free palestine

Jungkook grabs tightly the little hand of his five-year-old daughter, Hana, as they walk down the street. A couple of days ago, he promised her to buy some books in the little shop that her teacher advised. Apparently, she read a story that Hana adored, and she wants to have it at home. At least, she wants her dad to have it.

His eyes scan the street, hoping nobody will recognize him under his hat and sunglasses. He rose to fame when he became the hottest quarterback, something he didn’t really ask for, but as long as people leave his daughter alone, he absolutely gives no shit about this madness around him.

His eyes quickly look down at his baby before a smile grows on his face. Being her father is his biggest achievement and a role he absolutely adores. Being around her makes him extremely happy, and for a long time, it compensated for the fact that the relationship with her mother was a complete failure.

Jungkook met Miji, his ex-girlfriend and Hana’s mother, when he joined his current football team. They started dating quickly, but he knew he had never fallen in love with her. But he liked her. She was nice, funny, and caring. They stayed together for a solid six years.

Jungkook believed that he’d stay with her forever—yeah, even though he wasn’t in love with her. Hana joined them four years later, and her arrival made them extremely delighted. However, things began to change slowly when he gained fame. Miji wasn’t handling it very well.

For a while, he believed that she just needed time, but things got absolutely nasty. Living in the city was slowly suffocating her. People were jealous of her and were not being super nice to her. She wanted to move out, which they did. But it didn’t help. She clearly didn’t want to be in the relationship anymore.

Instead of leaving him and breaking up in a ‘correct’ way, she decided to cheat on him with her best friend. It was ugly, and Jungkook was hurt. He wasn’t really heartbroken, but it doesn’t erase the pain that cheating brings.

After the breakup, things got even messier. She kept the house; her best friend moved in, she asked for full custody of Hana, and for money because she couldn’t afford Hana’s upbringing. Jungkook didn’t give in. He refused to give her anything, and even less his daughter’s custody.

So now they share her custody, and he doesn’t give anything to Miji. The saddest part is that Hana hates being with her mother. She doesn’t like her new boyfriend and cries every time she has to go to her mother’s house. It devastates him, but he can’t do anything.   

As he pushes open the library’s door, he gently lets his little princess step inside first. He follows, closing softly the door behind them. The moment he sets foot inside, his heart stops beating for a second before pounding with a force he hasn’t felt in years. It’s like the world completely vanished around him. It feels like he’s seventeen again.  

You’re there.

You’re standing there, looking for a book on the shelves while you’re joyfully talking with someone else, completely unaware of him. The sound of your voice pulls him in before his eyes do. His gaze lingers, drinking you in.

You’re wearing a blue floral dress with a beautiful pair of grey sandals. A few silver rings catch the light. And then, his chest tightens. You’re still wearing the bracelet. The one he gave you before one of your big competitions, meant to be your lucky charm. Maybe it still is. Maybe it never was.

You haven’t seen him yet, too caught up in your conversation with the woman next to you. Deep down, he is grateful. He needs a moment to just look at you, to take in how much you’ve changed, and how much you haven’t.

“Daddy,” a small voice tugs him back.

He looks down. Hana is clutching his shorts, eyes wide and expectant.  

“Yes, boo,” he murmurs, forcing his eyes away from you. “Let’s go find that book.”  

She offers him the brightest smile on earth before they both walk inside. Jungkook removes his sunglasses before they begin walking together toward the kids’ section, his hand wrapped protectively around hers, but his heart is still pounding with every step that brings him closer to you.

As they walk, Jungkook keeps glancing in your direction. He’s not sure why his hands are clammy, or why his chest aches in a way he hasn’t felt in years. Maybe it’s because for a moment, it feels like no time has passed at all.

You’re still you. The same softness in your voice. The way you tuck your hair behind your ear when you’re thinking. And that bracelet. The one he bought for you in secret because he couldn’t find the courage to tell you how much you meant to him.

He never imagined you’d still be wearing it.

His fingers twitch at the memory of that day, handing it to you awkwardly, pretending it was nothing, just a good-luck charm. But it wasn’t. It was everything he didn’t dare to say out loud.

Then, you look up.

At first, you think that it’s just your imagination, but when you hear him talking to the little girl next to him, you know it’s him. For a second, you freeze. Your breath hitches. That jawline. That smile. That voice.

It can’t be.

But then he speaks again—soft, tender—and the warmth of recognition spreads through you like sunlight through glass. It’s him. It’s really him.

Jungkook.

Your heart lurches in your chest. Not just because he’s here, standing in your library like it’s the most ordinary thing in the world, but because he hasn’t changed. Or maybe he has, but the way you feel when you see him, that hasn’t. Not even a little.

He’s holding a little girl’s hand. His daughter, maybe? You swallow hard, unsure what to do with the storm of emotions building inside you: joy, fear, longing, and the familiar ache of everything you never said.

You don’t really listen to the woman next to you. She’s far gone now, and you don’t even feel sorry about it.

Jungkook is literally standing in your library and not in the billboard in front of the library, abs on full display for that Calvin Klein advert. Honestly, it was hard to see him every day for a month. It was a constant reminder of the massive crush you had on him at seventeen.  

Suddenly, he turns around, his eyes meeting yours.

At first, you think that he probably doesn’t recognize you, and you wouldn’t blame him for that. It’s been eleven years since you last saw each other. However, he starts walking in your direction, his hands pressed behind the little girl’s head, inviting her to follow him.

Your heart beats crazily inside your chest, wondering if he has, in fact, recognized you or if he’s going to ask for a book.

He stops in front of you, a smile spreading across his face before his sweet voice reaches your ears.

“Yn,” his honey-like voice says. “It’s been a long time.”

Honestly, you don’t really know what to reply to him. He still looks like he was handcrafted by god himself, but somehow, he got even better. His body has become even broader than before, which you didn’t think was possible.

Of course, you noticed it on the Calvin Klein ad, but seeing it in real life is completely different.

His shoulders have expanded in an impossible way, his arm is fully hidden behind tattoos, and his black t-shirt can’t even hide his toned chest. Well, for sure, being a quarterback is responsible for this change, but it’s incredible.

However, the one thing that hasn’t changed after all this time is his big doe eyes. They can still make you melt—as they also do with any other girl.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” he adds.

Well, you too. And you never pictured your reunion in your own library. This was the last place on earth you’d imagine to find him. You can still remember how much he hated to read. He’d always ask you to summarize the books you needed to read at school.    

“Me neither,” you reply.

Your eyes drop down to the little girl standing beside him. She looks exactly like him. There’s no doubt she’s his daughter. It was no secret that he became a father long before fame hit. He always likes to bring it up in interviews. And according to most women, he is the hottest dilf to ever walk the face of the earth.   

And well, you couldn’t agree more with them.

Jungkook notices when you look down at his daughter. A smile grows on his face because he has always dreamt of introducing her to you. He always hoped that this day would happen.

“This is Hana, my daughter,” he says, his gaze shifting from you to his daughter. “And Hana, this is yn, an old friend.”

She stretches her small hand out towards you.

“Nice to meet you,” she says with a bright smile on her face.

You decide to drop down to her level. It startles you how much she takes after her father. It’s like you’re looking at a mini female version of Jungkook. It’s absolutely mind-blowing, but it only makes her even more adorable.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too, Hana,” you reply before hugging her.

Honestly, you always adored kids, and you’ve secretly dreamt of having children of your own. And whenever a child steps inside your library, you always take the time to interact with them—even sometimes, hugging them. Now, Hana is entitled to have a hug because she’s Jungkook’s daughter.

Her little arms wrap around your neck, and for a second, you close your eyes. Feeling her close to you helps to calm your nerves because having Jungkook right in front of you after all these years is quite something.

“You smell like coconut,” she whispers in your ear.

“It’s my shampoo’s scent,” you whisper back to her.

“It smells good,” she adds, and you can help but smile even more.

Jungkook watches the scene unfold in front of his eyes, his heart heavy with unspoken emotions. This right here makes him melt like never before. He has never seen anything this emotional, despite experiencing many emotions in his life.

You step back, putting an end to this heartfelt embrace, and you stand up again. Then, your eyes meet Jungkook’s once more. There’s something in his gaze that you’ve never seen before, and it surprises you, but you decide not to focus on that.

“I imagine you were looking for a book,” you say, your eyes looking down at Hana.

“Yes,” she happily says before clapping her hands with excitement.

“Her teacher talked about your library, and she bought Hana’s favorite book here,” Jungkook begins to explain. “So, here we are.”

The three of you walk to the kids’ section like it’s the most natural thing when you’re both dying on the inside. This right here feels absolutely unreal, but somehow, it feels good.

Thankfully, you have Hana’s book in store, and you even recommend some other books to her. Jungkook buys them all without even blinking. You can’t help but think that his daughter is spoiled, and it doesn’t surprise you. He definitely looks like a girl’s dad.

“Your number is still the same?” he asks after paying for all the books.

“No,” you shake your head while handing him the little bag containing the books.

You don’t really know what crosses your mind, but you write your phone number on a small sheet of paper. When you hand it to him, his huge hand touches yours, causing a hundred thousand fires to ignite in your hand. 

“Thanks,” he whispers. “And it was a pleasure to see you again.”

You simply nod, your heart beating crazily in your chest. You don’t know how you managed to act normally around your high school crush, but you’re proud you did it.

And now, you’re dying to see him again.

Jungkook is waiting for you at a small café just around the corner from your library. Just a few hours after your unexpected reunion, he had texted you, asking if you’d like to meet again. You had said yes, of course you had. But with his tightly packed schedule, this meeting couldn’t happen until a week later.

You’ve been thinking about it every day since.

As you step into the café, the scent of coffee and warm pastries wraps around you like a hug. Your eyes quickly scan the room, heart fluttering. Then you see him—tucked into a quiet corner near the back, just far enough from the window to keep a low profile.

When your eyes meet, a smile forms on both your faces at the same time—automatic, familiar, like no years have passed at all.

You walk toward him, trying not to overthink each step, but your mind is spinning. He looks effortlessly good—a fitted black Supreme shirt, dark jeans, just the right amount of stubble. On the table, there’s a pair of sunglasses and the same cap he wore at the library. You realize immediately that he still tries to move unnoticed, even now.

There’s something strangely grounding about that.

As you reach the table, your nerves catch up with you. You pause for a beat, standing there awkwardly with a crooked, uncertain smile. Should you hug him? Shake his hand? Say something clever?

But before you can fumble your way into a worse moment, you pull out the chair and sit down.

“Hey,” he says, his voice deep, low—somehow both relaxed and nervous.

“Hey,” you echo, the word coming out softer than you expected.

For a brief moment, there’s silence between you. But it’s not uncomfortable. It’s full, charged with something unspoken, like both of you are quietly remembering the same things.

“You opened your dream library,” he says finally, breaking the quiet.

You nod. “It wasn’t easy… but I worked hard for it.”

He smiles, eyes warm. He’s always known how determined you were. Always admired it.

“I can imagine it,” he says. “The place was beautiful. Hana couldn’t stop talking about it for days. I think she told every kid in her class.”

You laugh—genuinely, this time—and feel your smile stretch wider, more naturally than it has in a while.

“I’m glad she liked it,” you say. “She was really sweet.”

Jungkook nods slowly, his expression thoughtful, like he wants to say something more but is carefully choosing his words.

“She truly is,” he says while thinking about his little girl.

Before you even get to reply, the waiter appears at your table, his eyes lingering a little too long on Jungkook. He recognizes him, you’re absolutely sure about it, but the quarterback acts like it’s nothing.

“Have you already chosen what you’d like to take?” he asks, his eyes finally meeting yours.

You come regularly to this place, so you already know what you want. It’s up to Jungkook. As he looks at you, he understands that you’re kind of asking if he has chosen.

“Yeah,” he nods.

You both proceed to make your order, and the waiter disappears, leaving you alone again.

“How can you deal with people recognizing you?” you ask with evident surprise in your voice.

Jungkook shrugs before leaning back slightly. He watches you for a moment—not in a way that makes you feel self-conscious, but like he’s memorizing everything about this moment. Maybe even trying to figure out where to start.

“I’m used to it,” he honestly replies. “It’s like that all the time.”

He seems so unfazed about it, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. But you realize that it’s normal for him. It just isn’t for you. Maybe if you were in his shoes, it would also be just normal.

“And it doesn’t bother you?”

“At first, it did,” he replies, “especially since Hana was still a baby, but now, it doesn’t anymore.”

You glance down at the table, brushing your thumb over the edge of your napkin because you feel the need to occupy your fingers.

“I still get nervous if someone compliments my handwriting,” you chuckle. “I can’t imagine people knowing my face.”

A little laugh escapes his lips, and damn, you missed this. You absolutely missed everything about him, and you can’t only blame yourself for this. It’s your fault if you went eleven years without seeing each other.

“If things had gone differently, people might have known you, too.”

“Yep,” you simply nod.

Your true dream was to become a swimmer, like a professional one. You still remember perfectly when it began. Your parents, who are big fans of sports, brought you to the 2008 Olympic Games in China to watch the swimming competition. You were still young at that time, barely entering your first teenage years, but you instantly fell in love with it. 

Back home, you decided to learn it, and very quickly, it became a passion. As you grew up, you worked hard to become a professional athlete and hopefully make it to the Olympic Games one day.

But life had other plans, and they crushed you in a way you can’t even explain. Even today, it hurts to think that you’ll never be able to make it to the Olympic Games. You’ll only ever be a spectator.

“But let’s not talk about it,” you tell him. “It’s in the past.”

Jungkook simply nods, understanding that it still might be a sensitive topic for you. Even for him, it’s such a traumatic memory, so he can’t even imagine how it is for you.

“I’m happy you still managed to open the library you always wanted,” he says with a little smile.

“Thanks,” you reply. “After everything, I guess a part of me needed to prove I could still make something good out of my life. Something that mattered.”

He nods, his gaze softening.

“You always knew what you wanted. I envied that, back then.”

You smile faintly.

“You were too busy being the golden boy to envy anyone.”

Jungkook chuckles at that—low and genuine.

“God, I hated that nickname.”

“Everyone adored you,” you tease, but your voice carries a bit more weight than you’d intended.

The waiter arrives just then with your orders. You both ordered tea, a reminder of the old times. You always enjoyed a good cup of tea together. On top of that, you also took a piece of banana bread.

“So now you’re a dad,” your sentence sounds more like a question than an affirmation, but it’s far from being a question.

“Yep,” he exhales slowly. “Hana changed everything. But in a good way. She saved me from going off the rails, honestly. Gave me something to hold onto when everything else felt loud.”

You nod, watching him, and feeling something inside you stir—a strange mix of admiration and quiet sadness. He’s not just the boy you knew anymore. He’s a man. A father. Still kind, still thoughtful, but heavier now, like he’s carried more than he lets on.

“I’m very happy for you, Guk,” you genuinely say.

Jungkook has it all now, even all the girls in the world. It’s no secret that he dates models or singers, or even actresses. Whenever there are big events, he’s always posing on the red carpet with a new one. Most of the time, you feel absolutely jealous of them. You wished you were the one holding his arm while posing for the cameras.

“You seem to have it all now, and you deserve it,” you add.

He chuckles softly, but you feel like there’s no real humor in it. His fingers tap lightly against his teacup before taking a sip.

 “Yeah, looks like it,” he says with his eyes fixed on the table.

You tilt your head, understanding that he’s not convinced at all by his words.

“I’m doing what I like, so yeah, I have what I always wanted,” he continues, his eyes now shifting up to meet your gaze. “And I have Hana too, but…”

He completely halts, uncertain if he needs to continue and confess to you that he never found love because no girl could ever compare to you. He breaks up with them when he realizes that they can’t give him what you could. Despite what many people think, he has never slept with them. The last person he ever shared an intimate moment with was Miji, Hana’s mother.

It’s stupid because the chances of meeting you again were very low. He could try to find love, but how could he forget his first love? How could he ever forget the first girl he ever loved?

Jungkook never stopped loving you, and he will never. He doesn’t want it.

And somehow, he doesn’t need to say it for you to understand that he’s missing love in his life.

“Not love,” you finish his sentence.

Jungkook simply nods, almost ashamed that you figured it out.

“That’s not how it looks,” you chuckle a bit. “You always have a new woman in your arms.”

He shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips.

“They don’t mean anything.”

In a weird way, his words comfort you. It’s like some hope bloomed in your chest.

“Not nice to say that,” you reply. “Especially since they are all very pretty and very well-known.”

Jungkook takes a moment before replying to you. He just shrugs.

“I don’t care,” he finally says.

It definitely baffles you that such a handsome and good-looking man doesn’t care at all about the women he’s associated with. And most importantly, from what you remember, he wasn’t like that. Or at least, not with you.

“They don’t have what I’m looking for,” he confesses. “And most of the time, they don’t like Hana.”

That is an absolute lie. They all adore Hana, and they adore even more to see him interact with her, but he doesn’t want to sound like an absolute jerk. He doesn’t want you to think that he’s a cold-hearted person.

“Who wouldn’t like her?” you say with surprise. “She’s absolutely adorable!”

“I know,” he smiles with pride swelling in his chest.

You take a bite of the banana bread. You absolutely adore it. The way they do it in this café is mind-blowing. You’ve already begged the owner to tell you her secret, but she refuses.

“This is my favorite banana bread,” you confess with your mouth full.

A smile stretches across his handsome face, and it feels like you’ve been brought back to when you were seventeen and taking lunch breaks together.

Jungkook also takes a bite, and he has to confess that it’s pretty good.

“It’s not bad,” he says.

“Not bad?” you say, widening your eyes. “It’s fucking delicious!”

He chuckles at your reaction. He can’t help but find you extremely adorable. Even though eleven years have gone by, you’re still the same. You haven’t changed a bit.

“I’m kidding,” he replies. “It’s super good. Might be coming back for more.”

After that, you keep talking about random stuff and remembering good old times. Even though things have changed, everything still feels the same. The way your heart beats around each other. The way you smile at each other’s silly jokes. Or the warmth wrapping around you when you’re together.

Despite everything, the love you feel for each other hasn’t changed a bit.

For the past ten days, you’ve been texting nonstop with Jungkook. It has freed thousands of butterflies inside your stomach, especially when it seems that he’s flirting with you.

Obviously, you push that thought away the second it pops in your head because you’re absolutely sure that he doesn’t see you as more than a friend. It has always been only friendship between you two.

At least, that’s what you believe.

jk: how’s your day going?

you: too many clients today 😫 drained all my energy.

At some point, you thought you wouldn’t be able to follow up on how full your library was. Your library has been growing a lot. It was supposed to be a little and quiet one, but it hasn’t been the case lately. You’re unsure why, but somehow, you’re grateful it’s working even better than you imagined it.

jk: you should hire someone to help

you: maybe but it would cost a lot, and i don’t have the funds yet

jk: i could help if you need

You would gladly accept his help, but you want to do this all by yourself. You don’t want him to invest in your library. You’ll feel like you owe him money, and you don’t want that. You already have a bank loan, and it’s more than enough.

you: i can’t accept it, guk

jk: why not? 🤔

He might be super wealthy, and it probably means nothing to him, but it’ll mean everything to you. And you don’t want that.

You’re lying in your bed, stomach pressed on your mattress as you think of an answer. You’re not sure what to say.

jk: i’ve the means to help you out

you: you should keep your money

jk: i’ve too much

You roll your eyes. Of course, he has. That doesn’t surprise you.

you: i still won’t accept it. keep it to yourself, i’ll manage to find a solution. don’t worry about me and my library

You see the little dots appearing before disappearing and reappearing, and then, his answer pops out.

jk: i’ll always worry about you 🥺

Your heart skips a beat, and your cheeks flush with warmth.

Why does it still affect you like this—the way he says things so simply, like he means every word?

you: you shouldn’t

jk: of course, i should

His reply makes your heart flutter—as if it remembers something your mind keeps trying to forget.

jk: you’re pushing yourself too hard again. and you know you’re not supposed to. i just don’t want to see you burn out.

His concern softens something in your chest. He’s not wrong, and you know it, but right now, your mind is consumed by one thing: the library’s finances.

you: i know. but i can’t accept your money, guk. i need to do this on my own.

You stare at your message for a moment after sending it. And just as you’re trying to quiet the ache in your chest, your phone buzzes, his name lighting up the screen.

He’s calling you.

Your heart skips a beat. Then it starts to race.

“Yn,” he says when you pick up.

You can perfectly hear the concern in his voice.

“Guk,” you reply.

“You don’t have to do this alone,” he instantly says. “I’m—”

“You don’t understand,” you cut him off.

“Then explain me.”

You take a deep breath, thinking about how to formulate your thoughts.

“I want…” you close your eyes, flashes of the past coming out. “I want to do something by myself because I didn’t succeed in becoming a swimmer.”

For a brief moment, he doesn’t say anything. You know he’s thinking about what to say because, yeah, this is more than a sensitive subject, and since he has been back in your life, you’ve been reflecting and thinking more about everything. It’s like he’s a reminder of your failure.

“It’s not your fault, yn,” his voice is super soft. “None of this is your fault.”

“It is,” you answer, trying to keep yourself steady as your throat tightens and tears threaten to fall. “I couldn’t handle my health. I couldn’t save myself from drowning.”

His answer is immediate and firm.

“There was nothing you could’ve done, yn,” he says softly.

“You were sick. You are sick. And none of it is your fault.”

He pauses, like he’s choosing every word carefully.

“You didn’t fail. Your body just… gave out on you. That’s not a weakness. That’s not something you could’ve fixed.”

You’re not really convinced. He can’t understand how devastating it is to suddenly learn that you won’t ever be able to become a professional swimmer.

He can’t understand how much it hurts every day to see that scar on your chest because it constantly brings you back to the day you had a seizure and almost died. He doesn’t know how painful it is to hear the doctor tell you that you have epilepsy.

“You can’t understand,” you snap back. “You became a quarterback like you always dreamed of. I had to give up absolutely everything.”

You hear a small silence before he replies.

“Open the door,” his tone is firm.

“What?” you frown.

“Just open the door.”

The doorbell echoes in your apartment before Jungkook puts an end to the call. You see him in the intercom. How and when did he arrive here? You open the door to him, and when he enters your apartment, you instantly notice the swamped hair, the sweat on his face, and the way his t-shirt sticks to his chest.

“How—”

“I was running, and I wasn’t far from your place,” he simply replies.

Lie. He was indeed running, but he wasn’t close to your place, so he walked because he couldn’t let you say all this nonsense.

“You didn’t need…”

“Of course I needed,” he says before you can even finish your sentence.

You take a deep breath, your gaze locked in his. Jungkook doesn’t look away; he actually takes a step closer. His strong cologne instantly invades all your senses, and your brain only focuses on that.

“Maybe I can’t understand what you feel,” he begins. “I managed to follow my dream, and my health is great, but you can explain it to me. You can make me understand without saying shit about yourself.”

His breathing is now heavy, and somehow, he seems infuriated. It almost sounds like you disrespected him.

“You’re the strongest person I’ve ever met,” he continues. “You almost died, but you still managed to make it through. You opened your library despite all the health complications that epilepsy brings.”

You close your eyes, trying to hold back your tears.

“Yes, you gave up on your dream, but you’re here, which to me is more important than anything else. We both know how hard the first months were after your first seizure,” he shakes his head. “I saw every single seizure you did after, completely powerlessly. I was dying on the inside when you were crying after each seizure, blaming yourself more and more about how you couldn’t control your disease.”

It’s hard to remember those days clearly—not because they weren’t painful, but because your mind was too fogged to hold onto anything. You were barely functioning, caught in a cycle of seizure after seizure, your body aching like you’d been hit by something massive—a truck, a plane.

But worse than the muscle pain, worse than the exhaustion, was your brain.

It felt like it had been electrocuted inside your skull. Everything was hazy, heavy, like trying to think through thick glass underwater. You couldn’t focus. Even simple thoughts scattered before you could hold onto them. You also barely remember what happened, but your body didn’t.

Your body didn’t forget this kind of pain. It actually was traumatic. It still is.

And the worst part? No one could see that pain.

Unless someone’s lived with epilepsy, they’ll never really understand how it rips through your mind as much as your body.

Tears start streaming down your face, and Jungkook grabs you, holding you tightly in his embrace. You don’t hold back anymore, crying in his arms. They bring comfort, the same they did eleven years ago. And right now, you regret how you pushed him away.

As you were trying to hold yourself together in the middle of the seizures you were having, you pushed him away. It happened after he told you that he’d wait a year before going to uni to pursue his dream. He wanted to help you navigate this new journey, but you refused.

You couldn’t be the reason why he’d put his dream on hold. You’d feel guilty, so you did the most stupid thing and stopped talking to him. Didn’t answer his calls or messages. You’d always find an excuse to not let him in the hospital room. You hated yourself, but you thought he’d be better like that.

His fingers slowly and gently soothe your back, trying to comfort you as your tears soak the fabric of his shirt.

“Thanks for offering your help,” you whisper into the crook of his neck. “But I really can’t accept it,” you continue. “Let me just do it by myself.”

Jungkook simply holds you tighter, like he’s afraid that if he lets go, he’ll lose you over again. You can feel his breath slow against your shoulder, heavy with everything he’s not saying.

He really wants to help you, but he can’t force you to accept it. However, what he can do is be by your side now, be an emotional support, and make sure that you take care of yourself.

“Okay,” he says in defeat. “I won’t push, but don’t push me away either, yn. Not this time.”

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. It’s painful for the two of you to remember the time when you were putting as much distance as possible between you.

“Let me help you in the way you’ll let me. Just let me be by your side.”

You simply nod before holding him tight again in your arms.

“Plus, I’m sure Hana would be happy to spend more time in your library,” he chuckles.

A smile grows on your face as you remember his adorable daughter. He, for sure, did an amazing job of raising her. She’s just as equally charming as he is. Jungkook hasn’t spoken yet about her mother, probably because it’s a sensitive subject. In the end, their relationship didn’t work out, so it mustn’t be easy to speak about it.

Eleven years ago

Your heart is beating crazily in your chest as you stand on the diving board. Your eyes are focused on the water, your ears on the whistle, but your mind is ages away from here. It somehow feels like you’re completely high, while you know you haven’t touched anything.

You think that it could be tiredness, but for the past days, you’ve been sleeping eight hours at least per day. So, it shouldn’t be that. You actually ignore totally why you feel like that. However, one thing is certain: something is off.

But you push the thought away as you need to focus. This is a competition, the biggest one in swimming. You’re already proud to be here. You’ve worked so hard. And now, you just have to give your best.

You’re not hoping to win; some of the best swimmers are standing next to you, so you know you don’t stand a chance. Nonetheless, you still want to impress the jury. You’ll probably see them again in other competitions, and you want them to have a good souvenir of you.

Your parents and Jungkook are present. They always are. They have been incredibly supportive, and it always gives you so much strength when you know they are there. You almost feel invincible.

The starter blows the whistle, announcing the beginning of the competition.

All the swimmers throw themselves into the water, but as you do so, everything goes pitch black. It’s like you’re jumping into the void.

The second Jungkook realizes you’re not going to resurface, he runs to the swimming pool. Everybody around him is slowly understanding that you’re drowning, but by the time they do, Jungkook is already jumping into the water.

He might not be as fast as you, but man, seeing you dying gives him superpowers. He’s invincible now.

A red spot appears around you as it’s noticeable that you’re bleeding. Jungkook doesn’t let himself think; he just swims towards you. The other swimmers are also heading in your direction.

Your best friend catches you while you’re convulsing in his arms, and everybody around him helps him to get you out of the water. They place you in the safety lateral position. The medical staff approaches you all.

“Please take a step back,” one of them yells.

Jungkook does it without even blinking, but his heart is literally dying. He’s powerlessly watching you convulsing on the floor, drool dripping from your mouth, and your eyes rolling back. Your face is as pale as he has ever seen before, but what pains him the most is the blood running through your body. Your blue swimsuit is even turning into a violet shade.

He's trying to see where the blood is coming from, but it feels like it’s coming from everywhere. He knows that the injury is bad, more like really bad. There will be months of recovery from this. Maybe even more.

His eyes are glued to the scene playing in front of him. You’re clearly having a seizure, you were basically drowning, and you’re bleeding from everywhere. Never in his life has he ever felt like this. Powerless and in pain.

“What’s going on?” your mom screams when she calls for you.

“Ma’am,” one of the staff turns around to look at your mother. “Please stay back.”

“That’s my daughter,” her voice trembles as she says those words out loud.

“We need to give her some room,” he explains. “She’s having a seizure.”

The world under his feet opens and swallows him entirely. This is too heartbreaking.

“There’s nothing we can do right now, and it’s best we give her some space so she doesn’t get hurt.”

Your mother simply nods.

Then, you stop convulsing. Instantly, the medical staff checks for your heartbeat. Jungkook can see by the look on their faces that they are dead worried. Your heartbeat is faint. Too faint. For a terrifying second, he thinks he’s losing you.

But for the first time, he finally breathes when he sees you opening your eyes. Without thinking twice, he gets even closer, hoping to reach for you. However, he forces himself to stay back. They are the professional ones. They know what they’re doing. They are the ones who can help you.

You cough violently, water spilling past your lips, your body shaking weakly with the effort. He’s never heard a sound so awful at the same time.

“Yn,” a medical calls for you.

You don’t react at all. You just look into the void for a couple of seconds before falling asleep again. Jungkook’s heart sinks again. Are you dying?

It feels like a lifetime has happened since he jumped into the water, when in fact, it’s been maybe five minutes. Everybody is watching the medical staff taking care of you, hoping to hear some good news in the next seconds.

A minute later, you open your eyes again. You look around with confusion, but as the medical staff speaks to you, you focus on them and reply to their basic questions like ‘what’s your name?’, ‘what day is it?’, ‘what’s your birthday?’, ‘how old are you?’, and ‘where are we?’

Luckily, you manage to reply to all of the questions, which reassures everybody around you.

“My lungs hurt,” you then say. “A lot.”

And before they can even check you up, you’re having another seizure. Jungkook never thought it would be possible to be this devastated. The pain in his heart is something he has never experienced, and it’s not because you rejected him.

It just looks like you’re dying.

The rest blurs together in a haze of sirens and hands lifting you onto a stretcher. The paramedics work quickly, voices sharp with urgency, and before Jungkook can even process it, you’re being rushed to the hospital.

Hours later, the verdict comes: surgery. You’d perforated a lung, water filling where it should never have been. They think you struck something under the surface when you went under. The thought of how close he came to losing you will haunt Jungkook forever.

The following months are nothing short of hell. You’re alive, yes, but barely holding on—your body a battleground of seizures and relentless pain. Nights blur into days filled with monitors beeping, the metallic tang of hospitals, and your quiet sobs muffled against a pillow. Every time you remember you’ll never swim professionally again, the grief rips fresh through you. You cry until there’s nothing left, until anger becomes easier than despair.

And so you push everyone away. Coaches. Friends. Even Jungkook. Especially Jungkook. He keeps trying—showing up, sitting by your bedside, waiting for you to let him in. But every time, your walls are higher, your words sharper, designed to wound because the pain inside you needs somewhere to go.

When it’s time for him to leave for university, Jungkook makes one last attempt. He stands outside your room for a long time, heart pounding, rehearsing the words he’s wanted to tell you for years. But the moment he steps in, the air is heavy with bitterness, and your voice—cold, harsh, nothing like the girl he loves—cuts through him.

He swallows his confession, tucks it away where you’ll never hear it, and walks out instead.

It’s the one decision that will brand itself into him forever—the moment he let fear and heartbreak silence him. The moment he let you go.

The stadium is still humming with leftover energy—a low, electric buzz from the roaring crowd, the echo of the final whistle still hanging in the night air. Fans are filing out slowly, waving flags and shouting chants, while reporters swarm the edge of the field, barking questions into microphones, cameras flashing like tiny bursts of lightning.

But Jungkook doesn’t hear any of it.

He hears her.

“Daddy!”

The moment her voice cuts through the noise, his helmeted head turns, scanning the crowd until he finds her—right where she always waits, behind the security rope near the tunnel. She’s bouncing on her toes, arms waving like she’s trying to flag down an airplane.

She’s wearing his team’s hoodie, three sizes too big, practically swallowing her whole. The sleeves flop past her fingers, the hem brushing her knees. Her cheeks are flushed pink from excitement, and her dark curls are flying in every direction, messy from jumping and cheering.

But that smile hits him like a punch straight to the heart. Pure joy, all for him. Nothing else matters.

He jogs over without even unstrapping his helmet, weaving past the cameras and security. His cleats thud against the turf, the adrenaline of the game still buzzing through his limbs, but everything slows when he reaches her.

He bends down and scoops her into his arms in one fluid motion, lifting her like she weighs nothing.

“There’s my girl,” he murmurs.

She squeals as he spins her once, her giggle ringing out over the chaos. He presses a kiss to her temple through her curls, and her tiny arms squeeze tightly around his neck.

“You were so fast!” she exclaims, beaming.

He chuckles, finally catching his breath.

“Only because I knew you were watching.”

And for a few precious seconds, with his daughter in his arms and the world blurring behind them, Jungkook doesn’t feel like the most famous quarterback in the country. He just feels like her dad.

Right next to them stands his mother, fondly watching this scene. When it’s his week and he has a game, his mother comes with her. It is a grandma and granddaughter time before he joins them after the game.

This right here is the only medicine he needs.

But for a moment, his mind drifts to you, and he wishes you were here.   

“How’d I do?” he grins.

She squints dramatically, pretending to think.

“Mmm... six out of ten.”

He seems offended by her answer.

“Six?! I threw two touchdowns and didn’t get sacked once!”

“Yeah, but you didn’t wave at me when they showed you on the big screen.”

Jungkook groans, exaggerated, but it doesn’t surprise him. She always complains when he doesn’t wave at her after he scores.

“I knew I forgot something important.”

She giggles, tugging at his chin strap like she’s inspecting him. Her hands seem so small as she touches it.  

“You’re sweaty.”

Now, he’s the one giggling. Well, it’s more than normal to be sweating after an hour of intense game, otherwise it would have been surprising.

“That’s what greatness smells like,” he replies, his eyes glued to his little girl.

She makes a face, but even like that, he finds her absolutely adorable.

“Greatness smells gross.”

He laughs and sets her down gently before he fully removes his helmet. She immediately reaches for the towel slung over his shoulder and starts wiping at his face, way too seriously for someone who still mixes up her left and right shoes.

“Let me fix you,” she says with a frown of concentration. “You’re all crooked.”

Jungkook kneels so she can straighten his jersey collar, then lightly bops his nose.

His eyes quickly look up at his mother. She’s fondly looking at them, and he offers her a bright smile. Even though he adores having his daughter here, he also always looks forward to seeing her. She’s always been there, long before Hana came into the picture.

“There,” she announces, his eyes drifting back to her. “Superpowers back on.”

He just stares at her for a second, a stupid grin softening his entire face. He’s so weak around her, but he’s also the happiest dad. Everything feels a lot better when she’s near him.

“You know,” he says quietly, “scoring in front of thousands of people doesn’t feel half as good as seeing you right after.”

She beams, rocking on her heels.

“Even if I only give you six out of ten?”

“Even then.”

He grabs her hand and stands up, lacing their fingers together. They walk closer to his mom.

“Wanna go get ice cream? My treat. For surviving another one of Daddy’s games.”

“Only if I get to pick the music in the car.”

“Even if it’s that same song twenty times in a row?”

She nods, and he still asks his mother if she wants to join, but it’s not really a question. Even if she says ‘no’, he’ll bring her along. There’s no way he’s leaving her out when she always takes care of Hana while he plays.

As they walk away, the noise of the crowd fades. Because for Jungkook, the real win is always waiting at the end of the tunnel—hoodie too big, judgment sharp, and love unconditional.

After getting the ice cream, Jungkook drives his mother back home. She’s sitting next to him, in the passenger’s seat. Hana’s booster seat is buckled in the back, her sneakers swinging just above the floor. She had a fancy ice cream. That’s how she calls a chocolate with rainbow sprinkles ice cream.

Her music of choice is playing in the car: a sparkly pop song she knows every word to.

Jungkook drives with one hand on the wheel, the other drumming lightly to the beat. He glances in the rearview mirror and smiles as she sings along, slightly off-key, but with full commitment.

His mother also knows all the lyrics—she also gets to hear it on repeat whenever her granddaughter is around. The three of them happily sing along.

“You know the entire setlist better than me,” he teases Hana.

“That’s because you’re always listening to boring adult songs.”

“Hey,” he laughs, “Queen is not boring.”

“It sounds like something grandpas listen to.”

She goes quiet for a moment, staring out the window. The lights of the stadium are still visible behind them, glowing against the night sky.

“You looked really cool today,” she says suddenly. “When you ran and threw that ball. Everyone cheered.”

Jungkook’s chest tightens just slightly—not from pride, but from how small her voice sounds when she says it.

“Thanks, baby,” he says softly.

Another pause.

“But you’re still my dad first, right?”

That gets him. He glances at her again in the mirror—her face half-lit by passing streetlights, her eyebrows pulled together just a little.

“Always,” he says, his voice low and certain. “Before the game, during the game, after the game. Every second.”

She looks satisfied with that answer and goes silent once more. Jungkook then discusses with his mother about the game and what she did with Hana while watching the game.

It’s more than evident to him how proud his mother is, and although he’s a dad now, he’ll forever do anything to make his mother proud.

“Can we get pancakes tomorrow?” Hana suddenly asks.

“You just had ice cream,” Jungkook instantly says.

“Yeah, but that was for after the game. Pancakes are for the next morning. It’s tradition.”

Jungkook grins, shaking his head.

“You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I know,” she mumbles.

Both Jungkook and his mother laugh at her answer. She’s unbelievable.

A couple of minutes later, they reach his mother’s house. Hana almost starts crying when she leaves the car because she doesn’t want her grandma to go, but in the end, his mother promises to come tomorrow.

While he drives back to his place, she falls asleep in the back. A smile grows on his face when he sees her peacefully sleeping in the back.

This definitely was a good day for him.

At night, in his bed, as he’s falling asleep, his phone buzzes, notifying him that he just received a text message. By reflex, he grabs his phone, and a smile grows on his face when he sees your name.

you: i saw the game

Then a second message appears.

you: congrats for the victory 🥳

A strange but welcomed warmth wraps around him like a blanket, and it feels absolutely wonderful. Everything feels wonderful with you.

jk: thanks ☺️ it wasn’t an easy win

His heart burns for you. It always has. But now it burns differently. Slower. Deeper. Steadier.

Back then, it was all adrenaline, fleeting glances in crowded hallways, nerves before a text, the ache of wanting and never quite saying it. But now, it’s something else.

you: yeah, seems like it, but you smashed them all 👀

Jungkook hesitates for a long time. Does he tell how much he wanted to have you there? Does he not? What’s sure is that he definitely wanted you there.

jk: wished you were there, too

His heart is beating fast, too nervous about what he is going to say.

jk: like old times

Eleven years ago, you’d go to all his games. You’d never miss any of them, and he’d always look for you in the crowd. When he’d see you, his heart would skip a beat. However, any time he’d find you, you wouldn’t be looking at all at the game which sometimes would make him sad. But in the end, what mattered was your presence.

you: well hopefully next time i’m invited

He smiles because he’ll for sure invite you to the next game.

jk: then consider yourself invited for the next game

Tomorrow morning, he’ll grab a ticket for the next game. Hana will be with her mom by then, so she won’t be waiting by the tunnel, but maybe someone else will.

jk: try actually watching this one this time 😏

He smirks as he sends it, not expecting anything serious. But your reply comes quickly.

you: what!! i always watch 😤

He laughs under his breath. He’s not buying it.

jk: you just stared at the ground half the time & i saw you

you: excuse me i’m offended now

He can see your pouty face. Probably crossing your arms. Maybe rolling your eyes too.

jk: not as offended as i was in high school

He pauses for a second.

jk: you never looked at me when i played

His fingers hover for a second before he types again.

jk: but i didn’t care. you were there and that was enough

This part—that’s the honest part. The one he’s not sure he should’ve sent. He exhales, waiting.

you: i always supported you even when i pretended not to watch

His pulse quickens.

jk: pretended?

You don’t answer right away. He sits up straighter, eyes fixed on your typing bubble.

you: i was always watching, just… not when you looked at me

He tilts his head, lips twitching into a knowing smile.

jk: you got shy?

you: yes

jk: why?

That question hangs heavy. His heart kicks a little harder. He already knows. But still—

jk: we were best friends…

you: you were different on the field

jk: different how?

He already feels where this is going, but he wants to hear it. Needs to.

jk: hotter?

He winces a little. Did he go too far? But then—

you: yes

jk: and now?

He’s not sure if he wants to know the answer, and he closes his eyes when he hears the ping, notifying him that you answered.

The second he reads it, he swears that he will die in his bed.

you: still the case

Fuck, the girl he’s been having a crush on has been finding him hot all this time. And man, it makes him weak. Thank god that he’s in his bed because otherwise, his knees would have betrayed him.

Jungkook decides then to press on the little microphone to record a voice note.

“Fuck… yn—” he softly exhales. “You’ve no idea how fucking hot you are.”

Jungkook knows how to flirt. If there’s anything else other than football in which he excels, it’s flirting. All the girls he has been with, he seduced them before, even though nothing happened in the bedroom.

But here with you, it’s different. It’s not flirting. It’s admitting the raw truth. The truth is that he has been dreaming about you for years. His mind has been going crazy since the second his eyes landed on you. He can’t really pinpoint the moment he fell in love with you because it was happening slowly until he couldn’t think about anything other than you.

“You’re messing with my head right now,” he finishes.

He presses the bottom send and patiently waits for your answer. He was expecting a simple text message, but you surprised him by sending a voice note.

“Jungkook,” you whisper—or should he say, moan.

Fuck, you shouldn’t have sent that. Now he’s growing hard in his Calvin Klein boxers.

“Don’t say it just because I did,” you continue.

He rolls his eyes. This is so typical of you. You’re always scared that somebody might actually be into you. He still perfectly remembers how you were when Jin, another student, was flirting with you. You were convinced that he was doing it out of pity—when, truth being told, he was so down bad for you.

“I’m serious, yn,” he whispers with a deep voice. “You’re so fucking hot that I could come in my pants like a fucking teenager by simply looking at you.”

Jungkook feels so vulnerable right now, but he couldn’t care less. He’s finally confessing his feelings for you, and he wants to do it properly. He doesn’t want to half-confess.

He runs a hand through his hair, his breath shaky.

“God, I sound insane…” he mutters with a breathless laugh, “but I don’t care. I’ve wanted you for so long. I still do. It’s not just the way you look—it’s everything.”

His voice drops again. Slower. Rougher.

“The way you talk, the way you laugh, the way you look at me like I’m still that kid you knew… it drives me fucking crazy.”

He hesitates. Then adds, quieter:

“It always has.”

Then your answer comes quite quickly. His mind is going absolutely feral, and if you were here with him, he’s absolutely sure that it would end with you both in his bed going wild.

“I don’t know how you expect me to breathe after that,” your voice is shaky. “I’ve wanted to hear you say those things since I was 16, and now that you are…”

There’s a pause, your breathing is heavy, and your voice is obviously filled with lust and heat.

“I’ve never stopped wanting you, and it was never just physical,” you say, and for a moment, you seem to hesitate to continue. “But god… if you touched me right now, I’d probably melt.”

Jungkook’s hand is always going south, palming his hard cock.

“A part of me has always been yours, and I didn’t even realize how much,” you pause, your breathing heavier than before, “until you said my name like that.”

He knows he’s fucked. Way too fucked. There’s no way that after this, he’ll keep his hands to himself when he’s near you. Man, if he could, he’d already be on his way to your place to have you contorting with pleasure beneath him. 

“Fuck—,” his raspy voice murmurs. “If I didn’t need to wake up early tomorrow, I would be on my way to your place.”

He knows damn well that you can hear him palming himself, but he wants it. He wants you to know how much he craves you right now.

What he doesn’t expect, though, is your call. You don’t answer with a voice note. No, you’re actually calling him. And the second he picks up, he hears how desperate, needy, and fucked you are. He never thought he’d hear that one day.

“Jungkook—,” you moan when he picks up. “You can’t turn me on like that over the phone,” you’re having difficulty breathing.

And then, he hears it. The lewd sound of your arousal.

“Are you touching yourself?” he asks without answering you.

You hesitate for a second.

“Yes,” you honestly say. “You?”

“Yes,” he replies without hesitation. “I’ve been rock hard since you moaned my name.”

You softly moan at his words. Fuck, he won’t last long if you keep moaning like that when he hasn’t even touched you.

“Tell me how you’re doing it,” he says.

He can’t be with you right now, but he wants to imagine it. And he can only do that if you describe it.

“I’m rubbing my fingers between my folds.”

His cock throbs in his hand, his rhythm increasing while he closes his eyes. This pleasure is consuming him like never before.

“But it’s not enough,” you moan. “I need you, Guk.”

Oh damn, you can’t say it like that. You can’t beg him to be with you; he’s losing himself.

“Don’t beg, sweetheart,” he whispers. “I can’t be with you right now.”

Now, he’s cursing his job for being this intense. He doesn’t even know when he can be with you. He’s not sure if he’ll be able to see you before his next game, which is next week. But he can’t wait that long. Not after this call.

“Keep touching yourself,” he continues.

His mind is going crazy with all the things he wants to do to you, so he’s just going to say them out loud to give you a preview of what he’ll do to you.

 “When we’ll be together, I’ll kiss you like a starved man. I’ll take my time to taste those sweet lips of yours before going down to your jaw, then to your collarbone until I reach your perfect breasts.”

You whimper, his name falling from your lips for the thousandth time tonight.

“I’ll suck and lick your nipples while you moan my name like you’re doing right now. And just as you did seconds ago, you’ll be begging me to touch you,” he halts for a second, his breathing heavier than ever. “As the weak man that I am, I’ll give in and give you what you want.”

He has dreamed of this so many times. He has jerked himself off—as right now—to the thought of you moaning his name while he fucks you nice and slow.

“I’ll kiss your pussy before sucking and licking it like my life depended on it,” he exhales softly, his voice only getting deeper and deeper. “And once you’re dripping on my tongue, I’ll push my fingers inside you, showing you no mercy.”

Now, his ears only hear you moaning and the sound of your arousal. It’s the sweetest melody he has ever heard.

“Right after you orgasm, I’ll push my hard dick inside you to fuck you nice and slow.”

He can hear that you’re very close to your orgasm. And that only makes him closer to coming shamelessly on his hand. This time around, he won’t be coming because of his wild imagination. He’ll be coming to the sound of your voice.

“Fuck, Guk,” you moan.

“As the perfect baby girl that you are, you’ll take everything that I give you. You’ll be moaning out loud while I fuck you over and over again.”

Well, he can’t keep talking as he’s moaning too. And well, he absolutely doesn’t care. He just moans to the sound of your voice.

“I’m gonna cum,” you tell him.

“Then come for me, sweetheart,” he barely manages to say. “Let me hear your pretty voice.”

And that’s it, you’re coming loudly, his name falling from your lips.

“Fuck,” he groans, “you sound so perfect.”

Right there and then, he ejaculates, deep groans leaving his lips. His hand goes still while he pushes his dick in it.

You're both breathing heavily, and none of you hangs up. You stay on the phone while recovering from this wild moment.

“Yn,” he whispers your name.

“Yes?” you reply.

“Next time I see you, I’ll fuck you for hours.”

“And I’ll let you do it.”

Now, Jungkook only wants to ruin you even though he hasn’t had sex in a very long time, and he probably doesn’t know how anymore. But man, he doesn’t care. All he cares about is hearing you moan his name over and over again.  

The past week has been intense—exhausting, chaotic, and honestly? Torturous. But in the best way.

The library’s been busier than ever, and it’s becoming painfully clear that you need to hire someone to help. But every night, without fail, you’ve been on the phone with Jungkook. The conversations have gotten… interesting, to say the least.

Ever since that night—the one where you basically confessed how you felt—things escalated. Fast. You’ve had phone sex. More than once. And let’s just say: no one’s ever made you come that hard without even laying a finger on you. His voice? Dangerous. His dirty talk? Absolutely filthy.

And today? It’s game day.

Which means you’ll finally see him. In person. And you’re excited—probably just as excited as Hana was when she visited your library for the first time.

But you’re also a little nervous. Because if his voice alone can undo you… there’s no telling what will happen when you’re alone with him.

You’ve finally reached your seat located in the VIP area. The area where only close friends and family are allowed. It’s a bit weird to be here, but somehow, it makes you feel important. Like really important.

Jungkook explained to you how to access the area, especially since it was your first time. You’ll also get the opportunity to walk to the tunnels before the game ends, so you can see him right when he leaves.

The VIP area is already buzzing when you arrive, eyes following you as you find your seat. For a second, you feel like an outsider—like you’ve stumbled into a world you don’t quite belong to. But honestly? You couldn’t care less. You’re here for Jungkook.

So you give a polite little smile to the curious stares. Some of these people are probably insanely famous. Or ridiculously important. Or maybe both. But you don’t know any of them.  

After a couple of minutes, the team bursts onto the field. The supporters instantly start clapping, screaming, and chanting. On TV, the noise already seemed huge, but in person, it seems electric. You can feel it in your bones.

Then, through all that chaos, Jungkook looks up. His eyes scan the stands until they lock on you. Just like he does when his daughter is present, he waves at you.

From an outsider's perspective, this would seem rather normal. But you know better. There’s nothing fatherly in the way he’s looking at you right now. It’s a slow burn—intense, direct, like he’s already undressing you in his head.

You try as much as possible to remain composed, but your pulse is racing. This right here makes it even clearer that after the game, things will get very heated between you.

And if this is how he looks at you in front of thousands of people, you can only imagine what’s coming after the last whistle.

Jungkook was a beast during the game. Nobody could stop him, not even a bit. He has scored more than usual, bringing his team to the victory. It was absolutely impressive, and it felt like old times. It felt like you were sixteen again, and Jungkook was a machine.

However, this time around, whenever he’d look at you, you wouldn’t look away. You’d look back at him with the same intensity.

Towards the end of the game, you’re almost panting because he’s looking hotter and hotter. Maybe, you can barely see him under the helmet, but you see enough.

“Jungkook is on fire,” someone says behind you. “Not sure why but I hope he keeps playing like that. We’ll win everything.” 

A smile grows on your face as you hear those people talking behind you about the man that has been making your heart beats for years.

As you used to before, you’re only watching him. You’re not even following the game. You don’t even know and realize what’s going on, but you’re certain of one thing: he’s leading the team to victory.

Every time he scores, he looks at you with the biggest smile on his face, winks and finally waves. Your cheeks heat at his attention, and you get all shy, but it definitely warms your heart. It means more than you can put into words.

As the game edges toward its final minutes, you slip out of the VIP section and make your way toward the tunnels. Jungkook had asked you to wait for him there just like his daughter and mother always do when they come to watch him play.

The fact that he wanted you in that spot, part of that circle, made something warm settle deep in your chest. You couldn’t have said ‘no’ even if you’d tried.

You walk in the tunnel, the roar of the crowd still echoing through the stadium. Every cheer vibrates through the concrete, the sound wrapping around you in waves. Out here, it feels different—contained, heavy with anticipation. Your hands clutch the strap of your bag as you’re holding it with your dear life, your pulse already picking up even though the game hasn’t officially ended.

After this entire week of teasing and steamy phone calls filled with moans, it feels unreal that you’re finally going to be standing in front of him. You’re finally going to be with him, and lord knows what will happen. But you can’t wait to see him.

From your spot, you can glimpse the edge of the field. The clock is winding down. The noise swells, then explodes into deafening celebration. The game is over. Jungkook’s team has won, and the full stadium is cheering their victory. You can’t be prouder.

And then—he’s there.

Jungkook steps into the tunnel, helmet dangling from his fingers, hair damp. His chest is still rising and falling with the aftershock of adrenaline, the black streaks under his eyes making his gaze even sharper. For a moment, he scans the space, searching. Searching for you.

When he finds you, everything about him shifts. His posture straightens. His steps quicken. His eyes—God, those eyes—are locked on you, unblinking, like nothing else exists.

“Yn,” he says as he’s closing the last few feet between you.

You smile at him while you’re simply looking at each other, the world completely disappearing around you. There’s only you and Jungkook. Nobody else.

After all these years, he finally knows about your feelings for him. It makes you feel absolutely vulnerable because he could break your heart. Nevertheless, it feels like a heavy weight has been taken off your shoulders.

But what truly warms your heart is the fact that those feelings have been reciprocated all these years. Jungkook has always loved you more than a friend, and that changes everything.

“Guk,” you say.

“I’m happy you came,” he says with heavy breathing.

The way his eyes linger on you feels like he’s memorizing your face, afraid it might vanish if he blinks.

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” you reply, your voice barely above a whisper.

His lips twitch, almost a smile, but there’s too much emotion in his gaze for him to hide it behind something casual. His hand comes up slowly, hesitating for a second before cupping your cheek. The warmth of his palm sends a shiver down your spine. His thumb traces lightly along your skin, and you can feel his breath growing warmer as he leans closer.

It's absolutely clear what is about to happen, but it doesn’t frighten you. You’ve been dreaming of this since the moment you first met him. You’ve been dreaming of it since you’re sixteen so it’s definitely been a while.

“Can I kiss you?” he whispers, his breathing caressing your lips.

You simply nod, knowing perfectly that your voice will betray you if you speak.

And then—his lips are on yours. It’s not tentative. It’s not a test. It’s a collision.

His mouth moves over yours with urgency, like he’s been starving and you’re the only thing that could ever satisfy him. You taste salt and heat, his breath still fast from the game.

Your fingers clutch the front of his jersey, feeling the damp fabric, the solid wall of muscle underneath. His arms slide around your waist, pulling you closer—tighter—until there’s no space left between you. You can feel the thud of his heartbeat against your chest, matching your own.

The world around you fades—no crowd, no team, no cameras. Just the muffled roar in the distance and the way he’s kissing you like he’s afraid to waste another second.

When he finally pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you breathing hard. His thumb brushes your cheek, slow and almost reverent. His lips are still so close you can feel the ghost of his breath as he murmurs, low and certain: “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to do that.”

You barely have time to catch your breath before he’s kissing you again.

This time it’s slower, deeper—less the urgency of a first taste, more the ache of finally getting to savor it. His hand slips into your hair, fingers curling at the nape of your neck as his mouth moves against yours, coaxing rather than claiming.

You melt into him, your palms sliding up over the broad plane of his shoulders. The world is still there—teammates jogging past, the faint metallic clatter of equipment—but you couldn’t care less.

He tilts his head just slightly, changing the angle, and the kiss deepens. A low sound rumbles in his chest—half sigh, half growl—and you feel it reverberate through you.

When he breaks away, his thumb brushes over your lower lip like he’s memorizing the shape of it. His gaze locks with yours, heat simmering there, and you know this isn’t just a kiss—it’s a line you’ve both finally crossed.

Somewhere, someone calls his name, but he doesn’t look away. He leans in close, his breath hot against your ear.

“Don’t go anywhere,” he murmurs. “I’m not done with you yet.”

Jungkook opens the door of his impressive apartment, but he doesn’t really give you the time to admire it. It’s crystal clear that he’s fucking desperate, and he only wants you to see his bedroom for now. Maybe later—or tomorrow— he’ll give you a little home tour.

Once inside his bedroom, he hungrily kisses you. His hands are everywhere on your body, worshipping every part of you. He’s touching what he’s been craving for a damn week, even more if he’s honest.

The kiss is intense, filled with hunger and passion. Somehow, it feels like you’ve been doing this for years when your first kiss only happened minutes ago. But damn, his lips are addictive. You could kiss them forever.

When he breaks the kiss, his lips get closer to your ear, whispering what his mind has been thinking of during the entire game.

“You’re gonna let me fuck you?”

You nod with no hesitation. There’s nothing else you’d want right now.

Your hands slide up his chest, greedy now, and your fingers trace the lines of his muscles under the shirt. He’s so bulky. You always knew it. You’ve seen him shirtless many times, but this time around, it feels different.

Your eyes are mesmerized by the way your fingers move along his chest, and Jungkook just takes in the view before him. He shivers at the contact of your hand on his body. It feels even better than in his wildest dreams.

“You look so pretty,” he says, voice low and teasing. “Got all dressed up for me?”

A smirk arises on his face while you look up at him. Your lips part, but no sound comes out. It takes you a couple of seconds to answer him.

Of course, you dressed up for him. You fucking knew what to expect after the game. You knew he’d ruin you after playing like a god on the field. But you wanted to impress him. To look good just for him. To look good before you have sex with him for the first time.

“Yes,” you finally say. “Black is your favorite color.”

When you first met him, he was constantly wearing black, which you found odd for someone so bright like him. So, one day you asked him why, and he simply said that it was his favorite color. And you never forgot it.

His heart flutters. He thought you’d forget it. That it was just a simple detail, but he’s starting to realize that you remembered every single detail just like he did.

“Fuck,” he swears before his lips find your neck.

His hands grip the back of your thighs and ass, fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he pulls you closer. The dress rides up shamelessly, bunching at your waist while he grinds against you—hard and getting harder.

Yes, he’s fucking desperate, and he doesn’t even hide it. He doesn’t want to. He wants you to see it. Feel it.

“I need this so bad, sweetheart,” he groans, rutting his hips against you. “Fuck, you don’t know how long I’ve wanted this.”

A chuckle leaves your lips, which causes him to tilt his head, looking up at you.

“I guess I can imagine,” you say, your hands cupping his cute cheeks. “I’ve been dreaming about this since I was sixteen.”

His eyes widen.

“Probably since the day we met.”

To say he’s surprised is an understatement. Yes, he’s been craving you with his entire soul since he was young, but probably like two or three months after meeting you.

“Do you remember that day?” you ask, your thumbs stroking the skin of his cheeks.

That simple touch comforts him in a way he can’t explain.

“How could I forget it?” he admits. “For sure, my chest didn’t forget how you hurt it.”

A smile grows on your face. His favorite smile.

“You were late for your swimming training, and I was warming up on the running track of our high school,” he says while he perfectly remembers that moment. One that shook his world completely. “You hit me so violently that we both fell on the floor.”

“And when you made sure I arrived safe and sound at my training, it’s when I fell in love with you,” you confess. “I had literally hurt you, but you didn’t care. And that meant a lot.”

Back then, Jungkook wasn’t yet the golden boy that he’d become. He was still training a lot to get better, but he was already a great player. His mind was only focused on improving. He’d train night and day. And then, after your embarrassing meeting, you trained together.

“And after that day, we’d run together every day,” he concludes.

It feels like it was a lifetime ago. So many things have happened since then, but one thing hasn’t changed. The way your heart burns for him.

One of his hands slides to your chest, his gaze locked on yours. His eyes watch the way you shiver under his touch. It’s the best feeling in the world. Without an ounce of hesitation, he pulls down the cleavage of your dress, revealing your red bra underneath.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Red looks good on you. Might be my new favorite color.”

Before he goes deeper, his gaze shifts up to you.

“Is sex safe with epilepsy?” he asks with concern. “Pleasure won’t be too overwhelming for you?”

His concern warms your heart. Your epilepsy is well under control now, so there’s nothing to worry about.

“No, everything will be fine, Guk,” you press a quick peck on his lips. “As long as you don’t push me to exhaustion and let me sleep after, I’ll be fine.”

“Well, I’ll be careful then,” he smirks. “I’ll let you sleep in between rounds, but I intend to go wild all night long.”

You shake your head with a bright smile on your face.

“You’re incredible,” you whisper before he intensely kisses you.

“I’ve been craving this all my life,” he murmurs, “and I intend to make it memorable.”

And then, he strips you out of your dress and unhooks your bra. He lets out a soft and filthy sound as he traces your nipples with his thumb. Then, he dips his head to suck at the sensitive skin on your neck.

“Guk,” you gasp.

Your mind keeps going to his hard cock pressed against your belly. He’s so fucking hard, and it’s turning you on incredibly. Your hand then slips between you two, pressing against the thick bulge in his pants and rubbing gently.

He hisses before his hands roam lower again, squeezing your ass harder this time. His eyes look down at you for a moment, appreciating the view before his hungry eyes.

“You’re so perfect,” he groans, his lips finding yours again for a filthy kiss. “So fucking perfect.”

And even though he regretted his entire life for not having confessed his feelings for you, he knows that this right here wouldn’t feel this great. All the longing is making this moment a hundred times better than if it had happened years ago.   

Jungkook pushes you against his pretty big bed, and you gasp as you feel it pressed against the back of your thighs. His hands are everywhere now as he kisses you again. The kiss is hard, messy, and full of tongue. His hand slips between your thighs and pushes them apart. His fingers drag up the heat between your legs, over the soaked fabric of your panties.  

“Fuck,” he breaths, pulling away. “You’re dripping.”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a full week,” you admit.

As he did. The burning longing between you has been consuming you more and more as time goes by. Surviving this week with only phone sex was like training nonstop for days. It was nearly impossible.  

And somehow, you don’t really know how, you get bold.

“I’ve been thinking how it’d feel to have your dick in my hands,” you whisper in his ear. “How it’d feel against my tongue, and how I’d suck it.”

“Do as you dreamed, sweetheart,” he growls, low and dangerous.

You get down on your knees while Jungkook pushes his pants down. You look up, your heart hammering and your breath shaky.

Yes, it’s about to happen. You’re about to engage in sexual intercourse with the man of your dreams. You’re literally about to blow him off.

When he frees himself, your eyes widen.

Fuck.  

He’s thick and heavy, tip flushed and glistening, veins running the length like something carved out of marble. It should be a sin to possess such a cock.

“How?” you whisper.

He furrows his brows, not quite understanding your question.

“How did you contain this beast all this time?” you ask, eyes looking up to meet his.

He giggles as he wasn’t expecting this question.

“Don’t know,” he admits. “But it wasn’t easy when my mind would get lost on you.”

“Oh,” you simply say.  

You wrap one hand around him, trying to understand how much you can fit in your mouth, and honestly, you don’t know how.

“Tell me what your mind would think,” you say as you lean in and lick a stripe from the base to the tip, your tongue tracing the curve of a vein.

 The taste of him makes you moan. An honest and desperate sound that vibrates against him. He swears that he’ll come right now if you keep moaning like that.

“You’d be exactly like this,” he begins to say, his hand moving to your hair while his head falls back and his eyes close. “On your knees, your hand around my cock before you’d engulf it in your mouth.”

You wrap your lips around the head, following his words. 

“Fuck—,” he groans. “You’d suck it like a good girl.”

You gently suck the tip, swirling your tongue. Your hand strokes what your mouth can’t take yet, which honestly is already a lot. Jungkook doesn’t dare to look down because he doesn’t want to come yet. It’d make him look like a weak man while he clearly wants to impress you tonight, even though he doesn’t know how. He hasn’t done this in a while.

“Just like in my dreams, you look so fucking pretty,” he groans. “Mouth full of cock…”

You moan again, louder this time, as you take more. Well, Jungkook is absolutely sure right now that he won’t last long. You’re the death of him.

“You’d even choke on it because of how big it is,” he continues.

Spit drips from the corners of your mouth while you suck him harder and deeper. Your makeup is probably starting to look like a mess, but you don’t care. You’re enjoying having him inside your mouth, and you even let yourself choke on it.

Jungkook looks completely wrecked. His lips are parted, chest rising like he’s barely holding on. The fact that he hasn’t had sex in a long time and the fact that you’re sucking him off are making him extremely sensitive.

You don’t know how, but you suck him even harder, your hands gripping his thighs now, and your cheeks hollow with every movement of your head. Nobody has ever driven him this crazy. The pleasure is taking full control of his body.

“Sweetheart—” he mumbles.

You can feel him getting closer and closer to his release. It’s in the way his body tenses and his cock throbs inside your mouth, and you really want him to come inside you. You want to taste him. 

And just when he’s starting to tremble and your throat is getting used to it, he pulls you off with a wet and obscene pop.

“Don’t wanna come inside your mouth,” he admits. “At least not the first time.”

 You’re a bit sad, though, but now, you’re closer to having his dick inside you, which excites you more.

Jungkook kisses you like a starved man, then spins you around to bend you over the bed. His eyes instantly move down to your soaked panties. He pulls them aside and wastes no time in sliding two fingers into you.

You cry out, your fists holding the soft and silky bedsheets like your life depended on it.

“That’s it,” he mutters. “Let me open you up, sweetheart.”

He fucks you with his fingers, slow and deep, while watching you fall apart in front of him. Jungkook bends down, his chest pressed against your back, and his fingers never stop torturing you.

“You’re taking my fingers so well,” he whispers. “Such a good girl.”

Before Jungkook, you didn’t know you were into dirty talking. You actually never imagined yourself enjoying it. At least, your exes would never talk during sex. But he takes the dirty talking to another level. He could have you come just with his deep voice murmuring the deepest filth in your ear.

Slowly, he pulls his fingers out to remove your panties. He then removes the only remaining piece of clothing from his body. Now you’re both naked. You look over your shoulder and admire the man behind you.

He’s a literal god.

It seems impossible to be this hot, and at this precise moment, you feel lucky that, amongst all people, he chooses you. His eyes meet yours, and the softest smile appears on his face. He looks so adorable in the middle of this filthy and steamy moment.

“Put your knees on the bed,” he gently slaps your ass.

You nod before following his instructions. You press your chest against his bed while you push your ass in the air. His hands instantly stroke your ass cheek.

“Please stop me if you don’t feel right, okay?” he asks.

“I told you that it’s safe,” you repeat what you said minutes earlier.

“I know,” he replies. “But I just want to make sure.”

He sounds like a baby, and that couldn’t make you melt more. He’s simply adorable. That’s unfair!

“I’ll let you know in case something happens,” you reassure him.

You bury your face in the bedsheets while his eyes remain on your body. His hand caresses your back, moving down to your ass.

The position is filthy. Your knees are spread wide, your back arched, your ass up in the air, while his fingers are back to teasing your folds. Your heart is hammering in your chest, waiting patiently for him to push his monster inside you. You’re not really sure if you’ll be able to handle it, but you just want him to stretch you out. To make love to you.

“You’re so beautiful, yn,” he whispers more to himself than to you.

He gently removes his fingers before looking through the drawers of the nightstand next to his bed. A couple of days ago, he bought condoms to be ready for when the real deed with you would happen. But he can’t seem to find them.

 “Fuck, I can’t find the condoms,” he says with frustration.

You look behind you, watching him go a bit crazy as he searches for the condoms.

“It’s okay,” you softly reply. “I’m clean. I haven’t had sex for the past three years,” you explain.

Admitting that you haven’t been sexually active in so long makes you feel vulnerable, but you feel absolutely safe around him.

“I’m clean too,” he confesses. “Haven’t done anything in years.”

To say that you’re surprised is an understatement. How can Jungkook not have had sex in years? This man has been dating women over women for years now, and now, he’s telling you that he hasn’t done anything with them. That’s a shock.

“Really?”

He chuckles when he sees your surprised face.

“Yep,” he admits. “Nobody was ever worthy of my dick.”

Now, you’re the one chuckling. This sounds so like him.

“But we’re not going to talk about my lack of sexual activities for the past three years,” he adds as he steps closer to you, his body right behind you.  

“It’s for sure something we need to discuss after,” you reply.

He shakes his head with the biggest smile on his face. He’s not sure he really wants to discuss that with you, but if you bring the topic to the table, he’ll be honest with you. He’ll tell you just how much he couldn’t fuck anyone if it wasn’t you.

“Are you on the pill?” he then asks.

“No,” you answer. “There was no need if I were single.”

And also, it’s not really recommended to take the pill when you’re under an epileptic treatment. Well, your previous partners always used condoms, so you’ve never really discussed the pill with your gynecologist.  

“Right,” he nods. “So we will need to be careful.”

He rubs his shaft along your folds, coating himself with your arousal. Little moans leave your lips as you close your eyes, enjoying this sensation. He’s not teasing; he couldn’t do it. He’s simply preparing the two of you for what’s coming.

“You sure you want to do this?” he asks.

“I’m absolutely sure, Jungkook,” you answer.

And then, he pushes into you in one smooth stroke. Your cry is instant, fingers clawing at the sheets as he bottoms out. The stretch is almost impossible. He’s massive. He feels massive. But fuck, it feels so good.

You haven’t had sex in three years. But god, you missed it. Your body was calling for it. And now, you have it with none other than Jungkook, the guy you had a crush on for more years than you can count.

“You’re so big,” you say.

“Sorry,” Jungkook mumbles.

“Don’t be,” you reply as you turn your head to look at him. “It feels so good.”

“Really?”

While this man is so good at dirty talking, he sounds so innocent right now. Like it’s the first time he’s having sex. Like he’s about to lose his virginity. But in fact, he has a daughter, so he’s definitely far from being a virgin.

For a moment, he doesn’t move, giving you both time to adjust. This all feels new to you two, and well, your walls are swallowing him in a way nobody ever did before. You’re so tight around him, which could make him come undone right now.

And then, slowly, he starts to thrust into you. At first, he goes slow and deep, the tip of his cock kissing your cervix. Moans leave both your lips as pleasure consumes you both. This feels marvelous.   

“Yn,” he moans your name like a prayer. “You’re taking me so well.”

His praise causes pride to swell in your chest. Nobody ever said that to you. And honestly, it looks almost impossible to take him inside you, but you’re doing it. Like a good girl.

His thrusts slowly become more brutal, which makes you jolt forward, your breasts rubbing against the sheets with every bounce. The wet sounds between you are unforgivable, together with the loud moans leaving your lips.

“This is better than anything I imagined,” he mutters. “Wayyy better.”

Then, Jungkook starts to show no mercy to you. His thrusts are absolutely wild, deep, and brutal, but you wouldn’t want it any other way. It feels so fucking good. The sound of his creaking bed starts the echo in the room while you get further lost in the kingdom of pleasure.

“Look at you,” he growls, his voice breaking between thrusts. “Taking my cock like you were made for me.”

Your fingers twist in the sheets as a shiver runs through you, the filthy praise making you grow wetter.

“I’ve thought about this for years,” he confesses, low and rough in your ear. “But nothing—nothing—compares to feeling you like this.”

His hand slides to your hip, gripping hard before pushing your back against him.  

“You feel so fucking perfect. So tight. So warm. Like you never want to let me go.”

Your moan is answer enough, and his pace turns downright ruthless.

“That’s it,” he rasps. “Let me hear you. Let everyone know who’s making you feel this good,” he hisses, his hand wrapping around your throat.

Jungkook doesn’t tighten his grip; he just applies pressure on your throat. That alone makes you grow wetter, something that he feels as his dick pistons inside you. Your eyes roll back, the pleasure slowly becoming overwhelming.

“You like being choked,” he whispers in your ear. “Such a dirty girl.”

His words send shivers down your spine. This man has you literally wrapped around his fingers. He can make whatever he pleases with you.

“Luckily for you, I love dirty girls.”

He licks the inside of your ear, and god, you’re completely falling apart. But you wouldn’t have it in any other way.

You’re a complete moaning mess by now, only adding to the obscene symphony in the room—the creak of the bed, the wet slap of skin, the tangled chorus of your moans.

“So good,” you manage to say in between moans.

His eyes take a moment to look at you. Your body is trembling with every punishing thrust from behind, your breasts are bouncing at the rhythm of his thrusts, his hand is wrapped around your throat, and your back is pressed against his chest.

It’s a fucking sight he’ll burn into his memory.

His hand lets go of your throat, and you instantly fall forward. He slaps your ass, watching it jiggle. He goes deeper, his hips meeting your ass with a loud slap that echoes in the room.

Jungkook grips your hips tight and fucks you rough and fast now. He doesn’t show any mercy to you.    

“Fuck—” he whimpers. “Wanna cum inside you so bad.”

“Do it,” you reply without any hesitation.

You pregnant with his child… Damn, there’s nothing in the world he’d like more. The simple thought brings him closer to the edge.

Fuck, he wants to get you pregnant so badly. He wants to lie in his bed with you in his arms and dick deep inside you, cockwarming you to sleep. And just to be sure it took, he'd give it to you again and again until it did. And then he’d give you more. 

Until his balls were fully drained and the sheets beneath you soaked, a mix of both your juices sticky over your thighs and his belly, his cum leaking from your pounded out pussy.

The way you'd whimper when he'd gently finger it back inside you, scooping it up and massaging your clit with it, making you cry with overstimulation just to make you cum again with his seed-slicked fingers…

But he can’t.

Not right now.

“Not this time, baby girl,” he replies.

He’s driving into you so hard that it makes you see stars. The two of you are reaching your orgasm; you can feel it. Your legs are shaking, your moans completely out of control, while his thrusts are sloppy and deep.

Jungkook decides to help you out. One of his hands slowly goes down on your body, landing on your throbbing clit. His fingers start to rub your sensitive spot as his cock keeps slamming roughly inside you. 

His fingers on your clit make you explode intensely, and you come hard around him. Your walls squeeze him over and over again while you come all over him. Jungkook doesn’t stop at all; he even speeds up his torturing pace. The coil in his lower stomach tightens, and he knows it’s a matter of seconds before he comes undone.

So he takes his cock, leaving a feeling of emptiness inside you, before he strokes it above your ass. He groans when his orgasm hits him hard, your name rolling off his tongue. His eyes roll back with pleasure, and his body tenses up, his sperm now falling over your ass cheeks.

You both collapse on his bed with heavy breathing. Jungkook rests next to you while his hand strokes your back. After a couple of seconds, he stands up to disappear into the bathroom. He comes back with a towel.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, sweetheart,” he says as he gently slaps your ass.

You whimper as he’s gently cleaning your legs and pussy. It feels good to be taken care of, especially from the guy you’ve had a crush on for years. Once he’s over with you, you turn around to look at him. A smile appears on his face when your eyes meet.

Your eyes flicker down to his hand that is cleaning his softened length with the towel. Flaccid, he almost looks ordinary—almost. But you know better. You’ve felt just how far from average he really is.

“How are you feeling?” His voice is low but edged with worry as his eyes search yours. He’s not asking out of politeness; he needs to know.

“Barely alive,” you chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. But Jungkook doesn’t really smile. His brow stays furrowed, jaw tense, like he’s replaying every second in his head to check if he pushed you too far.

You rise onto shaky legs, your body deliciously sore, and step closer. Your fingers trace lightly over his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heart under your touch.

“I’m really fine,” you whisper, softer now, wanting him to hear the truth in your voice. “This was… mind-blowing, yes. And sure, I might need a couple of days to recover from you…” you tease, lips curving. “But other than that, I feel good. I feel safe.”

His shoulders ease, just barely, but his gaze doesn’t waver from you. There’s still that flicker of fear in his eyes—that he might have hurt you, triggered something, missed a sign.

You cup his face gently. “Guk,” you murmur, “you could never hurt me. As I said before, everything is under control now.”

He simply nods before wrapping his strong arms around you. He’s definitely worried about you and probably will for a long time, but that’s only because he deeply loves you. He never wants to relive again the day he had to save you in the pool.

“Let me get us some water,” he whispers, his lips getting closer to yours to press the most gentle kiss.

As he leaves the room, you take a look around. His bedroom is impressive, like anything else about him, and surprisingly, it’s not devoid of decoration. Of course, he chose darker colors for the wall painting, but it feels like him. Being here is the same as being cuddled by him.

There are pictures of Hana everywhere. In some, she’s just days old. Some other, she’s a couple of months old. In some other, she’s already two. And there’s one on his nightstand. It’s your actual favorite. He’s holding her on his shoulders, and they have the brightest smiles.

“That picture was taken a year ago,” his voice comes from behind you, warm and low. “On her birthday.”

Jungkook steps closer, handing you the glass of water.

“Thanks,” you murmur, fingers brushing his as you take it and sip. “It’s a really good picture.”

He places his glass of water on the nightstand before his hands wrap around your waist, his head placed on your shoulder.

“It’s nice having you here,” he whispers.

You smile, but you don’t dare to look at him. You know you’ll fall even more for him, or worse, you’ll get on your knees.

“It’s nice to be here, too,” you reply.

Jungkook peppers your neck with kisses while you close your eyes, your hands wrapping tightly around the glass of water. As his kisses start to move to your jaw, little and barely audible moans leave your lips. Slowly, his bulge grows against your back. No doubt where this is going.

“Round 2?” he whispers against your jaw.

Things have completely changed since Jungkook came back into your life. Everything is lighter now, as if some invisible weight has been lifted off your chest.

You even stopped fighting him in the library. Eventually, you accepted his financial help, and now it’s thriving even more, which you didn’t think was possible. Every day, when you walk in and see more people, more laughter, more books in readers’ hands, you’re reminded that he didn’t just save the library—he saved a piece of you, too.

And it’s not just you who’s thriving. Since you’ve been back in his life, Jungkook’s been sharper, faster, hungrier on the field. The fans call it his best season yet, and every time he throws that perfect pass or crushes another record, he swears it’s because of you. He says you’re in his head before every snap—your smile, your laugh, the sound of your moans keeping him steady and reckless all at once.

But the real change happens at night. Behind closed doors, your world narrows to him—the rasp of his voice, the heat of his skin, the relentless way he claims you over and over again. Your bedrooms have become sanctuaries of fire and whispers, where moans echo against the walls, skin slaps in frantic rhythm, and headboards knock like desperate applause.

Sex has never been like this before. It’s not just good—it’s consuming. He doesn’t just fuck you; he ruins you, bends you until you’re trembling and begging, only to drag another orgasm out of you when you swore you had no more to give. He never seems to tire. Sometimes he teases you slow, murmuring filth against your ear until you’re dripping and desperate. Other times, he takes you like a man starved, pounding into you until you can’t think of anything but him.

And the craziest part? Every time, he makes you feel like this is the best he’s ever had. Like nothing else has ever compared. His praise is endless—you’re so fucking tight, yn… look at the mess you’re making for me… taking me so good, baby—and the more he talks, the hotter it gets.

Still, when it’s over, when your bodies are tangled together, slick with sweat and trembling, there’s a softness in the way he holds you that no words can match. The man who spends his days destroying defenses and his nights destroying you is the same man who pulls you into his chest, kisses the top of your head, and whispers like you’re his whole world. And that, more than anything, is why everything feels better now.

The mirror stares back at you like it’s trying to convince you of something.

That you’re beautiful. That you’re lucky. That this is what you’ve always wanted.

But the mirror lies.

You’re dressed in layers of ivory lace and silk so heavy it feels like armor. Gold threads snake across your bodice like vines, binding you into a shape you barely recognize. Somewhere behind you, handmaidens fuss with ribbons and brocade, cooing soft words you don’t hear. Your reflection looks poised- majestic, even.

But you feel like you’re drowning beneath the weight of expectation.

Your chest tightens. Not from nerves. No, you’d welcome nerves. This is worse. This is suffocation. The perfume in the room is too sweet. The silence, too loud. Every delicate “Princess” that slips from a servant’s tongue hits like a blade.

You’re getting married today.

To a man you’ve barely spoken to.

A man who’s ten years older.

A prince from a kingdom that needed a treaty more than a love story.

You catch your own gaze in the mirror again. Your lips are painted, your hair perfectly pinned, your veil stitched with symbols older than your name. You look like a queen-in-the-making.

But inside?

You’re unraveling.

“Too tight,” you say sharply, not looking at the handmaiden tying your corset.

She freezes. “Apologies, Your Highness…”

You stand abruptly, fingers tugging the laces yourself until the pressure eases from your ribs.

“Leave,” you murmur.

They hesitate.

“I said leave.”

Their skirts whisper across the marble floor as they vanish, one by one, until the room is yours again. Quiet. Empty. Suffocating.

You exhale shakily and lower yourself onto the velvet stool near the fire. You should feel like a bride. Instead, you feel like a pawn being moved across a glittering board.

A knock at the door makes your spine go rigid.

“Come in,” you say, voice tighter than you’d like.

The door creaks open. And there she is.

Jisoo.

Your older sister. Your kingdom’s golden girl.

She steps inside delicately, wrapped in blush silk with her hair softly swept up, eyes wide with sympathy you don’t want. She’s everything gentle and graceful the court adores. She looks like spring in human form.

And she looks like someone’s first choice.

“Soo,” you say, your tone unsure- too many emotions knotted in one syllable.

She smiles. Soft. Almost apologetic. “You look… stunning.”

You blink at her. “Why weren’t you here earlier?”

“I thought you’d want to be alone.”

“I didn’t,” you admit. “Not today.”

She hesitates a step from you. Her fingers curl into each other.

You feel the question bubbling before you can stop it. “Does he love you?”

The words spill out like poison.

Jisoo’s expression flickers- guilt, shock, something unreadable but she catches it before it fully forms. “Y/N…”

“You don’t have to lie,” you whisper. “Not today.”

“I never encouraged it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“I didn’t know.”

“You must’ve known.” Your voice cracks just slightly. “He looks at you like you’re the crown he lost.”

Jisoo swallows, her voice quiet. “He’s marrying you.”

You stare into the fire, the flickering light licking at your gown like flame to paper. “But he wanted you.”

She doesn’t answer. And her silence says more than a confession ever could.

You don’t blame her. Not really. But that doesn’t make it hurt any less.

“Maybe you should be the one marrying him,” you say, not able to meet her eyes.

“I would never take this from you,” she breathes.

You turn to face her finally. “Would it really be stealing if I was just keeping your seat warm?”

The air between you thickens. You’re not angry at her. Not really. You’re angry at fate. At politics. At the cold man waiting at the altar who wants a different bride.

Jisoo takes a step closer. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“No, I’m just better at pretending.”

She reaches out to touch your shoulder. You don’t pull away, but you don’t lean in either.

“He’ll learn to love you,” she says gently. “Anyone would.”

You let out a dry laugh, sharp as glass. “You don’t learn to love someone like me. You endure her.”

The bell tolls outside- three slow, echoing chimes that stretch across the walls like the opening notes of a funeral dirge.

It’s time.

You rise. Your gown shifts like water. You steady your shoulders, straighten your crown. You feel her watching you, but you can’t look at her again.

Because you are walking down the aisle

Not as the girl he dreamed of. Not as the sister he wanted. But as the bride he’s stuck with.

The chapel smells like ancient roses and old prayers.

You glide down the aisle slowly, deliberately, as the eyes of two kingdoms drink you in. The train of your gown trails behind you like spilled moonlight. Hundreds of royals, nobles, and dignitaries line the carved pews, all dressed in silks and golds, but none of them matter. You feel them watching, judging, whispering about your age, your family, your worth.

But you only look forward.

You keep your eyes on the altar where Prince Jeon Jungkook stands like he’s carved from ice.

He doesn’t smile.

Not even a flicker of warmth touches his face when he sees you. His expression remains cold, impassive, lips a straight line, shoulders square. You wonder if he even sees you or if he’s just counting the seconds until this political obligation is complete.

The music swells. The world fades.

You reach him.

He doesn’t offer his hand.

The High Cleric begins the ceremony with blessings in a language older than either of your kingdoms. You barely hear the words. Your fingers are trembling in your gloves. You feel like you’re underwater. Everything is soft and distant and slow.

Until it’s time for the vows.

You turn to face him. And his eyes aren’t on you.

They’re on her.

You see it. Just for a second. A flicker. A heartbeat. But it’s real.

His gaze shifts- barely, subtly- but you know the direction. You don’t even have to look.

Jisoo.

She’s seated near the front. Pale dress. Downcast eyes. Perfect posture. As still and serene as a statue. She doesn’t move. Doesn’t acknowledge it.

But you feel it. All of it.

The phantom of his feelings for her settles like a chill between your ribs.

“Repeat after me,” the Cleric intones, unaware of the slow fracture blooming in your chest.

You say the words.

You pledge your body, your name, your crown.

You do not cry.

He says the words, too. Calm. Flat. Emotionless. He binds himself to you in front of gods and ghosts, but his voice doesn’t tremble. Not from nerves. Not from affection.

Because he feels nothing.

He lifts your veil. His hands are steady. Distant.

Your first kiss as husband and wife is just that- a formality. His lips brush yours like the passing of winter wind. No passion. No warmth. No curiosity.

The crowd erupts into applause.

You smile.

You have to.

He offers you his arm.

You take it.

You walk down the aisle together, shoulder to shoulder but not touching, as cheers rain down from the golden arches of the chapel.

You smile.

You have to.

And though you can feel him beside you… 

he says nothing.

═══════

The ballroom gleams with gold and artifice.

You’re standing in the center of it, hand in hand with a man who hasn’t spoken a word to you all day. Not during the procession. Not during the ceremony. Not after the kiss. Not when he escorted you down the aisle like he was walking beside a shadow.

And now, in front of hundreds of watching eyes, it’s time for the first dance.

The music begins. You take one step forward, and so does he.

His gloved hand rests against your waist like he’s afraid to touch you too firmly- as if contact might imply something that isn’t there. His other hand holds yours, just tight enough to be respectful, just distant enough to make your stomach sink.

You lift your eyes to his.

And for the first time, he speaks, “You should smile.”

Your breath catches.

“That’s what they’re expecting,” he continues, voice low, precise. “A happy bride. A glowing princess.”

You try to smile, but it curls wrong on your lips.

“And you?” you murmur, eyes still fixed on his. “Are you pretending too?”

His grip tightens ever so slightly. “I’m fulfilling a role.”

You laugh- soft, bitter. “And what role is that? Dutiful husband or heartless executioner?”

He doesn’t answer.

You move together across the marble floor like strangers trapped in the same song. The music is beautiful, swelling in delicate arcs around you. But you can’t feel any of it.

“What did I do to make you hate this so much?” you whisper.

He blinks, slowly. “I don’t hate you.”

“No?” you scoff. “Then why won’t you look at me the way you looked at her?”

The words are out before you can stop them. His jaw clenches.

“Don’t bring her into this.”

“She’s already in it,” you breathe. “You put her there when you looked at her during our vows.”

The music swells again, a waltz that sounds too pretty for this kind of pain.

“I don’t want to embarrass you,” he says finally, voice tight.

You force a smile- sharp, graceful, empty. “Too late.”

He turns you in a slow spin, elegant, effortless. From a distance, the court sees perfection. A prince and his new bride, radiant under the candlelight.

But you know better.

You feel the space between your bodies like a scar that hasn’t healed yet.

“Do you love her?” you ask, quiet enough for only him to hear.

He doesn’t answer.

His silence slices deeper than any truth could.

You feel your chest tighten, throat burning. But your face? Your face stays royal. Untouched. Serene.

“Will I ever be more than her shadow to you?”

You see something flicker in his gaze, but it’s gone as fast as it comes.

“You were not the choice,” he says at last.

You blink. You stop moving for half a second. Your shoes nearly slip on the polished floor. The world tilts.

But then the music carries on.

So you do too.

He guides you back into motion, and you match him- fluid, poised, empty.

When the music ends, he steps back. Bows. You curtsy.

Applause erupts across the hall. And you smile so wide it almost cracks your face open.

═══════

The halls are empty when you’re escorted to the royal bedchamber.

No music now. No guests. No watching eyes. Just the sound of your heels against marble and your pulse humming beneath your skin.

The doors are already open.

He’s already inside.

You step in carefully, unsure of what you’ll find. The room is as grand as you imagined- pillars of carved obsidian, embroidered silks draped from the high ceiling, a fire crackling in the hearth like it’s mocking you with its warmth. A table is set with untouched wine. Rose petals litter the floor like someone believed romance could be faked.

He stands by the window, facing away from you. Still dressed in full ceremonial regalia. Still silent.

The doors shut behind you with a hollow thud.

You wait.

You don’t know what you’re waiting for. Instructions? Affection? A beginning?

Instead, you get nothing.

You unclasp your cloak. It falls silently around your feet. Your hair is pinned and tight, your corset aching against your ribs. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to be held.

But he still won’t look at you.

“It’s done,” you say quietly, just to break the silence.

He hums in acknowledgment. Doesn’t turn.

You take a step forward, cautious. “Is there something you’d like me to do?”

At last, he speaks. “Sleep. That’s all.”

That’s all.

The words hang heavy in the air.

You try not to show it, but your fingers curl against your side. “Isn’t this… expected?”

“I don’t owe them a performance.”

“And me?” you ask.

He turns to face you now, slowly. His expression unreadable. Cold. He looks at you like a decision he regrets making. Like a formality he’s been assigned.

“You don’t want this,” he says.

You flinch at the assumption. “You don’t know what I want.”

“You want love. Passion. Devotion.” He crosses his arms. “I’m not the man who gives those things.”

“No,” you say, stepping closer, “you’re the man who gives silence. Distance. Glances meant for someone else.”

His jaw ticks.

You keep going. You’re tired of swallowing pain. “You said your vows. You kissed me. You danced with me. And not once did you pretend I was enough.”

“I told you I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“Oh, so this is honesty?” you snap. “This- coldness. This rejection. This… emptiness?”

He sighs. Runs a hand through his hair. His voice is quieter now. “It’s mercy.”

You shake your head. “It’s cruelty.”

Neither of you speak for a long moment.

You break the silence again. “Did you ever think that maybe I didn’t want to be just some treaty girl, either? That I didn’t want to marry a man in love with someone else?”

His face flickers. Just briefly.

You don’t know what emotion it is. Pity? Guilt? Regret?

But it fades too quickly to hold onto.

“You can sleep in here if you want,” he says, voice controlled again. “Or I’ll have a separate room prepared.”

You take a deep breath, walk past him toward the bed. You don’t look at him. Not this time.

“I’ll stay here,” you say softly. “Not because I want you. But because this is my marriage, too.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, spine straight, heart hollow. And he walks away without another word.

The doors close.

You are alone.

Again.

You unlace your corset with trembling fingers. You slide the jewelry off your skin like it’s shackles. You curl beneath the covers, staring at the ceiling that feels more like sky than stone.

And for the first time since the ceremony began, you let the tears fall. No one hears them. No one sees. And when morning comes, you will wear the crown like it never hurt.

═══════

The palace is dead quiet after midnight.

You lie still in the enormous bed, staring up at the carved ceiling, your body wrapped in satin, your heart wrapped in stone.

Jungkook came back hours ago.

He didn’t speak when he entered.

He didn’t speak when he undressed, carefully, methodically, folding his ceremonial uniform with military precision and draping a robe over his bare chest. He didn’t speak when he climbed into the opposite side of the bed, a world away from your side.

He just turned his back to you.

And that was that.

You listened to his breathing even out. Watched the fire in the hearth dim into embers. Let the weight of the sheets press your body down like a crown too heavy to wear.

Sleep never came.

The silence around you was too loud.

You watched the moonlight crawl across the walls until your eyes ached. You imagined what it might’ve felt like to be chosen. To be wanted. To be seen.

You almost didn’t hear it.

A whisper. Barely there.

You blink, breath catching, your body frozen as stone.

Then again- soft. Muffled. Threaded with sleep.

“…Jisoo…”

Your heart stops.

The name barely drips from his mouth- half breath, half confession- but it’s real. It slithers through the shadows between you like smoke.

“…Jisoo…”

He shifts in the bed beside you, still deep in dreams.

And you?

You’re wide awake.

The ache in your chest is immediate and consuming. Sharp enough to make your eyes water, soft enough to break you slowly. You don’t speak. Don’t move.

You lie there, paralyzed. Because how can you scream when the knife was never even meant for you?

It was a whisper. A sleep-talk. A mistake.

But it was her name. Not yours.

Not once tonight- not in his gaze, not in his vows, not in his arms- did you belong to him. But her? She owns the quietest part of him. The part he doesn’t even guard.

You turn your head toward him slowly. His face is peaceful in sleep. Untroubled. Like he hasn’t just carved you open.

You stare at him for a long time.

And for the first time since this all began, you don’t feel sad. You feel cold.

Numb. Resolved.

You pull the covers tighter around you- not for warmth, but for armor.

He may have married you.

But he dreams of her.

And if he thinks you’ll stay quiet forever, if he thinks you’ll simply live in her shadow…

He doesn’t know you at all.

═══════

The first week of marriage does not belong to you.

It belongs to the court.

Every morning begins with a maid waking you before the sun, layering you in gowns chosen by someone else, and fitting a crown so heavy you can feel it in your spine. Every day ends with aching cheeks from holding the same smile for hours.

They don’t call you by name anymore.

You’re Her Royal Highness, Princess Consort of the Northern Kingdom.

A title. Not a person.

The palace calendar is full- parades, charity luncheons, handshakes with foreign diplomats, appearances at schools, hospitals, markets. At each stop, you are arranged like part of the decor. A jeweled accessory for the prince’s arm.

He almost never offers it.

When he does, it’s for the benefit of the crowd. An elbow bent at a perfect angle, a smile carved into place like it was taught, not felt. He’s a master of performance.

So are you.

The people cheer for the image of you both. They throw flower petals into the street, shout blessings, push forward to glimpse their fairytale couple.

If only they knew fairytales rot when the gold is only paint.

At the textile factory, you stand beside him while the foreman gushes about the kingdom’s prosperity. At the ribbon-cutting for a new bridge, you’re handed the scissors, smiling for the press while Jungkook stares past you at some distant point, as though the moment doesn’t require him.

Sometimes, you catch yourself wondering if he forgets you’re even there.

You’ve learned the choreography. Sit still. Smile faintly. Look engaged, but not outspoken. Be regal, but not commanding. Be graceful, but not bold.

Be there.

But never be.

The only time you feel remotely human is during the carriage rides between engagements, when the curtains are drawn, and the crowds can’t see you.

That’s when the silence between you becomes unbearable. He doesn’t speak.

You don’t either.

But you glance at him once, catching his profile in the dim light. It’s like looking at a portrait- beautiful, distant, untouchable. You turn away before he can feel you watching.

By the end of the week, you’ve perfected the role:

A crown without a voice.

═══════

It happens because it has to.

Not because he wants you. Not because you want him. But because it’s expected. Because the kingdom will talk if it doesn’t.

The door opens without a knock. You glance up from your seat on the edge of the bed, silk robe tied loosely around your waist, hair falling over your shoulders. He steps inside, closing the door with quiet finality.

“We need to talk,” you say.

“Not tonight.” His voice is low, clipped, as he shrugs out of his coat. “This isn’t a conversation.”

Your brow furrows. “Then what is it?”

He looks at you but it’s the way a jeweler inspects a gem before deciding if it’s worth setting. “It’s what’s required,” he says. “For the line. For the crown.”

Your chest tightens. You know the court’s whispers- how the marriage will be scrutinized until you produce an heir. You know the timeline they expect. You’d expected distance. You hadn’t expected to feel like an appointment.

He approaches slowly, rolling his cuffs to his forearms. When he stops in front of you, he doesn’t touch you right away- just stands there until the air between you grows heavy.

When he stops in front of you, he looks down at you with the same expression he wears in court- measured, guarded, cold.

“Stand up,” he says.

The command leaves no room for hesitation. You rise.

His hands land on your waist, not with affection but with control, guiding you closer. His mouth meets yours in a kiss that isn’t really a kiss- no give, no hunger, no softness. You press harder anyway, trying to spark something. He responds by gripping your jaw, holding you still.

“You’re trying too hard,” he murmurs.

“At least I’m trying,” you bite back.

A slow, humorless smile curves his lips. “Careful.”

He turns you with deliberate force until your knees meet the bed. You sit. He follows, untying your robe in one smooth pull. It falls to your sides, cool air grazing bare skin.

His gaze sweeps over you- assessing, not admiring. “Beautiful,” he says, tone flat. “But beauty doesn’t make you powerful.”

You swallow. “Then what does?”

His eyes lift to yours, sharp as steel. “Control. And you don’t have any here.”

The word sends a shiver down your spine- half fear, half something you don’t want to name.

He presses you back into the mattress with a firm hand to your shoulder, sliding the robe from your arms. His touch is skilled, confident, but there’s no tenderness. Every movement feels deliberate- designed to take without giving.

You arch into him once, testing him. His palm flattens against your sternum, holding you down.

“Do you think I’ll lose myself for you?” he asks softly, mockingly. “You can’t provoke me into wanting you.”

The words burn hotter than his hands.

When he finally takes you, it’s with the same efficiency as everything else he does- controlled, unhurried, purposeful. The sounds in the room are soft but sharp: the creak of the bed, your shallow breaths, the low rumble of his voice telling you to hold still.

His grip on your hips is firm, guiding you exactly how he wants. You try to match his rhythm, to pull him closer. He shifts his hold, pinning your wrists above your head against the mattress.

“Not yours to lead,” he says. “Not tonight. Not ever.”

It’s almost clinical. Almost mechanical. Your body reacts anyway- heat, breathlessness, the helpless ache for more. But you know he’s watching every flicker of your expression like a general studying an opponent’s next move.

When it’s over, he pulls away immediately. No lingering touch. No kiss. Just rises, adjusting his clothes with the same precision he undid them.

You’re still catching your breath when he looks at you one last time. “This is duty, Princess. Don’t confuse it with anything else.”

And then he’s gone.

The door shuts behind him.

You stay there, robe open, pulse still racing- not from closeness, but from the sting of his words.

═══════

The council chamber smells faintly of parchment, polished wood, and the faint metallic tang of ambition.

You sit in the gilded chair to Jungkook’s right, posture flawless, hands folded in your lap. It’s your first time attending a full royal council since the wedding. You’re here to listen. To be silent. To play the part of the well-bred consort.

At least, that’s what they expect.

The chamber doors close, and the discussion begins. Ministers rise, presenting their concerns: border tensions with the Western Kingdom, grain shortages in the southern provinces, a brewing dispute with the merchant guilds.

Your husband listens with that same infuriating calm, speaking only when necessary, voice even, deliberate. A king in training.

But when the Minister of Trade suggests raising tariffs on imported grain to “incentivize” local production, something twists in your chest.

“That would starve half the southern provinces,” you say, before you can stop yourself.

Every head in the room turns.

Jungkook’s gaze cuts to you. Sharp. Warning.

The Minister blinks, surprised. “Your Highness, the measure-”

“-would drive up prices so high,” you continue, “that families already struggling would have to choose between bread and rent. And if the people are hungry, unrest follows. That is not ‘incentive,’ Minister. That is negligence.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

Jungkook’s voice is quiet but firm. “Princess-”

You turn your head slowly, meeting his eyes. “Am I mistaken?”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“You are… uninformed,” he says at last.

You lean forward, resting your hands on the table. “Then perhaps inform me. Tell me how destabilizing our food supply will help secure your rule. Or ours.”

A faint gasp from one of the scribes. A few ministers look away, hiding smirks. The Minister of Trade fidgets.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you see the flicker in his eyes- anger, yes, but something else. Curiosity.

You look back at the table. “Instead of tariffs, subsidize local farmers to increase production. Buy excess grain directly from them at fair prices, then sell it cheaply in the provinces that need it most. The treasury loses nothing if the surplus is sold abroad. Everyone wins. The farmers, the provinces, the crown.”

The room goes still.

Then, slowly, the Minister of Agriculture nods. “It’s… a sound plan.”

More murmurs. Agreement.

Jungkook leans back in his chair, studying you like he’s seeing you for the first time. You can feel his gaze on your skin, hot and assessing.

“Very well,” he says finally. “We’ll consider the Princess’s… suggestion.”

It’s not an admission. Not in his tone.

But you’ve already won.

When the meeting ends, you rise before he does, smoothing your skirts. As you pass his chair, you feel his hand catch your wrist under the table.

You glance down at him.

His voice is low, for you alone. “We will discuss this later.”

You smile sweetly. “Of course, Your Highness.”

And you leave the chamber with your head high, the echo of your heels a victory drumbeat in the quiet hall. Yet, the moment the council doors close behind you, you know he’s following.

Your heels click against the marble corridor, echoing between the towering pillars. You don’t turn around, but you can feel him gaining on you- steady, purposeful, silent.

You make it halfway to your chambers before his hand closes around your wrist.

He pulls you into a side room- an antechamber lined with bookshelves and an unused writing desk- and shuts the door hard enough to rattle the hinges.

The air changes instantly.

He steps closer. Not close enough to touch, but enough that you can feel the weight of him, the way his presence seems to draw the oxygen from the room.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he says, voice low, razor-edged.

You arch a brow. “Speak?”

“Undermine me in front of my council.” His gaze is molten steel, locked on yours. “You embarrassed me.”

You take a deliberate step forward, closing some of the space between you. “I saved you from making a decision that would’ve turned half your kingdom against you.”

His jaw flexes. “That’s not your place.”

“And sitting there like a decorative vase is?” Your voice is calm, but each word lands sharp.

He moves closer, forcing you to back up until the edge of the desk presses against the back of your thighs. His hands plant on either side of you, caging you in without touching. “You don’t understand how dangerous it is to overstep in that room.”

You tilt your chin up. “I understand perfectly. They’ll eat you alive if they think you’re weak. And nothing says weakness like a wife too afraid to speak her mind.”

His eyes narrow. “You think you’re clever.”

“I know I am.”

For a moment, there’s only the sound of your breathing. His gaze drops briefly- not to your mouth, but to the stubborn lift of your chin- then returns to your eyes.

“You enjoy provoking me,” he says quietly.

“Only when you deserve it.”

One corner of his mouth twitches- not quite a smile, not quite a snarl. “Careful, Princess. If you make a habit of this, you might find I have… inventive ways of teaching obedience.”

You lean just slightly into the space between you, your voice a whisper. “And if you keep underestimating me, you might find I have inventive ways of winning.”

The tension between you is almost unbearable- not heat, not tenderness, just raw defiance meeting raw authority.

Finally, he pushes back, giving you space. “You’re not stupid,” he says. “But you are mine to manage.”

You smooth your skirts, stepping past him toward the door. “If you think I’ll be managed, Your Highness… you really haven’t been paying attention.”

You don’t wait for him to follow.

═══════

5 years earlier (jungkook’s pov): 

The gala had been suffocating.

Perfume and politics choked the air inside the ballroom. Every step, every word, every glance felt calculated. The music was loud enough to cover whispers but not loud enough to drown them out.

Jungkook slipped through a side door.

The night air hit him like a blessing- cool, crisp, tinged with the scent of rain. He loosened his collar and exhaled, letting the weight of the crown’s expectations roll off his shoulders, if only for a breath.

That’s when he saw her.

Jisoo.

She was standing at the edge of the balcony, moonlight touching the soft curve of her cheek. A pale silk gown flowed around her like water. Her hands were clasped in front of her, her lips moving faintly as she hummed something he didn’t recognize.

She turned when she heard him.

“Oh- Your Highness,” she said, voice light, careful. She curtsied, the movement graceful, unhurried. “I didn’t realize anyone else would be out here.”

“I needed air,” he admitted.

Her smile was small but knowing. “So did I.”

They stood there for a moment, the muffled music from the ballroom spilling through the open doors. He should have gone back inside. Instead, he found himself asking, “Do you come to many of these events?”

“More than I’d like.” Her gaze drifted toward the gardens below. “But my father says it’s important to be seen.”

The words were simple. Obvious, even. But the way she said them- steady, resigned, without bitterness-  struck him. She wasn’t like the others inside, scrambling for attention or advantage.

“I suppose he’s right,” he said.

She looked at him then, really looked, and for a second, he thought she might see past the prince to the man beneath. “You wear the pressure well.”

The compliment shouldn’t have mattered. It was the kind of thing royals said to each other all the time. But there was no jest in her tone, no false sweetness. It felt… clean.

Someone called her name from inside- a soft summons from a lady-in-waiting.

She dipped her head. “I should go.”

And just like that, she was gone.

Jungkook stayed on that balcony long after, the faint sound of her humming still in his ears.

It had been nothing- a polite exchange in the quiet. But in a life where every word was a weapon, her simplicity had felt like a shield.

Years later, he still told himself she was different.

He never noticed that he didn’t know a single thing more about her.

═══════

Two months change nothing… and everything.

The last time you and Jungkook stood together in the council chamber, you defied him in front of his ministers. He hasn’t forgotten. Neither have you.

The winter gala is your first appearance together since then.

The ballroom glitters under crystal chandeliers, every corner alive with silks, jewels, and the low hum of politics disguised as conversation. Gold light spills across polished marble, and the air is warm with the scent of champagne and candle wax.

You’ve chosen your gown carefully.

Silk the color of deep wine, cut low enough at the back to reveal the elegant dip of your spine, the fabric clinging to your curves before spilling loose in a daring slit high on your thigh. By court standards, it’s scandalous. By yours, it’s perfect.

You don’t tell Jungkook you’ve done it for him.

You tell yourself it’s for you.

The heads turn as soon as you enter on his arm. Ministers pause mid-sentence. Noblewomen whisper behind jeweled fans. Men look longer than they should. You feel the power in it- the way the room bends toward you.

Jungkook’s grip on your arm is tight enough to bruise.

“Enjoying yourself already?” you murmur, eyes fixed forward.

“You think this is clever?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Every man here staring at what’s mine?”

“Every man here staring at their future queen,” you correct softly.

He doesn’t reply, but you feel the tension radiating off him.

And then you see her.

Jisoo.

She stands near the far end of the room, surrounded by a small cluster of dignitaries. She’s dressed in soft silver, hair pinned in perfect curls, a picture of refined restraint. The kind of elegance that draws admiration without scandal.

She sees you. She smiles- polite, warm, and just a little too knowing. You smile back, the kind that could be taken for friendliness or challenge.

You make your rounds, greeting nobles, shaking hands, accepting compliments that dance on the edge of impropriety. You can feel Jungkook’s gaze on you even when he’s not beside you- especially when you laugh at another man’s joke, your fingers brushing his sleeve as you speak.

When you finally return to Jungkook’s side, his jaw is tight.

“Careful, Princess,” he says under his breath. “You’re playing a dangerous game.”

You sip your champagne, unbothered. “So are you.”

The orchestra swells, the floor clears for the next dance. He offers his hand, not out of romance, but because tradition demands it.

You place your hand in his and let him lead you into the spotlight.

Around you, the court watches. Some curious, some envious, some waiting for one of you to slip.

Under the chandeliers, his hand rests low on your back, almost possessive.

You wonder if he’s imagining Jisoo in your place. You wonder if it’s killing him that he can’t look away from you.

═══════

The ride back to the palace is silent.

Not the comfortable kind.

The kind that crackles with things unsaid.

You can feel him beside you in the carriage, his body still wound tight, his hand flexing once on his knee as though resisting the urge to act. He doesn’t look at you, but his gaze burns into the side of your face all the same.

When the carriage stops, he’s out first, striding through the palace doors without a word. You follow, heels clicking against marble. He doesn’t slow down until you’re inside your chambers.

The door shuts hard behind you.

“Do you enjoy humiliating me?” His voice is sharp, each word laced with steel.

You slip off your gloves one finger at a time. “Do you enjoy pretending you own me?”

He takes two steps forward, closing the space between you. “Everything you did tonight- the dress, the smiles, touching him-”

“-was diplomacy,” you cut in. “Something a ruler should understand.”

His eyes flash, and then he’s crowding you backward until your spine meets the wall. His hand presses against it beside your head, trapping you in place.

“You wanted my attention?” His voice drops lower, dangerous. “Now you have it.”

Your heart kicks hard, but you lift your chin. “And what will you do with it, Your Highness?”

His mouth crashes onto yours- not gentle, not tentative, but claiming. His other hand drags up your thigh, finding the slit in your gown and shoving the silk higher.

“Prove to you,” he murmurs against your lips, “that you can play with anyone else in the room… but you’ll still end up here.”

You bite his lower lip, pulling back just enough to smirk. “And if I’m not impressed?”

His grip tightens on your hip. “Then I’ll try harder.”

He turns you toward the bed in one swift movement, the skirt of your gown bunching in his fist. You go willingly, but when he pushes you down, you twist to look over your shoulder.

“Still just duty?” you taunt.

He freezes for a fraction of a second- then his hands are on you again, rougher now, dragging you back against the hard, unmistakable shape of his cock through his trousers. “Tonight? It’s a lesson.”

The dress comes off in a series of impatient tugs, pooling on the floor. His palms roam over your bare skin like he’s taking inventory, thumbs digging into your ass before parting you just enough to feel the heat of his breath between your legs. You shiver, but refuse to turn your face away.

His clothes follow- not rushed, but stripped with deliberate precision, every motion dripping with control. When he finally presses the heavy, hot length of him against your entrance, he holds there for a moment, letting you feel every inch before he pushes in.

The stretch is deep and sudden, making your breath catch, your nails digging into the sheets. He doesn’t give you time to adjust- his hips drive forward in hard, unrelenting strokes, the thick slide of him hitting deep enough to make you gasp every time. His hands lock your hips in place, forcing you to take him exactly how he wants, his pace a brutal, steady rhythm meant to grind down your defiance.

But you meet every thrust, rocking back against him with just as much force, your slick making every connection filthy and loud.

“Say you belong to me,” he orders, voice ragged.

You shake your head, breathless but smiling even as pleasure twists low in your belly. “No.”

His mouth is at your ear in the next breath, teeth grazing the shell before his words pour over you like molten heat. “You will.”

You push back harder, grinding until the head of his cock drags against that sweet, swollen spot inside you. A moan slips free- you swallow it down before it can give him satisfaction. “Or you’ll learn I don’t belong to anyone.”

The challenge hangs between you, thick as the sweat on your skin. Neither of you slow down, each thrust sharper, wetter, more desperate. The slap of skin fills the room, your breaths tangled with curses and broken sounds you’d never admit to making.

You’re so close you can feel it buzzing in your bones but you hold it back out of spite, out of sheer will. His fingers slip down between your thighs, finding your clit and circling hard until your resolve cracks and your body shudders around him.

He follows with a deep, savage thrust, spilling into you with a low groan, hips grinding through the aftershocks like he’s branding you from the inside.

When it ends, you’re both breathless, flushed, staring at each other across the tangle of sheets.

He doesn’t kiss you. You don’t ask him to.

“You’re exhausting,” he says finally.

“You’re obsessed,” you reply.

And you both know you’re right.

═══════

Two weeks have passed since that night.

The night where anger blurred with want, where neither of you surrendered but both of you took.

Since then, you’ve spoken little. Polite exchanges in public, calculated silences in private.

The world sees perfection. You see the cracks.

This morning, the palace gardens are alive with late winter sunlight. The air is crisp, carrying the scent of blooming camellias and damp earth. You’ve always preferred this part of the palace- away from the council chambers, away from the eyes of the court.

Your ladies follow at a respectful distance as you take the marble path toward the upper terrace. The view from there sweeps over the river, the towers, and the city beyond- a reminder of everything that belongs to the crown, if not to you.

You’re halfway up the wide steps when your heel catches on the edge of your gown.

The world tilts.

Your breath leaves you in a sharp gasp as your foot slides on the slick marble. You stumble forward, ankle twisting hard. The pain shoots up your leg before your knees hit the ground.

And then- 

Strong hands catch you before you collapse completely.

The scent of warm spice and leather floods your senses.

“Y/N.” His voice is low, urgent.

You blink up into Jungkook’s face. For once, his expression isn’t composed. His eyes are wide, scanning you for injury.

“My ankle,” you breathe, wincing as the weight shifts.

Without hesitation, he bends and sweeps you into his arms. The motion startles you, your hands gripping his shoulders instinctively.

“Put me down,” you protest.

“Not a chance,” he says, his tone sharp but not cold. It’s threaded with something you’ve never heard from him before. Fear.

He carries you to a shaded bench, lowering you carefully. His fingers are warm and gentle as they press around the swelling ankle, his jaw tight.

“You’ll be off it for a day at least,” he says.

“It’s just a twist-”

“You’ll rest,” he interrupts, brooking no argument. “I’ll have a physician sent immediately.”

You tilt your head. “Are you… worried?”

His eyes meet yours. For a heartbeat, he doesn’t answer. “You are my wife,” he says finally, voice softer than you expect. “What happens to you matters.”

“You’ll stay in your chambers today. I’ll make the arrangements.”

And before you can protest, he bends again, one arm hooking under your knees, the other around your back, lifting you as if you weigh nothing.

“Jungkook-”

“Save your breath,” he says, eyes fixed forward. “You’re not walking on it.”

The world tilts in a different way now, the solid heat of him under you, the steady rhythm of his steps carrying you through the garden paths. Court attendants bow as he passes, some openly staring, but he doesn’t slow.

He carries you up the palace steps, down the corridors, and straight into your chambers-  only setting you down on the bed once you’re surrounded by the familiar silk and shadow.

His hands linger for a heartbeat longer than necessary before he steps back. “Rest.”

Then the mask is back, and he’s gone.

═══════

The physician leaves just before noon.

“It’s only a mild sprain,” he’d said, binding your ankle with clean linen and instructing you to stay off it for a day or two. “Nothing serious, Your Highness. As long as you rest.”

You’re propped against a fortress of pillows in your bed, silk sheets spilling over your legs, a cup of cooling tea at your side. The room is too still, too quiet. You’ve never been good at sitting still.

Your ladies-in-waiting keep offering to read to you or bring fresh flowers, but you send them away after the fourth polite interruption. It’s not their fault you feel caged. The crown fits heavy enough without being confined to your chambers.

You’re staring at the gilded canopy when there’s a knock at the door.

“Come in,” you call.

Jungkook steps inside.

You blink. “I thought you had meetings all afternoon.”

“I do,” he says, but he doesn’t leave. He crosses the room, the sound of his boots muffled against the carpet. “I wanted to see if you were following orders.”

“Orders?” you repeat, arching a brow. “I didn’t realize marriage came with a chain of command.”

His gaze flicks to your bandaged ankle. “You’re still in bed. That’s a start.”

You expect him to leave after that, but instead, he moves toward the table and pours you fresh tea, setting the cup within reach. You catch the faintest furrow between his brows, the one that appears when he’s thinking too much.

“You didn’t have to-”

“It was closer to me than to you,” he cuts in.

“Right,” you murmur, hiding a small smile behind the rim of your cup.

He stands there a moment longer, as if debating something. “If you need anything-”

“I’ll send for a guard?” you finish for him, teasing.

His eyes narrow slightly, but there’s no heat in it. “Exactly.”

He turns to go, and something in you flares- curiosity, stubbornness, maybe both. “Jungkook.”

He pauses at the door.

“You caught me before I fell,” you say. “Why?”

For a heartbeat, his eyes meet yours. “Because you’re mine to protect.”

Then the door shuts behind him.

You’re left staring at it, unsure whether his words were a claim, a duty… or something else entirely.

═══════

By morning, the dull ache in your ankle has faded to something tolerable. Not gone- but not enough to keep you trapped in bed.

You dress yourself in a pale blue day gown, something soft and unassuming, and braid your hair back in a way that says I am perfectly fine, thank you. Your ladies-in-waiting hover nervously as you make your way to the sitting room.

“Your Highness,” one begins gently, “perhaps you should-”

“I’ve rested long enough,” you say, taking the first careful step toward the door. “There are things I need to see to.”

They exchange looks but say nothing.

The moment you open the door, you nearly collide with him.

Jungkook stands there, dressed in deep charcoal, the morning light catching on the silver clasp at his cloak. His gaze drops immediately to your feet, to the subtle limp you try- and fail- to hide.

“Where are you going?” His tone is calm, but there’s a weight to it.

“For a walk,” you say. “It’s a palace, not a prison.”

His jaw flexes. “Not without me.”

You fold your arms. “You’re busy. I can manage.”

He steps past you into the room, closing the door behind him. “You can barely walk without favoring that ankle.”

“I can walk,” you counter. “And I intend to.”

Something flickers in his eyes- not anger, not quite- before he exhales sharply. “Then I’ll escort you.”

It’s not a request.

You consider arguing, but there’s something in his stance, in the set of his shoulders, that tells you it will only waste time. So instead, you smile- sweet, false. “As you wish, Your Highness.”

He offers his arm. You take it, because refusing would feel like losing, and you refuse to lose to him in anything.

The walk is slow, deliberate. The gardens are busy with attendants pruning roses and sweeping paths. You can feel the eyes on you- the court always watches. Jungkook’s hand stays steady under yours, guiding you away from uneven ground, adjusting his pace without comment when you falter.

It’s infuriating how natural it feels.

When you reach the far end of the garden, you stop beside the fountain, pretending to admire the lilies floating on the surface.

“See?” you say. “Perfectly capable.”

He studies you for a moment, his expression unreadable. “You’re stubborn.”

“And you’re controlling,” you reply. “Somehow, we make it work.”

For a moment, it almost feels like truce.

Almost.

Then he says, “Next time, I’ll carry you from the start.”

And before you can respond, he turns and starts back toward the palace, leaving you to follow with the faintest, most infuriating smile tugging at your lips.

═══════

The royal conservatory smells faintly of jasmine and politics.

Today’s luncheon is meant to honor a visiting trade delegation, but as always, it’s also a performance- a showcase of unity between the prince and his consort. You sit at Jungkook’s right, posture perfect, hands folded loosely in your lap.

The conversation drifts from tariffs to art to upcoming festivals. You answer politely when addressed, keeping your smile fixed in place.

Until Lord Jimin speaks.

He’s old money, old power, and old enough to think his opinion is law. Leaning back in his chair with a practiced smile, he says, “It’s lovely to see you out and about again, Your Highness. I’d heard you’d been… recovering from a fall? I suppose marble steps can be dangerous… for those unused to palace life.”

A polite ripple of laughter travels the table. The words are coated in courtesy, but the meaning is sharp- a reminder you’re an outsider, unaccustomed, and perhaps unfit.

You meet his gaze without flinching. “It’s true. I fell. Luckily, my husband was there to catch me.”

“Yes,” Jimin says smoothly, “though I imagine His Highness has far more pressing matters than tending to scraped ankles. Affairs of state require… sturdier footing.”

It’s a dig. Gentle enough to pass as banter, but you hear the insinuation beneath it: fragile, ornamental, a burden.

You’re ready to respond, but Jungkook speaks first.

“Lord Jimin,” he says, voice even but edged with steel, “you mistake grace for weakness.” The table quiets instantly. “The Princess has already proven herself in council and in matters of policy. She is not a burden. She is my partner.”

Jimin blinks, caught off guard.

“And,” Jungkook continues, his gaze locking with the older lord’s, “if I ever hear you suggest otherwise again- even in jest- I will ensure you regret it.”

A ripple of stunned silence follows. Somewhere down the table, a glass is set down a little too quickly.

Jimin forces a smile. “Of course, Your Highness. I meant no offense.”

“Then perhaps,” Jungkook says, his tone softening but not losing its weight, “you should choose your words more carefully.”

The conversation resumes, but the balance at the table has shifted.

You glance at Jungkook. His expression is unreadable, his focus already on the next course being served.

But under the table, you let your fingers brush his hand- not a thank-you, exactly, but an acknowledgment.

He doesn’t pull away.

The luncheon ends in a blur of polite farewells and murmured congratulations. You don’t remember half the names of the people you shook hands with- not because they weren’t important, but because you could feel Jungkook beside you.

Not just beside you. With you.

Every time you replay his words- “She is my partner”- your pulse stirs a little faster.

The doors close behind the last of the guests. Servants move to collect the empty glasses, but Jungkook’s voice stops them.

“Leave us.”

The room empties quickly. You’re still standing by the long banquet table when he crosses to you, his steps unhurried, but his gaze locked on yours like he’s already made a decision.

“You enjoyed that,” you murmur, chin lifting.

“What?” he says, stopping just close enough that you feel the warmth of him.

“Defending me.” You allow a slow smile. “Making it clear I’m yours.”

His hand is at your waist before you can react, pulling you flush against him. “You are mine.”

The words aren’t cold this time. They’re hot. Dangerous.

You open your mouth to retort, but his lips crash onto yours- not claiming like before, but taking, deep and insistent, like he’s been holding it back all afternoon. His tongue pushes past your lips, tasting you, coaxing a soft sound from the back of your throat.

Your fingers curl into his jacket, dragging him closer. The kiss breaks just long enough for him to murmur, voice rough, “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

He lifts you onto the table in one motion, your skirts spilling over polished wood. His mouth moves to your neck, your jaw, his teeth scraping lightly before his hands shove fabric higher and higher, until your thighs are bare.

“This isn’t about duty,” you breathe, half dazed.

He pushes you back so you’re lying on the table, bunching your dress up, and then he drops to his knees between your legs. Your breath catches. His hands grip your thighs, spreading you open. 

“No,” he agrees, his voice low, almost dangerous. “This is about you.”

And then his mouth is on you- a slow, deliberate lick over your slit that makes you jolt.

He doesn’t give you time to think before his mouth is on you- hot, wet, and devastatingly slow. His tongue slides from your entrance to your clit in one unhurried stroke, making you jolt.

His hands grip your thighs like steel, keeping you open while his tongue circles lazily, deliberately avoiding giving you enough pressure to push you over. He pulls back just enough to blow a warm breath over you, watching the way you shiver.

“Already wet,” he murmurs, smirking before diving in again, licking you like he’s savoring every drop. He alternates between slow, languid strokes and fast, focused flicks over your clit until your hips are rocking into his face.

You try to pull him closer, but he shakes his head against you, forcing you to take his pace. “You’ll come when I say,” he growls, before sealing his mouth over your clit and sucking hard. The sound that tears from your throat is half-moan, half-curse.

He doesn’t stop. His tongue fucks into you, wet and insistent, before returning to your clit. The obscene sounds of his mouth on you fill the room, mingling with your ragged breathing. You’re panting now, thighs trembling against his grip, every muscle wound tight.

When your climax finally breaks, it’s sharp and shuddering, your back arching off the table. He holds you there, riding out every wave, his mouth never leaving you until you whimper from oversensitivity.

Only then does he rise, mouth slick, eyes dark. He leans over you, his cock already pressing against your thigh. “You don’t get to keep pretending after this,” you whisper, still catching your breath.

His hips still for a second, gaze locked on yours. Then he leans to your ear. “Then don’t give me a reason to.”

He frees himself and pushes into you in one deep, steady thrust, the thick stretch forcing a sharp gasp from your lips. The aftershocks of your orgasm make every inch of him feel amplified, your walls fluttering around him as he bottoms out.

He doesn’t give you time to settle- his hips draw back slow, almost teasing, before slamming forward again, the table groaning under the force. The rhythm he finds is hard and sure, each thrust hitting deep enough to make your breath hitch. His hands grip your hips, dragging you into every snap of his body, the sound of skin meeting skin sharp in the quiet room.

You cling to him, nails digging into the back of his jacket as he fucks you like he’s trying to brand himself into your muscles. The slick slide between you is filthy, your wetness coating him, making each thrust faster, harder.

When his mouth finds yours again, the kiss is desperate-  teeth, tongue, shared breath- his pace never faltering. He swallows your moans, dragging them out until they’re rough, uncontrolled sounds you swore you wouldn’t make for him.

Your legs wrap tighter around his waist, angling him deeper, and he growls low in his chest, the sound vibrating against your mouth. His hand slips between you, thumb finding your clit and circling just hard enough to make your vision blur.

“Come for me,” he orders, voice ragged. You do- helplessly- your body clenching around him as the climax rips through you. He groans, hips driving deep one last time before he spills inside you, grinding through the aftershocks until you’re both shaking.

For a moment, the only sound is your mingled breathing.

When it’s over, he stays inside you just long enough to make you feel the weight of it- then pulls out, tucking himself back in with slow precision. He adjusts his jacket, then reaches down, his thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“You should eat dinner in your chambers tonight,” he says.

It sounds like an order. It feels like care.

═══════

It’s only been a few days since the luncheon- and what happened after- but already, the edges between you and Jungkook are back to cutting.

The council chamber is thick with debate. A dispute over land rights has ministers talking over one another, and you’ve had enough. You speak up, cutting through the noise with a solution that’s both strategic and bold.

The room goes quiet. Even the scribe pauses his pen.

Jungkook’s expression doesn’t change, but you catch the way his knuckles tap the table once- a subtle warning meant for you.

When the meeting adjourns, you rise with the others, smoothing your skirts. You expect him to walk beside you. Instead, he barely glances your way.

“You enjoy taking command in front of my council,” he says as you step into the corridor. His tone is light enough that an outsider wouldn’t catch the bite beneath it.

“They were wasting time,” you reply evenly. “I offered a solution.”

“You offered my solution,” he says, eyes forward. “Before I could give it.”

“That’s not my fault,” you counter, but he’s already striding ahead.

By the time you reach the great hall, he’s gone. No explanation. No dismissal. Just gone.

You wander the palace to cool your temper, your steps echoing in the quiet corridors. You’ve never cared much for the east wing- it’s quieter, more private- but today, you find yourself there.

A door at the end of the hall stands slightly ajar.

Jungkook’s office.

You hesitate, but curiosity wins.

Inside, the space is meticulously ordered- shelves lined with ledgers, a polished desk, the faint scent of ink and parchment in the air. You trail your fingers along the edge of the desk, noticing the papers stacked with military precision.

And then, near the bottom of one stack, you see it.

An envelope. Unsealed. Your name isn’t on it and the handwriting is Jungkook’s.

The date at the top freezes your breath in your chest- the day after your wedding.

You shouldn’t read it. You know that. But your fingers are already sliding the page free.

The first word you see is her. 

Jisoo.

Your stomach twists.

You look toward the door- still closed- then back at the page, your pulse loud in your ears.

You sink into his chair, the letter trembling slightly in your hands.

Whatever’s written here, you already know it’s going to hurt.

═══════

My dearest Jisoo,

I should not be writing to you. Every reason I have been given tells me to let go- to accept the reality they have bound me to. But it is not reality I am living in. It is a sentence.

Yesterday, I stood at the altar with your sister. I said the vows. I placed the ring on her finger. I lifted her veil. And the entire time, all I could think was how wrong it was that it was her standing there, and not you.

You should have been my bride. You should have worn the crown beside me.

But politics is a crueler ruler than either of us. You know as well as I do that your father would never have allowed it- not with the trade agreement your marriage prospects could secure for your kingdom.

You were promised long before I had the right to ask.

Lord Dae-Hyun’s second son was a match your father could not afford to lose, and once your name was spoken, it could not be withdrawn. By the time I realized, you were already gone- sealed off by duty, unreachable by even my title.

They told me it was impossible. That I had to take the match offered. That she was the only way to solidify the alliance.

As though I should be grateful.

I am not.

Y/N is… restless. Too quick to speak, too unwilling to simply be still. She moves like she’s waiting for a fight that no one has offered her, and perhaps that is the part I resent most- her constant need to be seen, to be heard. Even in these first hours as husband and wife, she seems determined to prove something, though I cannot imagine what it is, or to whom.

She will make noise, I am sure, and perhaps even cause enough distraction to make the ministers believe she is worth the trouble.

But she is not you.

She does not have your grace. Your steadiness. The way you can command a room without raising your voice.

When I look at her, I see only the shadow of what could have been. And it is unbearable to wake each day beside the wrong sister, knowing the one I wanted most is still within reach, yet impossibly far.

I do not expect you to answer this. Perhaps you will not even read it. But I needed you to know that, in every way that matters, I am still yours.

I will always be yours.

- Jungkook

═══════

You don’t remember standing.

One moment, you’re staring at the ink-  the words curling across the page like they were meant to strangle you- and the next, you’re shoving the letter back into the envelope with shaking hands.

Your legs move without thought, carrying you out of his office and through the palace corridors. You don’t care if anyone sees you. You just need to be away from there. Away from him.

By the time you reach your chambers, your breath is uneven, your vision swimming. The ladies-in-waiting rush to greet you, offering tea, asking if you’d like to change before dinner.

“Leave,” you say, your voice tight.

They freeze. “Your Highness-”

“Please,” you add, softer this time, but your voice cracks around the word. “I need to be alone.”

They bow and file out, glancing back as though worried to leave you like this. The door shuts.

The silence is crushing.

You press your back against it for a moment before sliding down to the floor. The sob breaks free before you can stop it-  raw, shattering, the kind that leaves you gasping.

You push yourself up and stagger to the bed, sinking into the mattress as if the weight of the letter is still pressing down on you. The tears come harder now, unstoppable. You press your hands over your mouth to muffle the sounds, but it doesn’t matter. There’s no one left to hear.

Every word replays in your mind- restless, wrong sister, always be yours. Each one cuts deeper, tearing through every fragile thread of dignity you’ve tried to hold together since the wedding.

Hours pass. The light outside dims to gold, then gray, then nothing. You don’t move. Dinner comes and goes. You don’t send for food. You don’t light the lamps. The only glow in the room is the faint spill of moonlight across the floor.

The knock at the door comes late. Before you can answer, it opens.

Jungkook steps inside, his expression unreadable in the dim light. “You weren’t at dinner.”

You don’t reply.

His gaze shifts to your face- the flushed skin, the reddened eyes, the damp lashes. His body stills.

“What happened?” he asks, his voice quieter now.

You just stare at him, the letter’s words burning between you like a secret only you know.

You don’t remember standing, but you’re on your feet when he steps closer.

“What happened?” he asks again.

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides. “If my father let you marry her right now,” you say, your voice shaking, “would I still be here?”

His brows draw together. “What are you talking about?”

“Answer me!” Your voice rises, breaking against the walls. “Would I still be here, Jungkook?”

His eyes narrow. “You went through my things.”

“You wrote it!” you shout, the tears burning hot again. “You wrote it the day after our wedding! You said you wished it was her. You said I was the wrong sister. You said you’d always be hers.”

His jaw tightens, but his voice stays level- too level. “And what if I did? It was the truth.”

Your breath catches.

“I married you for politics,” he says, each word deliberate, cold. “Not for love. And yes, everything in that letter is true.”

It feels like the floor drops out from under you.

You take a step back, but he follows, his voice sharper now. “You think snooping through my office will make you more than what you are? It doesn’t. You were a convenience, Y/N. Nothing more.”

The sob rips from your throat before you can stop it. “You’re cruel.”

“And you’re naive,” he snaps. “If you thought this marriage was anything else, that’s on you.”

It’s the final blow- not just the words, but the way he says them, like they’re facts, not daggers.

Your vision blurs. You turn away before he can see the collapse happening inside you. “I’m going home.”

“You can’t just-”

But you’re already moving, shoving past him, through the door, and down the corridor.

Within the hour, you’re in the stables, your guards scrambling to follow orders they didn’t expect. The palace fades behind you as the carriage rattles toward your father’s kingdom.

You don’t look back.

If you did, you might see the shadow in the window- a figure watching you leave, unmoving until you vanish from sight.

═══════

jungkook’s pov: 

The door slammed behind her hours ago. And yet, the echo of her voice still lingers.

Jungkook sits at his desk, the untouched glass of brandy in front of him reflecting the moonlight. He’d been furious when she confronted him- furious she’d been in his office, furious she’d read the letter. But fury fades fast when it’s replaced by the memory of her face, wet with tears, breaking in front of him.

Six months.

They’ve been married six months. Long enough for him to know the sound of her laughter when she’s not guarding it, the precise way her brow furrows when she’s deciding whether to speak her mind, the warmth in her voice when she’s talking to anyone who isn’t him.

And long enough for him to notice her- truly notice her. The way she moves, carries herself, commands attention without even trying. The way her beauty isn’t something the court dresses gave her, but something she wears like armor.

He’d told himself from the start that she was a political necessity, nothing more. The letter he’d written to Jisoo had been the truth back then or at least the truth he’d chosen to believe. But now?

Now he remembers the garden. How light she’d felt in his arms when he carried her back to her chambers. How she hadn’t flinched when Lord Jimin made his sly dig, but met it with a smile that made Jungkook want to break the man’s teeth.

The way her hand had brushed his under the table after he defended her. The faint smile she tried to hide.

And after everyone left , the way she’d come apart under his hands. How the urgency between them had been more than anger, more than duty. The taste of her still lingers on his tongue, the sound of her voice when she moaned his name still carved into his memory. It hadn’t been detached, like before- not when he was buried inside her, not when his mouth was on her, not when her nails clawed at his shoulders like she was trying to hold him there forever. He’d been closer to her in that hour than in the entire six months of their marriage.

God, he’d said she was a convenience. Nothing more.

The lie tastes bitter.

He pushes back from the desk and stands abruptly, the chair scraping the floor. His coat is on in seconds, boots echoing against the stone floors as he makes for the stables.

It doesn’t matter that it’s past midnight. It doesn’t matter that the journey to her father’s kingdom will take hours.

He has to see her.

Not as a prince, not as a husband fulfilling some duty- but as a man who knows he’s made a mistake.

The groomsman barely has time to saddle his horse before Jungkook swings into the saddle. The cold night air bites at his skin, but it’s nothing compared to the emptiness in the palace without her.

He rides hard.

He’s going to bring her home.

═══════

The warmth of your father’s manor is different from the one you left.

Here, the air doesn’t feel like it’s pressing down on you. The corridors smell faintly of cedar and fresh bread instead of cold stone. You can breathe without worrying about who’s watching.

For the first time in months, you let yourself sit without the weight of the crown. Wrapped in a thick blanket in your father’s private sitting room, you sip tea, listening to the muted hum of distant conversation.

You’re not healed. You know that. But for now, you’re home.

The knock on the front doors comes just as you set your cup down. Footsteps cross the marble foyer, and then- a voice you never thought you’d hear here.

“Is she here?”

Your blood runs cold.

Jisoo’s voice answers, careful but unmistakably surprised. “Jungkook.”

You freeze, every muscle locking in place.

“I need to see her,” he says- no hesitation, no preamble.

Before you can even decide whether to stand or run, he’s inside. His eyes find you across the room in an instant. And then he’s moving- past Jisoo, past the threshold, crossing the space between you like nothing else exists. He’s in front of you before you can even get to your feet.

Jungkook drops to his knees, the movement sharp and sudden, his hands coming up to cradle your face like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t hold on. His eyes search yours- not for anger, not for forgiveness, but for proof you’re real.

“Y/N-”

You shove his hands away, the blanket slipping from your shoulders. “Don’t.”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. Then Jisoo, sensing the air between you, murmurs something to your father and slips from the room. The door shuts behind them, leaving only the two of you.

Your voice is low, but cutting. “You don’t get to come here, after what you said, and pretend it never happened.”

He doesn’t argue. He just looks at you- truly looks- as though you’ve hung the stars and he’s only just realizing it.

“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “For all of it. For the letter. For what I said after. For every time I made you feel unwanted.”

You fold your arms, holding your ground.

“I didn’t know I was falling for you,” he continues, “until it was already happening.”

You scoff. “Falling for me?”

“The winter gala,” he says, and you can hear the truth in his voice. “You walked into that room and the whole court bent toward you, even when I was furious. The garden- when you fell, I’ve never been that afraid in my life. Your wit, the way you see through people at council. The luncheon- the way you touched my hand under the table like you knew exactly what it meant. And after… when we were together, it wasn’t just anger or duty anymore. For the first time, I felt like I was with you, not just my wife.”

He swallows hard. “And the quieter things. Dinners where you laughed with the servants and made them forget you were royalty. The way you read late at night, biting your lip when you turn the page. The way you hum when you think no one’s listening.”

Your breath catches, but you mask it with a shake of your head. “Words are easy, Jungkook. You’ve had six months to show me I matter and you didn’t. Why should I believe you now?”

His jaw tightens. “Because I’m standing here, asking you to come home.”

You meet his gaze, steady and unflinching. “No. Not until you prove it.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but you don’t look away. For the first time since you’ve known him, he nods- not in dismissal, but in acceptance.

“I will.”

═══════

jungkook’s pov:

The court is already buzzing when Jungkook walks into the great hall. Ministers in rich silks murmur over parchment, their jeweled rings catching the light. They fall silent when they see what he’s carrying.

An envelope. Old. Unsealed.

He walks to the center of the room, past the council table, past the throne. The letter-the one he wrote to Jisoo six months ago-  feels like it weighs more than steel in his hand.

Without preamble, he sets it atop the silver brazier meant for burning old decrees.

“This letter,” he says, his voice carrying easily in the vaulted hall, “is a lie I let live too long.”

The ministers glance at one another.

He strikes a match and drops it onto the parchment. Flame curls the edges, swallowing the words, until nothing remains but black ash.

“I have one queen,” he continues. “Not simply a wife to fulfill politics, not a placeholder for another. Y/N is my queen- in title, in duty, and in my heart.”

Murmurs ripple through the chamber.

“She is the woman who has stood beside me when I gave her no reason to. Who has shown strength where others expected silence. Who has matched me in wit, in will, and in fire.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “And I love her.”

The last of the letter collapses into ash.

He turns to the royal scribe. “Send word to her father’s court. Let it be known across both kingdoms.”

═══════

The day is uneventful until the envoy arrives.

The royal messenger steps into your father’s receiving room, his cloak still dusted with travel, the sealed scroll in his hand gleaming with Jungkook’s crest.

“For Her Highness, the Princess Consort,” he says, bowing as he offers it.

Your father watches you break the seal.

The parchment is brief but formal- the kind of statement meant to be read in public squares and whispered over in taverns:

A letter burned. Your name spoken in the great hall. You, named not only wife, but queen. And the final line, in Jungkook’s unmistakable hand: I love you.

Your fingers tighten on the parchment. You can hear the pounding of your own heart.

“Seems he’s made his choice,” your father says quietly.

You don’t answer. You can’t. Not yet.

You’re still staring at the proclamation when Jisoo slips into your room.

“So… he burned it?” she says, perching lightly on the edge of your bed.

You nod, the parchment still in your lap. “In front of everyone. Declared me his queen. Said he loves me.”

Jisoo studies your face. “And you don’t believe him?”

“I want to,” you admit, your voice low. “But wanting to and trusting are two different things.”

Jisoo’s expression softens. “You’ve always been braver than you think, Y/N. Go see him. Make him prove it in person.”

The next day, you do.

The journey back to his kingdom feels shorter this time, though your heart is heavier with each mile.

When the carriage pulls into the palace courtyard, you expect the usual line of attendants and guards. You don’t expect him- standing at the base of the steps, dressed simply, holding a bouquet of deep red roses.

The door opens, and the early Spring air rushes in.

He looks up at you, something unguarded in his eyes. “Welcome home, Y/N.”

You step down from the carriage, the scent of the roses reaching you before his hands do.

For a moment, neither of you moves. Then he offers them to you. You take the roses, the petals velvety against your fingers.

“They’re beautiful,” you say, your voice careful.

“They’re not enough,” Jungkook replies.

You blink up at him. “Then why give them to me?”

“Because I needed something in my hands when I saw you,” he admits. “Otherwise I might not have been able to keep from-” He stops himself, his jaw flexing. “-from saying too much, too soon.”

The words catch you off guard.

An attendant moves to take your luggage, but Jungkook waves them off. “I’ll walk her.”

You glance at him, then at the long climb up the palace steps. “You don’t usually play porter.”

“I don’t usually try to win back my wife,” he says, matter-of-fact.

Inside, the corridors are quieter than usual. He walks beside you, matching your pace, and doesn’t speak again until you reach your chambers.

“I know words won’t be enough,” he says, stopping at the threshold. “So I’ll show you.”

“How?” you ask, wary but curious.

“By being the man you deserve,” he answers without hesitation. “By giving you reason to believe me every day, not just when it’s convenient for me. By making sure you never have to doubt you are my queen- in every way that matters.”

You search his face, looking for cracks in the resolve. But his gaze holds steady.

“Then start proving it,” you say finally, stepping into the room.

Before the door closes, you hear him say softly, “I already am.”

═══════

The council chamber feels different this morning.

The air isn’t thick with the weight of being tolerated- it hums with the quiet acknowledgment of your place at the table. The ministers rise when you enter, bowing not out of obligation, but something closer to respect.

Jungkook takes his seat at the head of the table. You take yours at his right but for the first time, you don’t feel like you’re in his shadow.

A dispute over the naval fleet’s funding takes center stage. Two ministers argue over whether to cut costs or invest in new shipbuilding.

You listen. And when their voices climb over each other, you speak.

“Cutting costs now will cost us more later,” you say, your tone firm but measured. “If we invest in the fleet, we secure our trade routes. That’s more revenue in the long term- and more security for our allies.”

All eyes shift to you.

One minister hesitates. “But, Your Highness-”

“She’s right,” Jungkook cuts in smoothly, his gaze steady on you. “The Princess’s proposal is sound. It will be implemented.”

You allow yourself a small smile, meeting his eyes.

The discussion moves on, but the shift lingers- ministers asking for your opinion, valuing it, weighing it as they would his. And each time you speak, Jungkook listens. Not with the detached patience of before, but with intent, his attention fixed on you as though no other voice in the room matters.

By the end of the session, the room feels different again. Not because you’ve changed, but because they’ve started to see you as you’ve always been.

A queen in the room.

═══════

The council chamber has long since emptied, but the weight of the day lingers in your shoulders.

You find him in his office, the golden light of late afternoon spilling over the maps and scrolls spread across his desk. He looks up when you enter, his expression softening almost imperceptibly.

“You were remarkable today,” Jungkook says, leaning back in his chair. “The fleet’s commanders will be sending you wine for that decision.”

You smile faintly but don’t sit. Instead, you step closer, your skirts whispering over the polished floor. “I need to ask you something.”

His gaze sharpens. “Anything.”

You stop a few feet from him, folding your hands in front of you. “What do you see in me,” you ask slowly, “that you never saw in Jisoo?”

The room stills.

He blinks once, as if he’s not sure he heard you right. “Why are you asking me that now?”

“Because,” you say, keeping your voice even, “you’ve told me you love me. You’ve burned your letter. You’ve defended me in court. But there’s still a part of me that wonders if you love me for me, or because I became what you needed.”

He rises from the chair, closing the distance until he’s standing right in front of you. “You think I’d confuse the two?”

“I think,” you answer, meeting his eyes, “that I deserve to know the difference.”

For a moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantle, marking each second between you.

And then he nods once- slow, deliberate. “Alright. I’ll tell you.”

He doesn’t look away when he speaks.

“When I thought of Jisoo,” Jungkook begins, “I saw… calm. The kind of quiet the court praises. She was gentle, and she fit the image of a queen in everyone’s mind, including mine. But it was a dream I built out of fragments. I didn’t know her. I had a single conversation with her.”

He takes another step closer. “And when I married you… I told myself it was only politics. But then the reality of you started undoing me.”

Your breath catches, but you don’t interrupt.

“The winter gala,” he says softly. “You walked in wearing that wine-red gown, and the entire court turned toward you- not because of your title, but because you owned the room. And I hated how much I noticed. The garden, when you fell-  I’ve been in battles where men were dying around me, and I wasn’t as scared as I was in that moment.”

His voice lowers. “Your wit in council. The way you don’t back down, even when I’ve given you every reason to. That day you outmaneuvered Lord Jimin with a single look and a sharper tongue- I wanted to kiss you in front of everyone.”

You swallow hard, your heart pounding.

“And the luncheon,” he continues. “When you touched my hand under the table, I thought it was nothing. But afterwards… when I had you in my arms, when you let me in completely- it wasn’t anger, or duty, or proving a point. It was you. Just you. And I realized I’d never had that with anyone before.”

He exhales slowly. “You don’t just fit the image of a queen. You are one. And I see you, Y/N- not the crown, not the alliance, not my title beside yours. Just you. And I love what I see.”

He runs a hand through his hair, almost like he’s searching for the right words. “I think I was in love with you before I even understood it. Before I let myself admit it. Every time you challenged me, every time you made me see the world differently, it was another thread pulling me toward you. And now… now I can’t imagine a world where you’re not mine.”

The silence between you is different now- not the sharp-edged kind that’s filled your marriage, but something warmer. Something that pulls you toward him instead of pushing you away.

When he reaches for you, it’s not rushed. His hands frame your face gently, like he’s memorizing the shape of you. His kiss is unhurried, deep, and you taste the truth of everything he’s just said in the way his mouth moves against yours.

You let him guide you back toward the bed, but this time there’s no battle for control- only the steady pull of his hands and the unspoken promise in his touch. Every glance, every brush of his fingers is a question, and you answer without hesitation, giving him all of you.

When his lips trail down your throat, you feel the weight of his love in the way he lingers, his mouth pressing gentle kisses, his nose brushing your skin like he’s breathing you in.

Clothing falls away slowly- not torn, but removed like it’s precious. He studies every inch of revealed skin with eyes that are soft and heavy with want, his hands tracing you as though he’s committing each curve to memory.

He eases you back onto the bed, kneeling between your thighs, and lowers himself until his breath ghosts over your core. The first kiss he presses there is slow, deliberate, making you gasp. “You’re so beautiful here,” he murmurs, before his tongue drags through your folds.

The first wave comes quickly- his mouth seals over your clit, tongue flicking just right while two fingers slide inside you, curling until you’re gasping his name. He hums, the sound sending shivers through you as you clench around him, hips rocking helplessly.

He doesn’t let you come down. His mouth never leaves you, his fingers easing out only to be replaced by the wet slide of his tongue dipping inside you, tasting everything you give him. You whimper, overstimulated already, but his hands pin your hips to the mattress, holding you there until the second orgasm crashes over you- sharper this time, your thighs trembling around his head.

When you sag against the bed, panting, he kisses your inner thigh, his voice low and reverent. “One more for me, love.”

You can barely shake your head before his mouth is back on your clit, slower this time, coaxing instead of demanding. His fingers return, pumping deep and steady while his tongue traces lazy circles. The build is excruciatingly tender, your body tightening until you spill over again, crying out and clinging to him like you might drown without him.

Only then does he finally come up to you, his mouth finding yours, letting you taste yourself on his lips. “Perfect,” he whispers, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “You’re perfect.”

He lines himself up and pushes into you with a long, steady thrust, the head of his cock stretching you inch by inch until he’s buried fully inside. Your lips part in a shuddering gasp, your body still fluttering from the last climax, the aftershocks wrapping around him and drawing a deep groan from his chest.

He stills there, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard like he’s savoring every second of being inside you. “God, you feel incredible,” he murmurs, his voice breaking. “I love you so much.”

His hips begin to move- slow at first, dragging all the way out before pressing back into the hilt, making you feel every inch. Each thrust is deep and deliberate, his hand finding yours between your bodies and lacing your fingers together like he’s anchoring himself.

He kisses you through it, the kind of kisses that steal your breath- soft one moment, hungry the next. His free hand strokes your cheek, tucks your hair back, touches you like you’re fragile and the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“You take me so well,” he breathes against your lips. “Every time… every time you feel like home.”

The words make your chest ache in the best way, your hips rising to meet his as the rhythm builds. He shifts slightly, angling his thrusts until the head of his cock brushes that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. His thumb finds your clit again, stroking in slow, perfect circles that have you gasping into his mouth.

“Come with me,” he whispers, his voice almost desperate. “Please… I need to feel you.”

It hits you fast, your body clenching hard around him as your climax rips through you. He follows instantly, his hips stuttering as he spills deep inside, groaning your name into the crook of your neck. He keeps moving, slow and gentle now, riding out every aftershock until you’re both trembling and breathless.

When it’s over, he stays inside you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand still laced with yours. Finally, he eases out, tucks himself back in, and gathers you against him. His lips brush your temple in a soft, lingering kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs again, quieter now, like the words are meant just for you.

You close your eyes, listening to the steady beat of his heart under your ear, and for the first time since you married him, you let yourself believe it.

═══════

Four months pass, and the court is no longer divided over you.

You’ve stood in the council chamber beside Jungkook, your voice carrying as much weight as his. You’ve walked the gardens with visiting dignitaries, negotiated trade proposals, and heard the people’s petitions in the great hall. Every step, every decision, every glance exchanged with him has been watched- and now, no one doubts.

Today is the day it becomes official.

The great hall is a sea of color, banners of both your kingdoms and his draped from the vaulted ceiling. Sunlight pours through stained glass, scattering jewels of light across the marble floor. Nobles, ministers, and foreign rulers fill the room, their eyes on the dais where two thrones sit side by side.

Jungkook is already there, dressed in ceremonial black and gold, a crown resting lightly on his head. He turns when you enter, and the faint smile that touches his lips is for you alone.

The High Chancellor’s voice rings out, carrying over the hush. “By the will of the Crown and the grace of Almighty God, let it be known throughout this realm and beyond its borders: Princess consort Y/N, beloved daughter of the realm and consort to His Majesty the King, having been found worthy in faith, in honor, and in steadfast devotion, is this day anointed and crowned.

From henceforth she shall be known as Her Most Gracious Majesty, Y/N, Queen Consort of this Kingdom, Guardian of the Crown’s dignity, and sworn companion to the Sovereign.

May her counsel be wise, her heart steadfast, and her reign beside His Majesty bring peace, prosperity, and glory to the realm.

Long live the Queen!”

You step forward, and the crown- lighter than you imagined, yet impossibly heavy with meaning- is placed upon your head.

When you rise, Jungkook takes your hand in front of the entire court, his grip warm and steady. The cheers that follow echo through the hall, the sound of a kingdom bearing witness.

You glance at him, your heart steady and certain.

Once, his heart was elsewhere. Now, it beats for me alone.

═══════

♡ MASTERLIST

♡ requests are welcome ♡ taglist ♡

These characters are fictional and do not represent any real-life individuals. Their likeness is used solely for visual inspiration and does not reflect the actual person or their story.

═══════

Posted: 08/15/2025

→ Warnings(by chapter): explicit sexual content (oral f receiving, fingering, soft dom jk), swearing, casual nudity, roommates with benefits dynamic, emotional repression and denial, mutual pining (quiet and painful), Jimin being dramatic, Yoongi being emotionally devastating, chaotic group chats, unresolved romantic tension (Jimin/Yoongi), Jungkook being wet and dangerous, Jin almost finding out, Taehyung definitely finding out, jjajangmyeon as a love language, rule-breaking, dangerous levels of yearning

→ A/N: This chapter was an absolute riot to write—between the shared bathroom tension, secret rules, café confessions, and emotional whiplash, I felt like I was scripting an episode of New Girl with 300% more pining and thirst🤭. The chaos was real, the feelings were louder, and yes—I giggled while writing 90% of it🙂‍↕️. I’m so inspired by these characters and their messy, ridiculous, beautiful dynamic, and sharing it with you makes it even better🥹. If you enjoyed the drama, the angst, the spice, or the unhinged text thread energy… please consider leaving a comment.💚Your reactions fuel me like Jungkook’s tongue fuels bad decisions. Love you🫶mean it.

→ Playlist: Slow Dancing by V // Love Maze by BTS // Love Me Harder by WOODZ // Blue & Grey by BTS

You wake up in Jungkook’s bed.

And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a mistake.

The air is still. The room dim and quiet, softened by overcast morning light bleeding through the curtains. Rain murmurs at the window—steady, constant. You don’t remember falling asleep, but you must’ve drifted sometime after the storm inside you settled.

He’s behind you. Close. Arm slung over your waist, hand resting warm just below your navel. His chest is pressed along your spine, slow and solid with each breath, like he’s anchoring you to the moment. You don’t move. You don’t want to.

Your eyes flick to the clock. 9am. It’s late enough that the apartment is probably awake, but you stay still anyway. Like if you lie still enough, time won’t move forward. Like the spell won’t break if you don’t reach for it.

Jungkook shifts slightly behind you, just enough to nuzzle into the curve of your neck. The sound he makes is quiet—half sigh, half hum—and it sinks straight into your chest. His nose brushes your skin. Then his lips. Just the faintest ghost of a kiss beneath your ear. Like muscle memory.

Your breath stutters.

“You’re awake,” he murmurs. His voice is rough from sleep. Low enough to get lost in.

“Mhm.” You nod.

He exhales through his nose. “Good.”

His fingers flex slightly on your stomach, like he’s making sure you’re real. Like some part of him expected you to be gone again.

You should say something. A joke. A tease. A reassurance.

But the words tangle in your throat, caught between want and wariness. So instead, you shift gently beneath his touch—just enough to roll onto your back.

He lifts his head to look at you.

His hair is a soft, messy halo. His eyes still heavy, half-lidded but focused. He doesn’t smile. He just looks at you like he’s studying something sacred.

Your heart stumbles.

“Morning,” you whisper.

He nods. “Morning.”

A beat passes.

Neither of you moves.

The rain is still falling outside, slow and steady. You stare up at the ceiling for a long second, then glance over at him. He’s already looking at you. Awake now. Awake and thinking.

You clear your throat. “So… if we keep doing this.”

His brow lifts slightly. “Yeah?” He looks almost surprised you’re okay with doing this regularly. Like he can’t believe you’re talking about it.

“There should be rules.”

He blinks. Then nods slowly, like he’s not surprised you’re the one bringing up and establishing rules. “Okay.”

You shift onto your side to face him fully. The blanket slides with you, pooling at your hips. “I mean, just to keep things from getting messy.”

His mouth twitches. “Messier than sneaking around and sleeping with your roommate?”

You shoot him a look.

He raises both hands, mock innocent. “I’m listening.”

You exhale. “Rule one: It’s just physical.”

He nods once. “Okay.”

“Rule two: No one can know. At least not yet.”

A smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “So we’re liars now.”

You shoot him a look.

“I mean,” he adds, voice a little softer, “Tae and Jimin already know, don’t they?”

You hesitate.

“Tae knows,” you admit. “Jimin… suspects. I think.”

Jungkook hums, low in his throat. “So basically Jin’s the only one still in the dark.”

You nod. “Which is exactly how I’d like to keep it.”

He grins. “Yeah, until you spill everything to Yoongi over coffee.”

You narrow your eyes. “I’m not—”

“Don’t act like you’re not gonna tell him.”

You huff. “Yoongi doesn’t count.”

“That’s what everyone says right before they spill state secrets to Min Yoongi.”

You press your lips together, trying not to smile.

“Okay,” he says, teasing fading slightly,  “seriously. No one else. Jin hyung can’t know.”

“Exactly.” You confirm.

“Swear on your life.”

“Swear on your hoodie.”

That gets a soft laugh out of him. “Now that’s serious.”

You pause. Then add, “Rule three—it doesn’t change anything between us.”

He watches you for a long moment, something unreadable passing behind his eyes. But he just nods again.

“Okay.”

You hesitate.

Then: “Rule four…”

He tilts his head.

You wet your lips. “We don’t sleep with anyone else.”

That gets his full attention.

Your heart kicks a little harder in your chest, but you force yourself to keep your voice even. “I’m on birth control. And I’m clean. I just… I don’t want to think about complications. Or risks. Or…”

“Other people?” he offers gently.

You nod.

He studies you, like he’s checking if you mean it.

Then he says, without hesitation, “I haven’t been with anyone else since you moved in.”

Your breath catches.

“I don’t want to be,” he adds, quieter.

You look down, throat tight. And try not to overthink what he just said. Because it doesn’t mean anything.

It can’t.

He probably just meant it’s easier this way—because you’re already here. Because sneaking around with someone who shares your hallway is simpler than chasing something uncertain outside of it. Because you don’t require small talk or dates or pretending to be someone you’re not.

You’re convenient.

You’re safe.

You’re temporary.

And that’s all it is.

That’s all it has to be.

You repeat it in your head like a prayer.

Even though it stings.

Even though some part of you—quiet, buried, traitorous—wants it to mean more.

“Okay,” you whisper.

And that’s it.

No talk of feelings. No talk of labels. No what-are-we’s.

Just an agreement.

A quiet pact beneath his sheets.

A list of rules to pretend this isn’t what it already is.

You both roll onto your backs again, facing the ceiling like it holds all the answers. His fingers brush yours beneath the blanket. Not quite a touch. Just enough to know he’s there.

And you both lay there.

Later, the rain has calmed into a soft drizzle.

You’re sitting across from Yoongi at a quiet café tucked into the side of a narrow street—half fogged windows, low ceilings, jazz humming from a speaker behind the counter. The air smells like cinnamon and steamed milk. The table between you is too small, your knees almost touching, but neither of you says anything about it.

You’re chewing your straw like it owes you something.

“You’re fidgety,” Yoongi says, eyes flicking to your cup. “That usually means secrets.”

You sigh. “Or caffeine.”

Yoongi raises a brow. “Are you gonna tell me, or do I have to guess which roommate you’re sleeping with?”

Your stomach drops.

He smirks. “Relax. I was joking.”

You don’t answer.

He blinks. “Oh my god. It’s Jungkook, isn’t it?”

You glance out the window. To be fair, he’s the only roommate you admitted to being attracted to. And when you told Yoongi he wasn’t the least surprised.

Yoongi sits back in his chair like he’s just been handed a live grenade. “You’re joking.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“Oh, thank god,” he mutters. “For a second I thought it was healthy emotional intimacy.”

You glare at him.

He shrugs. “Sorry. Go on.”

You swirl the ice in your drink, watching it melt. “It’s not a thing. We’re not… anything.”

Yoongi squints. “Sure.”

“We just have an arrangement.”

“Do you now.”

You take a deep breath. “We have these rules.”

He leans forward like he’s about to be handed state secrets. “Okay. Hit me.”

You hold up a finger. “One: It’s just physical.”

Yoongi snorts and rolls his eyes. “Sure it is.”

You ignore him. “Two: No one can know.”

He lifts his drink. “Oops.”

“And three…” You hesitate. “It doesn’t change anything between us.”

He blinks. “Damn. And you say I’m emotionally unavailable.”

You roll your eyes, but your voice is quieter now. “Because you are! And Jungkook and I live together, Yoongi. It’s just tension. Proximity. Convenience.”

“Mmm.”

“We’re both adults. We’re being careful. It’s just…” You pause, grasping for the word. “Contained."

Except it’s not.

Not really.

Taehyung knows—and if there’s one person less interested in containment, it’s the walking unhinged, chaos master himself. You’ve already caught him smirking too knowingly in your direction once this morning, like he’s just waiting for you to slip. Or waiting to blackmail you. 

And Jimin?

Jimin suspects.

Maybe more than suspects, honestly.

Which is a problem. Because if Jimin knows, then it’s only a matter of time before Jin knows, and if Jin knows—

You cut the thought off before it spirals.

It’s fine. It’s fine.

It’s still contained. Mostly.

Probably. Fuck.

Yoongi watches you for a moment, like he’s trying to decide how hard to poke the bubble you’re building around yourself. Or trying to determine if it’s more of a wall than a bubble.

Then, casually: “So… he said something, didn’t he?”

You frown. “What?”

Yoongi shrugs. “I don’t know. Just… you’re looking at me like someone said something that you’re trying really hard to make small. Or not bring up.”

Your stomach twists. Is it the coffee making you nauseous? Or the way you constantly circle around the feelings in your chest?

He’s not wrong. But he’s not quite right either. Not fully.

You look down at your drink. “I mean, yeah—I wanted the rules. I brought them up.”

“And he agreed?”

You nod. “Too easily.”

Yoongi leans back in his chair. “That’s suspiciously mature of him.”

You stir your iced latte, voice soft. “He also said he didn’t want to sleep with anyone else.”

Yoongi doesn’t say anything right away. Just watches you. Too quiet.

So you rush to fill the space. “But it’s probably just because it’s easier, you know? We live together. We’re already there. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Mmhmm,” he says.

You glare. “Don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you already know how this ends.”

He smirks over the rim of his coffee. “I’m not saying anything.”

“You’re saying everything.”

“I’m just listening,” he says, sipping his drink. “You’re the one spiraling.”

“I’m not spiraling.”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“I’m not,” you repeat, quieter now. “I just… I want it to be clear. Boundaries help.”

“Sure,” Yoongi says. “Especially in situations that are totally not emotional.”

You do your best to ignore that.

“There’s a fourth rule, too,” you mutter after a beat.

“Oh?” He perks up like someone just told him there’s a bonus track. “Do tell.”

“No sleeping with anyone else.”

He lets out a sharp laugh, slapping the table in the process. “Jesus Christ.”

“It’s just easier this way. Right?”

“Right.”

“We’re being… safe. We’re being…”

“You’re being in love.” He finishes your hesitant sentence.

You kick him under the table.

He takes it without flinching, sips his coffee again like this is the most entertaining thing that’s happened to him all month. “Does he know you’re this deep in denial, or is it just me who gets to witness the slow collapse and inevitable feelings that come with?”

You rest your chin in your hand. “You’re really enjoying this, huh.”

“I mean, yeah. This is classic roommate trope. But also…” His voice softens. “How you holding up? You okay?”

You hesitate.

Then nod, just once. “Getting there.”

Yoongi doesn’t press.

He just taps his cup against yours, gentle. “Well. Let me know when you want help writing rule number five: Don’t fucking fall.”

You scoff and roll your eyes. 

But you feel your stomach twist.

Because you know he’s right.

You don’t say anything for a moment. Just sit there, straw limp between your fingers, mind buzzing with everything you’re not ready to unpack.

Then, as if sensing the weight in your chest starting to tip, Yoongi leans back and changes the subject.

“Anyway,” he says, voice casual, “I’ve been in the studio with someone new. Pretty nonstop, actually.”

You glance up, grateful for the shift. “Oh yeah? Who is it?”

He takes a sip of his coffee, like he’s trying not to look smug. “Kim Namjoon.”

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Wait. The Kim Namjoon? Like… RM?”

Yoongi nods once, like it’s no big deal. “Mhm.”

You blink. “Yoongi. He’s, like—famous.”

He shrugs. “So am I.”

You snort. “Okay, chill.”

But your smile is real now, the warmth bubbling past your chest. Something prideful. “That’s huge! You’ve been wanting to work with him for years!”

“Yeah,” he says, quietly proud. “His album’s almost done. We’ve been holed up in the studio every other night. He’s smart. Weird. Overthinks everything. You guys would get along great. But overall, it’s kind of refreshing.”

You smile wider. “God, I would love to meet him.”

Yoongi’s expression doesn’t change. “Absolutely not.”

Your face falls. “What? Why not?”

“Because you’re annoying and you’d fuck it up somehow,” he says, deadpan. “You’d ask him to freestyle your name into a lyric or something stupid.”

“I would not—”

“You’d try to touch his dimples or feel his hair.”

You gape. “Okay maybe, but I would be so chill about it.”

Yoongi just sips his drink. “Yeah, no. Nope. Not ever gonna happen.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but your phone buzzes on the table. You glance down.

✨Chaos in Dior [1:24pm]: You still emotionally spiraling🙃 or can I steal u for lunch?

✨Chaos in Dior [1:24pm]: Wear something cute. I wanna look at something pretty while I eat.

✨Chaos in Dior [1:25pm]: PS: I know everything👀

You stare at the screen, lips pursing.

Of course he does.

Hot Mess🥵 [1:26pm]: Come to the café I’m at!

Hot Mess🥵 [1:26pm]: Be warned, Yoongi’s already here👀

Hot Mess🥵 [1:26pm]: You can look at something pretty while u eat😏

The dots appear immediately.

✨Chaos in Dior [1:26pm]: Damn. Yoongi?😮‍💨

✨Chaos in Dior [1:26pm]: Didn’t realize you were offering me luxury.

✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: He’s my favorite visual meal anyway🫣

Your eyebrows shoot up.

You glance at Yoongi, who’s looking out the window, unbothered and unsuspecting.

You grin.

Hot Mess🥵 [1:27pm]: dare me to show him what you just said?

Three dots. Then panic.

✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: NO

✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: FUCKING DO NOTTTT

✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: OH GOD PLS NO I’M NOT READY FOR THAT LEVEL OF humiliation

✨Chaos in Dior [1:27pm]: I HAVE TO DYE MY HAIR FIRST OR SOMETHING IDFK

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh.

Yoongi glances over, unimpressed. “What’s so funny?”

You shake your head, too innocent. “Nothing.”

He raises a brow. “You look like you just watched someone trip on a red carpet.”

You sip your drink. “Metaphorically speaking, maybe I did.”

He narrows his eyes. “Is this about one of your unhinged group chats again?”

You shrug, smiling into your cup. “Define unhinged.”

Your phone buzzes again. You glance down.

✨Chaos in Dior [1:28pm]: Wait what café is it?

✨Chaos in Dior [1:28pm]: Also is Yoongi wearing earrings today or no??

✨Chaos in Dior [1:28pm]: Don’t make it weird I’m just mentally preparing

You snort. Loudly.

Yoongi doesn’t look up from his coffee. “You’re getting weirder by the second.”

You grin. “Takes one to know one.”

You type back with a roll of your eyes.

Hot Mess🥵 [1:29pm]: Yes he’s wearing earrings. No I will not describe them. Get here and look yourself.

Jimin starts typing back immediately.

You glance toward the entrance—just a peek. The bell hasn’t rung yet, but your stomach’s already flipping.

You don’t even know why you suddenly feel nervous. He’s just Jimin. Loud, ridiculous, dramatic Jimin.

But something about this feels different.

Like a storm’s about to walk in. Maybe because you have a lot to talk about? Maybe because you know how Yoongi still has feelings for him? Maybe both?

Yoongi takes another sip, calm as ever, but you notice the way his fingers tap the side of his cup once. Just once.

You look at him. He’s watching the window now.

Waiting.

Even if he doesn’t realize it.

15 minutes pass.

No Jimin.

No entrance. No bell. Just the occasional text blowing up your phone like he’s live-commenting a fashion emergency.

✨Chaos in Dior [1:34pm]: Had to change. The jeans were giving church camp💀

✨Chaos in Dior [1:35pm]: Didn’t realize Yoongi would be there I need to look effortless but unbothered but also expensive😛

Hot Mess🥵 [1:35pm]: It’s a coffee shop, not the Met Gala💀💀

✨Chaos in Dior [1:35pm]: You don’t understand! I can’t show up to my ex looking like I’ve peaked!!

Hot Mess🥵 [1:36pm]: You wore heels to your grandmother’s birthday.

Hot Mess🥵 [1:36pm]: Your peak is a lawless concept, Park.

Yoongi glances over your cup. “Why do you keep smiling like you’re about to commit a felony?”

You set your phone down. “Just texting a friend.”

He gives you a look. “The chaotic one?”

You take a slow sip. “Define chaotic.”

✨Chaos in Dior [1:39pm]: Do you think Yoongi remembers what I smell like

✨Chaos in Dior [1:39pm]: Be honest

Hot Mess🥵[1:39pm]: What the FUCK is this text💀

✨Chaos in Dior [1:39pm]: Delete it I panicked

Hot Mess🥵 [1:40pm]: Absolutely not. Screenshotting it and printing it on a mug.😏

✨Chaos in Dior [1:40pm]: YOU WOULDN’T

✨Chaos in Dior [1:40pm]: WAIT DO YOU THINK HE’LL RECOGNIZE MY COLOGNE

✨Chaos in Dior [1:40pm]: SHOULD I CHANGE IT

You cover your mouth to hide a snort.

Yoongi narrows his eyes. “You’re being suspicious.”

You shake your head. “You’re paranoid.”

He tilts his head. “And you’re stalling.”

✨Chaos in Dior [1:43pm]: On my way! Had to fix my bangs.

✨Chaos in Dior [1:43pm]: If I walk in and you tell him I asked about my scent I’ll never forgive you🫶

You grin at your screen.

Hot Mess🥵 [1:43pm]: Too late. He already knows you smell like desperation and ego🫶

The bell above the café door finally chimes.

You look up just in time to see a blur of black leather and attitude sweep through the entrance like he owns the place.

Park fucking Jimin.

He’s drenched in just the right amount of rain to look cinematic about it. Black pants. Loose shirt. Jacket hanging open like a statement. Hair slightly tousled—definitely intentional. Sunglasses pushed up onto his head like he forgot they’re useless indoors.

And despite the chaos it took him to get here, he’s glowing. Smirking already. Like he knows the scene he’s about to cause.

Your eyes flick instinctively to Yoongi, who’s still mid-sip of his drink.

His fingers freeze.

You lean in slightly, voice low. “Yoongi.”

Like he can’t peel his eyes away from Jimin ordering a coffee, he doesn’t look at you—just sets his cup down with surgical precision. “That’s who you’ve been texting?”

You wince. “I was gonna tell you.”

His eyes narrow, finally looking at you. “You invited him here?”

“I panicked! He was already asking where I was.”

Yoongi exhales slowly, glances toward the ordering counter again. The look on his face is mixture of awe and… physical pain? Honestly, it’s hard to tell.

“You good?” you ask, quieter now.

He nods once, too fast. “Yeah. Great. Love a surprise attack from unresolved history.” He gulps.

But Jimin doesn’t notice.

He spots you immediately after ordering, beams like he’s just found his favorite stage, and crosses the café with all the drama of a runway model and none of the subtlety of a normal person.

“You,” he says, pointing at you like you’ve personally wronged him. “Screenshots are a betrayal of trust.”

You shrug. “Don’t ask me to lie about your scent next time.”

Yoongi blinks slowly. “What.”

“Nothing,” you say too quickly.

Jimin drops into the seat beside you, adjusting his jacket like it’s a cape. “You didn’t tell me it was this Yoongi.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “Didn’t know there were others.”

Jimin hums. “Guess I’ll just have to recalibrate my charm.”

You elbow him under the table. A subtle warning to be nice. But he doesn’t flinch.

Instead, he turns to Yoongi with that smile he always uses when he’s about to stir something dangerous. “Hi,” he says, softer now. “You look… the same.”

Yoongi doesn’t answer right away.

You pretend to be very interested in your coffee. Was this a mistake? Cause it’s starting to feel that way.

And for a split second—just a flicker—you swear you feel the air shift.

Not with drama.

But with something quieter. Older. Waiting.

Yeah, this was a mistake.

You glance between them—Jimin’s lingering smile, Yoongi’s expression unreadable—and feel like you’ve stepped into the middle of a conversation that started long before you arrived.

The silence stretches.

So you cut it with a sip of your drink and a shrug. “Anyway. Jimin was late because he thinks Yoongi needs to be visually stunned while he eats.”

“I was being respectful,” Jimin says, eyes still on Yoongi. “Didn’t want to show up underdressed.”

Yoongi raises an eyebrow. “This is you dressed?”

You snort. Mentally high-fiving Yoongi.

Jimin grins. “Admit it. You missed me.”

Yoongi doesn’t reply, but he does look down at his drink like it suddenly got more interesting.

You bump Jimin’s shoulder with your own. “Can you be normal for five minutes?”

“I could,” he says, then leans in conspiratorially. “But do you really want that?”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth twitches.

Yoongi clears his throat. “So… is this a casual meet-up or am I third-wheeling a roommate friendship counseling session?”

You open your mouth to respond, but Jimin answers first.

“Oh, we’re here because she’s emotionally imploding. That’s why you’re here too, right?”

You give him a flat look. “Wow. Thank you for your discretion.”

He shrugs. “You told me to come.”

“I told you to meet us for coffee, not offer me up like a sacrificial lamb.”

“Same difference.”

Yoongi shakes his head, but there’s a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth now.

Jimin sips his drink and sighs dramatically. “Anyway, now that I’ve graced you both with my presence, what did I miss? Have we assigned code names to the rules yet? Rule One can be Operation: Denial.”

You kick him gently under the table.

He grins wider. “And Rule Four should be called Delusion. Bold of you both to think exclusivity isn’t romantic.”

You narrow your eyes. “Wait—how do you know about Rule Four?”

Jimin raises his brows like you just asked him if water is wet. “Please. I cornered Jungkook in the hallway like five minutes after you left this morning.”

Your stomach drops. “You what?”

“I was gentle,” he says. “Emotionally, I mean. Physically I blocked the doorway and know Jungkook’s weak spots.”

Yoongi lets out a low whistle. “And people say I’m the intimidating one.”

You glare at Jimin. “So you interrogated him?”

“Technically, I interrogated you first. He just cracked faster.” Jimin lifts his cup with a smug smile. “Didn’t even need to bribe him.”

You groan. “You are exhausting.”

“And you’re in love,” he sings.

“I am not.”

“You’re something,” Yoongi mutters.

You blink at him. You know he’s right. You know you feel something.

He blinks back, all-knowingly.

You say nothing.

Jimin does a slow double-take between the two of you. “Wait. Wait, wait, wait—do I need to go? Is this a Thing?”

You both answer at the same time.

“No.”

“God, no.”

Jimin blinks. “Okay, then explain it to me—how did you two even become friends?”

You glance at Yoongi, but he answers before you can.

“Music production class,” he says simply. “Right after I… well.” He clears his throat. “Right before last semester of high school.”

Jimin’s smirk falters—just barely.

And it’s then you realize, you met Yoongi right after he broke up with Jimin. The look on his face is a micro-expression of realization. Like he knows but doesn’t want to talk about it.

Yoongi goes on. “She was sitting alone in the hallway, hunched over this beat-up acoustic guitar with one string dangling off like it got into a fight.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh my God.”

“She was crying.”

“I was not crying.”

“You were sniffling,” he says. “Very dramatically.”

“I was annoyed.”

“You were full-on mourning.”

Jimin’s eyes widen. “Wait, you cried over a guitar string?”

“I wasn’t crying over the string,” you mutter.

“She absolutely was,” Yoongi says, deadpan. “Said, and I quote, ‘What kind of goddamn metaphor is this?’”

You close your eyes. “I hate both of you.”

Yoongi smiles, soft and a little fond. “Anyway, I didn’t even realize we were in the same class until that day. But after that… it just happened. Lunch, random collabs, sharing playlists. Kind of hard to remember when we weren’t friends.”

Jimin leans back in his seat, blinking between you. “So you were sad and poetic, and he was there with a wrench and emotional stability.”

Yoongi snorts. “Pretty sure all I had was a spare D string and a half-eaten granola bar.”

You try not to smile. “He offered me both.”

“He took the granola bar back,” you add.

Yoongi shrugs. “I was hungry.”

Jimin watches the two of you—quiet now, but thoughtful. Probably wondering why he never saw you.

You sip your coffee to fill the silence, pretending you don’t feel the weight of his gaze.

And maybe—just maybe—you feel Yoongi glance at you again, too.

Like he remembers that hallway just as clearly as you do.

You toy with your straw, glancing between them. “We ended up choosing the same college, too. Mostly by accident. Kind of.”

Jimin lifts an eyebrow. “Kind of?”

You shrug. “Well… I was originally thinking of a different school. But we kept hanging out after class, and one day Yoongi just casually mentioned where he’d committed. And I realized I didn’t want to start over somewhere else. Not when I had just moved to a new high school with less than a year left before graduation.” You sigh, “Making friends was never easy for me. Until I found Yoongi. Or—Yoongi found me.”

Yoongi sips his coffee, looking up at you softly. “I didn’t know that.”

You roll your eyes, trying to play it off, but your voice is quieter. “Well. You do now.”

Jimin hums like he’s watching a drama unfold in real-time.

“Anyway,” you go on, straightening a bit in your seat. “Yoongi majored in Music Technology. I did Statistics.”

“Jesus,” Jimin mutters. “That’s hot.”

You scoff with a laugh. “Stats?”

“Are you kidding? You say things like ‘data models’ and ‘predictive analytics.’ I can’t even spell that.”

You snort. “Good to know where the bar is.”

Yoongi lifts his cup. “It’s on the floor.”

Jimin turns to him, grinning. “And what did you do with your Music Tech degree, huh?”

Yoongi shrugs. “Turned it into a career. And, you know… crippling perfectionism.”

You and Jimin both laugh at that one.

The conversation flows easier now—like the sharp edges have softened. The jokes land. The drinks get lower. You feel lighter somehow, even though the weight of earlier still presses in the back of your mind.

But this—this makes room to breathe.

And you find yourself thinking:

You missed this.

All of it.

You missed friendship. Missed being able to sit at a too-small table with someone who’s seen you cry over guitar strings and screw up presentation slides and nearly pass out during a group project because you forgot to eat.

You missed your best friend.

Yoongi’s been there for so many versions of you—quiet ones, loud ones, messy ones, guarded ones. He’s always understood you without needing to be let in, like he knows where the walls are but doesn’t mind sitting outside them.

And lately, between everything with Jungkook and the secrets you’re barely holding together, you’ve realized just how far you’ve drifted from that kind of ease.

From safety. From softness.

You missed Yoongi.

And maybe you’re only just starting to understand how much.

Jimin stretches, arms up behind his head like he’s posing for a magazine cover. “So. Are we just gonna pretend we’re normal people, or are we gonna talk about the fact that you’re sleeping with the hot one?”

You glare. “We’re not talking about that right now.”

Yoongi hums into his cup. “Which one is considered the hot one?”

Jimin turns to him, grinning. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

You snort, but your gaze cuts back to Jimin. “Actually, you have some explaining to do.”

He blinks, faux-innocent. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” you say, leaning forward. “Why didn’t you tell me you’re fucking rich?”

Jimin groans dramatically. “Ugh, God! Who told you? Was it Jungkook?”

“I mean, technically Jin opened his mouth first and I just didn’t put it together, but—yeah. Jungkook confirmed.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re an heir, Jimin. To Park Motors. You’re on fucking Google.”

He winces. “God. Don’t say that. And keep your voice down!”

“You’re a nepo baby!”

“I am not.”

“You have a trust fund!”

“I don’t touch the trust fund,” he huffs. “It’s emotional leverage. Like seriously—I actually don’t touch it.”

You cross your arms. “You made me Venmo you for pizza.”

He points at you. “It was a matter of principle.”

Yoongi leans back, watching all this unfold with a barely concealed smirk. “So when exactly were you planning to drop the legacy corporation detail on her? Seems important enough to tell your roommate.”

Ahh yes, another secret—of course—Yoongi already knew about. Park Jimin, being heir to Park Motors. You should’ve known Yoongi doesn’t tell you anything anymore.

Jimin shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something sheepish in his expression. “Didn’t seem important. Thought it was obvious that she liked me for my winning personality.”

Yoongi raises a brow. “Debatable.”

Jimin turns toward him, a little too slowly. “You’re meaner than I remember.”

Yoongi meets his gaze, calm and steady. “You remember me?”

Jimin’s smile is sharp, but his voice is soft. “Some things are hard to forget.”

Your drink pauses halfway to your mouth.

The air dips. Not cold—but charged.

Yoongi looks away first.

You clear your throat. “Okay, well. This is no longer about me and my emotionally questionable decisions. This is about Jimin, who wears vintage Dior and pretended not to know how tax brackets work.”

Jimin perks up. “They’re just confusing!”

“Are they?” you deadpan. “For someone with two Porsche’s?”

Yoongi laughs—really laughs. Not the polite kind. Not the quiet kind. The kind you haven’t heard in weeks.

And just for a second, it feels like your world might not be slowly falling apart after all.

Jimin sighs, softer this time. “Okay. For real—sorry I didn’t tell you.”

You glance at him.

He’s not pouting for once. Just watching you with an expression that’s… earnest. Honest.

“I don’t like being treated differently,” he says. “And it’s not something I really lead with. Most of the people who’ve stuck around in my life don’t know, or they don’t care.”

You study him for a second longer, then nod. “Okay. That’s fair.”

His mouth quirks. “Still not paying you back for that pizza though.”

You flick a straw wrapper at him.

Yoongi watches the exchange with a faint smile. “Guess you’re still charming, huh?”

Jimin tilts his head, smile sharpening. “Only for people who used to love me.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

Yoongi sets his cup down gently. “Used to?”

Oh shit.

Jimin holds his gaze. “I don’t know. Did you?”

Yoongi’s mouth lifts at the corner, but his voice drops—lower, quieter. “If I didn’t, it wouldn’t have hurt so much to let you go.”

Something shifts. Why is your heartbeat faster with this tension?

You go still. Watching. Waiting.

Jimin’s smile flickers—just for a second. “Then why did you?”

Yoongi doesn’t answer at first. Just studies him. Thoughtful. A little tired. Like he’s still carrying the decision in his chest and thinks about it often.

“I thought it was better for you,” he says eventually. “And I hated that it felt like I wasn’t good enough for you.”

Jimin exhales, soft and slow, almost sad.

“You were.”

And suddenly, you feel like a guest in a memory.

There’s silence.

Not awkward—but full. Heavy with everything they never said when it might’ve made a difference. Like whatever this is between them isn’t old news. It’s familiar. Like it never really ended, just paused.

You love Yoongi. You trust him more than anyone. But sitting here, watching the way he looks at Jimin—like he’s reading the spaces between the words—you realize you’ve never seen him like this.

Not with you. Not with anyone.

There’s a softness in his stare that makes your chest ache on his behalf. A caution. A want.

You glance between them again and feel something in your stomach squeeze. It’s not jealousy. Not quite. It’s just… the ache of seeing someone you love and care for reaching for something you can’t give them.

And maybe—maybe Yoongi’s been reaching for Jimin this whole time.

You tear your eyes away, focus instead on your nearly empty cup.

The table feels smaller now. Closer. A little too full of everything no one is saying.

The silence stretches a little too long.

So naturally, Jimin breaks it.

Not with a comment.

But with a vibration.

Your phone buzzes in your lap.

You glance down.

✨Chaos in Dior[2:03pm]: You fucked Jungkook.

You hold in an incredulous laugh. Your jaw drops. You whip your head toward him.

He’s still staring straight ahead. Sipping his coffee. Blank expression. Completely unbothered.

You glare.

He slowly turns his head. Smiles like a cat who’s just knocked something off a shelf.

You start typing furiously.

Hot Mess🥵[2:03pm]: Way to deflect the attention on MY problems

Hot Mess🥵[2:03pm]: Grow up

✨Chaos in Dior[2:04pm]: I wouldn’t say it’s ur problem…

✨Chaos in Dior[2:04pm]: More of a blessing🤭

✨Chaos in Dior[2:04pm]: We all know u needed to get laid.

You glare at your screen, then side-eye Jimin like you’re ready to throttle him.

He doesn’t look at you—just still sips his drink like it’s a fine wine and not the emotional hand grenade he just lobbed across the table.

You huff under your breath. “You’re insufferable.”

Yoongi glances up from his phone. “What’d he do now?”

“Nothing,” you mutter. “Jimin’s just being—Jimin.”

Jimin gives you a faux-angelic smile, then turns to Yoongi. “She totally slept with Jungkook.”

Yoongi pauses mid-sip. Then nods, “I’m aware.”

You throw your head back, tired of coming back to this. “Seriously?”

“I was helping you normalize it,” Jimin says. “It’s healthy to share.”

“I’m not sharing. I’m surviving.”

Yoongi blinks slowly. “So. That’s happening.”

You throw your arms up. “It’s not a thing. It was just— We made rules. It’s casual.”

Jimin lifts a brow. “You’ve got a sparkle in your eye for ‘casual.’”

“I’m not here for commentary,” you snap. “I’m here for silence. Secrecy. That’s all I’m asking.”

Yoongi leans back, stretches. “So, what, you’re asking us to lie for you?”

You blink. “No. I’m asking you not to tell the last roommate who’s still in the dark, for the sake of my dignity! Or anyone else! It’s different.”

Jimin shrugs. “I mean, we’ve lied before.”

Yoongi nods thoughtfully. “We’re good at it, actually.”

You pause. “Is that… experience talking?”

Jimin grins. “Let’s just say you’re not the first friends with benefits in this friend group.”

Your jaw drops. “Ew. Wait. You two—”

Yoongi sips his coffee like it’s water under the bridge. “It was high school.”

Jimin hums. “And late nights.”

Yoongi adds, “And questionable decision-making.”

Jimin smirks. “And locked doors.”

You stare at them. “I have so many questions.”

“You really don’t,” they say in unison.

You bury your face in your hands. “Boo. I’m surrounded by criminals.”

Jimin pats your shoulder. “We prefer ‘delinquents with emotional depth.’”

Yoongi raises his cup. “To secrets.”

Jimin clinks his mug to Yoongi’s, then glances at you. “We’ll keep yours. For now.”

Back at the apartment, the hallway is quiet when you return.

Your shoes are damp. Your coffee is gone. Your thoughts are louder than they were when you left.

But your body knows exactly where it wants to go.

Your steps slow as you pass Jungkook’s door. You don’t knock. You don’t stop.

But your eyes linger.

You’re not ready to see him again. Not yet.

Not when you’re still buzzing with everything Yoongi said and everything Jimin didn’t say.

Not when you’re still untangling your feelings like a string of lights with too many knots.

Because seeing Jungkook again would mean distraction. 

Endless, sweaty, heart-wrenching, distraction.

And you have things to do. You have laundry. Dishes. Mental rewrites of conversations that don’t go as planned.

Besides—you’re not even sure if he’s home.

So you keep walking.

You tell yourself that you’re making the smart choice.

That restraint is maturity.

You tell yourself all this and more as you slip into the communal bathroom—

—and freeze.

Broad shoulders. Sculpted back. A masterpiece of ink sprawled across golden skin.

Jungkook.

He’s standing at the sink that’s in the far corner of the bathroom. He watches the mirror, towel slung low around his hips, drying his damp hair with another. Water slides down the back of his neck, gliding over muscle, catching in the grooves of his spine.

He’s so shiny.

Your mouth goes dry. Yet you feel like you’re already drooling.

He hasn’t noticed you yet, despite being only a few steps away from him.

And you should leave. Right now. Quietly.

But your feet are frozen to the tile and your gaze won’t obey.

You’re staring. Openly. Shamelessly.

You hate yourself a little for it.

But not enough to stop.

Not enough to even feel guilty about it in the slightest.

He shifts his body to step away from the sink, and the towel at his waist dips just enough to expose the sharp line of his hipbone.

Holy shit. You’ve seen him fully naked, what the fuck is the big deal? 

Get it together. 

Is it because he’s… wet? 

Dripping with scandalous droplets of H2O and moving in slow motion as he dries his hair with his muscular arms—

You make a tiny sound in the back of your throat.

Regret it immediately.

Jungkook turns.

And freezes when he sees you in the doorway.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

Water drips from his hair, hits the tile with a soft tap. The towel at his waist is still secure—barely—but it’s the look in his eyes that knocks the breath from your lungs.

He doesn’t look surprised. He looks amused.

Like he knows what he’s doing to you.

He takes a step closer to you.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, rough from the heat of the shower.

Your heart stutters. “Hey.”

You forget why you needed to come in here in the first place.

You should leave. You should say something casual and back out like you didn’t just mentally photograph the way a water droplet trailed down his spine.

But you don’t.

Because he’s not looking away. And neither are you.

He doesn’t move closer.

But you do.

Just a step. Like gravity pulled you forward.

And he notices.

His eyes flick down—quick, unreadable—before returning to yours. There’s something quiet in his expression. Something soft around the edges.

He reaches for his hair product, slow and casual, but the movement pulls the towel lower and your brain shorts out entirely.

You gulp.

He catches it.

“Didn’t think you’d be back yet,” he says, brushing his wet hair out of his eyes.

“Didn’t think you’d be half-naked in a shared bathroom,” you shoot back.

He shrugs. “Guess we’re both bad at timing.”

He’s teasing. Light. Careless.

You hate how much you like it.

“I wasn’t staring,” you say suddenly. Even though you were.

He raises a brow. “Didn’t say you were.”

“Well. I wasn’t.”

“Okay.”

You narrow your eyes. “You’re acting smug.”

“I’m wet,” he says, voice dipping lower. “And dripping all over the floor.”

You blink. Open your mouth. Close it again.

“I meant—” you start.

He takes a step forward.

Not rushed. Not accidental.

Just enough to close the space. Just enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his skin, the scent of soap and something unmistakably him.

“Sure you did.”

Your breath catches.

Your brain screams: This is not contained.

But your body leans in anyway.

Just a tilt. A shift. Barely more than a breath between you.

And then—his towel slips just a little further.

Your gaze drops. Instinct takes over.

You stumble back a step, nearly knocking into the towel rack behind you.

He doesn’t laugh. But he smiles.

Like he knew you’d fold first.

Like he could chase you, if he wanted to.

Like he might.

“You should go,” he says quietly.

But he doesn’t move away.

Neither do you.

Your back hits the cold metal hooks of the rack mounted on the wall, anchoring you. His body is still heat and steam and bare skin—and the look in his eyes is anything but neutral now.

You nod. “Yeah. I should.”

You don’t.

His eyes drop to your mouth for just a second.

And that’s the problem. 

The way he looks at you like your lips are a question he’s dying to answer. Like he’s kissed you before and wants to remember how it felt—and make it worse this time.

Because he has.

And you do too.

You swallow. “You said we’re being smart about this.”

“I did.”

You breathe in. Shaky. Shallow. “This doesn’t feel smart.”

“It’s not.”

Still, he stays where he is.

You can feel the warmth of his breath, the pulse beneath his skin. And the way he’s looking at you—like he’s teetering on the edge of a decision—it sets something loose in your chest.

“Jungkook…”

It’s supposed to be a warning.

It comes out like a plea.

He exhales like he’s just lost a battle with himself. One hand rises, slow and deliberate, until his knuckles skim your jaw. He brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, but his fingers linger at your cheek, like he needs one more excuse to touch you.

“I told myself I wasn’t going to do this,” he murmurs.

“Then don’t,” you whisper.

But you lean in anyway.

So does he.

When he kisses you, it’s not soft.

It’s not safe.

It’s a collision. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like a dam breaking. All teeth and heat and breathless need. His hands curl around your waist like he’s anchoring himself to this one stupid, reckless decision. Like if he lets go, he’ll lose the thread of sanity holding him together.

You fist your hands in the towel at his hips. He groans against your mouth.

And then—a bedroom door creaks somewhere down the hall.

Both of you freeze.

You pull back, lips parted, pulse thrumming in your throat, chest heaving.

Jungkook breathes out, low and rough. “Fuck.”

You clear your throat. Try to remember what restraint feels like. “We’re so bad at this.”

He smirks, catching your wrist as you start to step away.

“Meet me in ten?”

Your stomach flips.

You hesitate. Then nod.

“Okay.”

And just like that, you’re out the door—face burning, heart sprinting, and already counting down every second.

You’re tidying your room when the knock comes.

Two soft taps.

You freeze. Heart skipping. Fingers twisting the hem of your shirt.

The door creaks open a beat later—because of course he doesn’t wait for permission to come in.

Jungkook steps inside, damp curls pushed back from his forehead, water still clinging to his skin in places. He’s wearing black slacks and a crisp white button-up, open just enough at the collar to hint at his collarbones.

You blink.

He shuts the door behind him with a soft click, then leans against it, arms loose at his sides like he’s perfectly comfortable being the most devastating thing in the room.

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t know you had nice clothes,” you blurt.

He scoffs, offended. “All my clothes are nice clothes.”

You roll your eyes. “You know what I meant. I didn’t know you had a nice suit. But I guess since you’re ‘Mr. Jeon Industrial,’ it makes sense.”

He lifts a brow. “Hey. Not yet, I’m not.”

You glance at him again, brow furrowed. “Then why are you wearing that?”

He pushes off the door slowly, walking toward you with the kind of lazy confidence that makes your breath catch.

“I’ve got a shoot. For that big company I told you about.” His voice lowers. “Figured I should make a good first impression.”

He stops in front of you—close enough that your knees almost buckle.

His hand slides up to cup the side of your neck, thumb brushing gently along your jaw. His other hand settles on your waist, fingers curling just enough to draw you closer. Not flush. Not quite. But enough that you can feel the promise in the air between you.

“Oh,” you breathe.

And you mean to say more. Something clever. Something that doesn’t sound like your brain has completely short-circuited.

But all you manage is:

“Wait—then when are you leaving?”

He leans in, lips ghosting toward yours, his voice barely above a whisper.

“In fifteen minutes.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “You know that’s not enough time to—”

“To what?” he interrupts, a teasing edge in his tone. “To fuck?”

Your breath stutters. He watches it happen.

“I didn’t come in here just to fuck you.”

You blink, pulse jumping.

“Then… why’d you come in here?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Instead, he closes the distance entirely, lips just brushing yours—barely there. Just enough to taste the anticipation.

“To kiss a ‘lil.”

His lips press to yours—once, twice—before he finally presses in for real.

It’s soft at first. Gentle. Like he’s savoring the contact he’s been thinking about since the second you left the bathroom.

But then you melt.

And he groans.

And that’s when it intensifies.

Because when Jungkook kisses you like this—slow, then deeper, then all-consuming—it’s not just physical. It’s not just heat. It’s like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth, the way you sigh into him, the way your fingers curl into his shirt like you need something to hold onto or you’ll float away.

His hand slides from your waist to your lower back, tugging you closer, until there’s no space left at all.

And still, it’s not enough.

You part your lips for him. He takes the invitation like he’s starving.

You kiss him back like you’ve lost your mind.

Because maybe you have.

Because this isn’t smart. This is the opposite of smart. His camera bag is probably still packed. His client is probably expecting him to arrive early. He said fifteen minutes and already you’re wasting them.

And yet.

Your fingers slip under the hem of his shirt, palms brushing the warm skin of his stomach. He hisses softly between kisses, and you feel the tremble in his breath as he exhales against your mouth.

“You taste like mint,” you whisper between kisses.

His lips find your jaw. “Mouthwash.”

“You really weren’t planning to stay.”

“No,” he murmurs, kissing lower—your throat now, the base of your neck. “I was just gonna kiss you once.”

You laugh, breathless, threading your fingers into the damp curls at the nape of his neck. “One kiss, huh?”

“Maybe two,” he mutters against your skin.

His mouth is hot. His hands are hotter.

Your knees buckle when he backs you toward the bed. He doesn’t push, just guides. Like he’s asking even as he’s taking. Like he’d stop if you blinked.

But you won’t. Not when he’s touching you like this. Like you matter. Like you’re his.

Which you’re not.

You remind yourself of that—desperately—because it’s too easy to forget when he’s kissing you like a promise. When his hands are gripping your thighs and his tongue is in your mouth and his heart is racing just as fast as yours.

You’re sitting on the mattress, trying to scoot back as he’s standing—towering over you. Hands on your thighs. His kisses becoming relentless.

You should stop.

But instead, you whisper:

“You’re going to be late.”

He pulls back slightly, breathing hard. His eyes are dark, glazed with heat, and they flick between your lips and your eyes like he’s trying to decide what’s more dangerous.

He’s bent over slightly as he presses his forehead to yours.

“I’d rather be late,” he whispers.

And you believe him.

God help you, you believe him.

So you don’t stop him.

Not when his hands find your hips.

Not when he lowers you down onto the mattress like you’re something delicate, something his.

Not even when he settles above you, pressing his weight into you with just enough restraint to make your stomach flip.

His mouth finds yours again, deeper this time, hungrier—like he’s making up for the minutes slipping through his fingers. And maybe he is.

Because he should leave.

But he’s still here.

On top of you.

Kissing you like the world outside this room doesn’t exist.

You arch into him without meaning to, and that’s when you feel it—hard, heavy, unmistakable.

Your breath stutters.

He groans softly into your mouth, like he knows you feel it. Like he wants you to.

You shift your hips, just slightly.

His jaw clenches.

You press your mouth to his ear, voice low and barely steady. “I can help with that.”

You feel him exhale—rough, wrecked.

But he pulls back, eyes blown wide and dark. He looks at you like he’s trying to remember how to speak.

“You don’t have time,” you whisper, teasing. “You’ve got—what, five minutes left?”

His gaze drops to your lips. Then lower.

He shakes his head once. “I didn’t come in here for that.”

“But you’re—”

“I know,” he mutters, cutting you off.

Then his hands are on the button of your jeans.

Your breath catches. “Jungkook—”

“I just want you,” he murmurs, kissing a line down your throat. “Let me.”

You don’t stop him.

You lift your hips when he tugs your jeans down, slow and deliberate, like he’s unwrapping something he’s been thinking about since the second you walked into that bathroom.

And when he sees what’s underneath—your purple lace panties, delicate and sheer, low on your hips—he swears softly under his breath.

His favorite color.

You see it in his eyes—the flicker of something warm, something reverent. His fingers ghost along the edge of the fabric.

“You wore these for me?” he asks quietly, like it matters.

You should lie. You should shrug it off.

Instead, you admit, “Maybe.”

That’s all it takes. He sinks to his knees at the edge of the bed, dragging you gently toward him, lips brushing along the inside of your thigh. The slow, reverent kind of kiss that makes your breath catch in your throat.

Then he looks up.

“Can I take these off?”

His fingers rest just beneath the lace. Waiting.

Your heart stutters. You nod.

He doesn’t rush.

He peels them down carefully, watching the way your thighs tremble, the way your breath hitches as the cool air brushes between your legs.

And then he sees you.

His gaze darkens—eyes fixed, jaw clenched.

“Fuuuck…” he breathes. “I wish I had more time with you.”

You laugh—quiet and breathless, nerves curling in your stomach. “Yeah… me too.”

But there’s no time for shyness. Not when he leans in, his breath warm against your skin. Not when his lips press softly—slowly—where you’re aching for him.

Your head tips back against the mattress. Your fingers find the sheets.

He starts gently. Like he’s tasting, not devouring. Like he’s learning you. Mouth soft, tongue teasing, pulling sounds from your throat before you even realize you’re making them.

Then you feel it—his hand slipping between your thighs again. The slow circle of his finger and then a soft press as it glides inside you, coaxing more heat, more need.

He moves with purpose. With control. First pumping. Then curling his finger just slightly. Testing. Adjusting. Searching—

And then—

“Ahh! Jungkook—”

You slap a hand over your mouth. Too loud. Too much.

But he just hums against your clit, not stopping, smiling up at you. Like he’s proud.

Because he found it.

Right there.

That spot that makes your whole body jolt and your thighs clamp around his shoulders.

He keeps going. Working you open with expert rhythm—his mouth and fingers in perfect sync. Each curl, each flick, dragging you closer to the edge.

And all you can think is God, no one has ever—

Not like this.

Not like him.

None of your exes. None of your flings. They touched you like it was a race. Like they couldn’t wait for their turn.

But Jungkook?

He touches you like you’re art.

Like he wants to ruin you.

Slowly. Completely.

And your body?

It wants to let him.

Your hips buck, instinctive and helpless, but Jungkook holds you steady—one hand firm at your waist, the other still working you open, curling deep and sure, his tongue never faltering.

It’s overwhelming.

Too much and somehow you want more.

You moan again, muffled into your palm, and he glances up—eyes hooded, lips slick, expression dark with want.

“You always get this wet for me?” he murmurs against you.

You whimper—half laugh, half sob. “Don’t say things like that.”

But he smiles. And he keeps going.

Slower now. Crueler. Like he knows how close you are and wants to savor it. His tongue draws lazy circles, featherlight, right where you need it. His fingers curl again—just right—and your legs shake.

Your whole body pulls tight.

You’re barely breathing.

And right as you start to spiral—right as your stomach knots and your chest caves and that trembling heat rises all the way up—

He looks up at you again. Soft. Intent.

“Let go for me,” he whispers. “I’ve got you.”

The words break something loose inside you and you come. Hard.

Your body arches. Your hand slips from your mouth and you cry out for him, barely coherent, his name dissolving on your tongue as the release crashes over you—intense and overwhelming and blissfully slow.

And even through it, you feel him still kissing you. Still moving with you. Like he’s anchoring you through it. Like he wants to be the one holding you together while you fall apart.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes. You blink them back.

Because it’s not just the way he touches you.

It’s the way he sees you.

All of you.

And still chooses to stay.

Your pulse is still fluttering when he finally pulls back, slow and careful, like he doesn’t want to jolt you out of it.

You feel him kiss your inner thigh. Then again, a little higher.

And again.

Each one slower than the last. Reverent. Worshipping.

He trails his mouth up the curve of your hip, over the softness of your stomach, up your ribs—pausing briefly to rest his forehead there, just breathing.

Then he keeps going.

He kisses the underside of your breast over your clothes, the center of your chest, the base of your throat.

And when he finally hovers over you again, eyes half-lidded, hair tousled, cheeks flushed—he looks like he worships you.

He leans in, lips ghosting your jaw, and murmurs:

“You taste so fucking good.”

A breath stutters from your lungs.

You grab the collar of his shirt and tug—gentle but urgent—pulling him into a kiss.

You can taste yourself on his lips.

It should make you shy.

Instead, it makes you dizzy.

The kiss is messier this time. Slower. Softer. But still full of want—full of all the things you haven’t said. His tongue brushes yours and you can’t help the quiet noise that escapes your throat.

You feel him smile against your mouth.

But then his hand slips to your waist and stills.

“Shit,” he whispers, pulling back just enough to glance at the clock on your nightstand. “I really have to go.”

You nod, though you hate it. Your fingers stay tangled in his shirt for a second longer before you let go.

He doesn’t move immediately. He just looks at you.

Like he doesn’t want to leave.

Like maybe he’s not sure how.

You sit up slowly, heart still racing, legs weak and wobbly like they’ve forgotten how to belong to you.

Your lower half is still bare, flushed, kissed within an inch of its life—so you tug the comforter over your lap, suddenly shy now that the spell’s beginning to lift.

Jungkook stands at the edge of the bed, adjusting his shirt with hands that still tremble faintly.

He’s glowing.

Hair messy. Lips a little swollen. Eyes warm in that way that makes your stomach flutter all over again.

He glances at you, a small smile tugging at his mouth. “Will I see you later tonight?”

You blink.

There’s no hesitation in your answer. “Yeah. I don’t have plans.”

Just laundry. Dishes. Probably a mental replay of everything that just happened. But none of it matters now.

You’re free.

And he lights up at that—quietly, beautifully. Like the thought of seeing you again is enough to carry him through the rest of the day.

“Good,” he says, voice soft.

Then, one last time, he leans in. Presses a kiss to your forehead. His lips linger there like a promise.

“I’ll come find you.”

And then he’s gone.

Your door clicks shut behind him.

And you’re left alone in your bed, blanket tucked over your lap, heart pounding like it’s still trying to catch up to what just happened.

But for once, it doesn’t feel like too much.

It feels like it was exactly what you wanted.

After Jungkook leaves, you check the time.

4:21 PM.

Jesus. It’s not even dinner yet.

You’re still in your room for a few minutes—staring at the ceiling, blanket tugged to your chest now like it might help your heart slow down. You try to gather yourself, try to breathe like a normal person, but your mind’s still spinning. Buzzing. Replaying every second.

The kiss in the bathroom. His voice in your ear. The way he looked at you afterward—like he didn’t want to leave.

Fucking hell.

Today has been a full-on emotional rollercoaster. Like five different movies playing back-to-back, and you’re the disaster protagonist in all of them. You’ve made rules, broken rules, made out with someone half-naked in a bathroom, got eaten out like a last meal, and possibly reignited a decades-old gay situationship between two emotionally repressed men.

So yeah.

You’re fucking tired.

Not physically—you’re too wired for that. But emotionally? You feel like your brain has been through a spin cycle.

Which is how you end up here.

On the couch.

Blanket all cozy over your lap, hoodie zipped all the way up, legs tucked beneath you like a hermit. The TV’s on—some kind of drama rerun you’re not even watching. Just background noise to drown out the chaos in your head.

You’re trying not to spiral. Trying not to think about what Jungkook’s doing right now. Trying not to imagine him sitting in some corporate studio with his shirt still rumpled from your hands, still tasting you on his tongue.

You fail. Miserably. It makes you feel like you’re floating. Dream-like. Until you’re half-asleep with your legs curled up under you when you hear the front door creak open.

“Wow,” comes Jin’s voice, sharp and amused. “You look like you just got hit by a truck full of feelings.”

You jolt upright, adjusting your blanket like a criminal caught mid-act. “Hi?”

Jin shuts the door behind him, holding a grocery bag in one arm and a suspiciously large iced coffee in the other. He gives you a once-over as he toes off his shoes.

“Rough day?” he asks, heading into the kitchen.

You blink. “Something like that.”

He hums. “You look flushed. And dazed. And kind of glowy?” He pops his head around the open cabinet door and narrows his eyes. “Wait. Are you drunk?”

“No!”

He raises a brow. “Hungover?”

You frown. “It’s 4:45pm on a Wednesday.”

“Exactly. It’s almost 5 o’clock. Prime emotional hangover window.” He returns to unpacking his grocery bag like he didn’t just low-key accuse you of being unwell.

You sink lower into the couch. “I’m fine.”

“You say that,” Jin calls back, “but I know that face. That’s your I’m-overstimulated-and-suppressing-my-thoughts face.”

You glare at the TV. “I don’t have that face.”

He reappears with a granola bar and an accusatory stare. “You absolutely do. And I’m not judging, by the way. We’ve all been there. The real question is—who triggered it?”

You freeze. Shit.

He leans against the arm of the couch, unwrapping the bar slowly like he’s winding up for a grand theory. “I saw Jungkook in the kitchen earlier. Looked like he just walked out of a James Bond movie with a minor identity crisis. You two have another weird fight or something?”

You blink. “No?”

He shrugs. “Okay. Because I’ve noticed something lately…”

Your spine straightens.

He takes a bite of his granola bar, chews dramatically. “You and Jungkook have been kind of… intense.”

You nearly choke. “Intense?”

You thought you were being discreet. You thought it was contained. You were wrong.

“Yeah. Not in a bad way,” he adds, waving his hand. “Just… you’re always in the same room. Talking in quiet voices. Avoiding eye contact like you’re hiding secrets.”

You are.

Jin sighs and flops into the armchair across from you. “Honestly, I just assumed you two were in the middle of a long, unresolved enemies-to-besties arc or something.”

You snort before you can stop it.

He narrows his eyes. “Unless…”

Your heart skips. Unless what?

He pauses. Squints like he’s solving a puzzle. Then shakes his head. “Nah. You’d tell me if something was up, right?”

You smile too fast. “Of course.”

He nods, satisfied. “Cool. Just checking. Because if any of you start secretly dating each other, I swear to God, I will host an intervention.”

You throw a pillow at him.

He dodges, laughing. “I’m just saying! I’m not emotionally equipped to watch this apartment turn into a reality show.”

You roll your eyes. “You’d thrive on a reality show.”

“Obviously,” he says. “But not when it’s my roommates catching feelings and pretending not to.”

You hold your breath.

He doesn’t notice.

Just grabs the remote and changes the channel. “Anyway. You wanna help me decide what to cook tonight, or are you too busy silently unraveling inside that blanket cocoon of yours?”

You mutter, “I’m not unraveling.”

He grins. “Denial looks good on you.”

You throw another pillow.

He catches it this time, laughs, and stands up to walk over and settle in beside you. And you sit there—quiet, fidgeting with the edge of your blanket, trying to will your pulse back to normal.

Because he doesn’t know. Not really. But he’s close. So fucking close.

“You know what,” he says, clapping his hands once. “We’re making dinner. Real dinner. Not instant ramen and regret.”

You blink. “Okay?”

“I got ingredients for jjajangmyeon. You’re helping.”

You sit up slowly, dragging your blanket with you. “Why me?”

“Because you look like you need to stir something before your brain explodes,” he says, already moving toward the kitchen. “And I like bossing you around. Come on.”

You follow him in, barefoot and wary.

The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of garlic and soy sauce as Jin pulls ingredients out of the bag—noodles, black bean paste, pork belly, chopped vegetables already prepped from the market.

“Grab a cutting board,” he says. “And don’t touch the knives unless you want to lose a finger.”

You roll your eyes but obey.

For a few minutes, it’s quiet. Peaceful.

You wash green onions and mushrooms while Jin slices pork belly with practiced ease. His movements are confident—graceful, even. It’s always been like that with him in the kitchen. Controlled chaos.

You sneak a glance at him.

“Do you ever miss it?” you ask softly. “Working at Jeon Industrial?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just tosses the pork into the pan and listens to the sizzle before replying.

“Sometimes,” he says eventually. “But not the job. Just… the illusion of stability, I guess.”

You nod slowly. “And the paycheck?”

He snorts. “That too.”

You smile. “You’re not worried?”

“Constantly,” he says. “But at least now I’m worrying on my own terms. Plus, I have great friends.”

There’s something steady in the way he says it. Like he’s still figuring it all out, but he’s okay with that. Like maybe growing up doesn’t mean having the answers—it just means learning how to live with the questions.

You hand him the chopped vegetables. “You’re good at this.”

“Cooking?”

“Yeah. And talking people down from emotional spirals. Even when you don’t know they’re spiraling.”

He glances at you, amused. “Is that a compliment?”

“Take it before I change my mind.”

He grins. “Duly noted.”

He passes you a wooden spoon. “Stir. Slowly.”

You take the pan with a nod and begin mixing the black bean paste into the sizzling pork and vegetables, watching it turn rich and dark and glossy.

Jin leans against the counter beside you, arms crossed. “You know, you’ve changed since you moved in.”

Your hands pause over the pan. “Yeah?”

“Not in a bad way,” he adds quickly. “You’re just… softer. Less closed off.”

You stare into the pan. “Maybe.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he says. “You still look like you’d bite someone if they asked you about your feelings. But now you do it with more eye contact.”

You snort.

He nudges your elbow. “Seriously. You’ve been good for us. For Jungkook, especially.”

You freeze for half a second. Then resume stirring.

“Yeah?” you say lightly.

“Yeah,” he says. “He doesn’t talk much, you know. Keeps everything locked up. But he’s different with you. Lighter. Less guarded.”

Your stomach twists.

You school your face into something neutral. “Well. We’re roommates. We all rub off on each other eventually.”

Jin hums like he doesn’t entirely believe you. But he lets it go.

You’re just finishing the final stir when the front door opens with a quiet creak.

“It smells amazing in here. Who’s cooking and why wasn’t I invited?”

You look up just as Taehyung strolls into the kitchen, damp from the rain and radiating curiosity.

He freezes when he sees you standing beside Jin, apron on, spoon in hand.

And you see it immediately.

The smirk. The glint in his eyes. Like he knows exactly where you were earlier.

You tense.

Jin beams, oblivious. “We made jjajangmyeon. There’s enough for you if you behave.”

Taehyung nods slowly, gaze flicking between you and the stove. “Looks good.”

Then—without missing a beat—he leans close and says under his breath, "Was it Jungkook or the food that put that glow on your face?”

You kick him in the ankle.

He doesn’t flinch. Just winks.

And Jin? Still has no idea.

You force a smile.

Jin hums happily, ladling noodles into a bowl like the world isn’t tilting.

And Taehyung moves across the kitchen, grinning. Too wide. Too knowing.

You’re not sure what’s cooking on the stove anymore. But you’re officially back on edge.

End Chapter 8

—

© 2025 JJUNGKOOKII. Please do not copy, repost, translate, or claim as your own. Sharing links is always welcome — thank you for respecting my work! ♡

p.s. dropping a comment with your thoughts means more than you know—your words keep me writing!

Index

← previous chapter(7.5) l next chapter(8.5) →

→ Warnings(by chapter): angst, Jungkook POV, explicit content (18+), emotional repression, jealousy, guilt, self-worth issues, familial pressure, slow burn, he just wants her to stay, Jungkook spiraling in silence™

→ A/N: This one is for the quiet chaos—the aching silence, the what-ifs, the wanting. Jungkook’s POV has been sitting heavy in my heart😮‍💨, and I hope it hits yours in all the right ways. Thank you for reading, always.💞

→ Playlist: ‘Always’ by Daniel Ceaser // ‘It’s you’ by MAX ft. Keshi // ‘Save Me’ (JPN Ver.) by BTS // ‘Let Me In (20 Cube)’ by Enhypen

Jungkook’s POV

He hears your door shut harshly while he’s still standing in the kitchen.

It’s not loud enough to be alarming. But it’s sharp. Final.

A message.

Jungkook closes his eyes and exhales through his nose.

Fuck.

He doesn’t need to ask what that was about. He already knows.

He knew once it happened—when Jin opened his mouth and said something stupid, and Jungkook, like a goddamn coward, said nothing at all.

“I thought Lisa was gone. She wasn’t here last night?”

And you were right there. Sitting two feet away. Mug in your hands, his hoodie still draped over your frame.

Jin had laughed, clapped him on the back, and moved on.

But you hadn’t.

You’d gone quiet. Then gone cold. And now—you’re gone, locked away behind that bedroom door with a finality that makes Jungkook feel like the floor’s been ripped out from under him.

Fuck.

He stares at his untouched coffee for a long time before moving.

Back in his room, he tries to work. He tells himself he needs to. That deadlines don’t care about personal disasters. That he’s still a professional with a portfolio to deliver.

So he opens his laptop, loads the batch of shots he took last week—editorial portraits for a magazine feature—and sets his fingers on the trackpad.

But the colors blur.

The lighting’s wrong.

The focus is off, even when it isn’t.

He drags the exposure slider just a little to the right and has to undo it immediately because it’s too much. Too stark. Too harsh. Like his hands forgot how to make something beautiful.

And maybe they did.

Because the only thing he can think about is the look on your face this morning.

Or rather—the lack of it.

How you wouldn’t meet his eyes. Wouldn’t say his name. Wouldn’t say anything at all.

The silence is worse than any fight. It’s worse than the week you spent dodging each other after the rain-soaked almost-kiss. Back then, at least there was tension. Sparks. Static that meant there was still something alive between you.

But now?

Now you’ve both crossed a line.

Now he’s touched you.

Tasted you. Craved you.

And you let him.

You came to him. You let him undress you, take you apart with his hands and his mouth and his body—and then you let him hold you like it meant something.

And it did. To him, it did.

So now, this silence?

God, this silence feels like punishment.

Like maybe you regret it.

Like maybe you regret him.

He shuts the laptop before he can throw it.

His jaw is tight. His chest is tighter. And underneath it all is the slow, festering guilt that’s been growing since the kitchen.

He should’ve said something. Should’ve told Jin to shut up, should’ve made it clear it was you.

That it was only ever you.

But he didn’t. Because for a split second, he panicked. What would Jin say? What would Jimin say? What if you didn’t want them to know?

Because saying something would’ve drawn attention. Started questions. Invited Jimin’s teasing smirk and Jin’s overprotective big brother energy. And maybe a part of him thought he was protecting you by keeping it quiet.

But now he’s wondering if he was just protecting himself.

Because deep down, Jungkook has always wondered if he’s enough.

And now… now maybe you’re wondering too.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there.

Long enough for the sun to dip lower in the sky, casting long shadows across his desk. Long enough for the apartment to get quieter. For the ache in his chest to start feeling like a bruise.

Every time he’s in the hallway, he glances at your door. Just a flick of his eyes. Just to see.

But there’s nothing.

No footsteps. No music. No sound at all.

He almost knocks. Twice.

Fist halfway to the door, mouth opening—but he doesn’t do it. Because what if you don’t answer? What if you do and look at him like you don’t recognize what the two of you became?

So he keeps the words to himself and sits with the guilt. Listening to what seems like the never ending sound of rain.

He hears the front door open.

Then close.

Soft, but unmistakable.

And he knows.

He knows you’ve left.

He moves without thinking, drifting to the living room window, parting the curtain just enough to catch the sidewalk down below.

He waits for you to appear, walking in the rain. Hoodie pulled over your head, headphones in, hands shoved into the sleeves.

It’s his hoodie.

The same one you wore this morning when you left. When you wouldn’t look at him.

His chest twists.

He doesn’t know where you’re going, but he wants to follow. Wants to grab your wrist, spin you around, and make you look at him. Make you tell him what he did, what you need, what the hell he’s supposed to do with all of this aching weight in his chest.

But he doesn’t.

He just watches you walk away, and wonders when he started being scared of you slipping through his fingers.

It’s over an hour before you come back.

He hears the door click open, soft, and then footsteps. Two sets.

He frowns.

Then he hears Taehyung’s voice.

Jungkook’s stomach drops.

They’re walking together. Quiet. Calm.

He presses himself against the hallway wall, out of sight. Listens to the soft exchange of words he can’t quite make out. The rustle of the umbrella being shaken out. The low creak of the door closing behind you.

Then silence.

You’re back in your room.

But you were out with Taehyung?

And Jungkook hates that it bothers him. Hates the way his mind races, wondering what you talked about. What you told him that you haven’t told Jungkook. Why he gets to see you when Jungkook doesn’t.

Of course it was Taehyung. Easy. Magnetic. Always knowing the right thing to say. Jungkook clenches his jaw and forces the thought away.

But more than anything—he hates that he pushed you far enough away that you needed someone else in the first place.

Eventually, Taehyung leaves the living room and heads for Jimin’s room.

Jungkook hears Tae open Jimin’s door. Heavier footsteps this time. The sound of maybe a phone being dropped? A sigh.

And then stillness.

He presses a hand to his mouth and exhales into it, trying to calm the storm beneath his ribs.

He doesn’t know what you said out there. Doesn’t know how much of you Taehyung got to see.

But something in the air feels different now. Softer. Heavier.

And all Jungkook can think about is whether there’s still time to fix this.

Whether he still gets to try.

Whether he still gets to be the one you come back to.

He presses a hand to his face. Drags it down slowly. Exhales like it might clear the fog in his head.

Maybe this is what always happens when he gets too close.

Moving in with Jin and Jimin was an act of rebellion—his first real one. A middle finger to his parents and everything they’d planned for him.

He didn’t even tell them. Just walked out of their penthouse one day, left behind furniture and clothes and every expensive piece of his curated, polished life. No note. No forwarding address.

They found the silence louder than a goodbye.

He’s been running ever since—from boardrooms and obligations and what his parents like to call responsibility.

And maybe now… he’s still running. Just chasing something softer this time.

Something that smells like your shampoo and wears his clothes and looks at him like he might be worth staying for.

But what if you don’t?

He’s lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling when he hears a door open again.

Lighter footsteps.

Yours.

His heart stumbles.

Then—a voice. One that makes his entire body tense.

Jimin.

Jungkook can’t make out all of it, but he hears his name. Hears the teasing. The edge underneath it. The way Jimin’s tone dips into something whiny—sarcastic, hurt, laced with forgiveness.

His hands curl into fists against the sheets, in anticipation.

He wants to get up. Wants to interrupt whatever’s happening in the hallway. But he doesn’t move.

Because maybe he’s afraid of what you’ll say.

Maybe he’s afraid Jimin sees what’s written all over his face every time you’re in the room. Because honestly, the way his childhood friend eyes him during what feels like every interaction with you is… unsettling, to say the least.

He knows Jimin sees right through him.

Jimin probably already knows how Jungkook feels about you, just because they’re practically brothers.

Maybe he’s afraid that everyone knows.

Even though no one’s supposed to.

Then—there’s a knock.

Soft. Barely there.

His heart kicks.

He moves before his brain can catch up, crossing the room in three long strides and opening the door.

And there you are. Bare legs. His hoodie. No makeup. Hair damp from the rain.

You look—

God.

You look like a dream he wasn’t allowed to have.

His hoodie is swallowing you whole, sleeves tugged over your hands, the hem brushing your thighs like a secret only he gets to see. His throat works around a breath he doesn’t take.

You don’t say anything at first. Neither does he.

But the air between you feels...

Heavy. Real.

Like whatever line you crossed last night on his bed didn’t just blur—it disappeared entirely.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low.

You shake your head.

He steps aside without thinking. Opens the door wider.

You walk in.

He closes it behind you. Locking the world out.

He watches you like he’s trying to memorize you. Like he’s afraid if he blinks, you’ll be gone again. You stand in the middle of his room like you don’t know what to do with yourself, arms crossed, breathing uneven.

“What happened?” he asks quietly.

You shake your head. “Nothing.”

“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me all day?”

No answer.

His jaw tightens.

“I don’t want to talk,” you say finally.

The words hit like a punch. But he nods anyway. Because if silence is all you can give him, he’ll take that too. Just… don’t leave again.

He crosses the space slowly. Brushing his fingers against the hem of his hoodie where it rests on your thigh.

Tilts your chin up so your eyes meet his.

“You can always come here when you don’t want to talk.”

And then he kisses you.

Because if he doesn’t, he’s going to fall apart. Because your silence has been killing him all day, and now that you’re finally here—warm, and real, and close—he needs to touch you just to remember what it feels like to breathe.

Everything spirals from there. Clothes hit the floor.

You're breathing uneven. His name falls from your lips like something you’re trying not to let escape.

And when he’s inside you—raw, deep, desperate—it doesn’t feel like just sex to him.

It never has. It feels like he’s trying to prove something to you. Prove something to himself.

Like he’s trying to convince you to stay. Convince himself he’s ruined for all future hook ups. Because this isn’t just another hook up to him. And it doesn’t seem like it is to you either.

You come undone beneath him—tight around him, trembling, nails in his back—and he follows fast, face buried in your neck, whispering your name like a vow.

But afterward, in the silence, guilt starts to settle behind his ribs.

Because you still haven’t said anything.

Because you still haven’t said what this is.

And he still doesn’t know if this made things better or worse. And why does it keep happening?

He’s gentle as he cleans you up. Hands careful. Quiet. Respectful.

When you’re back in his hoodie, curled under his covers, he climbs in behind you and pulls you close, like holding you might stop the clock.

You let him. You feel soft in his arms. Dreamy. His.

And he wants so badly to believe he won’t lose this.

You fall asleep eventually—deep this time, peaceful.

Jungkook stays awake.

His arm is draped over your waist. His fingers brush slow, absent patterns into the fabric of his own hoodie that still covers you.

The rain has faded to a whisper. His room smells like shampoo and skin and the lingering aftermath of everything you shared.

And his thoughts are a mess.

He can still feel you breathing. Soft and steady beneath his arm. Like this is normal. Like this is safe.

But nothing about this feels safe to him. Because what if you wake up tomorrow and change your mind? What if this version of you—warm, quiet, curled into his chest—is just another dream he doesn’t get to keep?

He wants to ask what this means. Wants to hear it from your mouth, clear and certain and true. But more than that—more than anything—he just wants you to stay.

Because the truth is, he could go another lifetime without a label.

He could live in this in-between, keep pretending not to want more, as long as this keeps happening. As long as you come back to him. As long as you stop running—even for a little while—just to be close to him.

He’ll take the silence if it means he gets to taste your skin again. He’ll take the uncertainty if it means he can hold you like this at night. He’ll take every half-truth, every quiet breath, every secret glance—as long as you keep choosing him, in whatever way you can.

Because being around you—touching you, hearing you laugh, watching you sleep like this—makes everything else feel manageable. Bearable. Tangible.

And he’s already addicted to it. To this. To you.

He swallows hard, brushes his thumb along your arm, then presses his lips to the crown of your head. He wants to tell you everything.

But the words catch in his throat.

So instead—he whispers the only thing he can say without breaking the fragile, perfect quiet.

“I’ll see you in my dreams.”

And for once, he lets himself believe that maybe you’ll be there. And maybe there, you’ll stay.

End Chapter 7.5

—

© 2025 JJUNGKOOKII. Please do not copy, repost, translate, or claim as your own. Sharing links is always welcome — thank you for respecting my work! ♡

Index

← previous chapter(7) l next chapter(8) →

Chapter 7 is soft, messy, and fueled entirely by bad decisions, good hoodies, sexual tension, and the fragile illusion that we are totally fine and not, in fact, one minor inconvenience away from emotionally combusting. Love that for us. Love that for them. Love that for my emotional stability.💕

💜Thanks for reading. Please scream at me (nicely).

→ Playlist: Forever Rain by RM // Sweet & Lethal JJK by ScorpioChiq // Tattooed In My Mind by ScorpioChiq // Universe by Daesung

You spend the rest of the day pretending Jungkook doesn’t exist.

No eye contact. No glances. No responding when he walks past you in the hall and murmurs your name like a question. You don’t look up when he lingers outside your door. Don’t acknowledge the way his voice dips when he says “Hey,” just low enough for only you to hear.

You ignore it all.

By the time the sun sets, you’re exhausted from pretending. But the ache in your chest hasn’t gone anywhere.

The rain starts somewhere around 8 p.m., a quiet tapping at first that turns into a steady downpour. You watch the droplets race each other down your window, arms crossed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands. The city outside moves like nothing’s changed—cars splashing through puddles, umbrellas bobbing through crosswalks, vendors still shouting under plastic awnings lit by flickering neon.

You need to get out.

You don’t take an umbrella. Just a hoodie and your headphones.

The air outside is crisp, the kind that sticks to your skin. You walk with no real destination, your shoes splashing through shallow gutters, the smell of rain-soaked concrete and fried street food curling into your nose.

Vendors line the street like always—ahjummas in ponchos selling skewers, spicy tteokbokki bubbling in metal trays, soju bottles stacked like glass towers. The warm scent of ramen broth cuts through the night, and before you can talk yourself out of it, you stop.

The counter is slick with rain but sheltered under a narrow overhang. You slip onto the bench and order something hot, head bowed, rain dripping from your hood.

It’s not until you hear a familiar voice beside you that you look up.

“Didn’t take you for the type to wander alone in the rain.”

You blink.

Taehyung is sitting at the other end of the counter, a half-empty soju bottle in front of him and a skewer in one hand. His black coat is damp at the shoulders, hair pushed back but curling slightly at the edges from the humidity.

You stare for a beat too long.

He raises a brow, amused. “What, no hello?”

“…Hi.”

He grins, lazy and catlike. “Much better.”

You turn your gaze forward again, focusing on the steam rising from your bowl.

He doesn’t ask why you’re out here. Doesn’t comment on the fact that your apartment is nowhere near this part of town. He just drinks, eats, and lets the silence hang.

And somehow, that’s worse than being questioned.

Taehyung doesn’t say anything for a while. Just sips his soju and watches the rain fall beyond the plastic sheet hanging from the awning. The air smells like broth and smoke, and your bowl fogs up your vision when you lean forward.

You focus on eating. One bite at a time. Slowly. Deliberately. But Taehyung’s gaze stays on you, and eventually, you cave.

“What?” you snap, not looking at him.

“Nothing,” he says, and you can hear the smile in his voice. “Just wondering how long you’re gonna pretend I’m not here.”

You sigh through your nose. “I said hi.”

“Barely.”

You glance over. “Why are you even out here?”

He shrugs. “Same reason as you, probably. Couldn’t sleep. Needed air. Plus…” His eyes flick toward you. “You weren’t exactly quiet when you left.”

You roll your eyes and go back to your food.

Another pause.

Then, quieter: “I’m on your side, you know.”

Your chopsticks freeze halfway to your mouth.

He says it gently, but there’s something firm underneath. Like he’s reminding you. Like he’s a little hurt you forgot.

You swallow. “I never said you weren’t.”

“You don’t have to. You’ve been acting weird all day.”

You scoff. “How would you know? I haven’t even seen you.”

“I’ve been at your apartment all day,” he says, tilting his head. “You’ve been ignoring me too.”

You glance sideways, caught. “Maybe I just didn’t feel like talking.”

“Mmhmm.”

There’s a beat of silence, broken only by the quiet clatter of dishes from behind the stall.

Then he adds, “You forget I can read you like a book.”

Your stomach twists. You hate that he’s right.

He leans in slightly, voice low, but not unkind. “So what is it? Why did hooking up with Jungkook suddenly bother you so much?”

Your jaw clenches.

“It’s not the hooking up,” you mutter, eyes fixed on the rain. “That’s not the problem.”

He studies you for a long beat.

When he speaks again, his voice is gentler. “Then what is?”

You don’t answer at first. Because saying it feels dangerous. Saying it means admitting it’s real. That you do care. That you’re scared.

But something cracks anyway.

“I just…” You hesitate. “I don’t want to be someone’s… backup plan.”

Taehyung is still.

You feel him watching you, but you keep your gaze forward.

He’s quiet for a moment, and then:

“You won’t be,” he says firmly.

You bite the inside of your cheek.