the church’s old lanterns.

Pascal turned to the group, his voice casual but lively. "What now? We’ve got time for one or maybe two more stops before everything closes. What do you guys think?"

He was speaking fast again and you saw Jungkook's head tilt slightly, his expression attentive but a little hesitant. His English was good, but fast conversation could be tricky, especially when tired or excited. Instinctively, you stepped in, your voice a little softer, more private.

You translated with the help of google again at this point into Korean, glancing at him with a smile — hopefully not too goofily — and pulled out your phone to double-check the night's schedule. “Pascal is saying that there’s still some time, so we can go to one or maybe two more places. He’s asking where we’d like to go.”

Jungkook gave a small, grateful nod, his eyes flickering to you and lingering there for a heartbeat longer than strictly necessary. You could tell he was appreciating more than just the translation. You fumbled quickly with your phone, trying to act casual.

"Alright," you said, clearing your throat, partly for the group and partly for yourself. "We’ve got two options."

"First, bathroom break," you added firmly, shooting a quick grin around the group that made Pascal and Flora chuckle.

"After that, we have two options: There’s a movie museum exhibit — old horror films. Props from Nosferatu, Dracula, 28 Days Later..." You glanced up at Jungkook and saw his eyes light up a little at the mention and understanding. You tried not to let it distract you and continued.

"Or, there's a gallery nearby with a lot of acrylic-on-wood paintings. The theme is supposed to be 'Fever Dream'." You lifted your eyebrows at everyone, feeling their attention drift toward you, and shrugged.

"Vote?"

It wasn’t much of a contest. Flora immediately cast his vote for the horror exhibit — big guy, even bigger love for spooky stuff — Pascal nodded eagerly too, clearly into it. You watched Jungkook's eyes light up just a little at the idea of the horror props, and a small, almost mischievous smile touched his lips. He gave a little nod, confirming his choice without needing words.

You grinned, feeling a little giddy — but not just because of the decision.

“Movie museum it is," you announced, grinning.

You desperately needed that bathroom break. Because the way Jungkook was looking at you, now that you could see his face in the clear, open night — the way he hadn't really left your side even after all the people had spilled out around you — the memory of your pinkies tangled together, not just accidental, not just squished together — all of it made your heart thud against your ribs like it was trying to escape.

You were freaking out. —  Internally screaming while trying to look chill. — A classic.

You managed to give a casual little wave toward a nearby building. “Bathrooms that way,” you said, voice just a little too high-pitched to be completely natural. As the group started to wander in that direction, you pulled your phone closer to your chest, trying to hide your flushed cheeks behind it. You weren’t sure if you were overheating from the excitement of almost-hand-holding Jungkook, from the dizzy, half-panicked realization that he hadn’t pulled away — that he had wanted to stay close — or from the way he kept glancing at you now, like he was thinking about it too.

Either way, you were dangerously close to combusting.

And the night wasn’t even over yet.

You were the one who had begged for the bathroom break, but ironically, when you came out fresh-faced and trying to get your heart to beat normally again, it was Pascal who was still missing. The rest of you waited just outside the small public bathroom area, tucked against the side of the church. The cool night air wrapped around you, and without meaning to, you found yourself standing a little closer to Jungkook again.

He was quiet next to you, head slightly lowered, phone in hand. You glanced sideways, trying not to be obvious — but curiosity burned in you. Jungkook was texting, a small, shy smile playing on his lips as his thumbs flew across the screen. Every so often, he would type something, delete it, then retype it with more care.

If you could read Korean fast enough from that angle (which you couldn’t), you might have caught something like:

[🐰] : Hyungs… I’m so nervous I might die. Seriously.

[🐰] : I’ve spent the whole day with them and it’s so good it’s driving me crazy, haha.

[🐰] : It feels like butterflies are throwing a party in my stomach...

He quickly locked his phone when he noticed you looking in his direction, tucking it into his jacket pocket with a slightly embarrassed chuckle. You caught that chuckle and smiled to yourself, cheeks warming again. Finally, Pascal came jogging out, apologizing for the delay, and the four of you regrouped.

“Metro?” Pascal asked the group, glancing between you and Flora. It was just two stations — walkable, sure, but the metro would save time. You translated for Jungkook, and he nodded in agreement.

So the metro it was. The station wasn’t far, but the moment you descended underground, you realized the mistake: it was packed.

Way too many people. Way too little space.

You and Pascal cursed under your breath almost simultaneously — both of you being the smallest of the group and already hating cramped public transport situations. Flora, being tall and broad, carved a space around himself effortlessly, and Jungkook’s strong frame and solid build helped him stay upright even as people pushed and jostled around. But you?

You barely reached the overhead bars and had zero chance of grabbing onto anything. The sea of bodies swayed and pushed around you like a tide, and you knew immediately: this was going to be a nightmare.

When the metro car jolted with a hard start, you stumbled — and without even thinking, Jungkook caught you. His arm shot out, gripping the overhead pole running above the crowd. He positioned himself close to you, making sure if you were going to be squished against someone, it would be him. You leaned slightly on him, trying not to put your full weight against his side — but there wasn’t really a choice.

And then the metro braked hard at the first station.

You were sent flying — a small, helpless yelp leaving your lips — and instinctively you grabbed at Jungkook, fisting the front of his jacket. Even Jungkook had to plant his feet and shift his stance to keep steady, his muscles tensing under you. Without hesitation, he wrapped his free arm around your waist, firm and protective, pulling you flush against him.

He didn’t let go.

You were breathing fast, too aware of the way your hands clutched his hoodie and jacket, the way your cheek nearly brushed his chest, the faint scent of clean laundry and something distinctly Jungkook filling your nose.

You tried — once — to step back. To regain some polite distance.

But Jungkook bent slightly, lips brushing the shell of your ear, and whispered in Korean, voice low and rough: “Just hold onto me. I got you.”

His breath was hot against your ear, his words sending a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the cold night air.

Your knees wobbled. Your heart thudded so hard you wondered if he could hear it too.

You gave a small, helpless nod against his chest, too overwhelmed to meet his eyes, and instead, gripped the front of his jacket tighter — knuckles white, fingers trembling slightly.  Jungkook tightened his arm around you just a fraction more, anchoring you securely against him for the rest of the ride. He was your solid ground in that chaotic, moving sea of strangers. And somehow, it felt like the whole world had shrunk again.

Just you and him, heartbeat to heartbeat.

As your stop neared, everyone started pressing forward, trying to position themselves near the doors. It was a chaos of bodies, jostling and pushing. Jungkook stayed close. Too close for you to think properly — but it was necessary.

With this many people, if you lost each other now, finding each other again would be impossible. You could just call Flora or Pascal but you hadn’t exchanged phone numbers with Jungkook – you didn’t want to impose. Without a word, Jungkook slipped his hand gently to the small of your back, warm and steady, steering you through the crush of people like you were the most precious thing he needed to protect. His hand wasn’t pushy, wasn’t possessive — it was guiding, reassuring. Like he wanted you to know he had you. That he wasn’t letting go.

You clutched the strap of your bag with both hands to keep from reaching back for him, heart rattling inside your chest like a trapped bird. Finally, the heavy metro doors hissed open, and you both spilled out into the station — breathing again, laughing breathlessly as the cool air of the outside hit your faces.

If someone had asked Jungkook what you looked like right then, flushed cheeks, bright eyes, a soft smile playing on your lips — he would have said, without hesitation: beautiful.

Maybe the most beautiful thing he'd seen all day.

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

The museum was only a short walk away, and the fresh air helped you all shake off the claustrophobic energy of the metro. You entered the exhibition hall, and soon you were wandering through corridors of dim lighting, eerie soundtracks playing faintly in the background.

Glass cases displayed old movie props, some beautifully preserved, some delightfully grotesque. Fake vampire fangs, latex severed limbs, crumbling Nosferatu prosthetics — pieces of horror history carefully presented under spotlights. Flora, who until now had been relatively quiet, suddenly turned out to be a bizarre fountain of random movie trivia.

“That arm," Flora pointed at a disturbingly realistic severed hand in one of the cases, "was made with real animal bones inside to make it look more authentic when it moved."

You blinked. Jungkook blinked.

You caught the confused furrow of Jungkook’s brow and leaned close to murmur a translation into his ear in Korean, your breath brushing his skin:

 "They used real animal bones inside to make it look real."

Jungkook widened his eyes slightly, letting out a soft, surprised laugh, and whispered back:

 "That's crazy..."

You grinned at him, feeling ridiculously giddy that you could be the one translating this strange world for him.

As you moved on, you came to a corner that had been redesigned especially for tonight's event. It was marked with low flickering lights and a small, crooked wooden sign:

"Horror Walk — Enter If You Dare."

Inside, black curtains obscured the view, and occasional flashes of light and small shrieks from earlier participants hinted at what awaited. It wasn’t a full haunted house — more like a cramped hallway with actors hidden inside, ready to jump scare anyone brave (or foolish) enough to walk through.

You all stopped in front of it.

Pascal groaned dramatically, already shaking his head. "No, no, not for me..."

You laughed and turned to Jungkook.

"He hates jump scares."

Jungkook smiled, clearly amused, but his eyes flickered back to the dark curtains with a gleam that made your stomach twist deliciously.

“And you?” he asked softly, tilting his head toward you.

You hesitated, chewing your bottom lip — horror walk with Jungkook? Half of you wanted to die of nerves. The other half wanted nothing more.

Flora, oblivious, was already striding forward to sign the little waiver the museum required. Pascal grumbled but followed. And Jungkook… well, Jungkook just watched you, waiting patiently for your answer.

You hesitated for a second before pushing through the thick black curtain, the material brushing heavily against your shoulders, swallowing you up into the dark.

Immediately, the world changed.

The hallway inside was nearly pitch black, save for faint, flickering lights far ahead. The floor creaked ominously beneath your feet. Somewhere deeper inside, you could hear recorded whispers, quiet footfalls, and the occasional high-pitched shriek that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

You swallowed hard, feeling your heart hammer against your ribs.

And then — a warm hand slipped into yours.

Properly, fully — Jungkook’s hand.

Strong, a little calloused, fitting into yours like it belonged there. You felt him step close behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his chest to your back. For a moment, you were too stunned to move.

He was just... holding your hand. Not by accident. Not by mistake. Deliberately.

You squeezed back, barely able to believe it was happening, and you felt the slight, quiet tremble of his fingers in yours. He was nervous too. The realization sent a bloom of something so sweet, so fragile through your chest, you thought you might actually float off the ground. Jungkook leaned down, mouth close to your ear.

 "Go ahead... I'll be right behind you."

You nodded mutely, and you started forward. Each cautious step you took echoed too loudly in the otherwise dead silence. Jungkook didn’t just walk behind you — he was guiding you, his hand sometimes sliding from your hand up lightly to your shoulder, to your waist, steadying you with feather-light touches whenever you flinched or hesitated. It was so subtle, so careful, like he was afraid to startle you more than the haunted hallway already was.

And then — something moved.

A figure — pale, twitching, all black eyes and sharp teeth — suddenly burst from a hidden panel in the wall beside you.

You shrieked, whipping around instinctively to run — but Jungkook was there, and you plowed straight into his chest. He laughed — a real, full laugh, delighted and breathless — and without thinking, he wrapped his arms around you.

Not just a safe hug — no, Jungkook hugged you properly, one arm strong across your back, the other sneaking under your open jacket, pulling you against him like you were something he couldn't bear to let go.

Your cheek was pressed to the warm cotton of his shirt, his heartbeat thundering in your ear. You whimpered — you couldn’t help it — the sound slipping out, high-pitched and soft and far too vulnerable. You prayed, prayed, that Jungkook thought it was from fear.

(And not because the feel of his fingers brushing lightly over your back, beneath your jacket, was making your knees buckle.)

But Jungkook stiffened for a fraction of a second against you — his breath catching sharply in his chest.

Like he heard it differently.

Like he loved it.

His hand flattened against the small of your back, feeling you, grounding you to him. His nose brushed your hair, and you could have sworn you felt him inhale deeply, a tiny shudder running through his body. You stayed like that — pressed together, hearts hammering, the haunted hallway forgotten — for a few infinite seconds.

In the dimness, only you and Jungkook existed. Only the way his thumb was rubbing slow, barely-there circles at the base of your spine. Only the way you gripped handfuls of his jacket, hiding your burning face against him.

He tilted his head down, whispering into your hair in Korean, voice rough and breathless:

"It's okay... I'm here."

You could only nod — your words were locked somewhere deep in your chest, strangled by the overwhelming way he was holding you like you were precious, real, and somehow already his.

And if you weren't careful... You might never want to let him go.

You finished the haunted hallway clinging lightly to Jungkook’s jacket, every loud noise and sudden shadow making you tighten your grip for a second longer than necessary. You could feel Jungkook's hand still hovering at your lower back, ready to catch you again if needed — though you both moved slowly now, hearts not quite back to normal. When you finally stumbled out through the heavy exit curtain and back into the dim light of the movie exhibit, it was like breaking through to the surface after being underwater.

You gasped a little laugh, immediately stepping a half step away, remembering where you were. Remembering yourself. Jungkook hated it. Hated the tiny, polite distance you carefully placed between you and him again. Because he couldn’t just pull you back. Because even now, there were a few people here, and a badly taken photo would be a nightmare for both of you — and worst of all, you would be the one most hurt by it. He knew it.

But still. His hands twitched at his sides. His heart screamed.

He licked his lips slowly without even realizing it, staring after you — dazed, helpless, and ready to follow you anywhere. And he would have — he was about to — until Pascal suddenly spoke up.

“Pfff… Okay, I’m done. Horror walk has officially killed me,” Pascal groaned, scrubbing a hand through his messy hair. “I need sugar. Then I’m out.”

You and Flora laughed, both nodding — though you covered a giant yawn behind your hand. It was nearly 2 a.m., after all. Even you, energized and excited, were visibly winding down now.

Jungkook’s heart stuttered in panic.

No. No, no, no. He didn’t have your number. He didn’t know where you lived. If you left now, you would just… be gone.

He could already feel it — that yawning space opening between you, the chance slipping away like sand between his fingers. While you and Flora casually debated which sweets stand was the best nearby, Jungkook frantically opened his group chat with his friends. His thumbs flew across his phone.

🐰: what do i do 🐰: i dont have her number 🐰: i cant lose her what do i do i cant just ask in front of everyone 🐰: HELP.

It took all of three seconds before his friends erupted in teasing.

😎 (Taehyung): lololol YOU'RE SCREWED 🐱 (Yoongi): Just ask her idiot. 🐿️ (Hoseok): Confess your undying love immediately. Go big or go home. 🐨 (Namjoon): Maybe just say you wanna text about the museum or something??? Chill bro.

Jungkook groaned under his breath, cheeks burning, still pretending to casually check his phone while you and Flora were oblivious. But Pascal was not oblivious.

🐰: i cant just SAY THAT. everyone is RIGHT HERE. 🐰: AND what if she says no 🐰: AND her friends will KNOW 🐰: AND then ill look like a desperate idiot

Taehyung was instantly bloodthirsty:

😎: you ARE a desperate idiot right now 😂

Hoseok added:

🐿️: Desperate and CUTE tho 🐿️: i believe in u soldier o7 🐿️: shoot your shot 🐿️: or steal her shoe and run so she HAS to find you later 🤡

Jungkook glared at his screen so hard he was sure the pixels would melt. Yoongi, the voice of (grumpy) reason, chimed in again:

🐱: just say you want to send her the museum address or something. 🐱: make it practical. not a confession, dumbass. 🐱: baby steps.

Jungkook thumbed back:

🐰: you make it sound easy hyung

Namjoon:

🐨: bc it IS easy 🐨: you’re just a lovesick mess rn

Jungkook ran a hand down his face, accidentally bumping shoulders with Flora, who glanced over in mild concern. He flinched and smiled a little too fast, tucking his phone behind his back as if he could read it.

Meanwhile, Taehyung was merciless:

😎: tell her you saw a ghost and the only way to be safe is to exchange numbers. spiritual protection reasons. 😎: very serious. 😎: for safety reasons

Jungkook huffed a tiny breathless laugh despite himself — and immediately bit it down when you turned slightly, giving him a small, questioning smile. He coughed into his fist and looked away.

He was losing it.

And then — Out of the corner of his eye, Jungkook caught Pascal watching him. Really watching him. Sharp, assessing — and then… almost kind. Pascal stepped close enough that Jungkook could see the screen of Pascal’s phone when he tilted it forward — a message typed out in clear, simple English with its translation into Korean next to it.

"Normally Flora and I bring her home if it’s this late. But if you want to take her home instead, we will leave you two alone?"

Jungkook froze. His mouth went dry. He blinked — once, twice — rereading it to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating from sleep deprivation or love-induced madness. When he finally looked up, wide-eyed, cheeks glowing bright red, Pascal just grinned at him — like a cat that had stolen the cream.

But Pascal’s smile turned serious in the next second.

He held Jungkook’s gaze firmly, and then, in slow, careful English that even he understood very clearly, he added:

"Just don’t hurt her."

The unspoken "or else" hung heavy between them.

Jungkook nodded immediately. Seriously. From the deepest part of himself. There wasn’t even a fraction of hesitation. He would rather cut off his own hand than hurt you.

Pascal seemed satisfied with that. He clapped Jungkook lightly on the shoulder, nodded once like a silent deal had been struck — and turned back toward Flora and you, who were laughing about how creepy some of the fake horror props had been.

Jungkook finally, finally allowed himself to breathe. He straightened, the panic in his chest easing just a little. He still didn’t know exactly how he was going to ask you — but now, at least, he had more time.

The four of you had gotten your sweet treats from Pascal’s favorite late-night stand — some homemade fudge and steaming paper cones of roasted almonds that perfumed the cool night air with caramel sugar.

You crunched your way through them peacefully, laughing with Flora about the terrible fake blood on one specific prop, while Pascal made dry commentary about how he’d seen scarier things at his tax office. Jungkook stayed close but quiet, occasionally smiling wide enough that the corners of his eyes crinkled, but he was still a little in his own head — winding down slowly from everything.

The walk to your designated tram stop was calm. Different from the chaotic crowd earlier — this station was just a little one, off the main roads. You stood together on the almost empty platform, idly chatting while waiting for your tram to rattle in. Jungkook couldn’t help but notice how the fluorescent lights made your skin look almost soft and glowing. He inched just a little closer, under the weak excuse of hearing you better, his hands stuffed deep into his jacket pockets to stop himself from touching you again.

When the tram finally rolled in, it sighed and squealed against the tracks, and you all climbed inside together, still half-laughing over Pascal's bad jokes. It was quiet inside. Jungkook had just gotten used to the idea that he'd be sitting next to you for the rest of the ride — half-savoring, half-panicking about it — when it happened.

At the last possible second, just before the doors banged shut, Pascal and Flora jumped out. You both turned — mouths open, stunned — too late to follow. The doors slid closed with a harsh thump, locking the two of you in.

Alone.

The station outside slipped away into the darkness. You stared after them, frozen, and then muttered under your breath, a little stunned, "Fuckers."

Jungkook’s brows shot up — he didn't need any translation for that one. Even without knowing the word exactly, your tone said everything. He flushed immediately, dropping his gaze, rocking awkwardly on his heels.

"I... uh..." he started, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. "Sorry... about... this situation," he said, clearly flustered, almost apologetic. His English was slow and careful, like he wanted to get it perfect for you. "I didn’t... mean to trap you?"

You blinked at him, heart twisting painfully at how sweet he was being about it — how he looked genuinely sorry, like he was afraid you’d be mad. Quickly, you smiled, trying to reassure him.

"I don’t mind," you said warmly, pulling out your phone. You tapped at the screen, pulling up the tram map, trying to figure out how he could get back to the Korean restaurant where you'd first met — it seemed like a million years ago already. You held it up to him, meaning to make it easy for him to jump ship if he needed. But Jungkook's face fell the second he understood.

He pointed at himself, then at you, his brows furrowing.

"You... don't want... me... to bring you?" he asked, his voice a little small, a little uncertain. His words were halting but sincere.

"If not... okay... I go. But—" He fumbled, gesturing at your phone and then back at you, urgent, "—I... pay taxi. So you get home safe."

You stared at him, completely blindsided.

"You..." You laughed, a little breathless, a little floored. "You want to take me home?"

Jungkook's ears burned visibly. He nodded so fast you were surprised his head didn’t snap off. "Yes," he said. "Yes... I want."

"But..." you faltered, still confused, feeling your heart race, "I don’t want to steal your time..."

He shook his head, frantic, taking half a step closer without realizing it.

"You don’t!" he insisted, voice low and urgent. "You don’t. I... I want... time with you."

He sucked in a shaky breath after that, eyes locked onto yours so fiercely you couldn't look away even if you wanted to.

"I choose." He had said it slower, firmer, so earnest it nearly knocked you off your feet. And you realized then — this was why Pascal and Flora had ditched you two at the last second. This was why Pascal had grinned like a madman. Jungkook had asked for it. He had flushed madly, panicked, but asked to be alone with you.

The tram clattered along the tracks under your feet, a quiet lullaby to the storm inside your chest. Your cheeks burned as you tucked your phone away again, pretending not to notice how Jungkook's hand hovered close to yours, not quite brave enough to touch yet.

He was still trying so hard — speaking English, clumsy but heartfelt, making it easier for you.

You smiled up at him shyly, and said, "We can keep talking in Korean."

Jungkook’s face lit up like a sunrise. He leaned in just slightly, like you had given him the best gift.

"I... want make easy for you, like you made it easy for me," he said, grinning wide, chest puffing up a little like he was proud of himself. "I want... you happy."

God. You felt like you were melting right there in the rattling subway car.

"I appreciate it," you said, voice soft but sure. The train rumbled to a stop a few moments later. You stepped out into the quiet coolness of the late night — your stop. The streets were empty, just the low hum of a far-off car or two, the golden glow of distant street lamps. You started walking, your footsteps echoing softly against the pavement.

Jungkook hovered close to your side, not touching, but close enough that you could feel his body heat seeping through the chilly night air. You risked a glance at him — the way his hands were tucked deep into his jacket pockets, the soft furrow between his brows like he was deep in thought.

Gathering your courage, you blurted out, "Can... can I ask you something personal, personal?"

You rushed to add, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

Jungkook’s mouth curled into a wide, amused grin. He gave a little huff of a laugh, absolutely delighted with you. It wasn’t lost on him how careful you were — how, even now, after all the laughing, the horror walk, the sweets and jokes, you still treated him with so much respect. You hadn’t prodded or demanded like some people did, hadn’t poked at him like a shiny object.

Even now, you offered him the dignity of choice. And without hesitation, he nodded.

"Ask," he said warmly.

You bit your lip for a second, cheeks heating.

"Why are you here?" you asked finally. "I mean... here in this town? It’s not exactly... special."

For a moment, you worried you might have offended him. You searched his face for any sign of irritation. But Jungkook just smiled, slow and a little secret, like you had stumbled into something true.

"Holiday," he said. "Smaller cities... make it easier to blend. Easier to be..." He paused, tapping his chest lightly, "me."

Your eyes widened in understanding. You nodded quickly. "That... that makes sense."

It did. In a small city like this, he could just be Jungkook — not the star, not the phenomenon — just a guy eating sweets at 2am, laughing at terrible horror props, getting fake blood splashed on his shoes. The conversation loosened after that. He invited you to ask more.

You asked him his favorite food (which, predictably, made him light up and ramble about samgyeopsal and ramen), and he asked you about your work. He teased you gently about your horror movie squeamishness, and you teased him back for how much he liked it when you clung to him.

The walk to your apartment passed faster than you thought possible — fifteen minutes that felt like seconds. As your building came into view under the sleepy halo of the streetlights, you slowed to a stop — but your feet didn’t quite want to stay still.

You didn’t want to say goodbye to Jungkook.

Not with how warm the night still felt despite the chill in the air. Not with how close he was — real and quiet and nervously alive beside you.

You turned toward him, heart stumbling in your chest — and that’s when you noticed. He was fidgeting nervously on the spot, shifting from foot to foot like he couldn't settle. His hands curled and uncurled at his sides. He bit at his lip ring — hard — like it had personally offended him.

And he was looking at you.

No — he was looking at your lips.

It hit you like a freight train, how charged the air had become — how close you still were, how much he was holding himself back. Your heart pounded so loud you were sure he could hear it. And suddenly, you were excited all over again — and anxious, and dizzy, and so full of heat you could barely breathe.

Your fingers fumbled with your keys, looking between him and your building and him again, like you couldn’t decide which thing was more terrifying. And Jungkook just stood there, wrecked with nerves, looking like he desperately wanted something but didn’t know if he was allowed to take it.

And then, shy and barely above a whisper, you found your voice.

“Do you… um…” You cleared your throat, cheeks blazing. “Would you like to come up? Just for a bit?”

You gestured toward the building with a tilt of your chin, forcing yourself to keep eye contact. “I mean, the next tram won’t come for a while. Not that you couldn’t just get a taxi or something, obviously, but—”

“Yes.”

His voice cut through your ramble — soft but breathless. Like he’d been waiting. Like he couldn’t let you talk yourself out of it.

“Yes,” he repeated, and stepped just a little closer.

You blushed so hard you almost dropped your keys. Jungkook’s eyes flicked down to them, amused, but didn’t say anything. He just smiled — the kind that made your insides unravel — and waited while you got the door open, heart threatening to beat straight out of your chest.

You stepped inside and let him follow, suddenly hyper-aware of everything: the creak of the floorboards, the faint smell of the candle you’d blown out earlier, the slight mess in the sink you hadn’t quite tackled yet. It wasn’t bad — you’d cleaned yesterday, thankfully — but still, you couldn’t help the little twinge of embarrassment that bloomed in your chest.

Jungkook stepped inside gently, quiet and careful, like he didn’t want to disturb the air. He looked around slowly, eyes drifting over your space — the small bookshelf, the couch, the dish rack, the jacket tossed over a chair. The framed prints on your wall. The mug with the chipped rim on the counter.

Then his eyes caught on something else.

The wall of photos near your kitchen door.

He wandered a little closer after leaving his cap his shoes an jacket at your front door, expression softening as he scanned over them — a chaotic, joyful collage. There were pictures of you with friends, some clearly older and sun-faded. Others more recent, printed in glossy bursts of color. One where you and Flora were mid-laugh in a garden, holding fake knives from a Halloween display. Another where Pascal had his head in your lap while you looked mock-annoyed, eyes rolling but clearly fond.

Several photos showed you and Pascal together, reenacting sculptures — in museums, parks, once even a fountain. Jungkook paused in front of one where a much younger you stood frozen with Pascal beside you, both of you mimicking a classical marble pose with serious faces and ridiculous commitment.

He laughed, soft and surprised. “This really is … your thing?”

You hovered awkwardly behind him, feeling both warm and embarrassed. “We started doing them when we were, like, fifteen? It just… stuck.”

Jungkook smiled. “I like it.”

Then, shifting just a bit, his gaze flicked to the shelf next to the pictures — the one with your music collection. His eyes caught on the row of albums tucked to one side. Some of them were his. Not all, but a few. One of his solo projects. A BTS album with the spine worn from too many plays. Another still wrapped in its original plastic. Even an AgustD album between them all.

He blinked once — and then grinned.

Wide. Mischievous. Almost smug.

You groaned immediately, dragging a hand down your face. Jungkook laughed — really laughed this time — head tilting back slightly, hair falling into his eyes as his shoulders shook.

“You have… good taste,” he teased and pretended to examine the shelf like a judge at an art gallery. “And very supportive heart.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “You’re impossible.”

He looked at you over his shoulder, and smiled softer now — shy, like he couldn’t quite believe he was here either.

“Yeah,” he murmured, “but I’m glad you let me in.”

Your heart was doing ridiculous things in your chest and Jungkook's presence felt too big and too close in your tiny home, you managed to clear your throat and ask, “Do you want something to drink?”

Your voice was light — too light — and you didn’t wait for his answer before turning toward the fridge, using it as an excuse to collect yourself. Trying to be a good host. You needed something to do, anything to stop you from watching the way he leaned against the counter like he belonged there, sleeves shoved up to his forearms, lip ring catching the dim light whenever he bit at it.

Jungkook chuckled quietly behind you, following your movement. “Water’s fine,” he said.

You nodded, grabbing a glass and opening the fridge. The cool air hit your face, grounding, and you took an extra second longer than necessary, using the excuse to breathe. Just as you were closing the fridge door again, Jungkook’s voice broke the quiet.

“Can I ask you something personal?”

You turned around, confused — blinking at him over the rim of the glass. “You’ve kind of been doing that all evening.”

A crooked grin tugged at his mouth, but he looked a little sheepish, running a hand through his hair.

“No, I mean… something different.”

You hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

He looked at you for a moment — not scanning or judging, just looking, like trying to figure out how best to ask. Then: “Why are you like this?”

You blinked. Paused. Raised an eyebrow slowly.

“…Excuse me?”

The expression on your face made him huff at himself, rubbing the back of his neck, already regretting his wording.

“I didn’t mean it like— Not in a bad way,” he rushed, words tumbling now. “I mean… the way you’ve treated me all night. Like I’m not… you know—me.”

You stayed quiet, curious but cautious.

“You’ve barely mentioned anything about music,” he said, softer now. “You didn’t bring up BTS. You didn’t ask for a photo, or… anything like that. It’s like…” He shrugged helplessly. “You’re trying really hard not to.”

You exhaled, slowly. Set the glass down.

“Oh,” you said, a little caught off guard. “Well… yeah.”

He waited, head tilted, expression open.

You licked your lips, nervous. “I didn’t know if you’d want that. I mean… You’re a person. A really successful one, yeah, but… you seemed like you just wanted to have a normal dinner, a normal night. And I didn’t want to ruin that by acting weird or clingy or making you feel like I only saw you as this… brand.”

Jungkook didn’t say anything, so you kept going, fumbling your way through, but pacing yourself so he could understand you.

“I mean you are that brand but also aren’t. You’re a person first, right? I figured asking for pictures or autographs would be rude. Probably you’re not even allowed to talk about certain things? So I didn’t want to put you in a position where it got awkward or uncomfortable. I didn’t want to cross a line. Even if part of me…” You hesitated, smiled sheepishly. “Okay, yeah, part of me might curse myself later. When this ends and you go back to your world, to being that Jungkook again, is gonna hate myself later for not asking you for a picture or an autograph.”

That earned a small breath of laughter from him.

“But honestly? Just… being with you like this? Talking and laughing and walking around — it’s better than any signed album. Because you are way nicer than I ever imagined.”

You didn’t know what expression you expected from him. Maybe gratitude. Maybe amusement. But you didn’t expect him to look stunned. Utterly stunned — like you’d knocked the wind out of him. He stared for a second longer, lips parted, eyes soft and disbelieving.

And then — without warning — he stepped forward and huggedyou.

Just like that. No hesitation. No awkward shuffle. His arms wrapped around you like he’d been waiting all night to do it, like something fragile inside him had finally let go. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the way he breathed in like he needed to memorize the shape of this moment. Your hands found their way to his back instinctively, curling into the fabric of his hoodie. He smelled like something warm, something clean. His lip ring was cool against your temple where he pressed his face into your hair, exhaling like he hadn’t realized he needed to.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, voice muffled in your hair. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you had to… to explain. I just— No one’s ever… not many treat me like that.”

You blinked, hands slowly rising to rest against his sides.

“I didn’t know I needed it.” he added, quieter.

Your heart ached in the best way. You tilted your head just slightly so your cheek could rest against his shoulder. Jungkook’s arms loosened gradually, his body lingering in the space between you. His hands slid down your sides with featherlight care, as though he wasn’t ready to let go — not really. When he leaned back just enough to look at you, his eyes were unreadable for a second. Then they dropped.

To your lips.

And stayed there.

The weight of his stare made it suddenly hard to breathe. You swallowed, heart stammering in your chest as you watched him try — and fail — to drag his gaze back up to your eyes. When he did, it was with effort, as if every fiber of him still wanted to be looking at your mouth instead. He licked his bottom lip slowly — not teasing, not calculated — just hungry, barely restrained. The silver of his lip ring caught on the light, glinting like a warning and a promise all at once.

Your breath hitched.

You couldn't look away. Not now. Especially not when he began leaning in, inch by cautious inch, until you were close enough to feel his breath ghost over your skin — warm and soft and tasting faintly of something sweet he’d eaten earlier.

And then his lips touched yours.

A soft, reverent press. Not hesitant exactly — more like he was savoring it. Like he’d imagined this and didn’t want to rush the real thing. The kiss was gentle at first — his lips pillowy and warm, fitting against yours so naturally it felt like falling into something you’d been meant to find. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his hoodie, clinging to him without even realizing you’d moved, needing something to hold onto because your entire body felt too light, too giddy, too alive.

A flurry of butterflies erupted in your chest, trying to claw their way out of you.

His tongue flicked out — a slow, tentative kitten lick across your lower lip, as if asking, May I? And when your lips parted on a soft, involuntary sound — a whimper, a mewl, something needy and breathless — Jungkook’s breath caught against your skin.

That was all he needed.

The kiss deepened, hot and slow and aching. His tongue slid against yours, smooth and searching, tasting you like you were something precious. He kissed like he wanted to learn everything — the shape of your mouth, the way your breath stuttered, the soft sounds you made when his lips moved just so.

You trembled in his arms, overwhelmed.

One of his hands clenched gently at your hip, not hard but firm, anchoring you. The other drifted up to your neck, then into your hair near your hairline — fingers threading in softly and holding you still, keeping you close. He tilted your head just enough to fit better against him, to deepen the kiss just a little more, and everything about the way he touched you made you feel fragile and wanted all at once.

When he pulled back, he didn’t go far.

Just enough to let you breathe again. Your eyes fluttered open. You were trembling. Jungkook’s eyes were heavy-lidded, his lips slightly parted and kissed-red, a glint of wetness catching on the silver of his lip ring. His thumb brushed your jaw, and only then did you realize your whole body was buzzing. That you were flushed to the roots. That your knees felt like jelly.

That you might very well throw up your heart onto the floor.

He looked at you like you were art. And all you could do was stare back at him, still holding onto his hoodie like it was the only thing keeping you grounded.  Jungkook didn’t step away after the kiss ended. His breath mingled with yours, warm and shallow between you. His eyes searched your face like he needed to see everything — the tremble in your lips, the flush on your cheeks, the way your chest rose and fell in shaky rhythm with his.

“Was that… okay?” he asked.

His voice was deeper now, rough around the edges — like gravel softened by velvet. You could see the tension in his jaw, the way his Adam’s apple bobbed hard as he swallowed, his thumb brushing gently along your cheekbone. He was touching you like he couldn’t help it — like he didn’t even realize he was doing it, just mapping your skin under his fingers.

Your voice caught in your throat.

You nodded, eyes wide, chest tight with everything you couldn’t put into words. It was more than okay — it felt like your entire body had been lit from within, nerves firing in every direction. But Jungkook didn’t accept just a nod.

“Words,” he said, low and hoarse, the demand wrapping around you like silk laced with fire.

Your breath hitched. “Y–Yeah.” It came out as more air than voice. You tried again, voice trembling with sincerity. “Yes. It’s… it’s really okay.”

A slow, satisfied smile curled on his lips — soft and sinful at the same time — and before you could even begin to catch your breath again, he was kissing you. This time it wasn’t tentative. This was deeper, hungrier — his mouth opening over yours like he meant to leave a mark on your soul. His hands gripped your waist as your breath stuttered, and your fingers dug into the soft cotton of his hoodie again. The kiss was slow and consuming, drawing you under like a tide pulling you out to sea.

Your knees buckled, and he noticed — instantly.

Without breaking the kiss, Jungkook moved you. His strong arms wrapped around you like it was effortless, and in a few guided steps, your back bumped softly against the edge of the kitchen counter. Then, with practiced strength and surprising gentleness, he lifted you — one smooth motion — and set you down on the surface.

A startled yelp slipped from your lips, swallowed almost immediately by his mouth returning to yours. Your thighs instinctively parted for him as he stepped between your legs, his chest brushing yours, his warmth enveloping you. His hand returned to your neck, fingers curling softly into the hair at your nape, tilting your head just how he liked it. You sighed into his mouth, long and low, surrendering completely to the feel of him.

He smiled against your lips — you felt it — and it made your heart twist.

You threaded your hands through his hair, fingertips brushing the undercut at the base of his skull. The strands were soft and thick, and he made a low sound at the contact — almost a groan, half-muffled by your lips. One of your hands lingered at the back of his neck, the other trailed across his shoulders, grounding yourself against the solid heat of him.

You locked your legs around his hips without thinking, drawing him in closer. You could feel everything — the tension in his body, the thrum of his heart against yours, the slow burn of something heavy and overwhelming settling low in your belly.

Jungkook’s lips never strayed far, brushing soft kisses across your jaw, down your neck, like he was committing you to memory one breath at a time. His hands began to explore more boldly now, firm but reverent — one anchoring at your hip, the other sliding slowly up your side. The heat of his touch burned through your clothes, every inch of your skin responding as if drawn by static, nerves flickering to life under his fingers.

When his palm swept along your spine, warm and purposeful, you arched into him instinctively — a soft whimper escaping your lips. It wasn’t dramatic or intentional, just pure reaction. A quiet sound of need you couldn’t hold back. Jungkook chuckled low against your throat, lips ghosting your skin.

"So sensitive," he murmured, voice rich with affection and something deeper — hunger laced with wonder. The way he said it made you shiver.

His hands moved again, slower now, more exploratory — like he was discovering a secret. One hand slid around, fingertips grazing the underside of your breast through the thin fabric of your top. He hesitated for a breath, as if waiting for you to stop him, to pull away. But you didn’t. Instead, a small, pleased sound caught in your throat, your head falling slightly back, lips parted with your next shallow inhale.

Jungkook pulled back just enough to look at you, to really look — your lips kiss-swollen and pink, your cheeks flushed with heat, your chest rising and falling fast beneath your shirt.

"Still okay?" he asked, voice deeper now, strained at the edges.

You nodded. “Yeah.” You could barely speak. The word came out in a sigh, like it had to push through every beat of your racing heart. And Jungkook looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

His hand found the hem of your shirt, fingers slipping just beneath. His touch on your bare skin was devastating — warm and sure as he slowly skimmed up your sides. His eyes stayed on you the whole time, watching every reaction. When his hand spread over your ribs and moved inward, your breath hitched violently, your back arching again with a sharp, involuntary gasp.

He exhaled shakily. “Fuck…”

“Jungkook…” You said his name like it was a confession, like it was the only word your mouth could remember how to form.

His gaze flickered down.

His fingers had found the curve of your breast now, brushing just along the edge of your bra — testing boundaries, testing your reactions. His thumb slowly traced the line of skin exposed above the cup, and your whole body clenched in response. Your thighs tightened around him, and your hands clutched at his shoulders like you needed something to anchor you.

And still, he looked up at you. Not for permission anymore — for the sheer pleasure of watching the way you unraveled under his hands. You were dizzy. Melting. Your head swam with heat and need, everything in you drawn to the man between your legs.

Jungkook leaned in again, pressing a kiss just beneath your ear, his voice barely more than breath: “You feel so good under my hands.”

You whimpered, knees falling wider, his hips slotting in deeper between your legs as you clung to him. He was hard now — you could feel it clearly against your center, even through your clothes, and the realization sent a rush of heat crashing through you.

Jungkook’s hand cupped your breast with more intention now, squeezing gently — just enough to draw a soft, breathy moan from your lips. The sound made him groan low in his throat, hips instinctively pressing forward against you, desperate for friction. His other hand slid down, gripping your hip and guiding you closer to the edge of the counter. The shift in position brought you flush against him, and you could feel the hard press of him right where you were aching — it was dizzying, maddening.

Your head dropped to his shoulder as your breath caught in your throat, and you instinctively pressed a kiss to the warm skin of his neck. His scent was intoxicating — clean, musky, something uniquely him — and when your lips brushed over the strong line of his throat, you felt him shudder against you.

He kept touching you, his thumb sliding beneath the edge of your bra, then gently dragging his nail over your nipple in a teasing, deliberate motion that made your body jerk in his arms. You gasped into his neck, breath trembling as you held onto him tighter, your hands fisting the fabric of his hoodie. It was too much and not enough at once — your chest heaved, lips parting in silent pleading as he kept up the slow, torturous rhythm.

The heat between your thighs pulsed in time with the friction of his hips pressed snugly between yours. The thick ridge of him, even through layers of clothing, made your breath catch again. You were soaked. Desperate. A throbbing need built between your legs that had your toes curling, your legs tightening around his hips to keep him there, to keep him close.

You kissed his neck again, slower this time, your lips lingering as you let your hand roam upward, over the hard plane of his chest. Every muscle under your palm felt tense— his heart hammering in time with yours. You wanted to touch more. All of him. But your hand hovered at the space between you, not quite daring to move lower. The friction where your bodies met was too good, too electric to disrupt.

Jungkook’s breath came hard against your ear now, his lips ghosting over your temple as he whispered, almost helplessly, “You’re driving me crazy…” He was losing control slowly — and loving it.

Your answer was a soft whimper, your hips shifting unconsciously against his. He grunted, a ragged sound low in his chest, as his hand moved to cup the fullness of your breast more fully now, thumbing your nipple in slow, aching circles that had you arching into him.

Your skin felt too tight. Your nerves were on fire. And all you could think about was how good his hands felt, how good he felt — everywhere. Jungkook didn’t stop. His hands roamed your body like he was learning it by heart — your curves, your gasps, the places that made you arch and whimper. He was reverent but hungry, like he wanted to devour and worship you in the same breath.

Your chest rose and fell rapidly, every inch of you buzzing with anticipation and heat as his thumb grazed your nipple again, sending a ripple of pleasure straight through your core. Your hips rocked instinctively against him, and the friction made you dizzy.

Your hands clung to him, your mouth brushing his jaw as your voice came out barely louder than a whisper — raw and vulnerable and wrecked.

“Please… touch me.”

Jungkook froze for half a heartbeat. His pupils blew wide, his jaw clenched, and his throat worked as he swallowed hard. His voice came out deep, rough, already hoarse with need.

“Fuck… yeah. I—” he faltered, breath catching as he tried to anchor himself, “where?”

At first, you misunderstood. You reached down between you both, your hand shaking slightly — from nerves, from want, from the sheer surreal intimacy of the moment — and you guided his hand, bold and trembling, right between your legs. Over the heated fabric of your pants, pressing him there, where you ached for him most.

Jungkook let out a strangled groan, his head falling to your shoulder for a second like the sensation had physically knocked the breath from him. His fingers flexed instinctively, feeling the heat, even through the layers.

“Jesus,” he whispered, voice shredded with disbelief and need. He kissed you again, rougher this time, a little desperate, and then drew back just enough to stammer, “Bed?”

The word was simple. Hopeful. Because he could take you here — wanted to, ached to — but he didn’t want this to be a rushed, stolen thing. Not when it was your first time like this. Not when it was you. Your eyes went wide, and you suddenly looked flustered, realizing what he had meant.

“Oh… there,” you said softly, cheeks burning. You nodded toward the door to your room, utterly mortified at your mistake, your voice nearly swallowed by your own breathlessness. You shifted, meaning to slide off the counter and find your footing again, to lead him there — but Jungkook didn’t let you go.

He gripped your waist and pulled you in, grinding you against his hardness. Your thighs clenched around him, and the gasp you let out — broken and shameless — made him hiss through his teeth. You couldn’t even breathe, couldn’t think. He grinned against your throat, a cocky glint in his eyes that he didn’t even try to hide.

“God, you sound good,” he muttered, before lifting you into his arms like you weighed nothing.

Your arms locked around his neck as your nose buried against his skin, still dizzy with how fast this was spiraling. But it felt right. Real. Like something that had been waiting to happen for far too long. He carried you through the hallway, pushing your bedroom door open with his shoulder, never once letting you go. The world was muffled. It was just him. Just you.

He set you down onto the bed like you were precious, his, but he didn’t give you space — didn’t even move back an inch. His body hovered over yours, gaze burning down at you, and he let his hand settle low, palming you again through the fabric of your pants. Your hips lifted into his hand involuntarily, and the moan that slipped from your lips was downright filthy. He chuckled darkly, satisfied, eyes half-lidded and gleaming. “So,” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, your cheek, your jaw, “where do you want me to touch you again?”

You wanted to answer. You meant to answer.

But his hand rubbed slow, teasing circles, and your head fell back into the pillows. All you could do was feel.

He didn’t stay teasing long. After one more slow press of his palm, he pulled back just enough to hook his fingers into the waistband of your pants, silently asking for more. You nodded frantically, lips parted, chest rising and falling as if you’d just run miles.

“Okay?” he asked again, that final, precious line of respect in his voice — even with his body trembling above you. You reached for him, cupping his jaw as you whispered, “Yes. Please, Jungkook.”

He kissed you like he needed to taste those words again.

Then he peeled your pants down with aching care — reverent and focused — revealing more of you to him, inch by inch, as the last threads of restraint started to unravel. His hand moved lower with deliberate slowness, fingers tracing the outline of your panties like he was drawing a boundary he intended to cross — a line of reverence and tension. His touch was warm, electric, his fingertips ghosting along the thin fabric as if memorizing the way it clung to you.

He licked his lips instinctively, then caught the edge of his lip ring between his teeth — his eyes catching the wet sheen of you through the fabric.

“Fuck,” he murmured under his breath, chest rising, voice strained. “You're soaked…wet…”

The wonder in his voice made your stomach flip. Not cocky — awed. Like he couldn’t believe this was real. Then his thumb pressed down, slowly, directly over your clit through the damp cloth. The pressure made you jolt, breath catching hard in your throat.

His other hand slid beneath your shirt, and you arched into him instinctively. The fabric pushed up around your ribs and you made quick work of it — pulling it over your head and tossing it blindly aside, leaving your hair tousled and wild. You barely had time to take another breath before your bra joined it, hands shaking slightly with how overwhelmed you already felt.

But Jungkook… Jungkook had stopped moving. His eyes were locked on your body now — unmoving, dark, devouring. His lips were parted, his expression torn between reverence and hunger.

“God,” he said, almost like it hurt. “You're… fuck, you're so beautiful.”

You barely had time to react before he shifted lower, pushing you back onto the bed and settling between your legs. His mouth descended, warm and wet, and he kissed the swell of your breast before taking one of your nipples between his lips — gently at first, sucking just enough to make you moan, and then his teeth grazed lightly. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as the sensation sparked down your spine.

And at the same time — god, at the same time — his hand didn’t stop.

His thumb flicked again over your clit through your underwear, a slow, maddening stroke, before he hooked his fingers around the side and pulled the soaked fabric aside. The sudden exposure made you shiver. His fingers dipped lower — warm, thick — and then, without warning, he slid one finger inside you.

You cried out his name.

It tore from you without shame, your hips bucking against his hand. Your legs shook immediately, the sensation too good, too much. He groaned above you, mouth still warm on your breast, his breath stuttering.

“You’re—fuck,” he swore again, licking his lips as he looked down at the way your body welcomed him. “You’re so wet.”

He worked that finger gently, then added a second with ease. The stretch made your knees jerk, your thighs instinctively trying to close — but Jungkook was already there, pressing one of his hands firmly to your thigh to hold you open.

His head tilted up, eyes locked to yours.

“Don’t look away,” he growled. “Look at me.”

The command in his voice made your breath catch again — and god, the way he stared at you, the way he looked at you, like he could read every twitch of your body and wanted to worship it — it only made the heat coiling in your stomach burn hotter.

You looked at him, lips parted, breath shallow. You could feel it — god, you could feel it — the wetness between your legs only growing with every slow, deliberate push of Jungkook’s fingers. Every time he slid into you, you felt how soaked you were, how easily he moved inside you, how thoroughly your body gave in to him. He had to feel it too — the way your slick coated his fingers, warm and eager.

But then, your thoughts blurred completely.

His thumb dragged down again, pressing more firmly over your clit this time, shifting the soaked fabric aside with a slick sound that made your breath stutter. His fingers inside you twisted slightly, working you open with a rhythm that wasn’t fast, but devastatingly effective — controlled, calculated. His other hand gripped the inside of your thigh, firm and steady, holding you open like you might squirm away if he let up for even a second.

And his eyes — god, those dark, fixed eyes — didn’t leave you.

He wasn’t just watching you fall apart — he was studying you, memorizing how you responded to every inch of pressure.

Then — there.

A rough, almost brutal thrust of his fingers hit something inside you that made your entire body jolt, a raw, uncontrolled moan tearing from your lips as your eyes rolled back. His grip on your thigh tightened instantly, fingers stalling deep inside you. “Eyes on me.”

You gasped, breath catching in your throat, and somehow managed to look back at him — only to find him already smiling. Not cocky. Not smug. But darkly satisfied. Like he’d just discovered your favorite sin.

“There it is,” he murmured, almost to himself. And then he pushed again. Same place. Same pace. Your legs trembled, your back arched. Your breath came in broken gasps, and your eyes fluttered shut—

His hand stopped again.

A soft, amused chuckle met your ears. “Look at me.”

It took everything you had, but you opened your eyes again. And the second you did, he rewarded you — with movement, with pressure, with maddening precision. It was too much. And not enough. And perfect.

You cried out his name, trembling underneath him, your hands scrambling for anything to ground yourself. One hand found your breast, gripping and pinching your nipple as the pleasure became too much to contain. The other clawed at the sheets beneath you.

Jungkook's gaze darkened even more — if that was possible. His eyes darted from your face to your hand on your chest, lips parted in pure, ruined hunger. The hand holding your thigh squeezed tighter, almost bruising — but the way it made you whimper only spurred him on.

He couldn’t help himself.

His fingers with a mind of their own move faster — still deliberate, but harder now, each thrust punching the air out of your lungs, and it hit again, that spot inside you, over and over, as he watched you touch yourself. You shattered with a sob, your body arching, legs trembling uncontrollably as you unraveled beneath him.

And then —as you came apart around his hand — Jungkook’s eyes snapped back up to yours.

He looked stunned. Like he’d surprised even himself.

You tried so hard to keep your gaze locked with his, obedient even through your climax, but it overwhelmed you. Still, the moment your vision cleared, you saw him watching — intensely, reverently — and he slowly pulled his fingers from your heat, making you flinch with the oversensitivity.

You let out a soft hiss, and he soothed it with a small kiss on your thigh.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at you like he couldn’t believe what he’d done to you — what you’d let him do. His fingers — the ones that had just been buried deep inside you — rose to his lips, and with maddening slowness, he licked them clean. Every last bit. Tongue curling over the pads of his fingers, tasting you with a groan he barely held back.

And somehow, impossibly, you felt yourself getting wet all over again.

Your chest still heaving, you barely noticed him shift lower until you felt the first brush of his hand against your hips again. The one that had held your thigh open now moved with purpose to your panties — still pushed to the side, soaked beyond reason. He tugged them gently down, over your hips, down your thighs, peeling them from your skin like a gift being unwrapped.

His eyes flicked up, meeting yours again, and his voice dropped to a hoarse whisper.

“You want more?”

Like he didn’t already know.

“Yes,” you breathed out, the word little more than a gasp, heavy and desperate. Your hands reached for him, clumsy but determined, trying to push him out of his goddamn clothes. Jungkook let out a low, shaky laugh, letting you tug at his hoodie, your lips barely parting from his as your fingers slipped beneath the hem. The kiss was messy, heated, a collision of mouths and breath as clothes were stripped away.

By the time his jeans hit the floor with a thud, Jungkook was already reaching into his wallet, pulling out some foil packets. His fingers worked quickly to tear one open, but you had other plans. Your hands slid over his hips, under the waistband of his Calvin Kleins, and before he could fully comprehend what was happening, your mouth was on him.

“Shit—” he gasped, his whole body jolting at the feel of your lips wrapping around him, heat and wetness and pressure all at once. His head fell back slightly, one hand tangling in your hair while the other still fumbled with the condom. “Fuck—wait—wait—” His voice cracked, hoarse with restraint. “I—I don’t wanna cum yet—I want to be inside you.”

You slowed, torturously slow, your mouth dragging off of him with one final, sinful swirl of your tongue that made his thighs twitch beneath you. He groaned, deep and guttural, watching you with wild eyes—completely wrecked without even being inside you yet. You smiled, smug and playful, licking your lips as you sat back on your heels.

Jungkook barely took a second before rolling the condom on, his chest rising and falling sharply, eyes fixed on you like you were the only thing that existed.

Then, suddenly, his hand came up, gripping the back of your neck as he pulled you into a bruising kiss. His weight shifted back, and you yelped in surprise as he fell onto the bed, taking you with him, his mouth never leaving yours. You laughed breathlessly against his lips, adjusting, moving to straddle him—knees braced on either side of his hips, your soaked core brushing against the hard line of him through the condom.

The heat between you was unbearable.

You rolled your hips once, slowly, letting him feel exactly how ready you were. His hands gripped your ass, grounding you against him with a low moan. He gave one cheek a firm slap, just enough to make you jump slightly, and you reached down between your bodies to line him up.

With a deep breath, you sank down.

The stretch was delicious, making your eyes flutter closed as he filled you inch by inch. “Fuck…” he breathed, watching where your bodies joined, one hand sliding from your hip to your waist to your chest. He needed something else to look at—anything—because the sight of you sinking down on him so slowly was too much.

Jungkook’s jaw clenched, his head falling back into the pillow, but his eyes never left you—not as you took him all the way, not as your walls fluttered around him, struggling to adjust to his size.

You stilled when he was fully seated inside you, needing a moment to breathe, to steady yourself. Jungkook’s hands roamed your body—palming your breasts, caressing your thighs—his eyes dark and hungry as he waited for you to move.

Then, slowly, you began to roll your hips.

The sensation made your breath stutter, the friction deep and consuming. Jungkook’s hands gripped your waist, guiding your movement, but letting you take control. Each time you moved, you ground down just a little harder, your pace building gradually, as the room filled with the sounds of slick skin and shared moans.

“You feel so fucking good,” Jungkook groaned, his fingers digging into your hips like he was trying to hold himself together. “So tight… so wet—fuck—just like that.”

You leaned forward, one hand on his chest, the other in his hair, and kissed him again—open-mouthed and breathless—as you began to move faster. The pleasure mounted sharply, your name falling from his lips like a prayer, his eyes glued to the way you moved above him.

Every roll of your hips, every bounce, pulled another broken sound from his throat. He met you thrust for thrust, his hips lifting just slightly off the bed, pushing deeper, harder, chasing the high that was starting to spiral through both of you.

And still—those eyes. Always locked on you.

You could feel the pressure building in your core, heat coiling impossibly tight, threatening to snap. And judging by the way Jungkook’s jaw was clenched, his fingers bruising into your skin, he wasn’t far behind.

“Come for me,” he rasped. “I want to feel you fall apart around me.”

God, you wanted to. You wanted to come so badly it almost hurt. But your body wasn’t quite there yet—your orgasm from earlier still left you shaky, and now riding him, giving him everything you had, your thighs were trembling, legs burning with effort.

But you didn’t want to stop. Didn’t want to deny Jungkook the same overwhelming pleasure he’d already given you. You tried to hold on, to keep going, hips rolling weakly as your mind fuzzed over. Your mouth opened, struggling to form the words—not yet, I want to, please—but you didn’t have to say it.

Jungkook saw it. He felt it.

He stilled you with one hard thrust that made you cry out, then suddenly gripped your waist and flipped you onto your back in one fluid movement. The world spun for a moment and you landed with a gasp, your hair fanned out beneath you and your body arching on instinct. Your lungs were already starved for air, but the moment he sank back into you, deep and fast, he stole what little breath you had left.

“Fuck—Jungkook—” You were a mess—sweat-slicked, flushed, clinging to the sheets and to him like a lifeline.

And Jungkook? He didn’t even look winded. Just gloriously wrecked in the most controlled way—his muscles flexing, his jaw set, his skin glowing with a sheen of sweat that only made him look more like a sin carved by hand.

You cursed him—his abs, his stamina, his goddamn focus.

He shifted slightly, lifting one of your legs and hooking it over his arm, pushing even deeper. You cried out, the new angle hitting something devastating. He growled low in his throat, watching where your bodies met, then reached between you—his fingers finding your clit and circling with maddening precision.

“Oh my god—” you gasped, back arching so hard your shoulder blades left the bed.

It was too much. He filled you completely, every thrust striking right against your most sensitive spots, and now—with the added stimulation of his fingers, you were unraveling embarrassingly fast.

Your hands scrambled at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you looked up at him, desperate. He was looking right back, dark eyes locked to yours, watching you come apart like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

“Jungkook—” his name ripped out of you like a plea, a prayer. “I’m—close—fuck, I—”

“I know,” he rasped, barely holding on himself. “I feel you—God, I feel you—don’t stop—just—”

He was losing it too, you could tell. His rhythm faltered for just a second, his thrusts growing messier, more frantic. Your walls fluttered around him, tightening, pulsing, and you saw it hit him—the way he froze, just slightly, jaw slack as he groaned deep from his chest.

And then—with a desperate, nearly bruising press of his thumb to your clit—he sent you over the edge. The orgasm crashed through you like a wave, ripping a cry from your throat as your body convulsed beneath him, thighs clenching, walls spasming around him. Your nails dug into him, anchoring yourself as your entire body shook.

That—that—was what undid him.

Jungkook let out a hoarse moan as he finally came, hips jerking once, twice, then burying himself as deep as he could go. You could feel it—the way his body tensed, every muscle locked tight as he spilled into the condom, forehead pressing against yours with a strained groan.

You both stayed like that, trembling, breathless. The room filled with the sound of ragged breathing, hearts pounding like drums in sync. Then, gently, he kissed you. Soft at first—barely a brush of lips. Then again, deeper, fuller, the kind of kiss that said stay here, I'm not done, I want this again.

You moaned into his mouth, your body still twitching in the aftermath, his cock still buried inside you and twitching with aftershocks. When he finally pulled out, you whimpered faintly at the loss. Jungkook moved quickly, slipping off the condom, tying it off and tossing it into the bin beside your bed before returning to you immediately.

He lay down next to you, pulled you close, wrapped an arm around your waist and pressed his lips to your temple. His skin was still warm, his breath evening out slowly against your cheek.

Ideally, he would’ve liked to pull you into the shower, maybe wash your hair while he kissed your shoulders, or coax a few more breathy laughs from you as you soaked together under the water. But he didn’t want to leave this—didn’t want to lose the way your body fit perfectly in his arms, how your fingers curled into his chest like you belonged there.

Instead, he stayed right there, legs tangled with yours, his nose brushing your hair, his thumb lazily tracing circles against your hip.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice low and a little hoarse.

You nodded against his chest, still a little dazed. “Yeah. You?”

He chuckled softly. “Better than okay.”

You weren’t sure how long you lay there—hearts slowing, bodies melting into one another—but it felt like time stopped existing entirely. The room was warm with the scent of sweat, skin, and something deeply personal that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with the way Jungkook held you afterward.

He ran his fingers lazily over your back, the motion soft and aimless, and every now and then he kissed you or your shoulder like he didn’t want to be anywhere else. You thought maybe that was it—but then you felt it. The slow stir of him, pressing against your thigh, barely more than a twitch, but enough to make your breath catch.

You shifted slightly, lifting your head to look at him. He was already watching you, eyes darker again, but softer this time. Not the same edge from before. Something different.

“Too much?” he asked gently, brushing a knuckle along your cheek.

You shook your head. “Not enough.”

That did something to him—made his jaw flex, his hand press firmer into your waist. He leaned in and kissed you again, this time slow, deep, with none of the urgency from earlier. And you let yourself fall into it.

You let yourself be kissed, be held, be touched like you were something delicate—not fragile, just precious. Jungkook rolled you onto your back again, but slower now, giving you time to breathe, to look at him, to feel every inch of him against you. He kissed down your neck, across your chest, his tongue circling your nipple in lazy swirls until your breath hitched and your back arched again, even more sensitive now.

You whimpered softly, already throbbing. He made his way lower, his mouth moving down your stomach, trailing warmth in his wake until he was between your thighs again—his hands gripping the backs of them gently, spreading you open, worshiping you with his mouth like he had all the time in the world.

You gasped when he moaned into you—like he was the one receiving pleasure from tasting you. It was slow, steady, maddening. He didn’t let up until your thighs were trembling around his head again, your hands buried in his hair, your voice whispering his name like it meant something more than just please.

Only then did he crawl back up your body, kissing as he went, slotting himself between your legs.

This time, there was no rush to put the condom on. He reached for the packet on your nightstand, but the way he looked down at you—your flushed chest, your parted lips, the softness in your eyes—was anything but casual.

He kissed you again as he entered you, slow and deliberate, pressing in inch by inch until you were full of him again, and he was gasping into your mouth like the sensation of you was just as overwhelming the second time.

“God, you feel so good,” he murmured against your lips.

This round wasn’t fast. It was longing and worship, of hands exploring and hips moving in lazy, deep strokes that hit all the right spots without the rush. He held your gaze as he moved, his thumb stroking your cheek, your neck, your breast, like he needed to memorize every reaction.

You clung to him, legs wrapped around his waist, nails digging gently into his back. It was slower, but somehow even more intense. You moaned softly into his shoulder as the pleasure started building again, stronger than you expected, a warm coil tightening low in your belly.

“Jungkook…”

“Mm?” he whispered, not stopping, his pace still slow, devastating.

“I’m—already—again,” you whimpered, cheeks heating from how fast he had you there.

He looked down at you like he couldn’t believe it either. “You’re perfect,” he whispered. “So perfect around me.”

You clung tighter as he picked up just enough speed to push you toward the edge, his hand sneaking between you again, fingers finding your clit with ease. He didn’t need to do much—just a few soft circles, the press of his hips deep inside—and you were unraveling again.

Your orgasm this time came in slow, delicious waves—no sharp peaks, just a deep, rolling release that made your entire body tremble and your breath hitch in your throat. Jungkook wasn’t far behind.

The feeling of you pulsing around him, the way you gasped his name, how you looked up at him like he was the only thing in the world—all of it drove him over the edge again. He groaned deep, nearly a growl, and buried himself one final time, head falling to your shoulder as he came with a shudder, muscles tightening, breath stuttering out of him.

You lay there afterward tangled in sweat and warmth and soft kisses, Jungkook’s fingers tracing gentle lines on your skin. This time, Jungkook needed to clean up. You barely had it in you to open your eyes when he finally—carefully—pulled out of you, the sensitivity making you shudder. He soothed you with a kiss to your cheek and made quick, practiced work of disposing of the condom again.

You lay sprawled across your bed, boneless and warm, blinking at the ceiling like your soul had momentarily floated somewhere above the room. Jungkook chuckled, low and fond, his hand gliding over your side as he nudged you gently.

You murmured, “What are you doing?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slipped an arm under your knees and another behind your back. You barely registered it before he lifted you, bridal-style, out of the sheets.

“Jungkook—!” you squeaked.

He looked down at you with a playful smirk and a gleam in his eyes that wasn’t entirely sinful—just soft. “Shower,” he said. “Unless you want to sleep in… that.”

You caught a whiff of the shared sweat, sex, and faded perfume and made a face. “Okay, fair.”

The bathroom light was soft when he carried you in. The water ran warm while you both washed the night from your skin. And as easily as breathing, afterward, Jungkook towel-dried your hair with gentle hands, threw on one of your oversized shirts like it was his, and tugged you back into bed with him—like there’d never been any other plan.

You’d half-expected him to leave.

But instead, he stayed.

Tucked into your sheets like he belonged there.

▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽▲▽

The next morning arrived slow and syrupy, early sunlight spilling in through the edges of your curtains. Your body ached in the best way, wrapped in a lingering warmth that wasn't just from the covers. You stirred only slightly until you felt a hand—warm, familiar, gentle—glide across your bare hip.

“Mmngh,” you groaned, voice thick with sleep, head buried into your pillow.

“Sorry,” Jungkook whispered, sounding almost… sheepish.

He kissed your shoulder, then your neck, the lazy kind of kisses that made you shiver rather than squirm. You turned your face slightly, meeting his lips with your own, soft and slow like the moment demanded. It was indulgent. A morning kind of kiss. And then, just as your brain was starting to register reality again, he spoke.

“Hey… uh…” He hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “Could I, uh—get your number?”

You opened one eye.

Then the other.

“…Seriously?”

His ears went a little pink, but his grin was crooked and confident. “What?”

“You’re asking now?” you said, laughing—actually laughing. “After everything we did last night? Now you want my number?”

He leaned in like he had nothing to be ashamed of. “How else am I supposed to reach you? You know, when I want to… assure you that whatever the tabloids say about me is completely false. That I’m actually a very faithful boyfriend.”

Your laughter caught in your throat. “Boyfriend?” you echoed.

He paused. Then looked away like the sunlight had suddenly gotten too bright. “Well—I mean—I’d like to see you again? Take you out?”

It wasn’t a direct answer. But it was definitely not a no.

You blinked once. Twice. Then your brain caught up and short-circuited. “You… want me to be your girlfriend, girlfriend?”

Jungkook looked suddenly very boyish. Shy. He scratched the back of his neck and gave a lopsided shrug. “I mean… eventually? If you… if you want?”

The blush that bloomed across your face could’ve melted the snow off a mountaintop.

“If you ask that nicely,” you said, still a little stunned, “I guess I’ll give you my number.”

He smiled—really smiled. Soft and sweet and bright like he hadn’t expected you to say yes but had hoped with everything in him. Then something flickered in his eyes. A shadow. His smile faltered just slightly.

“There’s, uh… one thing,” he said, voice a little awkward again. “You’d have to sign an NDA.”

You didn’t even flinch.

“An NDA? Sure,” you replied easily. “When?”

Jungkook blinked at you.

“…You’re just okay with that?”

You shrugged, still curled under the blanket beside him, hair a mess, heart full. “Yeah. I mean, I want to see you again. If signing something lets me do that and helps protect you… why wouldn’t I?”

Something shifted in his expression. Something warm. Something deep. And then, like a dam breaking, he moved—rolling over, hovering above you, his eyes dark and wide and soft all at once.

“You…” he whispered, short of breath. “You’re just…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Just kissed you—hard. Like he couldn’t help himself. Like that answer made something in him snap in the best way. You gasped into the kiss, gripping his arms as he pressed you back into the mattress again. And honestly? You didn’t need words. Not right now.

Masterlist

Just a Normal Night: Seoul Edition

Just a Normal Night: Missing You

Tags: @hecatesdescendant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your problem just walked through the studio doors.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And you hate yourself for it.

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

But just before he can get closer—

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

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

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

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

He’s gone again.

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

✦

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

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

And you were in the eye of the storm.

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

Professional. Polished. In control.

Just like always.

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

Hyerin nodded, phone already raised to send the message.

And then—

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

You didn’t have to turn. You knew.

BTS had arrived. This time, fully.

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

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

Jeon Jungkook.

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

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

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

His eyes found yours. Again. 

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

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

It lingered.

You turned away first.

Professional, you reminded yourself. You could breathe later.

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

Kara.

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

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

Your clipboard didn’t move.

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

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

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

But your stomach? Still twisted.

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

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

You didn’t need to.

Because suddenly, he was walking toward you.

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

But he was walking toward you.

And you didn’t move.

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

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

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

“Who is that—” He paused. Squinted.

His expression shifted slowly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

They exchanged a glance.

One of quiet recognition.

One that said: This is going to get complicated.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You finally turned to face him, slow and deliberate.

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

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

You smiled—polite, cold.

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

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

You didn’t blink. “People change.”

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

And you hated that it made your chest ache.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “They do.”

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

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

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

You turned on your heel and walked away.

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

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

You don’t look back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her lips curled just barely at the edges.

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

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

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

Something in her expression sharpened.

She had nothing solid. Not yet.

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

✦

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

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

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

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

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

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

But you haven’t approved him.

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” he says. “They sent you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You’re not that hard to ignore.”

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

“Liar.”

You step back. One clean motion. No hesitation.

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

“It works,” you say.

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

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

“That was a long time ago.”

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

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

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

The bathroom is cold and sterile and mercifully empty.

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

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

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

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

Get a grip.

This is work. He is work.

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

You’re not that girl anymore.

You fix your lipstick. Smooth your blouse.

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

As if nothing ever touched you.

The studio has thinned to a skeleton crew.

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

You straighten. “Waiting on a drive.”

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

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

You know he’s not talking about the team.

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

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

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

“Did you need something, Jungkook?”

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

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

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

You blink once. Slowly.

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

The silence between you stretches. Presses.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I still remember everything,” he says.

Your heart stutters. You hate it.

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

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

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

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

You do.

Of course you do.

But you don’t give him that.

Instead, you tilt your head and say, evenly:

“You’re five years too late.”

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

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

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

✦

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

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

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

Taehyung notices first.

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

Jungkook doesn’t look up. “Yeah.”

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

There’s a beat of silence.

Then Jungkook exhales and runs a hand through his hair.

“She was really there.”

Jin, mid-chew, frowns. “Who?”

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

“Y/N.”

The name still tastes strange in his mouth.

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

Yoongi finally looks up. “Seriously?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Better without you,” Yoongi says flatly.

Jungkook doesn’t reply.

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

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

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

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

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

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

That shuts him up.

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

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

Silence falls over the room.

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

✦

You hold the final print like it owes you something.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You look expensive. Untouchable. Editorial.

Exactly how you planned it.

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

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

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

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

Until someone mentions it.

“Did you hear BTS might actually show tonight?”

You don’t flinch. Not externally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

And his eyes are already on you.

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

And his eyes are already on you.

The others didn’t come.

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

But he showed up.

Of all people.

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

Jungkook doesn’t approach you. Not at first.

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

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

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

You.

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

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

And still, he doesn’t move.

But others do.

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

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

You smile. Politely. The way you always do.

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

You glance across the room without meaning to.

He’s still there.

Still watching.

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

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

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

But Jungkook moves.

Jungkook doesn’t make a scene.

That’s the most infuriating part.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Possessive. And yet — perfectly palatable for a crowd.

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

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

Within a minute, they’re gone.

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

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

“I know.”

“Then why?”

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

You pause.

“That’s not your concern anymore.”

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

“It never stopped being my concern.”

That does something to your throat. Tightens it.

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

“You can go now,” you say, coolly.

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

“I’m not going anywhere.”

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

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

Jungkook notices. And he moves.

He doesn’t ask.

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

You should stop him. You don’t.

You follow.

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

Jungkook stops just out of view.

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

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

Close.

Too close.

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

But he towers.

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

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

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

“You let them touch you.”

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

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

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

You blink.

Your breath stumbles.

Your throat goes dry.

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

And god, he’s close.

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

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

Your thighs press together. Reflex.

His eyes drop. He notices.

And you hate him for it.

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

“I know.”

“You left me.”

“I know.”

Your heart is pounding. Your mouth is dry.

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

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

Jungkook’s stare is heavy. Focused. Unflinching.

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

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

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

“I’m not pretending.”

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

His hand slides down. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

And then—

He squeezes your ass.

Firm. Full. Like it still belongs to him.

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

You don’t show it.

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

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

“You didn’t stop me.”

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

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

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

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

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

And now he's walking.

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

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

He steps inside. Looks over his shoulder. Waits.

“Unless you're scared,” he murmurs.

You could slap him. You should.

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

The doors close.

Silence. Thick. Electric.

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

But your brain is spinning.

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

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

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

Just for one night.

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

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

The car ride is silent.

Not awkward. Not uncertain. Just… heavy.

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

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

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

Of course he notices.

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

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

But then they begin to slide.

Up.

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

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

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

He smirks beside you.

“I forgot how stubborn you are.”

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

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

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

You hate that it’s true.

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

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

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

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

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

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

✦

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

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

You stay silent.

But your heart is screaming.

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

Of course it is.

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

Because the moment the door clicks shut behind you—

He’s on you.

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

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

You moan into his mouth, furious at yourself.

He grins.

“Still pretending you don’t want this?”

You shove at his chest, breathless.

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

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

You don’t answer.

He takes it as a yes.

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

But then—

His bedroom.

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

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

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

You arch.

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

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

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

His hands never stop moving.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper. Loud.

And you hate that it sounds like relief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“These need to come off.”

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

And then he groans.

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

You glare. “You’re not special.”

He chuckles. “We’ll see.”

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

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

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

You don’t answer.

But your moan says enough.

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

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

Your eyes flutter shut. “God, Jungkook—”

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

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

He feels it.

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

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

And huge.

Your mouth parts.

He sees it. Smirks again.

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

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

He doesn't push in yet.

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

You bite your lip so hard it stings.

“Jungkook,” you pant, voice breaking.

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

“You’re gonna say please.”

You don’t say please.

Not with your mouth.

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

God.

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

You don’t mean to moan. But you do.

His smirk falters for a split second.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You do.

You let him in.

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

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

You’re both panting. Stunned.

Then you move.

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

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

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

You grin, delirious. “Control yourself.”

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

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

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

That does it.

He starts to move.

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

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

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

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

Your moan rips from your throat — helpless.

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

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

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

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

He presses his forehead to yours, eyes shut tight.

“I’m close—fuck—I’m gonna—”

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

And you both fall.

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

The room goes still.

Except your breathing.

And the heartbeat pounding between your ribs like a warning.

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

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

And then—

He moves again.

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

Your legs twitch.

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

But he’s already hard again.

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

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

You don’t argue.

Because the truth is, so do you.

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

He pushes in from behind.

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

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

He groans low into your neck.

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

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

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

Like neither of you are trying to cum anymore.

Like you’re just trying to stay here.

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

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

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

You don’t want him to.

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

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

His pace stutters.

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

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

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

For a long while, neither of you move.

You just lay there. Breathing. Tangled. Spent.

He kisses your shoulder once. Light. Almost careful.

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

You just needed an escape.

And you found it in each other’s ruin.

✦

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

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

You blink. Once. Twice.

And then it all rushes back.

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

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

You sit up slowly.

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

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

You stare. Just for a second.

He looks so peaceful.

So unaware.

So dangerous.

You bite your lip. Hard.

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

You always have work.

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

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

Mascara smudged. Lips bitten raw. Hair wrecked.

You look like a woman who had a night.

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

You move fast.

Cold water. Concealer. Lip balm. Breath mints. You finger-comb your hair and twist it into something sleek. But the problem isn’t the face — it’s the clothes.

Your dress is a dead giveaway. Wrinkled, short, undeniably last night.

You move to Jungkook’s closet.

Rows of Saint Laurent, Givenchy, Alexander McQueen. Racks of custom suits and silky button-downs. Not a single item designed for discretion.

But then — a structured black blazer. Boxy, masculine, clean-cut enough to pass.

You slide it on. It swallows your frame. The hem falls past your thighs, hiding your dress completely. You roll the sleeves once. Twice. Pair it with quiet confidence and a pair of sunglasses from the entryway table.

You almost look like a Vogue editor.

Almost.

You don’t let yourself look at him again.

You just close the door behind you, call a taxi, and vanish into morning traffic with nothing but your pride duct-taped together inside that blazer.

The office is already buzzing by the time you walk in.

People look up. Smiling. Bright. Warm.

“Y/N! Congrats again on the October issue—” “That cover is insane, seriously, you killed it—” “You must be exhausted after last night’s party!”

You smile. Say thank you. Pretend your skin doesn’t still smell like sex and Jungkook’s cologne.

One of the interns offers you coffee. You accept, gratefully.

You’re almost safe.

Until Kara appears.

“Wow,” she says, voice honeyed and loud. “You look… rough.”

The conversation halts like a car crash.

A beat of awkward silence. Someone clears their throat.

You look up slowly.

Kara smiles. All teeth.

“Late night?” she adds, mock-innocent. “Or should I say… early morning?”

You don’t answer. Just raise your coffee and keep walking.

But she follows.

Right into the main office hallway, right up to the boss’s glass-walled door — just as it opens.

Your editor-in-chief steps out. Sharp-heeled. Impeccably dressed. Eyes cutting.

Kara laughs softly and says, “She probably didn’t even go home. Just look — same dress as last night’s party. Slept over somewhere fancy, though. That’s not hers.”

You freeze.

Your boss turns to you. Stares. The expression is unreadable — but not soft.

“Y/N,” she says. “My office. Now.”

Your stomach drops.

You walk. Slowly. Kara watches you go, biting the edge of her thumb with a smile like she already knows she’s won.

Your phone buzzes in your palm.

Unknown Number: That blazer suits you. But you’ll have to pay me back eventually. Preferably not in cash.

Your pulse stutters.

You don’t have to guess who it is.

You just slide the phone into your pocket — and knock on your boss’s door.

part 2

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The music was loud -some mix of funky beats and synth pop- but Jungkook could still hear the soft clink of the ice in your glass from across the bar. You were seated at the far end, alone, just like that first time. Just like before.

He leaned against the brick wall, half in shadow, fingers drumming a slow rhythm against his thigh. The denim of his jacket was worn in all the places your hands used to touch. You always tugged on his sleeves when you laughed, like he was something to hold onto.

You weren't laughing now.

You looked... calm. Pretty. Like nothing was missing.

Except everything was.

You didn't notice him. Not yet.

And just like the first time, some guy, button-down open too far -smile too wide-, saw you sitting there and made his move.

Jungkook stiffened, exhaling slowly through his nose.

He'd timed it. He knew this was when it happened, when you got approached and rolled your eyes so hard he could feel your annoyance from across the room. He'd used that moment to swoop in, smug and playful, pretending to be your boyfriend just to get the creep to back off. It worked like a charm. You laughed, he stayed. And you two talked until the bar closed.

It was the beginning of everything.

So this had to work.

He watched closely now, waiting for the same flicker of irritation on your face, but it didn't come. Instead, you smiled politely at the guy. Laughed, even. Tucked your hair behind your ear like you were actually interested.

Jungkook felt the sharp stab of something he didn't want to name.

The guy leaned in, too close, and Jungkook couldn't stay back anymore. He pushed off the wall and crossed the bar with purpose in his step, heartbeat hammering, sweat pooling at the base of his neck. He rehearsed his lines a thousand times in his head.

Same as before. Same as before. Same as before.

He stopped at your table, resting his hand on the back of your chair like it belonged there.

"Hey, baby," he said, trying to keep it light, teasing. "Sorry I'm late. You didn't wait long, did you?"

You blinked up at him, surprised. The man sitting across from you frowned, shifting in his seat.

"Excuse me?" you said, brows furrowing.

Your voice was soft, unfamiliar even in its familiarity.

Jungkook's smile didn't falter. He had practiced it in the mirror, wanting to do it just like that first night. "You know I hate it when you start drinking without me" he gave the other man a polite smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Mind giving us a minute, bro?"

The man looked between you both, clearly annoyed. But you didn't say anything. You just looked at Jungkook like he was an inconvenient glitch in your night, not someone your soul used to orbit around.

"Whatever," the guy muttered, grabbing his beer and walking away.

Silence settled between you and Jungkook, heavier than the bass vibrating through the walls.

He expected you to be angry, confused. Maybe even impressed like last time. But instead, you stared at him with narrowed eyes and a bemused smile.

"That was... bold," you said, tilting your head. "Do I know you?"

The words punched the air from his lungs like a second car crash.

Those were the words he was so scared to hear when he first knew of your state after the accident.

He didn't visit you a single time you were in the hospital after you woke up, he was sure he wouldn't have been able to bear the idea of you not remembering him. He couldn't bear the idea of not being part of your life any longer.

That was why he asked your friends to erase any trace of him from your apartment, from your phone... He was about to let go, until he thought that maybe that was his chance to start it all over again, to live again the beauty of falling for you, and you falling for him.

You in that pub wasn't a coincidence. Not at all.

He chuckled softly, looking down for a second to hide the devastation in his eyes. "Kind of," he murmured. "We've met. Once or twice."

You looked at him for a long beat. Not with recognition. Not with love. But... curiosity.

"Well, if you're going to crash my night, you might as well sit down."

He blinked.

You gestured to the seat across from you, and he moved slowly, cautiously -as if the world might fall apart again if he moved too fast.

He sat.

You sipped your drink, watching him over the rim of your glass. "So... is this a thing you do often? Pretend to be someone's boyfriend to scare off competition?"

Jungkook let out a soft laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. "Only when I'm desperate."

There was a pause. You tilted your head. "And are you?"

He met your gaze. For the first time in weeks, you were looking directly at him. Really looking.

His voice was low, gentle. "I lost something important. I'm just trying to find it again."

You didn't answer right away. You just stared at him, lips twitching like they were debating whether or not to smile. And then -unexpectedly, softly- you did. You smiled. Not because you remembered. Not because you knew what he meant, but because something about him felt warm. Like a song you hadn't heard in years but still knew how to hum.

"Okay, mystery man," you said, tapping your glass against his. "Tell me the story of that thing you're missing, then."

He looked at you, breath catching in his throat. And this time, he let himself hope.

You sat across from him, your finger tracing lazy circles against the condensation on your glass, looking at him attentively as he refused to talk about himself, to go deep in anything that wasn't the moment between you two. And it made you suspicious, but also curious.

"So?" you asked, lips quirking at the corners. "Are you gonna tell me your name, or are we doing the whole mysterious stranger at the bar thing tonight?"

He smirked.

God, it was exactly like the first time.

That smug, amused curl of your lips, that cocky tone as you tilted your head. And he tried to mimic the way he reacted to it, mirroring your smirk. Only this time, there was something behind it. Something heavy in his eyes, buried just deep enough that you couldn't quite reach it.

"No names," he said smoothly, leaning forward with his elbows on the table. "It ruins the fantasy."

You raised a brow, playing along without thinking. "Oh? And what fantasy is that?"

"The one where you fall in love with me for the night," he replied, not missing a beat. "No expectations. No promises. Just... this."

Your heart skipped, maybe from the way he said it, or maybe from the way he looked at you, like he was seeing more than what was on the surface. It was unnerving, but oddly comforting.

You didn't know him. But something about him felt like déjà vu.

"Hmm," you said, swirling the last of your drink. "Sounds like a line you've used before."

He chuckled under his breath. "Once or twice."

You narrowed your eyes. "Do I look like the kind of girl who falls for strangers in bars?"

"You look like the kind of girl who pretends she doesn't," he said, a hint of challenge in his voice. "Right before she steals the guy's lighter and walks out with his heart."

You laughed before you could stop yourself, and it caught you off guard. It felt... real.

"So you think you've got me all figured out?"

"Not yet," he murmured, gaze softening. "But I'd like to."

The words hung between you like a dare.

You leaned back in your seat, crossing your legs, testing him. "Then why don't you tell me something about yourself? Something small."

He hesitated. Not because he didn't want to, but because every answer he had was yours. Every story he could tell was tied to memories you no longer carried.

So instead, he reached for a lie wrapped in truth.

"I box," he said.

You tilted your head. "Box?"

"Yeah. Keeps me sane." he looked down, twisting his ring, a nervous habit he didn't even know he still had. "Started when I was fifteen. Got serious around twenty. It's... one of the only things I'm good at."

"That's not true," you said quietly, before your brain caught up with your mouth.

He looked up sharply, for a second, excited about you possibly remembering something. You blinked, confused at yourself. "I mean, you don't look like someone who only has one skill."

A small smile crept across his face. "You think I look talented, huh?"

"I think you look like you think you're talented."

He let out a breathy laugh and pressed a hand to his chest. "Oof. Beautiful and brutal. You really haven't changed."

You froze for a split second.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said quickly, waving it off. "Just... déjà vu."

You stared at him, something prickling at the edge of your mind. That look again. Like he knew you too well for a stranger. Like he was holding a secret in his mouth, keeping it safe.

"Alright, mysterious boxer," you said, sitting up straighter. "If we're doing this no-names thing, then I get to make up your backstory."

He grinned. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. Let's see..." you tapped your chin, pretending to study him. "You're probably a spoiled rich kid, dropped out of business school, got into the underground fighting for the thrill."

"Interesting."

"You can drive a car" you continued, "but you ended up with a motorbike because it makes you feel free. You say you hate attention, but you love the way people look at you."

He laughed again, but this one hurt a little. Because it was true. All of it. You were remembering pieces without knowing you were.

"And what about you?" he asked, trying to push through the lump in his throat. "What's your story?"

You looked down at your empty glass, suddenly quiet.

"I don't know yet," you said, half-joking. "Still figuring it out."

He swallowed hard.

"Then let me stick around a little," he said softly. "See how it turns out."

You looked at him, eyes searching. Something pulled inside your chest, like the faint echo of a melody you used to dance to in the dark.

"Okay," you said. "But no names. Just for tonight."

He smiled, genuine, heartbreakingly sweet. "Deal."

And as the bartender slid two more drinks toward your table, Jungkook let himself fall into the lie a little deeper. Because if he couldn't make you remember, he'd make you fall in love again.

Jungkook had chosen the same quiet little café for your "first date", the place where you'd spent hours sipping overpriced lattes, talking about everything and nothing all at once. He'd kept it simple, just like that night. The table by the window, the soft hum of the city outside, the warm, golden glow of the café lights wrapping around the two of you like a blanket.

It was perfect, or it should have been.

He'd prepared for this moment. Everything was planned. Even the awkwardness that he had to recreate.

But as soon as the waitress dropped off the drinks and Jungkook reached for his, he fumbled. His fingers brushed against the edge of the cup, and the entire thing tipped over.

Splash.

The coffee spilled across the table, splashing onto his lap and soaking the front of his white shirt. Jungkook pressed his lips together, omitting the huge sigh after he managed to ruin the t-shirt you bought for him.

On your first day, he wore one of his favorite t-shirts before he ruined it by accidentally spilling the coffee over him -which, later, would end up with one of the most touching gifts you'd ever given him: the same shirt, brand new and clean.

He went through the same, although this time, it wasn't accidental. He spilled the coffee on purpose and he was wearing the same t-shirt you bought him.

It had been so embarrassing the first time. The coffee had scalded him, leaving him with a red mark on his skin. You'd laughed so hard that night, teasing him endlessly as he frantically tried to clean himself up.

But now, instead of laughing, you stood up, your face immediately flooded with worry.

"Oh my God, Jungkook, are you okay?" you reached across the table, instinctively grabbing a napkin, your hands trembling slightly as you dabbed at the wet spots on his shirt.

He watched you, caught between confusion and guilt. This was supposed to be fun. This was supposed to be a game.

"You're supposed to laugh," he said with a nervous chuckle, his tone strained as he shifted awkwardly in his seat. "You always laugh when I do this."

But you didn't laugh. You were too focused on him, on making sure he wasn't hurt.

"Jungkook, you're burning up!" you looked down at his shirt and noticed the red splotch from the coffee. The way his face twisted in discomfort made something in your chest tighten.

"I'm fine," he lied, wiping at the coffee stain with his napkin, still trying to brush it off like it was just another part of the act.

But when you kept leaning forward, your eyes full of concern, he felt that same vulnerability creep up on him, the one he tried so hard to bury. The one that always came to the surface when you'd showed him a kindness that had no ulterior motive.

You didn't pull back. Instead, you leaned closer, your fingers brushing against his skin as you carefully checked the burn mark, trying to gauge how serious it was.

"Please, let me take a look at it," you said quietly, your voice shaky with worry.

Jungkook's chest tightened, and his heart hammered in his ribcage. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to make you remember. He was supposed to recreate the fun, the banter, the way things were before.

But instead, he felt like he was falling apart in front of you.

"Hey, it's really nothing," he insisted, trying to pull away, but your grip tightened.

"No, it's not nothing," you said, your voice softer now, almost as if you were reassuring yourself. "This could leave a scar. What if it gets worse? You're not fine, Jungkook."

He finally allowed you to inspect the burn, the cool concern in your touch contrasting sharply with the heat that still lingered on his skin. It made his breath hitch, but you weren't teasing him. You weren't laughing at his clumsiness. You were genuinely worried about him.

It was so... different. It wasn't the playful teasing he remembered. It wasn't the way you used to mock him for every little thing. You were taking this seriously, as though he was the important thing at this moment. Not the game. Not the memories he was trying to recreate.

You met his gaze, your eyes full of something, something close to panic.

"Are you sure you're okay?" you asked again, more insistent now. "Maybe you should go to the hospital and..."

"No," he interrupted, his voice tight. "I'm fine. Really. It's not as bad as it looks."

But you didn't seem convinced, still gently dabbing at his shirt, your touch careful and concerned, the weight of your eyes never leaving him. It made him feel seen in a way he hadn't been before. The memory of that first date -the teasing, the laughter- felt like something out of a past life now, replaced by a deep, undeniable care he didn't know how to handle.

"I think we need to get you cleaned up," you said, standing up. "Come on. I'm taking you to the restroom."

He followed you, unable to hide the tightness in his chest, the way his pulse quickened. This wasn't the same. It wasn't supposed to be like this. And yet, the way you gently guided him toward the restroom made him realize that maybe... maybe this was better. The way you worried about him, your eyes soft but full of something deeper, made him feel like he wasn't a stranger to you. Even if you couldn't remember who he was, the connection was still there. Unspoken, yet undeniable.

When you reached the restroom, you immediately pulled paper towels from the dispenser, and as you handed him a few, your fingers brushed his. The smallest touch sent a shiver through his spine.

"You're not making this easy," he muttered, his voice laced with that same nervous humor he'd used to cover his discomfort, but there was no bite to it now. Just a soft, vulnerable edge.

You gave him a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes, but it was warm, and you were still checking him over.

"I know," you said, your voice gentle. "But I need to make sure you're okay, Jungkook."

And for the first time since everything had shifted, since the accident, since the loss of memories, Jungkook wondered if maybe, just maybe, you were remembering him in a way he could never fully understand.

He was disappointed at first, but not anymore.